the girl from montana by grace livingston hill grosset & dunlap publishers new york * * * * * books by grace livingston hill april gold happiness hill the beloved stranger the honor girl bright arrows kerry christmas bride marigold crimson roses miranda duskin the mystery of mary found treasure partners a girl to come home to rainbow cottage the red signal white orchids silver wings the tryst the strange proposal through these fires the street of the city all through the night the gold shoe astra homing blue ruin job's niece challengers the man of the desert coming through the rye more than conqueror daphne deane a new name the enchanted barn the patch of blue girl from montana the ransom rose galbraith the witness sound of the trumpet sunrise tomorrow about this time amorelle head of the house ariel custer in tune with wedding bells chance of a lifetime maris crimson mountain out of the storm exit betty mystery flowers the prodigal girl girl of the woods re-creations the white flower matched pearls time of the singing of birds ladybird the substitute guest beauty for ashes stranger within the gate the best man spice box by way of the silverthorns the seventh hour dawn of the morning the search brentwood cloudy jewel the voice in the wilderness books by ruth livingston hill mary arden (_with grace livingston hill_) morning is for joy john nielson had a daughter bright conquest dedicated to miss virginia cowan of cowan, montana, whose bright, breezy letters aided me in writing of elizabeth's experiences in the west contents chapter page i. the girl, and a great peril ii. the flight iii. the pursuit iv. the two fugitives v. a night ride vi. a christian endeavor meeting in the wilderness vii. bad news viii. the parting ix. in a trap x. philadelphia at last xi. in flight again xii. elizabeth's declaration of independence xiii. another grandmother xiv. in a new world xv. an eventful picnic xvi. alone again xvii. a final flight and pursuit chapter i the girl, and a great peril the late afternoon sun was streaming in across the cabin floor as the girl stole around the corner and looked cautiously in at the door. there was a kind of tremulous courage in her face. she had a duty to perform, and she was resolved to do it without delay. she shaded her eyes with her hand from the glare of the sun, set a firm foot upon the threshold, and, with one wild glance around to see whether all was as she had left it, entered her home and stood for a moment shuddering in the middle of the floor. a long procession of funerals seemed to come out of the past and meet her eye as she looked about upon the signs of the primitive, unhallowed one which had just gone out from there a little while before. the girl closed her eyes, and pressed their hot, dry lids hard with her cold fingers; but the vision was clearer even than with her eyes open. she could see the tiny baby sister lying there in the middle of the room, so little and white and pitiful; and her handsome, careless father sitting at the head of the rude home-made coffin, sober for the moment; and her tired, disheartened mother, faded before her time, dry-eyed and haggard, beside him. but that was long ago, almost at the beginning of things for the girl. there had been other funerals, the little brother who had been drowned while playing in a forbidden stream, and the older brother who had gone off in search of gold or his own way, and had crawled back parched with fever to die in his mother's arms. but those, too, seemed long ago to the girl as she stood in the empty cabin and looked fearfully about her. they seemed almost blotted out by the last three that had crowded so close within the year. the father, who even at his worst had a kind word for her and her mother, had been brought home mortally hurt--an encounter with wild cattle, a fall from his horse in a treacherous place--and had never roused to consciousness again. at all these funerals there had been a solemn service, conducted by a travelling preacher when one happened to be within reach, and, when there was none, by the trembling, determined, untaught lips of the white-faced mother. the mother had always insisted upon it, especially upon a prayer. it had seemed like a charm to help the departed one into some kind of a pitiful heaven. and when, a few months after the father, the mother had drooped and grown whiter and whiter, till one day she clutched at her heart and lay down gasping, and said: "good-by, bess! mother's good girl! don't forget!" and was gone from her life of burden and disappointment forever, the girl had prepared the funeral with the assistance of the one brother left. the girl's voice had uttered the prayer, "our father," just as her mother had taught her, because there was no one else to do it; and she was afraid to send the wild young brother off after a preacher, lest he should not return in time. it was six months now since the sad funeral train had wound its way among sage-brush and greasewood, and the body of the mother had been laid to rest beside her husband. for six months the girl had kept the cabin in order, and held as far as possible the wayward brother to his work and home. but within the last few weeks he had more and more left her alone, for a day, and sometimes more, and had come home in a sad condition and with bold, merry companions who made her life a constant terror. and now, but two short days ago, they had brought home his body lying across his own faithful horse, with two shots through his heart. it was a drunken quarrel, they told her; and all were sorry, but no one seemed responsible. they had been kind in their rough way, those companions of her brother. they had stayed and done all that was necessary, had dug the grave, and stood about their comrade in good-natured grimness, marching in order about him to give the last look; but, when the sister tried to utter the prayer she knew her mother would have spoken, her throat refused to make a sound, and her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. she had taken sudden refuge in the little shed that was her own room, and there had stayed till the rough companions had taken away the still form of the only one left in the family circle. in silence the funeral train wound its way to the spot where the others were buried. they respected her tearless grief, these great, passionate, uncontrolled young men. they held in the rude jokes with which they would have taken the awesomeness from the occasion for themselves, and for the most part kept the way silently and gravely, now and then looking back with admiration to the slim girl with the stony face and unblinking eyes who followed them mechanically. they had felt that some one ought to do something; but no one knew exactly what, and so they walked silently. only one, the hardest and boldest, the ringleader of the company, ventured back to ask whether there was anything he could do for her, anything she would like to have done; but she answered him coldly with a "no!" that cut him to the quick. it had been a good deal for him to do, this touch of gentleness he had forced himself into. he turned from her with a wicked gleam of intent in his eyes, but she did not see it. when the rude ceremony was over, the last clod was heaped upon the pitiful mound, and the relentless words, "dust to dust," had been murmured by one more daring than the rest, they turned and looked at the girl, who had all the time stood upon a mound of earth and watched them, as a statue of misery might look down upon the world. they could not make her out, this silent, marble girl. they hoped now she would change. it was over. they felt an untold relief themselves from the fact that their reckless, gay comrade was no longer lying cold and still among them. they were done with him. they had paid their last tribute, and wished to forget. he must settle his own account with the hereafter now; they had enough in their own lives without the burden of his. then there had swept up into the girl's face one gleam of life that made her beautiful for the instant, and she had bowed to them with a slow, almost haughty, inclination of her head, and spread out her hands like one who would like to bless but dared not, and said clearly, "i thank you--all!" there had been just a slight hesitation before that last word "all," as if she were not quite sure, as her eyes rested upon the ringleader with doubt and dislike; then her lips had hardened as if justice must be done, and she had spoken it, "all!" and, turning, sped away to her cabin alone. they were taken by surprise, those men who feared nothing in the wild and primitive west, and for a moment they watched her go in silence. then the words that broke upon the air were not all pleasant to hear; and, if the girl could have known, she would have sped far faster, and her cheeks would have burned a brighter red than they did. but one, the boldest, the ringleader, said nothing. his brows darkened, and the wicked gleam came and sat in his hard eyes with a green light. he drew a little apart from the rest, and walked on more rapidly. when he came to the place where they had left their horses, he took his and went on toward the cabin with a look that did not invite the others to follow. as their voices died away in the distance, and he drew nearer to the cabin, his eyes gleamed with cunning. the girl in the cabin worked rapidly. one by one she took the boxes on which the rude coffin of her brother had rested, and threw them far out the back door. she straightened the furniture around fiercely, as if by erasing every sign she would force from memory the thought of the scenes that had just passed. she took her brother's coat that hung against the wall, and an old pipe from the mantle, and hid them in the room that was hers. then she looked about for something else to be done. a shadow darkened the sunny doorway. looking up, she saw the man she believed to be her brother's murderer. "i came back, bess, to see if i could do anything for you." the tone was kind; but the girl involuntarily put her hand to her throat, and caught her breath. she would like to speak out and tell him what she thought, but she dared not. she did not even dare let her thought appear in her eyes. the dull, statue-like look came over her face that she had worn at the grave. the man thought it was the stupefaction of grief. "i told you i didn't want any help," she said, trying to speak in the same tone she had used when she thanked the men. "yes, but you're all alone," said the man insinuatingly; she felt a menace in the thought, "and i am sorry for you!" he came nearer, but her face was cold. instinctively she glanced to the cupboard door behind which lay her brother's belt with two pistols. "you're very kind," she forced herself to say; "but i'd rather be alone now." it was hard to speak so when she would have liked to dash on him, and call down curses for the death of her brother; but she looked into his evil face, and a fear for herself worse than death stole into her heart. he took encouragement from her gentle dignity. where did she get that manner so imperial, she, born in a mountain cabin and bred on the wilds? how could she speak with an accent so different from those about her? the brother was not so, not so much so; the mother had been plain and quiet. he had not known her father, for he had lately come to this state in hiding from another. he wondered, with his wide knowledge of the world, over her wild, haughty beauty, and gloated over it. he liked to think just what worth was within his easy grasp. a prize for the taking, and here alone, unprotected. "but it ain't good for you to be alone, you know, and i've come to protect you. besides, you need cheering up, little girl." he came closer. "i love you, bess, you know, and i'm going to take care of you now. you're all alone. poor little girl." he was so near that she almost felt his breath against her cheek. she faced him desperately, growing white to the lips. was there nothing on earth or in heaven to save her? mother! father! brother! all gone! ah! could she but have known that the quarrel which ended her wild young brother's life had been about her, perhaps pride in him would have salved her grief, and choked her horror. while she watched the green lights play in the evil eyes above her, she gathered all the strength of her young life into one effort, and schooled herself to be calm. she controlled her involuntary shrinking from the man, only drew herself back gently, as a woman with wider experience and gentler breeding might have done. "remember," she said, "that my brother just lay there dead!" and she pointed to the empty centre of the room. the dramatic attitude was almost a condemnation to the guilty man before her. he drew back as if the sheriff had entered the room, and looked instinctively to where the coffin had been but a short time before, then laughed nervously and drew himself together. the girl caught her breath, and took courage. she had held him for a minute; could she not hold him longer? "think!" said she. "he is but just buried. it is not right to talk of such things as love in this room where he has just gone out. you must leave me alone for a little while. i cannot talk and think now. we must respect the dead, you know." she looked appealingly at him, acting her part desperately, but well. it was as if she were trying to charm a lion or an insane man. he stood admiring her. she argued well. he was half minded to humor her, for somehow when she spoke of the dead he could see the gleam in her brother's eyes just before he shot him. then there was promise in this wooing. she was no girl to be lightly won, after all. she could hold her own, and perhaps she would be the better for having her way for a little. at any rate, there was more excitement in such game. she saw that she was gaining, and her breath came freer. "go!" she said with a flickering smile. "go! for--a little while," and then she tried to smile again. he made a motion to take her in his arms and kiss her; but she drew back suddenly, and spread her hands before her, motioning him back. "i tell you you must not now. go! go! or i will never speak to you again." he looked into her eyes, and seemed to feel a power that he must obey. half sullenly he drew back toward the door. "but, bess, this ain't the way to treat a fellow," he whined. "i came way back here to take care of you. i tell you i love you, and i'm going to have you. there ain't any other fellow going to run off with you--" "stop!" she cried tragically. "don't you see you're not doing right? my brother is just dead. i must have some time to mourn. it is only decent." she was standing now with her back to the little cupboard behind whose door lay the two pistols. her hand was behind her on the wooden latch. "you don't respect my trouble!" she said, catching her breath, and putting her hand to her eyes. "i don't believe you care for me when you don't do what i say." the man was held at bay. he was almost conquered by her sign of tears. it was a new phase of her to see her melt into weakness so. he was charmed. "how long must i stay away?" he faltered. she could scarcely speak, so desperate she felt. o if she dared but say, "forever," and shout it at him! she was desperate enough to try her chances at shooting him if she but had the pistols, and was sure they were loaded--a desperate chance indeed against the best shot on the pacific coast, and a desperado at that. she pressed her hands to her throbbing temples, and tried to think. at last she faltered out, "three days!" he swore beneath his breath, and his brows drew down in heavy frowns that were not good to see. she shuddered at what it would be to be in his power forever. how he would play with her and toss her aside! or kill her, perhaps, when he was tired of her! her life on the mountain had made her familiar with evil characters. he came a step nearer, and she felt she was losing ground. straightening up, she said coolly: "you must go away at once, and not think of coming back at least until to-morrow night. go!" with wonderful control she smiled at him, one frantic, brilliant smile; and to her great wonder he drew back. at the door he paused, a softened look upon his face. "mayn't i kiss you before i go?" she shuddered involuntarily, but put out her hands in protest again. "not to-night!" she shook her head, and tried to smile. he thought he understood her, but turned away half satisfied. then she heard his step coming back to the door again, and she went to meet him. he must not come in. she had gained in sending him out, if she could but close the door fast. it was in the doorway that she faced him as he stood with one foot ready to enter again. the crafty look was out upon his face plainly now, and in the sunlight she could see it. "you will be all alone to-night." "i am not afraid," calmly. "and no one will trouble me. don't you know what they say about the spirit of a man--" she stopped; she had almost said "a man who has been murdered"--"coming back to his home the first night after he is buried?" it was her last frantic effort. the man before her trembled, and looked around nervously. "you better come away to-night with me," he said, edging away from the door. "see, the sun is going down! you must go now," she said imperiously; and reluctantly the man mounted his restless horse, and rode away down the mountain. she watched him silhouetted against the blood-red globe of the sun as it sank lower and lower. she could see every outline of his slouch-hat and muscular shoulders as he turned now and then and saw her standing still alone at her cabin door. why he was going he could not tell; but he went, and he frowned as he rode away, with the wicked gleam still in his eye; for he meant to return. at last he disappeared; and the girl, turning, looked up, and there rode the white ghost of the moon overhead. she was alone. chapter ii the flight a great fear settled down upon the girl as she realized that she was alone and, for a few hours at least, free. it was a marvellous escape. even now she could hear the echo of the man's last words, and see his hateful smile as he waved his good-by and promised to come back for her to-morrow. she felt sure he would not wait until the night. it might be he would return even yet. she cast another reassuring look down the darkening road, and strained her ear; but she could no longer hear hoof-beats. nevertheless, it behooved her to hasten. he had blanched at her suggestion of walking spirits; but, after all, his courage might arise. she shuddered to think of his returning later, in the night. she must fly somewhere at once. instantly her dormant senses seemed to be on the alert. fully fledged plans flashed through her brain. she went into the cabin, and barred the door. she made every movement swiftly, as if she had not an instant to spare. who could tell? he might return even before dark. he had been hard to baffle, and she did not feel at all secure. it was her one chance of safety to get away speedily, whither it mattered little, only so she was away and hidden. her first act inside the cottage was to get the belt from the cupboard and buckle it around her waist. she examined and loaded the pistols. her throat seemed seized with sudden constriction when she discovered that the barrels had been empty and the weapons would have done her no good even if she could have reached them. she put into her belt the sharp little knife her brother used to carry, and then began to gather together everything eatable that she could carry with her. there was not much that could be easily carried--some dried beef, a piece of cheese, some corn-meal, a piece of pork, a handful of cheap coffee-berries, and some pieces of hard corn bread. she hesitated over a pan half full of baked beans, and finally added them to the store. they were bulky, but she ought to take them if she could. there was nothing else in the house that seemed advisable to take in the way of eatables. their stores had been running low, and the trouble of the last day or two had put housekeeping entirely out of her mind. she had not cared to eat, and now it occurred to her that food had not passed her lips that day. with strong self-control she forced herself to eat a few of the dry pieces of corn bread, and to drink some cold coffee that stood in the little coffee-pot. this she did while she worked, wasting not one minute. there were some old flour-sacks in the house. she put the eatables into two of them, with the pan of beans on the top, adding a tin cup, and tied them securely together. then she went into her little shed room, and put on the few extra garments in her wardrobe. they were not many, and that was the easiest way to carry them. her mother's wedding-ring, sacredly kept in a box since the mother's death, she slipped upon her finger. it seemed the closing act of her life in the cabin, and she paused and bent her head as if to ask the mother's permission that she might wear the ring. it seemed a kind of protection to her in her lonely situation. there were a few papers and an old letter or two yellow with years, which the mother had always guarded sacredly. one was the certificate of her mother's marriage. the girl did not know what the others were. she had never looked into them closely, but she knew that her mother had counted them precious. these she pinned into the bosom of her calico gown. then she was ready. she gave one swift glance of farewell about the cabin where she had spent nearly all of her life that she could remember, gathered up the two flour-sacks and an old coat of her father's that hung on the wall, remembering at the last minute to put into its pocket the few matches and the single candle left in the house, and went out from the cabin, closing the door behind her. she paused, looking down the road, and listened again; but no sound came to her save a distant howl of a wolf. the moon rode high and clear by this time; and it seemed not so lonely here, with everything bathed in soft silver, as it had in the darkening cabin with its flickering candle. the girl stole out from the cabin and stealthily across the patch of moonlight into the shadow of the shackly barn where stamped the poor, ill-fed, faithful horse that her brother had ridden to his death upon. all her movements were stealthy as a cat's. she laid the old coat over the horse's back, swung her brother's saddle into place,--she had none of her own, and could ride his, or without any; it made no difference, for she was perfectly at home on horseback,--and strapped the girths with trembling fingers that were icy cold with excitement. across the saddle-bows she hung the two flour-sacks containing her provisions. then with added caution she tied some old burlap about each of the horse's feet. she must make no sound and leave no track as she stole forth into the great world. the horse looked curiously down and whinnied at her, as she tied his feet up clumsily. he did not seem to like his new habiliments, but he suffered anything at her hand. "hush!" she murmured softly, laying her cold hands across his nostrils; and he put his muzzle into her palm, and seemed to understand. she led him out into the clear moonlight then, and paused a second, looking once more down the road that led away in front of the cabin; but no one was coming yet, though her heart beat high as she listened, fancying every falling bough or rolling stone was a horse's hoof-beat. there were three trails leading away from the cabin, for they could hardly be dignified by the name of road. one led down the mountain toward the west, and was the way they took to the nearest clearing five or six miles beyond and to the supply store some three miles further. one led off to the east, and was less travelled, being the way to the great world; and the third led down behind the cabin, and was desolate and barren under the moon. it led down, back, and away to desolation, where five graves lay stark and ugly at the end. it was the way they had taken that afternoon. she paused just an instant as if hesitating which way to take. not the way to the west--ah, any but that! to the east? yes, surely, that must be the trail she would eventually strike; but she had a duty yet to perform. that prayer was as yet unsaid, and before she was free to seek safety--if safety there were for her in the wide world--she must take her way down the lonely path. she walked, leading the horse, which followed her with muffled tread and arched neck as if he felt he were doing homage to the dead. slowly, silently, she moved along into the river of moonlight and dreariness; for the moonlight here seemed cold, like the graves it shone upon, and the girl, as she walked with bowed head, almost fancied she saw strange misty forms flit past her in the night. as they came in sight of the graves, something dark and wild with plumy tail slunk away into the shadows, and seemed a part of the place. the girl stopped a moment to gain courage in full sight of the graves, and the horse snorted, and stopped too, with his ears a-quiver, and a half-fright in his eyes. she patted his neck and soothed him incoherently, as she buried her face in his mane for a moment, and let the first tears that had dimmed her eyes since the blow had fallen come smarting their way out. then, leaving the horse to stand curiously watching her, she went down and stood at the head of the new-heaped mound. she tried to kneel, but a shudder passed through her. it was as if she were descending into the place of the dead herself; so she stood up and raised her eyes to the wide white night and the moon riding so high and far away. "our father," she said in a voice that sounded miles away to herself. was there any father, and could he hear her? and did he care? "which art in heaven--" but heaven was so far away and looked so cruelly serene to her in her desolateness and danger! "hallowed be thy name. thy kingdom come--" whatever that might mean. "thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven." it was a long prayer to pray, alone with the pale moon-rain and the graves, and a distant wolf, but it was her mother's wish. her will being done here over the dead--was that anything like the will of the father being done in heaven? her untrained thoughts hovered on the verge of great questions, and then slipped back into her pathetic self and its fear, while her tongue hurried on through the words of the prayer. once the horse stirred and breathed a soft protest. he could not understand why they were stopping so long in this desolate place, for nothing apparently. he had looked and looked at the shapeless mound before which the girl was standing; but he saw no sign of his lost master, and his instincts warned him that there were wild animals about. anyhow, this was no place for a horse and a maid to stop in the night. a few loose stones rattled from the horse's motion. the girl started, and looked hastily about, listening for a possible pursuer; but everywhere in the white sea of moonlight there was empty, desolate space. on to the "amen" she finished then, and with one last look at the lonely graves she turned to the horse. now they might go, for the duty was done, and there was no time to be lost. somewhere over toward the east across that untravelled wilderness of white light was the trail that started to the great world from the little cabin she had left. she dared not go back to the cabin to take it, lest she find herself already followed. she did not know the way across this lonely plain, and neither did the horse. in fact, there was no way, for it was all one arid plain so situated that human traveller seldom came near it, so large and so barren that one might wander for hours and gain no goal, so dry that nothing would grow. with another glance back on the way she had come, the girl mounted the horse and urged him down into the valley. he stepped cautiously into the sandy plain, as if he were going into a river and must try its depth. he did not like the going here, but he plodded on with his burdens. the girl was light; he did not mind her weight; but he felt this place uncanny, and now and then would start on a little spurt of haste, to get into a better way. he liked the high mountain trails, where he could step firmly and hear the twigs crackle under his feet, not this muffled, velvet way where one made so little progress and had to work so hard. the girl's heart sank as they went on, for the sand seemed deep and drifted in places. she felt she was losing time. the way ahead looked endless, as if they were but treading sand behind them which only returned in front to be trodden over again. it was to her like the valley of the dead, and she longed to get out of it. a great fear lest the moon should go down and leave her in this low valley alone in the dark took hold upon her. she felt she must get away, up higher. she turned the horse a little more to the right, and he paused, and seemed to survey the new direction and to like it. he stepped up more briskly, with a courage that could come only from an intelligent hope for better things. and at last they were rewarded by finding the sand shallower, and now and then a bit of rock cropping out for a firmer footing. the young rider dismounted, and untied the burlap from the horse's feet. he seemed to understand, and to thank her as he nosed about her neck. he thought, perhaps, that their mission was over and they were going to strike out for home now. the ground rose steadily before them now, and at times grew quite steep; but the horse was fresh as yet, and clambered upward with good heart; and the rider was used to rough places, and felt no discomfort from her position. the fear of being followed had succeeded to the fear of being lost, for the time being; and instead of straining her ears on the track behind she was straining her eyes to the wilderness before. the growth of sage-brush was dense now, and trees were ahead. after that the way seemed steep, and the rider's heart stood still with fear lest she could never get up and over to the trail which she knew must be somewhere in that direction, though she had never been far out on its course herself. that it led straight east into all the great cities she never doubted, and she must find it before she was pursued. that man would be angry, _angry_ if he came and found her gone! he was not beyond shooting her for giving him the slip in this way. the more she thought over it, the more frightened she became, till every bit of rough way, and every barrier that kept her from going forward quickly, seemed terrible to her. a bob-cat shot across the way just ahead, and the green gleam of its eyes as it turned one swift glance at this strange intruder in its chosen haunts made her catch her breath and put her hand on the pistols. they were climbing a long time--it seemed hours to the girl--when at last they came to a space where a better view of the land was possible. it was high, and sloped away on three sides. to her looking now in the clear night the outline of a mountain ahead of her became distinct, and the lay of the land was not what she had supposed. it brought her a furious sense of being lost. over there ought to be the familiar way where the cabin stood, but there was no sign of anything she had ever seen before, though she searched eagerly for landmarks. the course she had chosen, and which had seemed the only one, would take her straight up, up over the mountain, a way well-nigh impossible, and terrible even if it were possible. it was plain she must change her course, but which way should she go? she was completely turned around. after all, what mattered it? one way might be as good as another, so it led not home to the cabin which could never be home again. why not give the horse his head, and let him pick out a safe path? was there danger that he might carry her back to the cabin again, after all? horses did that sometimes. but at least he could guide through this maze of perplexity till some surer place was reached. she gave him a sign, and he moved on, nimbly picking a way for his feet. they entered a forest growth where weird branches let the pale moon through in splashes and patches, and grim moving figures seemed to chase them from every shadowy tree-trunk. it was a terrible experience to the girl. sometimes she shut her eyes and held to the saddle, that she might not see and be filled with this frenzy of things, living or dead, following her. sometimes a real black shadow crept across the path, and slipped into the engulfing darkness of the undergrowth to gleam with yellow-lighted eyes upon the intruders. but the forest did not last forever, and the moon was not yet gone when they emerged presently upon the rough mountain-side. the girl studied the moon then, and saw by the way it was setting that after all they were going in the right general direction. that gave a little comfort until she made herself believe that in some way she might have made a mistake and gone the wrong way from the graves, and so be coming up to the cabin after all. it was a terrible night. every step of the way some new horror was presented to her imagination. once she had to cross a wild little stream, rocky and uncertain in its bed, with slippery, precipitous banks; and twice in climbing a steep incline she came sharp upon sheer precipices down into a rocky gorge, where the moonlight seemed repelled by dark, bristling evergreen trees growing half-way up the sides. she could hear the rush and clamor of a tumbling mountain stream in the depths below. once she fancied she heard a distant shot, and the horse pricked up his ears, and went forward excitedly. but at last the dawn contended with the night, and in the east a faint pink flush crept up. down in the valley a mist like a white feather rose gently into a white cloud, and obscured everything. she wished she might carry the wall of white with her to shield her. she had longed for the dawn; and now, as it came with sudden light and clear revealing of the things about her, it was almost worse than night, so dreadful were the dangers when clearly seen, so dangerous the chasms, so angry the mountain torrents. with the dawn came the new terror of being followed. the man would have no fear to come to her in the morning, for murdered men were not supposed to haunt their homes after the sun was up, and murderers were always courageous in the day. he might the sooner come, and find her gone, and perhaps follow; for she felt that he was not one easily to give up an object he coveted, and she had seen in his evil face that which made her fear unspeakably. as the day grew clearer, she began to study the surroundings. all seemed utter desolation. there was no sign that any one had ever passed that way before; and yet, just as she had thought that, the horse stopped and snorted, and there in the rocks before them lay a man's hat riddled with shot. peering fearfully around, the girl saw a sight which made her turn icy cold and begin to tremble; for there, below them, as if he had fallen from his horse and rolled down the incline, lay a man on his face. for the instant fear held her riveted, with the horse, one figure like a statue, girl and beast; the next, sudden panic took hold upon her. whether the man were dead or not, she must make haste. it might be he would come to himself and pursue her, though there was that in the rigid attitude of the figure down below that made her sure he had been dead some time. but how had he died? scarcely by his own hand. who had killed him? were there fiends lurking in the fastnesses of the mountain growth above her? with guarded motion she urged her horse forward, and for miles beyond the horse scrambled breathlessly, the girl holding on with shut eyes, not daring to look ahead for fear of seeing more terrible sights, not daring to look behind for fear of--what she did not know. at last the way sloped downward, and they reached more level ground, with wide stretches of open plain, dotted here and there with sage-brush and greasewood. she had been hungry back there before she came upon the dead man; but now the hunger had gone from her, and in its place was only faintness. still, she dared not stop long to eat. she must make as much time as possible here in this open space, and now she was where she could be seen more easily if any one were in pursuit. but the horse had decided that it was time for breakfast. he had had one or two drinks of water on the mountain, but there had been no time for him to eat. he was decidedly hungry, and the plain offered nothing in the shape of breakfast. he halted, lingered, and came to a neighing stop, looking around at his mistress. she roused from her lethargy of trouble, and realized that his wants--if not her own--must be attended to. she must sacrifice some of her own store of eatables, for by and by they would come to a good grazing-place perhaps, but now there was nothing. the corn-meal seemed the best for the horse. she had more of it than of anything else. she poured a scanty portion out on a paper, and the beast smacked his lips appreciatively over it, carefully licking every grain from the paper, as the girl guarded it lest his breath should blow any away. he snuffed hungrily at the empty paper, and she gave him a little more meal, while she ate some of the cold beans, and scanned the horizon anxiously. there was nothing but sage-brush in sight ahead of her, and more hills farther on where dim outlines of trees could be seen. if she could but get up higher where she could see farther, and perhaps reach a bench where there would be grass and some shelter. it was only a brief rest she allowed; and then, hastily packing up her stores, and retaining some dry corn bread and a few beans in her pocket, she mounted and rode on. the morning grew hot, and the way was long. as the ground rose again, it was stony and overgrown with cactus. a great desolation took possession of the girl. she felt as if she were in an endless flight from an unseen pursuer, who would never give up until he had her. it was high noon by the glaring sun when she suddenly saw another human being. at first she was not quite sure whether he were human. it was only a distant view of a moving speck; but it was coming toward her, though separated by a wide valley that had stretched already for miles. he was moving along against the sky-line on a high bench on one side of the valley, and she mounting as fast as her weary beast would go to the top of another, hoping to find a grassy stretch and a chance to rest. but the sight of the moving speck startled her. she watched it breathlessly as they neared each other. could it be a wild beast? no, it must be a horse and rider. a moment later there came a puff of smoke as from a rifle discharged, followed by the distant echo of the discharge. it was a man, and he was yet a great way off. should she turn and flee before she was discovered? but where? should she go back? no, a thousand times, no! her enemy was there. this could not be the one from whom she fled. he was coming from the opposite direction, but he might be just as bad. her experience taught her that men were to be shunned. even fathers and brothers were terribly uncertain, sorrow-bringing creatures. she could not go back to the place where the dead man lay. she must not go back. and forward she was taking the only course that seemed at all possible through the natural obstructions of the region. she shrank to her saddle, and urged the patient horse on. perhaps she could reach the bench and get away out of sight before the newcomer saw her. but the way was longer to the top, and steeper than it had seemed at first, and the horse was tired. sometimes he stopped of his own accord, and snorted appealingly to her with his head turned inquiringly as if to know how long and how far this strange ride was to continue. then the man in the distance seemed to ride faster. the valley between them was not so wide here. he was quite distinctly a man now, and his horse was going rapidly. once it seemed as if he waved his arms; but she turned her head, and urged her horse with sudden fright. they were almost to the top now. she dismounted and clambered alongside of the animal up the steep incline, her breath coming in quick gasps, with the horse's breath hot upon her cheek as they climbed together. at last! they were at the top! ten feet more and they would be on a level, where they might disappear from view. she turned to look across the valley, and the man was directly opposite. he must have ridden hard to get there so soon. oh, horror! he was waving his hands and calling. she could distinctly hear a cry! it chilled her senses, and brought a frantic, unreasoning fear. somehow she felt he was connected with the one from whom she fled. some emissary of his sent out to foil her in her attempt for safety, perhaps. she clutched the bridle wildly, and urged the horse up with one last effort; and just as they reached high ground she heard the wild cry ring clear and distinct, "hello! hello!" and then something else. it sounded like "help!" but she could not tell. was he trying to deceive her? pretending he would help her? she flung herself into the saddle, giving the horse the signal to run; and, as the animal obeyed and broke into his prairie run, she cast one fearful glance behind her. the man was pursuing her at a gallop! he was crossing the valley. there was a stream to cross, but he would cross it. he had determination in every line of his flying figure. his voice was pursuing her, too. it seemed as if the sound reached out and clutched her heart, and tried to draw her back as she fled. and now her pursuers were three: her enemy, the dead man upon the mountain, and the voice. chapter iii the pursuit straight across the prairie she galloped, not daring to stop for an instant, with the voice pursuing her. for hours it seemed to ring in her ears, and even after she was far beyond any possibility of hearing it she could not be sure but there was now and then a faint echo of it ringing yet, "hello!"--ringing like some strange bird amid the silence of the world. there were cattle and sheep grazing on the bench, and the horse would fain have stopped to dine with them; but the girl urged him on, seeming to make him understand the danger that might be pursuing them. it was hours before she dared stop for the much-needed rest. her brain had grown confused with the fright and weariness. she felt that she could not much longer stay in the saddle. she might fall asleep. the afternoon sun would soon be slipping down behind the mountains. when and where dared she rest? not in the night, for that would be almost certain death, with wild beasts about. a little group of greasewood offered a scanty shelter. as if the beast understood her thoughts he stopped with a neigh, and looked around at her. she scanned the surroundings. there were cattle all about. they had looked up curiously from their grazing as the horse flew by, but were now going quietly on about their business. they would serve as a screen if any should be still pursuing her. one horse among the other animals in a landscape would not be so noticeable as one alone against the sky. the greasewood was not far from sloping ground where she might easily flee for hiding if danger approached. the horse had already begun to crop the tender grass at his feet as if his life depended upon a good meal. the girl took some more beans from the pack she carried, and mechanically ate them, though she felt no appetite, and her dry throat almost refused to swallow. she found her eyes shutting even against her will; and in desperation she folded the old coat into a pillow, and with the horse's bridle fastened in her belt she lay down. the sun went away; the horse ate his supper; and the girl slept. by and by the horse drowsed off too, and the bleating sheep in the distance, the lowing of the cattle, the sound of night-birds, came now and again from the distance; but still the girl slept on. the moon rose full and round, shining with flickering light through the cottonwoods; and the girl stirred in a dream and thought some one was pursuing her, but slept on again. then out through the night rang a vivid human voice, "hello! hello!" the horse roused from his sleep, and stamped his feet nervously, twitching at his bridle; but the relaxed hand that lay across the leather strap did not quicken, and the girl slept on. the horse listened, and thought he heard a sound good to his ear. he neighed, and neighed again; but the girl slept on. the first ray of the rising sun at last shot through the gray of dawning, and touched the girl full in the face as it slid under the branches of her sheltering tree. the light brought her acutely to her senses. before she opened her eyes she seemed to be keenly and painfully aware of much that had gone on during her sleep. with another flash her eyes flew open. not because she willed it, but rather as if the springs that held the lids shut had unexpectedly been touched and they sprang back because they had to. she shrank, as her eyes opened, from a new day, and the memory of the old one. then before her she saw something which kept her motionless, and almost froze the blood in her veins. she could not stir nor breathe, and for a moment even thought was paralyzed. there before her but a few feet away stood a man! beyond him, a few feet from her own horse, stood his horse. she could not see it without turning her head, and that she dared not do; but she knew it was there, felt it even before she noticed the double stamping and breathing of the animals. her keen senses seemed to make the whole surrounding landscape visible to her without the moving of a muscle. she knew to a nicety exactly how her weapons lay, and what movement would bring her hand to the trigger of her pistol; yet she stirred not. gradually she grew calm enough to study the man before her. he stood almost with his back turned toward her, his face just half turned so that one cheek and a part of his brow were visible. he was broad-shouldered and well built. there was strength in every line of his body. she felt how powerless she would be in his grasp. her only hope would be in taking him unaware. yet she moved not one atom. he wore a brown flannel shirt, open at the throat, brown leather belt and boots; in short, his whole costume was in harmonious shades of brown, and looked new as if it had been worn but a few days. his soft felt sombrero was rolled back from his face, and the young red sun tinged the short brown curls to a ruddy gold. he was looking toward the rising sun. the gleam of it shot across his brace of pistols in his belt, and flashed twin rays into her eyes. then all at once the man turned and looked at her. instantly the girl sprang to her feet, her hands upon her pistol, her eyes meeting with calm, desperate defiance the blue ones that were turned to her. she was braced against a tree, and her senses were measuring the distance between her horse and herself, and deciding whether escape were possible. "good morning," said the man politely. "i hope i haven't disturbed your nap." the girl eyed him solemnly, and said nothing. this was a new kind of man. he was not like the one from whom she had fled, nor like any she had ever seen; but he might be a great deal worse. she had heard that the world was full of wickedness. "you see," went on the man with an apologetic smile, which lit up his eyes in a wonderfully winning way, "you led me such a desperate race nearly all day yesterday that i was obliged to keep you in sight when i finally caught you." he looked for an answering smile, but there was none. instead, the girl's dark eyes grew wide and purple with fear. he was the same one, then, that she had seen in the afternoon, the voice who had cried to her; and he had been pursuing her. he was an enemy, perhaps, sent by the man from whom she fled. she grasped her pistol with trembling fingers, and tried to think what to say or do. the young man wondered at the formalities of the plains. were all these western maidens so reticent? "why did you follow me? who did you think i was?" she asked breathlessly at last. "well, i thought you were a man," he said; "at least, you appeared to be a human being, and not a wild animal. i hadn't seen anything but wild animals for six hours, and very few of those; so i followed you." the girl was silent. she was not reassured. it did not seem to her that her question was directly answered. the young man was playing with her. "what right had you to follow me?" she demanded fiercely. "well, now that you put it in that light, i'm not sure that i had any right at all, unless it may be the claim that every human being has upon all creation." his arms were folded now across his broad brown flannel chest, and the pistols gleamed in his belt below like fine ornaments. he wore a philosophical expression, and looked at his companion as if she were a new specimen of the human kind, and he was studying her variety, quite impersonally, it is true, but interestedly. there was something in his look that angered the girl. "what do you want?" she had never heard of the divine claims of all the human family. her one instinct at present was fear. an expression that was almost bitter flitted over the young man's face, as of an unpleasant memory forgotten for the instant. "it really wasn't of much consequence when you think of it," he said with a shrug of his fine shoulders. "i was merely lost, and was wanting to inquire where i was--and possibly the way to somewhere. but i don't know as 'twas worth the trouble." the girl was puzzled. she had never seen a man like this before. he was not like her wild, reckless brother, nor any of his associates. "this is montana," she said, "or was, when i started," she added with sudden thought. "yes? well, it was montana when i started, too; but it's as likely to be the desert of sahara as anything else. i'm sure i've come far enough, and found it barren enough." "i never heard of that place," said the girl seriously; "is it in canada?" "i believe not," said the man with sudden gravity; "at least, not that i know of. when i went to school, it was generally located somewhere in africa." "i never went to school," said the girl wistfully; "but--" with a sudden resolve--"i'll go now." "do!" said the man. "i'll go with you. let's start at once; for, now that i think of it, i haven't had anything to eat for over a day, and there might be something in that line near a schoolhouse. do you know the way?" "no," said the girl, slowly studying him--she began to feel he was making fun of her; "but i can give you something to eat." "thank you!" said the man. "i assure you i shall appreciate anything from hardtack to bisque ice-cream." "i haven't any of those," said the girl, "but there are plenty of beans left; and, if you will get some wood for a fire, i'll make some coffee." "agreed," said the man. "that sounds better than anything i've heard for forty-eight hours." the girl watched him as he strode away to find wood, and frowned for an instant; but his face was perfectly sober, and she turned to the business of getting breakfast. for a little her fears were allayed. at least, he would do her no immediate harm. of course she might fly from him now while his back was turned; but then of course he would pursue her again, and she had little chance of getting away. besides, he was hungry. she could not leave him without something to eat. "we can't make coffee without water," she said as he came back with a bundle of sticks. he whistled. "could you inform me where to look for water?" he asked. she looked into his face, and saw how worn and gray he was about his eyes; and a sudden compassion came upon her. "you'd better eat something first," she said, "and then we'll go and hunt for water. there's sure to be some in the valley. we'll cook some meat." she took the sticks from him, and made the fire in a businesslike way. he watched her, and wondered at her grace. who was she, and how had she wandered out into this waste place? her face was both beautiful and interesting. she would make a fine study if he were not so weary of all human nature, and especially woman. he sighed as he thought again of himself. the girl caught the sound, and, turning with the quickness of a wild creature, caught the sadness in his face. it seemed to drive away much of her fear and resentment. a half-flicker of a smile came to her lips as their eyes met. it seemed to recognize a comradeship in sorrow. but her face hardened again almost at once into disapproval as he answered her look. the man felt a passing disappointment. after a minute, during which the girl had dropped her eyes to her work again, he said: "now, why did you look at me in that way? ought i to be helping you in some way? i'm awkward, i know, but i can obey if you'll just tell me how." the girl seemed puzzled; then she replied almost sullenly: "there's nothing more to do. it's ready to eat." she gave him a piece of the meat and the last of the corn bread in the tin cup, and placed the pan of beans beside him; but she did not attempt to eat anything herself. he took a hungry bite or two, and looked furtively at her. "i insist upon knowing why you looked--" he paused and eyed her--"why you look at me in that way. i'm not a wolf if i am hungry, and i'm not going to eat you up." the look of displeasure deepened on the girl's brow. in spite of his hunger the man was compelled to watch her. she seemed to be looking at a flock of birds in the sky. her hand rested lightly at her belt. the birds were coming towards them, flying almost over their heads. suddenly the girl's hand was raised with a quick motion, and something gleamed in the sun across his sight. there was a loud report, and one of the birds fell almost at his feet, dead. it was a sage-hen. then the girl turned and walked towards him with as haughty a carriage as ever a society belle could boast. "you were laughing at me," she said quietly. it had all happened so suddenly that the man had not time to think. several distinct sensations of surprise passed over his countenance. then, as the meaning of the girl's act dawned upon him, and the full intention of her rebuke, the color mounted in his nice, tanned face. he set down the tin cup, and balanced the bit of corn bread on the rim, and arose. "i beg your pardon," he said. "i never will do it again. i couldn't have shot that bird to save my life," and he touched it with the tip of his tan leather boot as if to make sure it was a real bird. the girl was sitting on the ground, indifferently eating some of the cooked pork. she did not answer. somehow the young man felt uncomfortable. he sat down, and took up his tin cup, and went at his breakfast again; but his appetite seemed in abeyance. "i've been trying myself to learn to shoot during the last week," he began soberly. "i haven't been able yet to hit anything but the side of a barn. say, i'm wondering, suppose i had tried to shoot at those birds just now and had missed, whether you wouldn't have laughed at me--quietly, all to yourself, you know. are you quite sure?" the girl looked up at him solemnly without saying a word for a full minute. "was what i said as bad as that?" she asked slowly. "i'm afraid it was," he answered thoughtfully; "but i was a blamed idiot for laughing at you. a girl that shoots like that may locate the desert of sahara in canada if she likes, and canada ought to be proud of the honor." she looked into his face for an instant, and noted his earnestness; and all at once she broke into a clear ripple of laughter. the young man was astonished anew that she had understood him enough to laugh. she must be unusually keen-witted, this lady of the desert. "if 'twas as bad as that," she said in quite another tone, "you c'n laugh." they looked at each other then in mutual understanding, and each fell to eating his portion in silence. suddenly the man spoke. "i am eating your food that you had prepared for your journey, and i have not even said, 'thank you' yet, nor asked if you have enough to carry you to a place where there is more. where are you going?" the girl did not answer at once; but, when she did, she spoke thoughtfully, as if the words were a newly made vow from an impulse just received. "i am going to school," she said in her slow way, "to learn to 'sight' the desert of sahara." he looked at her, and his eyes gave her the homage he felt was her due; but he said nothing. here evidently was an indomitable spirit, but how did she get out into the wilderness? where did she come from, and why was she alone? he had heard of the freedom of western women, but surely such girls as this did not frequent so vast a waste of uninhabited territory as his experience led him to believe this was. he sat studying her. the brow was sweet and thoughtful, with a certain keen inquisitiveness about the eyes. the mouth was firm; yet there were gentle lines of grace about it. in spite of her coarse, dark calico garb, made in no particular fashion except with an eye to covering with the least possible fuss and trouble, she was graceful. every movement was alert and clean-cut. when she turned to look full in his face, he decided that she had almost beautiful eyes. she had arisen while he was watching her, and seemed to be looking off with sudden apprehension. he followed her gaze, and saw several dark figures moving against the sky. "it's a herd of antelope," she said with relief; "but it's time we hit the trail." she turned, and put her things together with incredible swiftness, giving him very little opportunity to help, and mounted her pony without more words. for an hour he followed her at high speed as she rode full tilt over rough and smooth, casting furtive, anxious glances behind her now and then, which only half included him. she seemed to know that he was there and was following; that was all. the young man felt rather amused and flattered. he reflected that most women he knew would have ridden by his side, and tried to make him talk. but this girl of the wilderness rode straight ahead as if her life depended upon it. she seemed to have nothing to say to him, and to be anxious neither to impart her own history nor to know his. well, that suited his mood. he had come out into the wilderness to think and to forget. here was ample opportunity. there had been a little too much of it yesterday, when he wandered from the rest of his party who had come out to hunt; and for a time he had felt that he would rather be back in his native city with a good breakfast and all his troubles than to be alone in the vast waste forever. but now there was human company, and a possibility of getting somewhere sometime. he was content. the lithe, slender figure of the girl ahead seemed one with the horse it rode. he tried to think what this ride would be if another woman he knew were riding on that horse ahead, but there was very small satisfaction in that. in the first place, it was highly improbable, and the young man was of an intensely practical turn of mind. it was impossible to imagine the haughty beauty in a brown calico riding a high-spirited horse of the wilds. there was but one parallel. if she had been there, she would, in her present state of mind, likely be riding imperiously and indifferently ahead instead of by his side where he wanted her. besides, he came out to the plains to forget her. why think of her? the sky was exceedingly bright and wide. why had he never noticed this wideness in skies at home? there was another flock of birds. what if he should try to shoot one? idle talk. he would probably hit anything but the birds. why had that girl shot that bird, anyway? was it entirely because she might need it for food? she had picked it up significantly with the other things, and fastened it to her saddle-bow without a word. he was too ignorant to know whether it was an edible bird or not, or she was merely carrying it to remind him of her skill. and what sort of a girl was she? perhaps she was escaping from justice. she ran from him yesterday, and apparently stopped only when utterly exhausted. she seemed startled and anxious when the antelopes came into sight. there was no knowing whether her company meant safety, after all. yet his interest was so thoroughly aroused in her that he was willing to risk it. of course he might go more slowly and gradually, let her get ahead, and he slip out of sight. it was not likely he had wandered so many miles away from human habitation but that he would reach one sometime; and, now that he was re-enforced by food, perhaps it would be the part of wisdom to part with this strange maiden. as he thought, he unconsciously slackened his horse's pace. the girl was a rod or more ahead, and just vanishing behind a clump of sage-brush. she vanished, and he stopped for an instant, and looked about him on the desolation; and a great loneliness settled upon him like a frenzy. he was glad to see the girl riding back toward him with a smile of good fellowship on her face. "what's the matter?" she called. "come on! there's water in the valley." the sound of water was good; and life seemed suddenly good for no reason whatever but that the morning was bright, and the sky was wide, and there was water in the valley. he rode forward, keeping close beside her now, and in a moment there gleamed below in the hot sunshine the shining of a sparkling stream. "you seem to be running away from some one," he explained. "i thought you wanted to get rid of me, and i would give you a chance." she looked at him surprised. "i am running away," she said, "but not from you." "from whom, then, may i ask? it might be convenient to know, if we are to travel in the same company." she looked at him keenly. "who are you, and where do you belong?" chapter iv the two fugitives "i'm not anybody in particular," he answered, "and i'm not just sure where i belong. i live in pennsylvania, but i didn't seem to belong there exactly, at least not just now, and so i came out here to see if i belonged anywhere else. i concluded yesterday that i didn't. at least, not until i came in sight of you. but i suspect i am running away myself. in fact, that is just what i am doing, running away from a woman!" he looked at her with his honest hazel eyes, and she liked him. she felt he was telling her the truth, but it seemed to be a truth he was just finding out for himself as he talked. "why do you run away from a woman? how could a woman hurt you? can she shoot?" he flashed her a look of amusement and pain mingled. "she uses other weapons," he said. "her words are darts, and her looks are swords." "what a queer woman! does she ride well?" "yes, in an automobile!" "what is that?" she asked the question shyly as if she feared he might laugh again; and he looked down, and perceived that he was talking far above her. in fact, he was talking to himself more than to the girl. there was a bitter pleasure in speaking of his lost lady to this wild creature who almost seemed of another kind, more like an intelligent bird or flower. "an automobile is a carriage that moves about without horses," he answered her gravely. "it moves by machinery." "i should not like it," said the girl decidedly. "horses are better than machines. i saw a machine once. it was to cut wheat. it made a noise, and did not go fast. it frightened me." "but automobiles go very fast, faster than any horses and they do not all make a noise." the girl looked around apprehensively. "my horse can go very fast. you do not know how fast. if you see her coming, i will change horses with you. you must ride to the nearest bench and over, and then turn backward on your tracks. she will never find you that way. and i am not afraid of a woman." the man broke into a hearty laugh, loud and long. he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks; and the girl, offended, rode haughtily beside him. then all in a moment he grew quite grave. "excuse me," he said; "i am not laughing at you now, though it looks that way. i am laughing out of the bitterness of my soul at the picture you put before me. although i am running away from her, the lady will not come out in her automobile to look for me. she does not want me!" "she does not want you! and yet you ran away from her?" "that's exactly it," he said. "you see, _i_ wanted _her_!" "oh!" she gave a sharp, quick gasp of intelligence, and was silent. after a full minute she rode quite close to his horse, and laid her small brown hand on the animal's mane. "i am sorry," she said simply. "thank you," he answered. "i'm sure i don't know why i told you. i never told any one before." there was a long silence between them. the man seemed to have forgotten her as he rode with his eyes upon his horse's neck, and his thoughts apparently far away. at last the girl said softly, as if she were rendering return for the confidence given her, "i ran away from a man." the man lifted his eyes courteously, questioningly, and waited. "he is big and dark and handsome. he shoots to kill. he killed my brother. i hate him. he wants me, and i ran away from him. but he is a coward. i frightened him away. he is afraid of dead men that he has killed." the young man gave his attention now to the extraordinary story which the girl told as if it were a common occurrence. "but where are your people, your family and friends? why do they not send the man away?" "they're all back there in the sand," she said with a sad little flicker of a smile and a gesture that told of tragedy. "i said the prayer over them. mother always wanted it when we died. there wasn't anybody left but me. i said it, and then i came away. it was cold moonlight, and there were noises. the horse was afraid. but i said it. do you suppose it will do any good?" she fastened her eyes upon the young man with her last words as if demanding an answer. the color came up to his cheeks. he felt embarrassed at such a question before her trouble. "why, i should think it ought to," he stammered. "of course it will," he added with more confident comfort. "did you ever say the prayer?" "why,--i--yes, i believe i have," he answered somewhat uncertainly. "did it do any good?" she hung upon his words. "why, i--believe--yes, i suppose it did. that is, praying is always a good thing. the fact is, it's a long time since i've tried it. but of course it's all right." a curious topic for conversation between a young man and woman on a ride through the wilderness. the man had never thought about prayer for so many minutes consecutively in the whole of his life; at least, not since the days when his nurse tried to teach him "now i lay me." "why don't you try it about the lady?" asked the girl suddenly. "well, the fact is, i never thought of it." "don't you believe it will do any good?" "well, i suppose it might." "then let's try it. let's get off now, quick, and both say it. maybe it will help us both. do you know it all through? can't you say it?" this last anxiously, as he hesitated and looked doubtful. the color came into the man's face. somehow this girl put him in a very bad light. he couldn't shoot; and, if he couldn't pray, what would she think of him? "why, i think i could manage to say it with help," he answered uneasily. "but what if that man should suddenly appear on the scene?" "you don't think the prayer is any good, or you wouldn't say that." she said it sadly, hopelessly. "o, why, certainly," he said, "only i thought there might be some better time to try it; but, if you say so, we'll stop right here." he sprang to the ground, and offered to assist her; but she was beside him before he could get around his horse's head. down she dropped, and clasped her hands as a little child might have done, and closed her eyes. "our father," she repeated slowly, precisely, as if every word belonged to a charm and must be repeated just right or it would not work. the man's mumbling words halted after hers. he was reflecting upon the curious tableau they would make to the chance passer-by on the desert if there were any passers-by. it was strange, this aloneness. there was a wideness here that made praying seem more natural than it would have been at home in the open country. the prayer, by reason of the unaccustomed lips, went slowly; but, when it was finished, the girl sprang to her saddle again with a businesslike expression. "i feel better," she said with a winning smile. "don't you? don't you think he heard?" "who heard?" "why, 'our father.'" "o, certainly! that is, i've always been taught to suppose he did. i haven't much experimental knowledge in this line, but i dare say it'll do some good some where. now do you suppose we could get some of that very sparkling water? i feel exceedingly thirsty." they spurred their horses, and were soon beside the stream, refreshing themselves. "did you ride all night?" asked the girl. "pretty much," answered the man. "i stopped once to rest a few minutes; but a sound in the distance stirred me up again, and i was afraid to lose my chance of catching you, lest i should be hopelessly lost. you see, i went out with a party hunting, and i sulked behind. they went off up a steep climb, and i said i'd wander around below till they got back, or perhaps ride back to camp; but, when i tried to find the camp, it wasn't where i had left it." "well, you've got to lie down and sleep awhile," said the girl decidedly. "you can't keep going like that. it'll kill you. you lie down, and i'll watch, and get dinner. i'm going to cook that bird." he demurred, but in the end she had her way; for he was exceedingly weary, and she saw it. so he let her spread the old coat down for him while he gathered some wood for a fire, and then he lay down and watched her simple preparations for the meal. before he knew it he was asleep. when he came to himself, there was a curious blending of dream and reality. he thought his lady was coming to him across the rough plains in an automobile, with gray wings like those of the bird the girl had shot, and his prayer as he knelt in the sand was drawing her, while overhead the air was full of a wild, sweet music from strange birds that mocked and called and trilled. but, when the automobile reached him and stopped, the lady withered into a little, old, dried-up creature of ashes; and the girl of the plains was sitting in her place radiant and beautiful. he opened his eyes, and saw the rude little dinner set, and smelt the delicious odor of the roasted bird. the girl was standing on the other side of the fire, gravely whistling a most extraordinary song, like unto all the birds of the air at once. she had made a little cake out of the corn-meal, and they feasted royally. "i caught two fishes in the brook. we'll take them along for supper," she said as they packed the things again for starting. he tried to get her to take a rest also, and let him watch; but she insisted that they must go on, and promised to rest just before dark. "for we must travel hard at night, you know," she added fearfully. he questioned her more about the man who might be pursuing, and came to understand her fears. "the scoundrel!" he muttered, looking at the delicate features and clear, lovely profile of the girl. he felt a strong desire to throttle the evil man. he asked a good many questions about her life, and was filled with wonder over the flower-like girl who seemed to have blossomed in the wilderness with no hand to cultivate her save a lazy, clever, drunken father, and a kind but ignorant mother. how could she have escaped being coarsened amid such surroundings. how was it, with such brothers as she had, that she had come forth as lovely and unhurt as she seemed? he somehow began to feel a great anxiety for her lonely future and a desire to put her in the way of protection. but at present they were still in the wilderness; and he began to be glad that he was here too, and might have the privilege of protecting her now, if there should be need. as it grew toward evening, they came upon a little grassy spot in a coulee where the horses might rest and eat. here they stopped, and the girl threw herself under a shelter of trees, with the old coat for a pillow, and rested, while the man paced up and down at a distance, gathering wood for a fire, and watching the horizon. as night came on, the city-bred man longed for shelter. he was by no means a coward where known quantities were concerned, but to face wild animals and drunken brigands in a strange, wild plain with no help near was anything but an enlivening prospect. he could not understand why they had not come upon some human habitation by this time. he had never realized how vast this country was before. when he came westward on the train he did not remember to have traversed such long stretches of country without a sign of civilization, though of course a train went so much faster than a horse that he had no adequate means of judging. then, besides, they were on no trail now, and had probably gone in a most roundabout way to anywhere. in reality they had twice come within five miles of little homesteads, tucked away beside a stream in a fertile spot; but they had not known it. a mile further to the right at one spot would have put them on the trail and made their way easier and shorter, but that they could not know. the girl did not rest long. she seemed to feel her pursuit more as the darkness crept on, and kept anxiously looking for the moon. "we must go toward the moon," she said as she watched the bright spot coming in the east. they ate their supper of fish and corn-bread with the appetite that grows on horseback, and by the time they had started on their way again the moon spread a path of silver before them, and they went forward feeling as if they had known each other a long time. for a while their fears and hopes were blended in one. meantime, as the sun sank and the moon rose, a traveller rode up the steep ascent to the little lonely cabin which the girl had left. he was handsome and dark and strong, with a scarlet kerchief knotted at his throat; and he rode slowly, cautiously, looking furtively about and ahead of him. he was doubly armed, and his pistols gleamed in the moonlight, while an ugly knife nestled keenly in a secret sheath. he was wicked, for the look upon his face was not good to see; and he was a coward, for he started at the flutter of a night-bird hurrying late to its home in a rock by the wayside. the mist rising from the valley in wreaths of silver gauze startled him again as he rounded the trail to the cabin, and for an instant he stopped and drew his dagger, thinking the ghost he feared was walking thus early. a draught from the bottle he carried in his pocket steadied his nerves, and he went on, but stopped again in front of the cabin; for there stood another horse, and there in the doorway stood a figure in the darkness! his curses rang through the still air and smote the moonlight. his pistol flashed forth a volley of fire to second him. in answer to his demand who was there came another torrent of profanity. it was one of his comrades of the day before. he explained that he and two others had come up to pay a visit to the pretty girl. they had had a wager as to who could win her, and they had come to try; but she was not here. the door was fastened. they had forced it. there was no sign of her about. the other two had gone down to the place where her brother was buried to see whether she was there. women were known to be sentimental. she might be that kind. he had agreed to wait here, but he was getting uneasy. perhaps, if the other two found her, they might not be fair. the last comer with a mighty oath explained that the girl belonged to him, and that no one had a right to her. he demanded that the other come with him to the grave, and see what had become of the girl; and then they would all go and drink together--but the girl belonged to him. they rode to the place of the graves, and met the two others returning; but there was no sign of the girl, and the three taunted the one, saying that the girl had given him the slip. amid much argument as to whose she was and where she was, they rode on cursing through god's beauty. they passed the bottle continually, that their nerves might be the steadier; and, when they came to the deserted cabin once more, they paused and discussed what to do. at last it was agreed that they should start on a quest after her, and with oaths, and coarse jests, and drinking, they started down the trail of which the girl had gone in search by her roundabout way. chapter v a night ride it was a wonderful night that the two spent wading the sea of moonlight together on the plain. the almost unearthly beauty of the scene grew upon them. they had none of the loneliness that had possessed each the night before, and might now discover all the wonders of the way. early in the way they came upon a prairie-dogs' village, and the man would have lingered watching with curiosity, had not the girl urged him on. it was the time of night when she had started to run away, and the same apprehension that filled her then came upon her with the evening. she longed to be out of the land which held the man she feared. she would rather bury herself in the earth and smother to death than be caught by him. but, as they rode on, she told her companion much of the habits of the curious little creatures they had seen; and then, as the night settled down upon them, she pointed out the dark, stealing creatures that slipped from their way now and then, or gleamed with a fearsome green eye from some temporary refuge. at first the cold shivers kept running up and down the young man as he realized that here before him in the sage-brush was a real live animal about which he had read so much, and which he had come out bravely to hunt. he kept his hand upon his revolver, and was constantly on the alert, nervously looking behind lest a troop of coyotes or wolves should be quietly stealing upon him. but, as the girl talked fearlessly of them in much the same way as we talk of a neighbor's fierce dog, he grew gradually calmer, and was able to watch a dark, velvet-footed moving object ahead without starting. by and by he pointed to the heavens, and talked of the stars. did she know that constellation? no? then he explained. such and such stars were so many miles from the earth. he told their names, and a bit of mythology connected with the name, and then went on to speak of the moon, and the possibility of its once having been inhabited. the girl listened amazed. she knew certain stars as landmarks, telling east from west and north from south; and she had often watched them one by one coming out, and counted them her friends; but that they were worlds, and that the inhabitants of this earth knew anything whatever about the heavenly bodies, she had never heard. question after question she plied him with, some of them showing extraordinary intelligence and thought, and others showing deeper ignorance than a little child in our kindergartens would show. he wondered more and more as their talk went on. he grew deeply interested in unfolding the wonders of the heavens to her; and, as he studied her pure profile in the moonlight with eager, searching, wistful gaze, her beauty impressed him more and more. in the east the man had a friend, an artist. he thought how wonderful a theme for a painting this scene would make. the girl in picturesque hat of soft felt, riding with careless ease and grace; horse, maiden, plain, bathed in a sea of silver. more and more as she talked the man wondered how this girl reared in the wilds had acquired a speech so free from grammatical errors. she was apparently deeply ignorant, and yet with a very few exceptions she made no serious errors in english. how was it to be accounted for? he began to ply her with questions about herself, but could not find that she had ever come into contact with people who were educated. she had not even lived in any of the miserable little towns that flourish in the wildest of the west, and not within several hundred miles of a city. their nearest neighbors in one direction had been forty miles away, she said, and said it as if that were an everyday distance for a neighbor to live. mail? they had had a letter once that she could remember, when she was a little girl. it was just a few lines in pencil to say that her mother's father had died. he had been killed in an accident of some sort, working in the city where he lived. her mother had kept the letter and cried over it till almost all the pencil marks were gone. no, they had no mail on the mountain where their homestead was. yes, her father went there first because he thought he had discovered gold, but it turned out to be a mistake; so, as they had no other place to go to, and no money to go with, they had just stayed there; and her father and brothers had been cow-punchers, but she and her mother had scarcely ever gone away from home. there were the little children to care for; and, when they died, her mother did not care to go, and would not let her go far alone. o, yes, she had ridden a great deal, sometimes with her brothers, but not often. they went with rough men, and her mother felt afraid to have her go. the men all drank. her brothers drank. her father drank too. she stated it as if it were a sad fact common to all mankind, and ended with the statement which was almost, not quite, a question, "i guess you drink too." "well," said the young man hesitatingly, "not that way. i take a glass of wine now and then in company, you know--" "yes, i know," sighed the girl. "men are all alike. mother used to say so. she said men were different from women. they had to drink. she said they all did it. only she said her father never did; but he was very good, though he had to work hard." "indeed," said the young man, his color rising in the moonlight, "indeed, you make a mistake. i don't drink at all, not that way. i'm not like them. i--why, i only--well, the fact is, i don't care a red cent about the stuff anyway; and i don't want you to think i'm like them. if it will do you any good, i'll never touch it again, not a drop." he said it earnestly. he was trying to vindicate himself. just why he should care to do so he did not know, only that all at once it was very necessary that he should appear different in the eyes of this girl from, the other men she had known. "will you really?" she asked, turning to look in his face. "will you promise that?" "why, certainly i will," he said, a trifle embarrassed that she had taken him at his word. "of course i will. i tell you it's nothing to me. i only took a glass at the club occasionally when the other men were drinking, and sometimes when i went to banquets, class banquets, you know, and dinners--" now the girl had never heard of class banquets, but to take a glass occasionally when the other men were drinking was what her brothers did; and so she sighed, and said: "yes, you may promise, but i know you won't keep it. father promised too; but, when he got with the other men, it did no good. men are all alike." "but i'm not," he insisted stoutly. "i tell you i'm not. i don't drink, and i won't drink. i promise you solemnly here under god's sky that i'll never drink another drop of intoxicating liquor again if i know it as long as i live." he put out his hand toward her, and she put her own into it with a quick grasp for just an instant. "then you're not like other men, after all," she said with a glad ring in her voice. "that must be why i wasn't so very much afraid of you when i woke up and found you standing there." a distinct sense of pleasure came over him at her words. why it should make him glad that she had not been afraid of him when she had first seen him in the wilderness he did not know. he forgot all about his own troubles. he forgot the lady in the automobile. right then and there he dropped her out of his thoughts. he did not know it; but she was forgotten, and he did not think about her any more during that journey. something had erased her. he had run away from her, and he had succeeded most effectually, more so than he knew. there in the desert the man took his first temperance pledge, urged thereto by a girl who had never heard of a temperance pledge in her life, had never joined a woman's temperance society, and knew nothing about women's crusades. her own heart had taught her out of a bitter experience just how to use her god-given influence. they came to a long stretch of level ground then, smooth and hard; and the horses as with common consent set out to gallop shoulder to shoulder in a wild, exhilarating skim across the plain. talking was impossible. the man reflected that he was making great strides in experience, first a prayer and then a pledge, all in the wilderness. if any one had told him he was going into the west for this, he would have laughed him to scorn. towards morning they rode more slowly. their horses were growing jaded. they talked in lower tones as they looked toward the east. it was as if they feared they might waken some one too soon. there is something awesome about the dawning of a new day, and especially when one has been sailing a sea of silver all night. it is like coming back from an unreal world into a sad, real one. each was almost sorry that the night was over. the new day might hold so much of hardship or relief, so much of trouble or surprise; and this night had been perfect, a jewel cut to set in memory with every facet flashing to the light. they did not like to get back to reality from the converse they had held together. it was an experience for each which would never be forgotten. once there came the distant sound of shots and shouts. the two shrank nearer each other, and the man laid his strong hand protectingly on the mane of the girl's horse; but he did not touch her hand. the lady of his thoughts had sometimes let him hold her jewelled hand, and smiled with drooping lashes when he fondled it; and, when she had tired of him, other admirers might claim the same privilege. but this woman of the wilderness--he would not even in his thoughts presume to touch her little brown, firm hand. somehow she had commanded his honor and respect from the first minute, even before she shot the bird. once a bob-cat shot across their path but a few feet in front of them, and later a kit-fox ran growling up with ruffled fur; but the girl's quick shot soon put it to flight, and they passed on through the dawning morning of the first real sabbath day the girl had ever known. "it is sunday morning at home," said the man gravely as he watched the sun lift its rosy head from the mist of mountain and valley outspread before them. "do you have such an institution out here?" the girl grew white about the lips. "awful things happen on sunday," she said with a shudder. he felt a great pity rising in his heart for her, and strove to turn her thoughts in other directions. evidently there was a recent sorrow connected with the sabbath. "you are tired," said he, "and the horses are tired. see! we ought to stop and rest. the daylight has come, and nothing can hurt us. here is a good place, and sheltered. we can fasten the horses behind these bushes, and no one will guess we are here." she assented, and they dismounted. the man cut an opening into a clump of thick growth with his knife, and there they fastened the weary horses, well hidden from sight if any one chanced that way. the girl lay down a few feet away in a spot almost entirely surrounded by sage-brush which had reached an unusual height and made a fine hiding-place. just outside the entrance of this natural chamber the man lay down on a fragrant bed of sage-brush. he had gathered enough for the girl first, and spread out the old coat over it; and she had dropped asleep almost as soon as she lay down. but, although his own bed of sage-brush was tolerably comfortable, even to one accustomed all his life to the finest springs and hair mattress that money could buy, and although the girl had insisted that he must rest too, for he was weary and there was no need to watch, sleep would not come to his eyelids. he lay there resting and thinking. how strange was the experience through which he was passing! came ever a wealthy, college-bred, society man into the like before? what did it all mean? his being lost, his wandering for a day, the sight of this girl and his pursuit, the prayer under the open sky, and that night of splendor under the moonlight riding side by side. it was like some marvellous tale. and this girl! where was she going? what was to become of her? out in the world where he came from, were they ever to reach it, she would be nothing. her station in life was beneath his so far that the only recognition she could have would be one which would degrade her. this solitary journey they were taking, how the world would lift up its hands in horror at it! a girl without a chaperon! she was impossible! and yet it all seemed right and good, and the girl was evidently recognized by the angels; else how had she escaped from degradation thus far? ah! how did he know she had? but he smiled at that. no one could look into that pure, sweet face, and doubt that she was as good as she was beautiful. if it was not so, he hoped he would never find it out. she seemed to him a woman yet unspoiled, and he shrank from the thought of what the world might do for her--the world and its cultivation, which would not be for her, because she was friendless and without money or home. the world would have nothing but toil to give her, with a meagre living. where was she going, and what was she proposing to do? must he not try to help her in some way? did not the fact that she had saved his life demand so much from him? if he had not found her, he must surely have starved before he got out of this wild place. even yet starvation was not an impossibility; for they had not reached any signs of habitation yet, and there was but one more portion of corn-meal and a little coffee left. they had but two matches now, and there had been no more flights of birds, nor brooks with fishes. in fact, the man found a great deal to worry about as he lay there, too weary with the unaccustomed exercise and experiences to sleep. he reflected that the girl had told him very little, after all, about her plans. he must ask her. he wished he knew more of her family. if he were only older and she younger, or if he had the right kind of a woman friend to whom he might take her, or send her! how horrible that that scoundrel was after her! such men were not men, but beasts, and should be shot down. far off in the distance, it might have been in the air or in his imagination, there sometimes floated a sound as of faint voices or shouts; but they came and went, and he listened, and by and by heard no more. the horses breathed heavily behind their sage-brush stable, and the sun rose higher and hotter. at last sleep came, troubled, fitful, but sleep, oblivion. this time there was no lady in an automobile. it was high noon when he awoke, for the sun had reached around the sage-brush, and was pouring full into his face. he was very uncomfortable, and moreover an uneasy sense of something wrong pervaded his mind. had he or had he not, heard a strange, low, sibilant, writhing sound just as he came to consciousness? why did he feel that something, some one, had passed him but a moment before? he rubbed his eyes open, and fanned himself with his hat. there was not a sound to be heard save a distant hawk in the heavens, and the breathing of the horses. he stepped over, and made sure that they were all right, and then came back. was the girl still sleeping? should he call her? but what should he call her? she had no name to him as yet. he could not say, "my dear madam" in the wilderness, nor yet "mademoiselle." perhaps it was she who had passed him. perhaps she was looking about for water, or for fire-wood. he cast his eyes about, but the thick growth of sage-brush everywhere prevented his seeing much. he stepped to the right and then to the left of the little enclosure where she had gone to sleep, but there was no sign of life. at last the sense of uneasiness grew upon him until he spoke. "are you awake yet?" he ventured; but the words somehow stuck in his throat, and would not sound out clearly. he ventured the question again, but it seemed to go no further than the gray-green foliage in front of him. did he catch an alert movement, the sound of attention, alarm? had he perhaps frightened her? his flesh grew creepy, and he was angry with himself that he stood here actually trembling and for no reason. he felt that there was danger in the air. what could it mean? he had never been a believer in premonitions or superstitions of any kind. but the thought came to him that perhaps that evil man had come softly while he slept, and had stolen the girl away. then all at once a horror seized him, and he made up his mind to end this suspense and venture in to see whether she were safe. chapter vi a christian endeavor meeting in the wilderness he stepped boldly around the green barrier, and his first glance told him she was lying there still asleep; but the consciousness of another presence held him from going away. there, coiled on the ground with venomous fangs extended and eyes glittering like slimy jewels, was a rattlesnake, close beside her. for a second he gazed with a kind of fascinated horror, and his brain refused to act. then he knew he must do something, and at once. he had read of serpents and travellers' encounters with them, but no memory of what was to be done under such circumstances came. shoot? he dared not. he would be more likely to kill the girl than the serpent, and in any event would precipitate the calamity. neither was there any way to awaken the girl and drag her from peril, for the slightest movement upon her part would bring the poisoned fangs upon her. he cast his eyes about for some weapon, but there was not a stick or a stone in sight. he was a good golf-player; if he had a loaded stick, he could easily take the serpent's head off, he thought; but there was no stick. there was only one hope, he felt, and that would be to attract the creature to himself; and he hardly dared move lest the fascinated gaze should close upon the victim as she lay there sweetly sleeping, unaware of her new peril. suddenly he knew what to do. silently he stepped back out of sight, tore off his coat, and then cautiously approached the snake again, holding the coat up before him. there was an instant's pause when he calculated whether the coat could drop between the snake and the smooth brown arm in front before the terrible fangs would get there; and then the coat dropped, the man bravely holding one end of it as a wall between the serpent and the girl, crying to her in an agony of frenzy to awaken and run. there was a terrible moment in which he realized that the girl was saved and he himself was in peril of death, while he held to the coat till the girl was on her feet in safety. then he saw the writhing coil at his feet turn and fasten its eyes of fury upon him. he was conscious of being uncertain whether his fingers could let go the coat, and whether his trembling knees could carry him away before the serpent struck; then it was all over, and he and the girl were standing outside the sage-brush, with the sound of the pistol dying away among the echoes, and the fine ache of his arm where her fingers had grasped him to drag him from danger. the serpent was dead. she had shot it. she took that as coolly as she had taken the bird in its flight. but she stood looking at him with great eyes of gratitude, and he looked at her amazed that they were both alive, and scarcely understanding all that had happened. the girl broke the stillness. "you are what they call a 'tenderfoot,'" she said significantly. "yes," he assented humbly, "i guess i am. i couldn't have shot it to save anybody's life." "you are a tenderfoot, and you couldn't shoot," she continued eulogistically, as if it were necessary to have it all stated plainly, "but you--you are what my brother used to call 'a white man.' you couldn't shoot; but you could risk your life, and hold that coat, and look death in the face. _you_ are no tenderfoot." there was eloquence in her eyes, and in her voice there were tears. she turned away to hide if any were in her eyes. but the man put out his hand on her sure little brown one, and took it firmly in his own, looking down upon her with his own eyes filled with tears of which he was not ashamed. "and what am i to say to you for saving my life?" he said. "i? o, that was easy," said the girl, rousing to the commonplace. "i can always shoot. only you were hard to drag away. you seemed to want to stay there and die with your coat." "they laughed at me for wearing that coat when we started away. they said a hunter never bothered himself with extra clothing," he mused as they walked away from the terrible spot. "do you think it was the prayer?" asked the girl suddenly. "it may be!" said the man with wondering accent. then quietly, thoughtfully, they mounted and rode onward. their way, due east, led them around the shoulder of a hill. it was tolerably smooth, but they were obliged to go single file, so there was very little talking done. it was nearly the middle of the afternoon when all at once a sound reached them from below, a sound so new that it was startling. they stopped their horses, and looked at each other. it was the faint sound of singing wafted on the light breeze, singing that came in whiffs like a perfume, and then died out. cautiously they guided their horses on around the hill, keeping close together now. it was plain they were approaching some human being or beings. no bird could sing like that. there were indistinct words to the music. they rounded the hillside, and stopped again side by side. there below them lay the trail for which they had been searching, and just beneath them, nestled against the hill, was a little schoolhouse of logs, weather-boarded, its windows open; and behind it and around it were horses tied, some of them hitched to wagons, but most of them with saddles. the singing was clear and distinct now. they could hear the words. "o, that will be glory for me, glory for me, glory for me--" "what is it?" she whispered. "why, i suspect it is a sunday school or something of the kind." "o! a school! could we go in?" "if you like," said the man, enjoying her simplicity. "we can tie out horses here behind the building, and they can rest. there is fresh grass in this sheltered place; see?" he led her down behind the schoolhouse to a spot where the horses could not be seen from the trail. the girl peered curiously around the corner into the window. there sat two young girls about her own age, and one of them smiled at her. it seemed an invitation. she smiled back, and went on to the doorway reassured. when she entered the room, she found them pointing to a seat near a window, behind a small desk. there were desks all over the room at regular intervals, and a larger desk up in front. almost all the people sat at desks. there was a curious wooden box in front at one side of, the big desk, and a girl sat before it pushing down some black and white strips that looked like sticks, and making her feet go, and singing with all her might. the curious box made music, the same music the people were singing. was it a piano? she wondered. she had heard of pianos. her father used to talk about them. o, and what was that her mother used to want? a "cab'net-organ." perhaps this was a cab'net-organ. at any rate, she was entranced with the music. up behind the man who sat at the big desk was a large board painted black with some white marks on it. the sunlight glinted across it, and she could not tell what they were; but, when she moved a little, she saw quite clearly it was a large cross with words underneath it--"he will hide me." it was a strange place. the girl looked around shyly, and felt submerged in the volume of song that rolled around her, from voices untrained, perhaps, but hearts that knew whereof they sang. to her it was heavenly music, if she had the least conception of what such music was like. "glory," "glory," "glory!" the words seemed to fit the day, and the sunshine, and the deliverance that had come to her so recently. she looked around for her companion and deliverer to enjoy it with him, but he had not come in yet. the two girls were handing her a book now and pointing to the place. she could read. her mother had taught her just a little before the other children were born, but not much in the way of literature had ever come in her way. she grasped the book eagerly, hungrily, and looked where the finger pointed. yes, there were the words. "glory for me!" "glory for me!" did that mean her? was there glory for her anywhere in the world? she sighed with the joy of the possibility, as the "glory song" rolled along, led by the enthusiasm of one who had recently come from a big city where it had been sung in a great revival service. some kind friend had given some copies of a leaflet containing it and a few other new songs to this little handful of christians, and they were singing them as if they had been a thousand strong. the singing ceased and the man at the big desk said, "let us have the verses." "'the eternal god is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms,'" said a careworn woman in the front seat. "'he shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust,'" said a young man next. "'in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me,'" read the girl who had handed the book. the slip of paper she had written it on fluttered to the floor at the feet of the stranger, and the stranger stooped and picked it up, offering it back; but the other girl shook her head, and the stranger kept it, looking wonderingly at the words, trying to puzzle out a meaning. there were other verses repeated, but just then a sound smote upon the girl's ear which deadened all others. in spite of herself she began to tremble. even her lips seemed to her to move with the weakness of her fear. she looked up, and the man was just coming toward the door; but her eyes grew dizzy, and a faintness seemed to come over her. up the trail on horseback, with shouts and ribald songs, rode four rough men, too drunk to know where they were going. the little schoolhouse seemed to attract their attention as they passed, and just for deviltry they shouted out a volley of oaths and vile talk to the worshippers within. one in particular, the leader, looked straight into the face of the young man as he returned from fastening the horses and was about to enter the schoolhouse, and pretended to point his pistol at him, discharging it immediately into the air. this was the signal for some wild firing as the men rode on past the schoolhouse, leaving a train of curses behind them to haunt the air and struggle with the "glory song" in the memories of those who heard. the girl looked out from her seat beside the window, and saw the evil face of the man from whom she had fled. she thought for a terrible minute, which seemed ages long to her, that she was cornered now. she began to look about on the people there helplessly, and wonder whether they would save her, would help her, in her time of need. would they be able to fight and prevail against those four terrible men mad with liquor? suppose he said she was his--his wife, perhaps, or sister, who had run away. what could they do? would they believe her? would the man who had saved her life a few minutes ago believe her? would anybody help her? the party passed, and the man came in and sat down beside her quietly enough; but without a word or a look he knew at once who the man was he had just seen. his soul trembled for the girl, and his anger rose hot. he felt that a man like that ought to be wiped off the face of the earth in some way, or placed in solitary confinement the rest of his life. he looked down at the girl, trembling, brave, white, beside him; and he felt like gathering her in his arms and hiding her himself, such a frail, brave, courageous little soul she seemed. but the calm nerve with which she had shot the serpent was gone now. he saw she was trembling and ready to cry. then he smiled upon her, a smile the like of which he had never given to human being before; at least, not since he was a tiny baby and smiled confidingly into his mother's face. something in that smile was like sunshine to a nervous chill. the girl felt the comfort of it, though she still trembled. down her eyes drooped to the paper in her shaking hands. then gradually, letter by letter, word by word, the verse spoke to her. not all the meaning she gathered, for "pavilion" and "tabernacle" were unknown words to her, but the hiding she could understand. she had been hidden in her time of trouble. some one had done it. "he"--the word would fit the man by her side, for he had helped to hide her, and to save her more than once; but just now there came a dim perception that it was some other he, some one greater who had worked this miracle and saved her once more to go on perhaps to better things. there were many things said in that meeting, good and wise and true. they might have been helpful to the girl if she had understood, but her thoughts had much to do. one grain of truth she had gathered for her future use. there was a "hiding" somewhere in this world, and she had had it in a time of trouble. one moment more out upon the open, and the terrible man might have seen her. there came a time of prayer in which all heads were bowed, and a voice here and there murmured a few soft little words which she did not comprehend; but at the close they all joined in "the prayer"; and, when she heard the words, "our father," she closed her eyes, which had been curiously open and watching, and joined her voice softly with the rest. somehow it seemed to connect her safety with "our father," and she felt a stronger faith than ever in her prayer. the young man listened intently to all he heard. there was something strangely impressive to him in this simple worship out in what to him was a vast wilderness. he felt more of the true spirit of worship than he had ever felt at home sitting in the handsomely upholstered pew beside his mother and sister while the choir-boys chanted the processional and the light filtered through costly windows of many colors over the large and cultivated congregation. there was something about the words of these people that went straight to the heart more than all the intonings of the cultured voices he had ever heard. truly they meant what they said, and god had been a reality to them in many a time of trouble. that seemed to be the theme of the afternoon, the saving power of the eternal god, made perfect through the need and the trust of his people. he was reminded more than once of the incident of the morning and the miraculous saving of his own and his companion's life. when the meeting was over, the people gathered in groups and talked with one another. the girl who had handed the book came over and spoke to the strangers, putting out her hand pleasantly. she was the missionary's daughter. "what is this? school?" asked the stranger eagerly. "yes, this is the schoolhouse," said the missionary's daughter; "but this meeting is christian endeavor. do you live near here? can't you come every time?" "no. i live a long way off," said the girl sadly. "that is, i did. i don't live anywhere now. i'm going away." "i wish you lived here. then you could come to our meeting. did you have a christian endeavor where you lived?" "no. i never saw one before. it's nice. i like it." another girl came up now, and put out her hand in greeting. "you must come again," she said politely. "i don't know," said the visitor. "i sha'n't be coming back soon." "are you going far?" "as far as i can. i'm going east." "o," said the inquisitor; and then, seeing the missionary's daughter was talking to some one else, she whispered, nodding toward the man, "is he your husband?" the girl looked startled, while a slow color mounted into her cheeks. "no," said she gravely, thoughtfully. "but--he saved my life a little while ago." "oh!" said the other, awestruck. "my! and ain't he handsome? how did he do it?" but the girl could not talk about it. she shuddered. "it was a dreadful snake," she said, "and i was--i didn't see it. it was awful! i can't tell you about it." "my!" said the girl. "how terrible!" the people were passing out now. the man was talking with the missionary, asking the road to somewhere. the girl suddenly realized that this hour of preciousness was over, and life was to be faced again. those men, those terrible men! she had recognized the others as having been among her brother's funeral train. where were they, and why had they gone that way? were they on her track? had they any clue to her whereabouts? would they turn back pretty soon, and catch her when the people were gone home? it appeared that the nearest town was malta, sixteen miles away, down in the direction where the party of men had passed. there were only four houses near the schoolhouse, and they were scattered in different directions along the stream in the valley. the two stood still near the door after the congregation had scattered. the girl suddenly shivered. as she looked down the road, she seemed again to see the coarse face of the man she feared, and to hear his loud laughter and oaths. what if he should come back again? "i cannot go that way!" she said, pointing down the trail toward malta. "i would rather die with wild beasts." "no!" said the man with decision. "on no account can we go that way. was that the man you ran away from?" "yes." she looked up at him, her eyes filled with wonder over the way in which he had coupled his lot with hers. "poor little girl!" he said with deep feeling. "you would be better off with the beasts. come, let us hurry away from here!" they turned sharply away from the trail, and followed down behind a family who were almost out of sight around the hill. there would be a chance of getting some provisions, the man thought. the girl thought of nothing except to get away. they rode hard, and soon came within hailing-distance of the people ahead of them, and asked a few questions. no, there were no houses to the north until you were over the canadian line, and the trail was hard to follow. few people went that way. most went down to malta. why didn't they go to malta? there was a road there, and stores. it was by all means the best way. yes, there was another house about twenty miles away on this trail. it was a large ranch, and was near to another town that had a railroad. the people seldom came this way, as there were other places more accessible to them. the trail was little used, and might be hard to find in some places; but, if they kept the cottonwood creek in sight, and followed on to the end of the valley, and then crossed the bench to the right, they would be in sight of it, and couldn't miss it. it was a good twenty miles beyond their house; but, if the travellers didn't miss the way, they might reach it before dark. yes, the people could supply a few provisions at their house if the strangers didn't mind taking what was at hand. the man in the wagon tried his best to find out where the two were going and what they were going for; but the man from the east baffled his curiosity in a most dexterous manner, so that, when the two rode away from the two-roomed log house where the kind-hearted people lived, they left no clue to their identity or mission beyond the fact that they were going quite a journey, and had got a little off their trail and run out of provisions. they felt comparatively safe from pursuit for a few hours at least, for the men could scarcely return and trace them very soon. they had not stopped to eat anything; but all the milk they could drink had been given to them, and its refreshing strength was racing through their veins. they started upon their long ride with the pleasure of their companionship strong upon them. "what was it all about?" asked the girl as they settled into a steady gait after a long gallop across a smooth level place. he looked at her questioningly. "the school. what did it mean? she said it was a christian endeavor. what is that?" "why, some sort of a religious meeting, or something of that kind, i suppose," he answered lamely. "did you enjoy it?" "yes," she answered solemnly, "i liked it. i never went to such a thing before. the girl said they had one everywhere all over the world. what do you think she meant?" "why, i don't know, i'm sure, unless it's some kind of a society. but it looked to me like a prayer meeting. i've heard about prayer meetings, but i never went to one, though i never supposed they were so interesting. that was a remarkable story that old man told of how he was taken care of that night among the indians. he evidently believes that prayer helps people." "don't you?" she asked quickly. "o, certainly!" he said, "but there was something so genuine about the way the old man told it that it made you feel it in a new way." "it is all new to me," said the girl. "but mother used to go to sunday school and church and prayer meeting. she's often told me about it. she used to sing sometimes. one song was 'rock of ages.' did you ever hear that? "'rock of ages, cleft for me. let me hide myself in thee.'" she said it slowly and in a singsong voice, as if she were measuring the words off to imaginary notes. "i thought about that the night i started. i wished i knew where that rock was. is there a rock anywhere that they call the rock of ages?" the young man was visibly embarrassed. he wanted to laugh, but he would not hurt her in that way again. he was not accustomed to talking religion; yet here by this strange girl's side it seemed perfectly natural that he, who knew so very little experimentally himself about it, should be trying to explain the rock of ages to a soul in need. all at once it flashed upon him that it was for just such souls in need as this one that the rock of ages came into the world. "i've heard the song. yes, i think they sing it in all churches. it's quite common. no, there isn't any place called rock of ages. it refers--that is, i believe--why, you see the thing is figurative--that is, a kind of picture of things. it refers to the deity." "o! who is that?" asked the girt. "why--god." he tried to say it as if he had been telling her it was mr. smith or mr. jones, but somehow the sound of the word on his lips thus shocked him. he did not know how to go on. "it just means god will take care of people." "o!" she said, and this time a light of understanding broke over her face. "but," she added, "i wish i knew what it meant, the meeting, and why they did it. there must be some reason. they wouldn't do it for nothing. and how do they know it's all so? where did they find it out?" the man felt he was beyond his depth; so he sought to change the subject. "i wish you would tell me about yourself," he said gently. "i should like to understand you better. we have travelled together for a good many hours now, and we ought to know more about each other." "what do you want to know?" she asked it gravely. "there isn't much to tell but what i've told you. i've lived on a mountain all my life, and helped mother. the rest all died. the baby first, and my two brothers, and father, and mother, and then john. i said the prayer for john, and ran away." "yes, but i want to know about your life. you know i live in the east where everything is different. it's all new to me out here. i want to know, for instance, how you came to talk so well. you don't talk like a girl that never went to school. you speak as if you had read and studied. you make so few mistakes in your english. you speak quite correctly. that is not usual, i believe, when people have lived all their lives away from school, you know. you don't talk like the girls i have met since i came out here." "father always made me speak right. he kept at every one of us children when we said a word wrong, and made us say it over again. it made him angry to hear words said wrong. he made mother cry once when she said 'done' when she ought to have said 'did.' father went to school once, but mother only went a little while. father knew a great deal, and when he was sober he used to teach us things once in a while. he taught me to read. i can read anything i ever saw." "did you have many books and magazines?" he asked innocently. "we had three books!" she answered proudly, as if that were a great many. "one was a grammar. father bought it for mother before they were married, and she always kept it wrapped up in paper carefully. she used to get it out for me to read in sometimes; but she was very careful with it, and when she died i put it in her hands. i thought she would like to have it close to her, because it always seemed so much to her. you see father bought it. then there was an almanac, and a book about stones and earth. a man who was hunting for gold left that. he stopped over night at our house, and asked for some, thing to eat. he hadn't any money to pay for it; so he left that book with us, and said when he found the gold he would come and buy it back again. but he never came back." "is that all that you have ever read?" he asked compassionately. "o, no! we got papers sometimes. father would come home with a whole paper wrapped around some bundle. once there was a beautiful story about a girl; but the paper was torn in the middle, and i never knew how it came out." there was great wistfulness in her voice. it seemed to be one of the regrets of her girlhood that she did not know how that other girl in the story fared. all at once she turned to him. "now tell me about your life," she said. "i'm sure you have a great deal to tell." his face darkened in a way that made her sorry. "o, well," said he as if it mattered very little about his life, "i had a nice home--have yet, for the matter of that. father died when i was little, and mother let me do just about as i pleased. i went to school because the other fellows did, and because that was the thing to do. after i grew up i liked it. that is, i liked some studies; so i went to a university." "what is that?" "o, just a higher school where you learn grown-up things. then i travelled. when i came home, i went into society a good deal. but"--and his face darkened again--"i got tired of it all, and thought i would come out here for a while and hunt, and i got lost, and i found you!" he smiled into her face. "now you know the rest." something passed between them in that smile and glance, a flash of the recognition of souls, and a gladness in each other's company, that made the heart warm. they said no more for some time, but rode quietly side by side. they had come to the end of the valley, and were crossing the bench. the distant ranch could quite distinctly be seen. the silver moon had come up, for they had not been hurrying, and a great beauty pervaded everything. they almost shrank from approaching the buildings and people. they had enjoyed the ride and the companionship. every step brought them nearer to what they had known all the time was an indistinct future from which they had been joyously shut away for a little time till they might know each other. chapter vii bad news they found rest for the night at the ranch house. the place was wide and hospitable. the girl looked about her with wonder on the comfortable arrangements for work. if only her mother had had such a kitchen to work in, and such a pleasant, happy home, she might have been living yet. there was a pleasant-faced, sweet-voiced woman with gray hair whom the men called "mother." she gave the girl a kindly welcome, and made her sit down to a nice warm supper, and, when it was over, led her to a little room where her own bed was, and told her she might sleep with her. the girl lay down in a maze of wonder, but was too weary with the long ride to keep awake and think about it. they slept, the two travellers, a sound and dreamless sleep, wherein seemed peace and moonlight, and a forgetting of sorrows. early the next morning the girl awoke. the woman by her side was already stirring. there was breakfast to get for the men. the woman asked her a few questions about her journey. "he's your brother, ain't he, dearie?" asked the woman as she was about to leave the room. "no," said the girl. "o," said the woman, puzzled, "then you and he's goin' to be married in the town." "o, no!" said the girl with scarlet cheeks, thinking of the lady in the automobile. "not goin' to be married, dearie? now that's too bad. ain't he any kind of relation to you? not an uncle nor cousin nor nothin'?" "no." "then how be's you travellin' lone with him? it don't seem just right. you's a sweet, good girl; an' he's a fine man. but harm's come to more'n one. where'd you take up with each other? be he a neighbor? he looks like a man from way off, not hereabouts. you sure he ain't deceivin' you, dearie?" the girl flashed her eyes in answer. "yes, i'm sure. he's a good man. he prays to our father. no, he's not a neighbor, nor an uncle, nor a cousin. he's just a man that got lost. we were both lost on the prairie in the night; and he's from the east, and got lost from his party of hunters. he had nothing to eat, but i had; so i gave him some. then he saved my life when a snake almost stung me. he's been good to me." the woman looked relieved. "and where you goin', dearie, all 'lone? what your folks thinkin' 'bout to let you go 'lone this way?" "they're dead," said the girl with great tears in her eyes. "dearie me! and you so young! say, dearie, s'pose you stay here with me. i'm lonesome, an' there's no women near by here. you could help me and be comp'ny. the men would like to have a girl round. there's plenty likely men on this ranch could make a good home fer a girl sometime. stay here with me, dearie." had this refuge been offered the girl during her first flight in the wilderness, with what joy and thankfulness she would have accepted! now it suddenly seemed a great impossibility for her to stay. she must go on. she had a pleasant ride before her, and delightful companionship; and she was going to school. the world was wide, and she had entered it. she had no mind to pause thus on the threshold, and never see further than montana. moreover, the closing words of the woman did not please her. "i cannot stay," she said decidedly. "i'm going to school. and i do not want a man. i have just run away from a man, a dreadful one. i am going to school in the east. i have some relations there, and perhaps i can find them." "you don't say so!" said the woman, looking disappointed. she had taken a great fancy to the sweet young face. "well, dearie, why not stay here a little while, and write to your folks, and then go on with some one who is going your way? i don't like to see you go off with that man. it ain't the proper thing. he knows it himself. i'm afraid he's deceivin' you. i can see by his clo'es he's one of the fine young fellows that does as they please. he won't think any good of you if you keep travellin' 'lone with him. it's all well 'nough when you get lost, an' he was nice to help you out and save you from snakes; but he knows he ain't no business travellin' 'lone with you, you pretty little creature!" "you must not talk so!" said the girl, rising and flashing her eyes again. "he's a good man. he's what my brother called 'a white man all through.' besides, he's got a lady, a beautiful lady, in the east. she rides in some kind of a grand carriage that goes of itself, and he thinks a great deal of her." the woman looked as if she were but half convinced. "it may seem all right to you, dearie," she said sadly; "but i'm old, and i've seen things happen. you'd find his fine lady wouldn't go jantin' round the world 'lone with him unless she's married. i've lived east, and i know; and what's more, he knows it too. he may mean all right, but you never can trust folks." the woman went away to prepare breakfast then, and left the girl feeling as if the whole world was against her, trying to hold her. she was glad when the man suggested that they hurry their breakfast and get away as quickly as possible. she did not smile when the old woman came out to bid her good-by, and put a detaining hand on the horse's bridle, saying, "you better stay with me, after all, hadn't you, dearie?" the man looked inquiringly at the two women, and saw like a flash the suspicion of the older woman, read the trust and haughty anger in the beautiful younger face, and then smiled down on the old woman whose kindly hospitality had saved them for a while from the terrors of the open night, and said: "don't you worry about her, auntie. i'm going to take good care of her, and perhaps she'll write you a letter some day, and tell you where she is and what she's doing." half reassured, the old woman gave him her name and address; and he wrote them down in a little red notebook. when they were well started on their way, the man explained that he had hurried because from conversation with the men he had learned that this ranch where they had spent the night was on the direct trail from malta to another small town. it might be that the pursuers would go further than malta. did she think they would go so far? they must have come almost a hundred miles already. would they not be discouraged? but the girl looked surprised. a hundred miles on horseback was not far. her brother often used to ride a hundred miles just to see a fight or have a good time. she felt sure the men would not hesitate to follow a long distance if something else did not turn them aside. the man's face looked sternly out from under his wide hat. he felt a great responsibility for the girl since he had seen the face of the man who was pursuing her. their horses were fresh, and the day was fine. they rode hard as long as the road was smooth, and did little talking. the girl was turning over in her mind the words the woman had spoken to her. but the thing that stuck there and troubled her was, "and he knows it is so." was she doing something for which this man by her side would not respect her? was she overstepping some unwritten law of which she had never heard, and did he know it, and yet encourage her in it? that she need fear him in the least she would not believe. had she not watched the look of utmost respect on his face as he stood quietly waiting for her to awake the first morning they had met? had he not had opportunity again and again to show her dishonor by word or look? yet he had never been anything but gentle and courteous to her. she did not call things by these names, but she felt the gentleman in him. besides, there was the lady. he had told about her at the beginning. he evidently honored the lady. the woman had said that the lady would not ride with him alone. was it true? would he not like to have the lady ride alone with him when she was not his relative in any way? then was there a difference between his thought of the lady and of herself? of course, there was some; he loved the lady, but he should not think less honorably of her than of any lady in the land. she sat straight and proudly in her man's saddle, and tried to make him feel that she was worthy of respect. she had tried to show him this when she had shot the bird. now she recognized that there was a fine something, higher than shooting or prowess of any kind, which would command respect. it was something she felt belonged to her, yet she was not sure she commanded it. what did she lack, and how could she secure it? he watched her quiet, thoughtful face, and the lady of his former troubled thoughts was as utterly forgotten by him as if she had never existed. he was unconsciously absorbed in the study of eye and lip and brow. his eyes were growing accustomed to the form and feature of this girl beside him, and he took pleasure in watching her. they stopped for lunch in a coulee under a pretty cluster of cedar-trees a little back from the trail, where they might look over the way they had come and be warned against pursuers. about three o'clock they reached a town. here the railroad came directly from malta, but there was but one train a day each way. the man went to the public stopping-place and asked for a room, and boldly demanded a private place for his "sister" to rest for a while. "she is my little sister," he told himself in excuse for the word. "she is my sister to care for. that is, if she were my sister, this is what i should want some good man to do for her." he smiled as he went on his way after leaving the girl to rest. the thought of a sister pleased him. the old woman at the ranch had made him careful for the girl who was thus thrown in his company. he rode down through the rough town to the railway station, but a short distance from the rude stopping-place; and there he made inquiries concerning roads, towns, etc., in the neighboring locality, and sent a telegram to the friends with whom he had been hunting when he got lost. he said he would be at the next town about twenty miles away. he knew that by this time they would be back home and anxious about him, if they were not already sending out searching parties for him. his message read: "hit the trail all right. am taking a trip for my health. send mail to me at ----" then after careful inquiry as to directions, and learning that there was more than one route to the town he had mentioned in his telegram, he went back to his companion. she was ready to go, for the presence of other people about her made her uneasy. she feared again there would be objection to their further progress together. somehow the old woman's words had grown into a shadow which hovered over her. she mounted her horse gladly, and they went forward. he told her what he had just done, and how he expected to get his mail the next morning when they reached the next town. he explained that there was a ranch half-way there where they might stop all night. she was troubled at the thought of another ranch. she knew there would be more questions, and perhaps other disagreeable words said; but she held her peace, listening to his plans. her wonder was great over the telegram. she knew little or nothing about modern discoveries. it was a mystery to her how he could receive word by morning from a place that it had taken them nearly two days to leave behind, and how had he sent a message over a wire? yes, she had heard of telegrams, but had never been quite sure they were true. when he saw that she was interested, he went on to tell her of other wonderful triumphs of science, the telephone, the electric light, gas, and the modern system of water-works. she listened as if it were all a fairy tale. sometimes she looked at him, and wondered whether it could be true, or whether he were not making fun of her; but his earnest, honest eyes forbade doubt. at the ranch they found two women, a mother and her daughter. the man asked frankly whether they could take care of this young friend of his overnight, saying that she was going on to the town in the morning, and was in his care for the journey. this seemed to relieve all suspicion. the two girls eyed each other, and then smiled. "i'm myrtle baker," said the ranch-owner's daughter. "come; i'll take you where you can wash your hands and face, and then we'll have some supper." myrtle baker was a chatterer by nature. she talked incessantly; and, though she asked many questions, she did not wait for half of them to be answered. besides, the traveller had grown wary. she did not intend to talk about the relationship between herself and her travelling companion. there was a charm in myrtle's company which made the girl half regret leaving the next morning, as they did quite early, amid protests from myrtle and her mother, who enjoyed a visitor in their isolated home. but the ride that morning was constrained. each felt in some subtle way that their pleasant companionship was coming to a crisis. ahead in that town would be letters, communications from the outside world of friends, people who did not know or care what these two had been through together, and who would not hesitate to separate them with a firm hand. neither put this thought into words, but it was there in their hearts, in the form of a vague fear. they talked very little, but each was feeling how pleasant the journey had been, and dreading what might be before. they wanted to stay in this utopia of the plains, forever journeying together, and never reaching any troublesome futures where were laws and opinions by which they must abide. but the morning grew bright, and the road was not half long enough. though at the last they walked their horses, they reached the town before the daily train had passed through. they went straight to the station, and found that the train was an hour late; but a telegram had arrived for the man. he took it nervously, his fingers trembling. he felt a premonition that it contained something unpleasant. the girl sat on her horse by the platform, watching him through the open station door where he was standing as he tore open the envelope. she saw a deathly pallor overspread his face, and a look of anguish as if an arrow had pierced his heart. she felt as if the arrow had gone on into her own heart, and then she sat and waited. it seemed hours before he glanced up, with an old, weary look in his eyes. the message read: "your mother seriously ill. wants you immediately. will send your baggage on morning train. have wired you are coming." it was signed by his cousin with whom he had been taking his hunting-trip, and who was bound by business to go further west within a few days more. the strong young man was almost bowed under this sudden stroke. his mother was very dear to him. he had left her well and happy. he must go to her at once, of course; but what should he do with the girl who had within the last two days taken so strong a hold upon his--he hesitated, and called it "protection." that word would do in the present emergency. then he looked, and saw her own face pale under the tan, and stepped out to the platform to tell her. chapter viii the parting she took the news like a spartan. her gentle pity was simply expressed, and then she held her peace. he must go. he must leave her. she knew that the train would carry him to his mother's bedside quicker than a horse could go. she felt by the look in his eyes and the set of his mouth that he had already decided that. of course he must go. and the lady was there too! his mother and the lady! the lady would be sorry by this time, and would love him. well, it was all right. he had been good to her. he had been a strong, bright angel god had sent to help her out of the wilderness; and now that she was safe the angel must return to his heaven. this was what she thought. he had gone into the station to inquire about the train. it was an hour late. he had one short hour in which to do a great deal. he had very little money with him. naturally men do not carry a fortune when they go out into the wilderness for a day's shooting. fortunately he had his railroad return ticket to philadelphia. that would carry him safely. but the girl. she of course had no money. and where was she going? he realized that he had failed to ask her many important questions. he hurried out, and explained to her. "the train is an hour late. we must sell our horses, and try to get money enough to take us east. it is the only way. where do you intend going?" but the girl stiffened in her seat. she knew it was her opportunity to show that she was worthy of his honor and respect. "i cannot go with you," she said very quietly. "but you must," said he impatiently. "don't you see there is no other way? i must take this train and get to my mother as soon as possible. she may not be living when i reach her if i don't." something caught in his throat as he uttered the horrible thought that kept coming to his mind. "i know," said the girl quietly. "you must go, but i must ride on." "and why? i should like to know. don't you see that i cannot leave you here alone? those villains may be upon us at any minute. in fact, it is a good thing for us to board the train and get out of their miserable country as fast as steam can carry us. i am sorry you must part with your horse, for i know you are attached to it; but perhaps we can arrange to sell it to some one who will let us redeem it when we send the money out. you see i have not money enough with me to buy you a ticket. i couldn't get home myself if i hadn't my return ticket with me in my pocket. but surely the sale of both horses will bring enough to pay your way." "you are very kind, but i must not go." the red lips were firm, and the girl was sitting very erect. she looked as she had done after she had shot the bird. "but why?" "i cannot travel alone with you. it is not your custom where you come from. the woman on the ranch told me. she said you knew girls did not do that, and that you did not respect me for going alone with you. she said it was not right, and that you knew it." he looked at her impatient, angry, half ashamed that she should face him with these words. "nonsense!" said he. "this is a case of necessity. you are to be taken care of, and i am the one to do it." "but it is not the custom among people where you live, is it?" the clear eyes faced him down, and he had to admit that it was not. "then i can't go," she said decidedly. "but you must. if you don't, i won't go." "but you must," said the girl, "and i mustn't. if you talk that way, i'll run away from you. i've run away from one man, and i guess i can from another. besides, you're forgetting the lady." "what lady?" "your lady. the lady who rides in a carriage without horses." "hang the lady!" he said inelegantly. "do you know that the train will be along here in less than an hour, and we have a great deal to do before we can get on board? there's no use stopping to talk about this matter. we haven't time. if you will just trust things to me, i'll attend to them all, and i'll answer your questions when we get safely on the train. every instant is precious. those men might come around that corner ever there any minute. that's all bosh about respect. i respect you more than any woman i ever met. and it's my business to take care of you." "no, it's not your business," said the girl bravely, "and i can't let you. i'm nothing to you, you know." "you're every--that is--why, you surely know you're a great deal to me. why, you saved my life, you know!" "yes, and you saved mine. that was beautiful, but that's all." "isn't that enough? what are you made of, anyway, to sit there when there's so much to be done, and those villains on our track, and insist that you won't be saved?' respect you! why, a lion in the wilderness would have to respect you. you're made of iron and steel and precious stones. you've the courage of a--a--i was going to say a man but i mean an angel. you're pure as snow, and true as the heavenly blue, and firm as a rock; and, if i had never respected you before, i would have to now. i respect, i honor, i--i--i--pray for you!" he finished fiercely. he turned his back to hide his emotion. she lifted her eyes to his when he turned again, and her own were full of tears. "thank you!" she said it very simply. "that makes me--very--glad! but i cannot go with you." "do you mean that?" he asked her desperately. "yes," steadily. "then i shall have to stay too." "but you can't! you must go to your mother. i won't be stayed with. and what would she think? mothers are--everything!" she finished. "you must go quick and get ready. what can i do to help?" he gave her a look which she remembered long years afterward. it seemed to burn and sear its way into her soul. how was it that a stranger had the power to scorch her with anguish this way? and she him? he turned, still with that desperate, half-frantic look in his face, and accosted two men who stood at the other end of the platform. they were not in particular need of a horse at present; but they were always ready to look at a bargain, and they walked speculatively down the uneven boards of the platform with him to where his horse stood, and inspected it. the girl watched the whole proceeding with eyes that saw not but into the future. she put in a word about the worth of the saddle once when she saw it was going lower than it should. three other men gathered about before the bargain was concluded, and the horse and its equipments sold for about half its value. that done, the man turned toward the girl and motioned to her to lead her horse away to a more quiet place, and set him down to plead steadily against her decision. but the talk and the horse-selling had taken more time than he realized. the girl was more decided than ever in her determination not to go with him. she spoke of the lady again. she spoke of his mother, and mothers in general, and finished by reminding him that god would take care of her, and of him, too. then they heard the whistle of the train, and saw it growing from a speck to a large black object across the plain. to the girl the sight of this strange machine, that seemed more like a creature rushing toward her to snatch all beauty and hope and safety from her, sent a thrill of horror. to the man it seemed like a dreaded fate that was tearing him asunder. he had barely time to divest himself of his powder-horn, and a few little things that might be helpful to the girl in her journey, before the train was halting at the station. then he took from his pocket the money that had been paid him for his horse; and, selecting a five-dollar bill for himself, he wrapped the rest in an envelope bearing his own name and address. the envelope was one addressed by the lady at home. it had contained some gracefully worded refusal of a request. but he did not notice now what envelope he gave her. "take this," he said. "it will help a little. yes, you must! i cannot leave you--i _will_ not--unless you do," when he saw that she hesitated and looked doubtful. "i owe you all and more for saving my life. i can never repay you. take it. you may return it sometime when you get plenty more of your own, if it hurts your pride to keep it. take it, please. yes, i have plenty for myself. you will need it, and you must stop at nice places overnight. you will be very careful, won't you? my name is on that envelope. you must write to me and let me know that you are safe." "some one is calling you, and that thing is beginning to move again," said the girl, an awesome wonder in her face. "you will be left behind! o, hurry! quick! your mother!" he half turned toward the train, and then came back. "you haven't told me your name!" he gasped. "tell me quick!" she caught her breath. "elizabeth!" she answered, and waved him from her. the conductor of the train was shouting to him, and two men shoved him toward the platform. he swung himself aboard with the accustomed ease of a man who has travelled; but he stood on the platform, and shouted, "where are you going?" as the train swung noisily off. she did not hear him, but waved her hand, and gave him a bright smile that was brimming with unshed tears. it seemed like instant, daring suicide in him to stand on that swaying, clattering house as it moved off irresponsibly down the plane of vision. she watched him till he was out of sight, a mere speck on the horizon of the prairie; and then she turned her horse slowly into the road, and went her way into the world alone. the man stood on the platform, and watched her as he whirled away--a little brown girl on a little brown horse, so stanch and firm and stubborn and good. her eyes were dear, and her lips as she smiled; and her hand was beautiful as it waved him good-by. she was dear, dear, dear! why had he not known it? why had he left her? yet how could he stay? his mother was dying perhaps. he must not fail her in what might be her last summons. life and death were pulling at his heart, tearing him asunder. the vision of the little brown girl and the little brown horse blurred and faded. he tried to look, but could not see. he brought his eyes to nearer vision to fix their focus for another look, and straight before him whirled a shackly old saloon, rough and tumble, its character apparent from the men who were grouped about its doorway and from the barrels and kegs in profusion outside. from the doorway issued four men, wiping their mouths and shouting hilariously. four horses stood tied to a fence near by. they were so instantly passed, and so vaguely seen, that he could not be sure in the least, but those four men reminded him strongly of the four who had passed the schoolhouse on sunday. he shuddered, and looked back. the little brown horse and the little brown girl were one with the little brown station so far away, and presently the saloon and men were blotted out in one blur of green and brown and yellow. he looked to the ground in his despair. he _must_ go back. he could not leave her in such peril. she was his to care for by all the rights of manhood and womanhood. she had been put in his way. it was his duty. but the ground whirled by under his madness, and showed him plainly that to jump off would be instant death. then the thought of his mother came again, and the girl's words, "i am nothing to you, you know." the train whirled its way between two mountains and the valley, and the green and brown and yellow blur were gone from sight. he felt as if he had just seen the coffin close over the girl's sweet face, and he had done it. by and by he crawled into the car, pulled his slouch hat down over his eyes, and settled down in a seat; but all the time he was trying to see over again that old saloon and those four men, and to make out their passing identity. sometimes the agony of thinking it all over, and trying to make out whether those men had been the pursuers, made him feel frantic; and it seemed as if he must pull the bell-cord, and make the train stop, and get off to walk back. then the utter hopelessness of ever finding her would come over him, and he would settle back in his seat again and try to sleep. but the least drowsiness would bring a vision of the girl galloping alone over the prairie with the four men in full pursuit behind. "elizabeth, elizabeth, elizabeth!" the car-wheels seemed to say. elizabeth--that was all he had of her. he did not know the rest of her name, nor where she was going. he did not even know where she had come from, just "elizabeth" and "montana." if anything happened lo her, he would never know. oh! why had he left her? why had he not _made_ her go with him? in a case like that a man should assert his authority. but, then, it was true he had none, and she had said she would run away. she would have done it too. o, if it had been anything but sickness and possible death at the other end--and his mother, his own little mother! nothing else would have kept him from staying to protect elizabeth. what a fool he had been! there were questions he might have asked, and plans they might have made, all those beautiful days and those moon-silvered nights. if any other man had done the same, he would have thought him lacking mentally. but here he had maundered on, and never found out the all-important things about her. yet how did he know then how important they were to be? it had seemed as if they had all the world before them in the brilliant sunlight. how could he know that modern improvements were to seize him in the midst of a prairie waste, and whirl him off from her when he had just begun to know what she was, and to prize her company as a most precious gift dropped down from heaven at his feet? by degrees he came out of his hysterical frenzy, and returned to a somewhat normal state of mind. he reasoned himself several times into the belief that those men were not in the least like the men he had seen sunday. he knew that one could not recognize one's own brother at that distance and that rate of passing speed. he tried to think that elizabeth would be cared for. she had come through many a danger, and was it likely that the god in whom she trusted, who had guarded her so many times in her great peril, would desert her now in her dire need? would he not raise up help for her somewhere? perhaps another man as good as he, and as trustworthy as he had tried to be, would find her and help her. but that thought was not pleasant. he put it away impatiently. it cut him. why had she talked so much about the lady? the lady! ah! how was it the lady came no more into his thoughts? the memory of her haughty face no more quickened his heart-beats. was he fickle that he could lose what he had supposed was a lifelong passion in a few days? the darkness was creeping on. where was elizabeth? had she found a refuge for the night? or was she wandering on an unknown trail, hearing voices and oaths through the darkness, and seeing the gleaming of wild eyes low in the bushes ahead? how could he have left her? how could he? he must go back even yet. he must, he must, _he must_! and so it went on through the long night. the train stopped at several places to take on water; but there seemed to be no human habitation near, or else his eyes were dim with his trouble. once, when they stopped longer than the other times, he got up and walked the length of the car and down the steps to the ground. he even stood there, and let the train start jerkily on till his car had passed him, and the steps were just sliding by, and tried to think whether he would not stay, and go back in some way to find her. then the impossibility of the search, and of his getting back in time to do any good, helped him to spring on board just before it was too late. he walked back to his seat saying to himself, "fool! fool!" it was not till morning that he remembered his baggage and went in search of it. there he found a letter from his cousin, with other letters and telegrams explaining the state of affairs at home. he came back to his seat laden with a large leather grip and a suitcase. he sat down to read his letters, and these took his mind away from his troubled thoughts for a little while. there was a letter from his mother, sweet, graceful, half wistfully offering her sympathy. he saw she guessed the reason why he had left her and gone to this far place. dear little mother! what would she say if she knew his trouble now? and then would return his heart-frenzy over elizabeth's peril. o to know that she was protected, hidden! fumbling in his pocket, he came upon a slip of paper, the slip the girl had given elizabeth in the schoolhouse on sunday afternoon. "for in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me." ah! god had hidden her then. why not again? and what was that he had said to her himself, when searching for a word to cover his emotion? "i pray for you!" why could he not pray? she had made him pray in the wilderness. should he not pray for her who was in peril now? he leaned back in the hot, uncomfortable car-seat, pulling his hat down closer over his eyes, and prayed as he had never prayed before. "our father" he stumbled through as far as he could remember, and tried to think how her sweet voice had filled in the places where he had not known it the other time. then, when he was done, he waited and prayed, "our father, care for elizabeth," and added, "for jesus' sake. amen." thereafter through the rest of his journey, and for days and weeks stretching ahead, he prayed that prayer, and sometimes found in it his only solace from the terrible fear that possessed him lest some harm had come to the girl, whom it seemed to him now he had deserted in cold blood. chapter ix in a trap elizabeth rode straight out to the east, crossing the town as rapidly as possible, going full gallop where the streets were empty. on the edge of the town she crossed another trail running back the way that they had come; but without swerving she turned out toward the world, and soon passed into a thick growth of trees, around a hill. not three minutes elapsed after she had passed the crossing of the trails before the four men rode across from the other direction, and, pausing, called to one another, looking this way and that: "what d'ye think, bill? shall we risk the right hand 'r the left?" "take the left hand fer luck," answered bill. "let's go over to the ranch and ask. ef she's been hereabouts, she's likely there. the old woman'll know. come on, boys!" and who shall say that the angel of the lord did not stand within the crossing of the ways and turn aside the evil men? elizabeth did not stop her fierce ride until about noon. the frenzy of her fear of pursuit had come upon her with renewed force. now that she was alone and desolate she dared not look behind her. she had been strong enough as she smiled her farewell; but, when the train had dwindled into a mere speck in the distance, her eyes were dropping tears thick and fast upon the horse's mane. so in the first heaviness of her loneliness she rode as if pursued by enemies close at hand. but the horse must rest if she did not, for he was her only dependence now. so she sat her down in the shade of a tree, and tried to eat some dinner. the tears came again as she opened the pack which the man's strong hands had bound together for her. how little she had thought at breakfast-time that she would eat the next meal alone! it was all well enough to tell him he must go, and say she was nothing to him; but it was different now to face the world without a single friend when one had learned to know how good a friend could be. almost it would have been better if he had never found her, never saved her from the serpent, never ridden beside her and talked of wonderful new things to her; for now that he was gone the emptiness and loneliness were so much harder to bear; and now she was filled with a longing for things that could not be hers. it was well he had gone so soon, well she had no longer to grow into the charm of his society; for he belonged to the lady, and was not hers. thus she ate her dinner with the indifference of sorrow. then she took out the envelope, and counted over the money. forty dollars he had given her. she knew he had kept but five for himself. how wonderful that he should have done all that for her! it seemed a very great wealth in her possession. well, she would use it as sparingly as possible, and thus be able the sooner to return it all to him. some she must use, she supposed, to buy food; but she would do with as little as she could. she might sometimes shoot a bird, or catch a fish; or there might be berries fit for food by the way. nights she must stop by the way at a respectable house. that she had promised. he had told her of awful things that might happen to her if she lay down in the wilderness alone. her lodging would sometimes cost her something. yet often they would take her in for nothing. she would be careful of the money. she studied the name on the envelope. george trescott benedict, ---- walnut street, philadelphia, penn. the letters were large and angular, not easy to read; but she puzzled them out. it did not look like his writing. she had watched him as he wrote the old woman's address in his little red book. he wrote small, round letters, slanting backwards, plain as print, pleasant writing to read. now the old woman's address would never be of any use, and her wish that elizabeth should travel alone was fulfilled. there was a faint perfume from the envelope like weldwood flowers. she breathed it in, and wondered at it. was it perfume from something he carried in his pocket, some flower his lady had once given him? but this was not a pleasant thought. she put the envelope into her bosom after studying it again carefully until she knew the words by heart. then she drew forth the papers of her mother's that she had brought from home, and for the first time read them over. the first was the marriage certificate. that she had seen before, and had studied with awe; but the others had been kept in a box that was never opened by the children. the mother kept them sacredly, always with the certificate on the top. the largest paper she could not understand. it was something about a mine. there were a great many "herebys" and "whereases" and "agreements" in it. she put it back into the wrapper as of little account, probably something belonging to her father, which her mother had treasured for old time's sake. then came a paper which related to the claim where their little log home had stood, and upon the extreme edge of which the graves were. that, too, she laid reverently within its wrapper. next came a bit of pasteboard whereon was inscribed, "mrs. merrill wilton bailey, rittenhouse square, tuesdays." that she knew was her grandmother's name, though she had never seen the card before--her father's mother. she looked at the card in wonder. it was almost like a distant view of the lady in question. what kind of a place might rittenhouse square be, and where was it? there was no telling. it might be near that wonderful desert of sahara that the man had talked about. she laid it down with a sigh. there was only one paper left, and that was a letter written in pale pencil lines. it said: "_my dear bessie:_ your pa died last week. he was killed falling from a scaffold. he was buried on monday with five carriages and everything nice. we all got new black dresses, and have enough for a stone. if it don't cost too much, we'll have an angle on the top. i always thought an angle pointing to heaven was nice. we wish you was here. we miss you very much. i hope your husband is good to you. why don't you write to us? you haven't wrote since your little girl was born. i s'pose you call her bessie like you. if anything ever happens to you, you can send her to me. i'd kind of like her to fill your place. your sister has got a baby girl too. she calls her lizzie. we couldn't somehow have it natural to call her 'lizabeth, and nan wanted her called for me. i was always lizzie, you know. now you must write soon. "your loving mother, elizabeth brady." there was no date nor address to the letter, but an address had been pencilled on the outside in her mother's cramped school-girl hand. it was dim but still readable, "mrs. elizabeth brady, ---- flora street, philadelphia." elizabeth studied the last word, then drew out the envelope again, and looked at that. yes, the two names were the same. how wonderful! perhaps she would sometime, sometime, see him again, though of course he belonged to the lady. but perhaps, if she went to school and learned very fast, she might sometime meet him at church--he went to church, she was sure--and then he might smile, and not be ashamed of his friend who had saved his life. saved his life! nonsense! she had not done much. he would not feel any such ridiculous indebtedness to her when he got back to home and friends and safety. he had saved her much more than she had saved him. she put the papers all back in safety, and after having prepared her few belongings for taking up the journey, she knelt down. she would say the prayer before she went on. it might be that would keep the terrible pursuers away. she said it once, and then with eyes still closed she waited a moment. might she say it for him, who was gone away from her? perhaps it would help him, and keep him from falling from that terrible machine he was riding on. hitherto in her mind prayers had been only for the dead, but now they seemed also to belong to all who were in danger or trouble. she said the prayer over once more, slowly, then paused a moment, and added: "our father, hide him from trouble. hide george trescott benedict. and hide me, please, too." then she mounted her horse, and went on her way. it was a long and weary way. it reached over mountains and through valleys, across winding, turbulent streams and broad rivers that had few bridges. the rivers twice led her further south than she meant to go, in her ignorance. she had always felt that philadelphia was straight ahead east, as straight as one could go to the heart of the sun. night after night she lay down in strange homes, some poorer and more forlorn than others; and day after day she took up her lonely travel again. gradually, as the days lengthened, and mountains piled themselves behind her, and rivers stretched like barriers between, she grew less and less to dread her pursuers, and more and more to look forward to the future. it seemed so long a way! would it never end? once she asked a man whether he knew where philadelphia was. she had been travelling then for weeks, and thought she must be almost there. but he said "philadelphia? o, philadelphia is in the east. that's a long way off. i saw a man once who came from there." she set her firm little chin then, and travelled on. her clothes were much worn, and her skin was brown as a berry. the horse plodded on with a dejected air. he would have liked to stop at a number of places they passed, and remain for life, what there was left of it; but he obediently walked on over any kind of an old road that came in his way, and solaced himself with whatever kind of a bite the roadside afforded. he was becoming a much-travelled horse. he knew a threshing-machine by sight now, and considered it no more than a prairie bob-cat. at one stopping-place a good woman advised elizabeth to rest on sundays. she told her god didn't like people to do the same on his day as on other days, and it would bring her bad luck if she kept up her incessant riding. it was bad for the horse too. so, the night being saturday, elizabeth remained with the woman over the sabbath, and heard read aloud the fourteenth chapter of john. it was a wonderful revelation to her. she did not altogether understand it. in fact, the bible was an unknown book. she had never known that it was different from other books. she had heard it spoken of by her mother, but only as a book. she did not know it was a book of books. she carried the beautiful thoughts with her on the way, and pondered them. she wished she might have the book. she remembered the name of it, bible, the book of god. then god had written a book! some day she would try to find it and read it. "let not your heart be troubled"; so much of the message drifted into her lonesome, ignorant soul, and settled down to stay. she said it over nights when she found a shelter in some unpleasant place or days when the road was rough or a storm came up and she was compelled to seek shelter by the roadside under a haystack or in a friendly but deserted shack. she thought of it the day there was no shelter and she was drenched to the skin. she wondered afterward when the sun came out and dried her nicely whether god had really been speaking the words to her troubled heart, "let not your heart be troubled." every night and every morning she said "our father" twice, once for herself and once for the friend who had gone out into the world, it seemed about a hundred years ago. but one day she came across a railroad track. it made her heart beat wildly. it seemed now that she must be almost there. railroads were things belonging to the east and civilization. but the way was lonely still for days, and then she crossed more railroads, becoming more and more frequent, and came into the line of towns that stretched along beside the snake-like tracks. she fell into the habit of staying overnight in a town, and then riding on to the next in the morning; but now her clothes were becoming so dirty and ragged that she felt ashamed to go to nice-looking places lest they should turn her out; so she sought shelter in barns and small, mean houses. but the people in these houses were distressingly dirty, and she found no place to wash. she had lost track of the weeks or the months when she reached her first great city, the only one she had come near in her uncharted wanderings. into the outskirts of chicago she rode undaunted, her head erect, with the carriage of a queen. she had passed indians and cowboys in her journeying; why should she mind chicago? miles and miles of houses and people. there seemed to be no end to it. nothing but houses everywhere and hurried-looking people, many of them working hard. surely this must be philadelphia. a large, beautiful building attracted her attention. there were handsome grounds about it, and girls playing some game with a ball and curious webbed implements across a net of cords. elizabeth drew her horse to the side of the road, and watched a few minutes. one girl was skilful, and hit the ball back every time. elizabeth almost exclaimed out loud once when a particularly fine ball was played. she rode reluctantly on when the game was finished, and saw over the arched gateway the words, "janeway school for girls." ah! this was philadelphia at last, and here was her school. she would go in at once before she went to her grandmother's. it might be better. she dismounted, and tied the horse to an iron ring in a post by the sidewalk. then she went slowly, shyly up the steps into the charmed circles of learning. she knew she was shabby, but her long journey would explain that. would they be kind to her, and let her study? she stood some time before the door, with a group of laughing girls not far away whispering about her. she smiled at them; but they did not return the salutation, and their actions made her more shy. at last she stepped into the open door, and a maid in cap and apron came forward. "you must not come in here, miss," she said imperiously. "this is a school." "yes," said elizabeth gravely, smiling. "i want to see the teacher." "she's busy. you can't see her," snapped the maid. "then i will wait till she is ready. i've come a great many miles, and i must see her." the maid retreated at this, and an elegant woman in trailing black silk and gold-rimmed glasses approached threateningly. this was a new kind of beggar, of course, and must be dealt with at once. "what do you want?" she asked frigidly. "i've come to school," said elizabeth confidingly. "i know i don't look very nice, but i've had to come all the way from montana on horseback. if you could let me go where i can have some water and a thread and needle, i can make myself look better." the woman eyed the girl incredulously. "you have come to school!" she said; and her voice was large, and frightened elizabeth. "you have come all the way from montana! impossible! you must be crazy." "no, ma'am, i'm not crazy," said elizabeth. "i just want to go to school." the woman perceived that this might be an interesting case for benevolently inclined people. it was nothing but an annoyance to herself. "my dear girl,"--her tone was bland and disagreeable now,--"are you aware that it takes money to come to school?" "does it?" said elizabeth. "no, i didn't know it, but i have some money. i could give you ten dollars right now; and, if that is not enough, i might work some way, and earn more." the woman laughed disagreeably. "it is impossible," she said. "the yearly tuition here is five hundred dollars. besides, we do not take girls of your class. this is a finishing school for young ladies. you will have to inquire further," and the woman swept away to laugh with her colleagues over the queer character, the new kind of tramp, she had just been called to interview. the maid came pertly forward, and said that elizabeth could not longer stand where she was. bewilderment and bitter disappointment in her face, elizabeth went slowly down to her horse, the great tears welling up into her eyes. as she rode away, she kept turning back to the school grounds wistfully. she did not notice the passers-by, nor know that they were commenting upon her appearance. she made a striking picture in her rough garments, with her wealth of hair, her tanned skin, and tear-filled eyes. an artist noticed it, and watched her down the street, half thinking he would follow and secure her as a model for his next picture. a woman, gaudily bedecked in soiled finery, her face giving evidence of the frequent use of rouge and powder, watched her, and followed, pondering. at last she called, "my dear, my dear, wait a minute." she had to speak several times before elizabeth saw that she was talking to her. then the horse was halted by the sidewalk. "my dear," said the woman, "you look tired and disappointed. don't you want to come home with me for a little while, and rest?" "thank you," said elizabeth, "but i am afraid i must go on. i only stop on sundays." "but just come home with me for a little while," coaxed the wheedling tones. "you look so tired, and i've some girls of my own. i know you would enjoy resting and talking with them." the kindness in her tones touched the weary girl. her pride had been stung to the quick by the haughty woman in the school. this woman would soothe her with kindness. "do you live far from here?" asked elizabeth. "only two or three blocks," said the woman. "you ride along by the sidewalk, and we can talk. where are you going? you look as if you had come a long distance." "yes," said the girl wearily, "from montana. i am going to school. is this philadelphia?" "this is chicago," said the woman. "there are finer schools here than in philadelphia. if you like to come and stay at my house awhile, i will see about getting you into a school." "is it hard work to get people into schools?" asked the girl wonderingly. "i thought they would want people to teach." "no, it's very hard," said the lying woman; "but i think i know a school where i can get you in. where are your folks? are they in montana?" "they are all dead," said elizabeth, "and i have come away to school." "poor child!" said the woman glibly. "come right home with me, and i'll take care of you. i know a nice way you can earn your living, and then you can study if you like. but you're quite big to go to school. it seems to me you could have a good time without that. you are a very pretty girl; do you know it? you only need pretty clothes to make you a beauty. if you come with me, i will let you earn some beautiful new clothes." "you are very kind," said the girl gravely. "i do need new clothes; and, if i could earn them, that would be all the better." she did not quite like the woman; yet of course that was foolish. after a few more turns they stopped in front of a tall brick building with a number of windows. it seemed to be a good deal like other buildings; in fact, as she looked up the street, elizabeth thought there were miles of them just alike. she tied her horse in front of the door, and went in with the woman. the woman told her to sit down a minute until she called the lady of the house, who would tell her more about the school. there were a number of pretty girls in the room, and they made very free to speak to her. they twitted her about her clothes, and in a way reminded elizabeth of the girls in the school she had just interviewed. suddenly she spoke up to the group. an idea had occurred to her. this was the school, and the woman had not liked to say so until she spoke to the teacher about her. "is this a school?" she asked shyly. her question was met with a shout of derisive laughter. "school!" cried the boldest, prettiest one. "school for scandal! school for morals!" there was one, a thin, pale girl with dark circles under her eyes, a sad droop to her mouth, and bright scarlet spots in her cheeks. she came over to elizabeth, and whispered something to her. elizabeth started forward, unspeakable horror in her face. she fled to the door where she had come in, but found it fastened. then she turned as if she had been brought to bay by a pack of lions. chapter x philadelphia at last "open this door!" she commanded. "let me out of here at once." the pale girl started to do so, but the pretty one held her back. "no, nellie; madam will be angry with us all if you open that door." then she turned to elizabeth, and said: "whoever enters that door never goes out again. you are nicely caught, my dear." there was a sting of bitterness and self-pity in the taunt at the end of the words. elizabeth felt it, as she seized her pistol from her belt, and pointed it at the astonished group. they were not accustomed to girls with pistols. "open that door, or i will shoot you all!" she cried. then, as she heard some one descending the stairs, she rushed again into the room where she remembered the windows were open. they were guarded by wire screens; but she caught up a chair, and dashed it through one, plunging out into the street in spite of detaining hands that reached for her, hands much hindered by the gleam of the pistol and the fear that it might go off in their midst. it took but an instant to wrench the bridle from its fastening and mount her horse; then she rode forward through the city at a pace that only millionaires and automobiles are allowed to take. she met and passed her first automobile without a quiver. her eyes were dilated, her lips set; angry, frightened tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she urged her poor horse forward until a policeman here and there thought it his duty to make a feeble effort to detain her. but nothing impeded her way. she fled through a maze of wagons, carriages, automobiles, and trolley-cars, until she passed the whirl of the great city, and at last was free again and out in the open country. she came toward evening to a little cottage on the edge of a pretty suburb. the cottage was covered with roses, and the front yard was full of great old-fashioned flowers. on the porch sat a plain little old lady in a rocking-chair, knitting. there was a little gate with a path leading up to the door, and at the side another open gate with a road leading around to the back of the cottage. elizabeth saw, and murmuring, "o 'our father,' please hide me!" she dashed into the driveway, and tore up to the side of the piazza at a full gallop. she jumped from the horse; and, leaving him standing panting with his nose to the fence, and a tempting strip of clover in front of him where he could graze when he should get his breath, she ran up the steps, and flung herself in a miserable little heap at the feet of the astonished old lady. "o, please, please, won't you let me stay here a few minutes, and tell me what to do? i am so tired, and i have had such a dreadful, awful time!" "why, dearie me!" said the old lady. "of course i will. poor child; sit right down in this rocking-chair, and have a good cry. i'll get you a glass of water and something to eat, and then you shall tell me all about it." she brought the water, and a tray with nice broad slices of brown bread and butter, a generous piece of apple pie, some cheese, and a glass pitcher of creamy milk. elizabeth drank the water, but before she could eat she told the terrible tale of her last adventure. it seemed awful for her to believe, and she felt she must have help somewhere. she had heard there were bad people in the world. in fact, she had seen men who were bad, and once a woman had passed their ranch whose character was said to be questionable. she wore a hard face, and could drink and swear like the men. but that sin should be in this form, with pretty girls and pleasant, wheedling women for agents, she had never dreamed; and this in the great, civilized east! almost better would it have been to remain in the desert alone, and risk the pursuit of that awful man, than to come all this way to find the world gone wrong. the old lady was horrified, too. she had heard more than the girl of licensed evil; but she had read it in the paper as she had read about the evils of the slave-traffic in africa, and it had never really seemed true to her. now she lifted up her hands in horror, and looked at the beautiful girl before her with something akin to awe that she had been in one of those dens of iniquity and escaped. over and over she made the girl tell what was said, and how it looked, and how she pointed her pistol, and how she got out; and then she exclaimed in wonder, and called her escape a miracle. they were both weary from excitement when the tale was told. elizabeth ate her lunch; then the old lady showed her where to put the horse, and made her go to bed. it was only a wee little room with a cot-bed white as snow where she put her; but the roses peeped in at the window, and the box covered with an old white curtain contained a large pitcher of fresh water and a bowl and soap and towels. the old lady brought her a clean white nightgown, coarse and mended in many places, but smelling of rose leaves; and in the morning she tapped at the door quite early before the girl was up, and came in with an armful of clothes. "i had some boarders last summer," she explained, "and, when they went away, they left these things and said i might put them into the home-mission box. but i was sick when they sent it off this winter; and, if you ain't a home mission, then i never saw one. you put 'em on. i guess they'll fit. they may be a mite large, but she was about your size. i guess your clothes are about wore out; so you jest leave 'em here fer the next one, and use these. there's a couple of extra shirt-waists you can put in a bundle for a change. i guess folks won't dare fool with you if you have some clean, nice clothes on." elizabeth looked at her gratefully, and wrote her down in the list of saints with the woman who read the fourteenth chapter of john. the old lady had neglected to mention that from her own meagre wardrobe she had supplied some under-garments, which were not included in those the boarders had left. bathed and clothed in clean, sweet garments, with a white shirt-waist and a dark-blue serge skirt and coat, elizabeth looked a different girl. she surveyed herself in the little glass over the box-washstand and wondered. all at once vanity was born within her, and an ambition to be always thus clothed, with a horrible remembrance of the woman of the day before, who had promised to show her how to earn some pretty clothes. it flashed across her mind that pretty clothes might be a snare. perhaps they had been to those girls she had seen in that house. with much good advice and kindly blessings from the old lady, elizabeth fared forth upon her journey once more, sadly wise in the wisdom of the world, and less sweetly credulous than she had been, but better fitted to fight her way. the story of her journey from chicago to philadelphia would fill a volume if it were written, but it might pall upon the reader from the very variety of its experiences. it was made slowly and painfully, with many haltings and much lessening of the scanty store of money that had seemed so much when she received it in the wilderness. the horse went lame, and had to be watched over and petted, and finally, by the advice of a kindly farmer, taken to a veterinary surgeon, who doctored him for a week before he finally said it was safe to let him hobble on again. after that the girl was more careful of the horse. if he should die, what would she do? one dismal morning, late in november, elizabeth, wearing the old overcoat to keep her from freezing, rode into philadelphia. armed with instructions from the old lady in chicago, she rode boldly up to a policeman, and showed him the address of the grandmother to whom she had decided to go first, her mother's mother. he sent her on in the right direction, and in due time with the help of other policemen she reached the right number on flora street. it was a narrow street, banked on either side by small, narrow brick houses of the older type. here and there gleamed out a scrap of a white marble door-step, but most of the houses were approached by steps of dull stone or of painted wood. there was a dejected and dreary air about the place. the street was swarming with children in various stages of the soiled condition. elizabeth timidly knocked at the door after being assured by the interested urchins who surrounded her that mrs. brady really lived there, and had not moved away or anything. it did not seem wonderful to the girl, who had lived her life thus far in a mountain shack, to find her grandmother still in the place from which she had written fifteen years before. she did not yet know what a floating population most cities contain. mrs. brady was washing when the knock sounded through the house. she was a broad woman, with a face on which the cares and sorrows of the years had left a not too heavy impress. she still enjoyed life, oven though a good part of it was spent at the wash-tub, washing other people's fine clothes. she had some fine ones of her own up-stairs in her clothes-press; and, when she went out, it was in shiny satin, with a bonnet bobbing with jet and a red rose, though of late years, strictly speaking, the bonnet had become a hat again, and mrs. brady was in style with the other old ladies. the perspiration was in little beads on her forehead and trickling down the creases in her well-cushioned neck toward her ample bosom. her gray hair was neatly combed, and her calico wrapper was open at the throat even on this cold day. she wiped on her apron the soap-suds from her plump arms steaming pink from the hot suds, and went to the door. she looked with disfavor upon the peculiar person on the door-step attired in a man's overcoat. she was prepared to refuse the demands of the salvation army for a nickel for christmas dinners; or to silence the banana-man, or the fish-man, or the man with shoe-strings and pins and pencils for sale; or to send the photograph-agent on his way; yes, even the man who sold albums for post-cards. she had no time to bother with anybody this morning. but the young person in the rusty overcoat, with the dark-blue serge eton jacket under it, which might have come from wanamaker's two years ago, who yet wore a leather belt with gleaming pistols under the eton jacket, was a new species. mrs. brady was taken off her guard; else elizabeth might have found entrance to her grandmother's home as difficult as she had found entrance to the finishing school of madame janeway. "are you mrs. brady?" asked the girl. she was searching the forbidding face before her for some sign of likeness to her mother, but found none. the cares of elizabeth brady's daughter had outweighed those of the mother, or else they sat upon a nature more sensitive. "i am," said mrs. brady, imposingly. "grandmother, i am the baby you talked about in that letter," she announced, handing mrs. brady the letter she had written nearly eighteen years before. the woman took the envelope gingerly in the wet thumb and finger that still grasped a bit of the gingham apron. she held it at arm's length, and squinted up her eyes, trying to read it without her glasses. it was some new kind of beggar, of course. she hated to touch these dirty envelopes, and this one looked old and worn. she stepped back to the parlor table where her glasses were lying, and, adjusting them, began to read the letter. "for the land sakes! where'd you find this?" she said, looking up suspiciously. "it's against the law to open letters that ain't your own. didn't me daughter ever get it? i wrote it to her meself. how come you by it?" "mother read it to me long ago when i was little," answered the girl, the slow hope fading from her lips as she spoke. was every one, was even her grandmother, going to be cold and harsh with her? "our father, hide me!" her heart murmured, because it had become a habit; and her listening thought caught the answer, "let not your heart be troubled." "well, who are you?" said the uncordial grandmother, still puzzled. "you ain't bessie, me bessie. fer one thing, you're 'bout as young as she was when she went off 'n' got married, against me 'dvice, to that drunken, lazy dude." her brow was lowering, and she proceeded to finish her letter. "i am elizabeth," said the girl with a trembling voice, "the baby you talked about in that letter. but please don't call father that. he wasn't ever bad to us. he was always good to mother, even when he was drunk. if you talk like that about him, i shall have to go away." "fer the land sakes! you don't say," said mrs. brady, sitting down hard in astonishment on the biscuit upholstery of her best parlor chair. "now you ain't bessie's child! well, i _am clear_ beat. and growed up so big! you look strong, but you're kind of thin. what makes your skin so black? your ma never was dark, ner your pa, neither." "i've been riding a long way in the wind and sun and rain." "fer the land sakes!" as she looked through the window to the street. "not on a horse?" "yes." "h'm! what was your ma thinkin' about to let you do that?" "my mother is dead. there was no one left to care what i did. i had to come. there were dreadful people out there, and i was afraid." "fer the land sakes!" that seemed the only remark that the capable mrs. brady could make. she looked at her new granddaughter in bewilderment, as if a strange sort of creature had suddenly laid claim to relationship. "well, i'm right glad to see you," she said stiffly, wiping her hand again on her apron and putting it out formally for a greeting. elizabeth accepted her reception gravely, and sat down. she sat down suddenly, as if her strength had given way and a great strain was at an end. as she sat down, she drooped her head back against the wall; and a gray look spread about her lips. "you're tired," said the grandmother, energetically. "come far this morning?" "no," said elizabeth, weakly, "not many miles; but i hadn't any more bread. i used it all up yesterday, and there wasn't much money left. i thought i could wait till i got here, but i guess i'm hungry." "fer the land sakes!" ejaculated mrs. brady as she hustled out to the kitchen, and clattered the frying-pan onto the stove, shoving the boiler hastily aside. she came in presently with a steaming cup of tea, and made the girl drink it hot and strong. then she established her in the big rocking-chair in the kitchen with a plate of appetizing things to eat, and went on with her washing, punctuating every rub with a question. elizabeth felt better after her meal, and offered to help, but the grandmother would not hear to her lifting a finger. "you must rest first," she said. "it beats me how you ever got here. i'd sooner crawl on me hands and knees than ride a great, scary horse." elizabeth sprang to her feet. "the horse!" she said. "poor fellow! he needs something to eat worse than i did. he hasn't had a bite of grass all this morning. there was nothing but hard roads and pavements. the grass is all brown, anyway, now. i found some cornstalks by the road, and once a man dropped a big bundle of hay out of his load. if it hadn't been for robin, i'd never have got here; and here i've sat enjoying my breakfast, and robin out there hungry!" "fer the land sakes!" said the grandmother, taking her arms out of the suds and looked troubled. "poor fellow! what would he like? i haven't got any hay, but there's some mashed potatoes left, and what is there? why, there's some excelsior the lamp-shade come packed in. you don't suppose he'd think it was hay, do you? no, i guess it wouldn't taste very good." "where can i put him, grandmother?" "fer the land sakes! i don't know," said the grandmother, looking around the room in alarm. "we haven't any place fer horses. perhaps you might get him into the back yard fer a while till we think what to do. there's a stable, but they charge high to board horses. lizzie knows one of the fellers that works there. mebbe he'll tell us what to do. anyway, you lead him round to the alleyway, and we'll see if we can't get him in the little ash-gate. you don't suppose he'd try to get in the house, do you? i shouldn't like him to come in the kitchen when i was getting supper." "o no!" said elizabeth. "he's very good. where is the back yard?" this arrangement was finally made, and the two women stood in the kitchen door, watching robin drink a bucketful of water and eat heartily of the various viands that mrs. brady set forth for him, with the exception of the excelsior, which he snuffed at in disgust. "now, ain't he smart?" said mrs. brady, watching fearfully from the door-step, where she might retreat if the animal showed any tendency to step nearer to the kitchen. "but don't you think he's cold? wouldn't he like a--a--shawl or something?" the girl drew the old coat from her shoulders, and threw it over him, her grandmother watching her fearless handling of the horse with pride and awe. "we're used to sharing this together," said the girl simply. "nan sews in an up-town dressmaker's place," explained mrs. brady by and by, when the wash was hung out in fearsome proximity to the weary horse's heels, and the two had returned to the warm kitchen to clean up and get supper. "nan's your ma's sister, you know, older'n her by two year; and lizzie, that's her girl, she's about 's old 's you. she's got a good place in the ten-cent store. nan's husband died four years ago, and her and me've been livin' together ever since. it'll be nice fer you and lizzie to be together. she'll make it lively fer you right away. prob'ly she can get you a place at the same store. she'll be here at half past six to-night. this is her week to get out early." the aunt came in first. she was a tall, thin woman with faded brown hair and a faint resemblance to elizabeth's mother. her shoulders stooped slightly, and her voice was nasal. her mouth looked as if it was used to holding pins in one corner and gossiping out of the other. she was one of the kind who always get into a rocking-chair to sew if they can, and rock as they sew. nevertheless, she was skilful in her way, and commanded good wages. she welcomed the new niece reluctantly, more excited over her remarkable appearance among her relatives after so long a silence than pleased, elizabeth felt. but after she had satisfied her curiosity she was kind, beginning to talk about lizzie, and mentally compared this thin, brown girl with rough hair and dowdy clothes to her own stylish daughter. then lizzie burst in. they could hear her calling to a young man who had walked home with her, even before she entered the house. "it's just fierce out, ma!" she exclaimed. "grandma, ain't supper ready yet? i never was so hungry in all my life. i could eat a house afire." she stopped short at sight of elizabeth. she had been chewing gum--lizzie was always chewing gum--but her jaws ceased action in sheer astonishment. "this is your cousin bessie, come all the way from montana on horseback, lizzie. she's your aunt bessie's child. her folks is dead now, and she's come to live with us. you must see ef you can't get her a place in the ten-cent store 'long with you," said the grandmother. lizzie came airily forward, and grasped her cousin's hand in mid-air, giving it a lateral shake that bewildered elizabeth. "pleased to meet you," she chattered glibly, and set her jaws to work again. one could not embarrass lizzie long. but she kept her eyes on the stranger, and let them wander disapprovingly over her apparel in a pointed way as she took out the long hat-pins from the cumbersome hat she wore and adjusted her ponderous pompadour. "lizzie'll have to help fix you up," said the aunt noting lizzie's glance. "you're all out of style. i suppose they get behind times out in montana. lizzie, can't you show her how to fix her hair pompadour?" lizzie brightened. if there was a prospect of changing things, she was not averse to a cousin of her own age; but she never could take such a dowdy-looking girl into society, not the society of the ten-cent store. "o, cert!" answered lizzie affably. "i'll fix you fine. don't you worry. how'd you get so awful tanned? i s'pose riding. you look like you'd been to the seashore, and lay out on the beach in the sun. but 'tain't the right time o' year quite. it must be great to ride horseback!" "i'll teach you how if you want to learn," said elizabeth, endeavoring to show a return of the kindly offer. "me? what would i ride? have to ride a counter, i guess. i guess you won't find much to ride here in the city, 'cept trolley-cars." "bessie's got a horse. he's out in the yard now," said the grandmother with pride. "a horse! all your own? gee whiz! won't the girls stare when i tell them? say, we can borrow a rig at the livery some night, and take a ride. dan'll go with us, and get the rig for us. won't that be great?" elizabeth smiled. she felt the glow of at last contributing something to the family pleasure. she did not wish her coming to be so entirely a wet blanket as it had seemed at first; for, to tell the truth, she had seen blank dismay on the face of each separate relative as her identity had been made known. her heart was lonely, and she hungered for some one who "belonged" and loved her. supper was put on the table, and the two girls began to get a little acquainted, chattering over clothes and the arrangement of hair. "do you know whether there is anything in philadelphia called 'christian endeavor'?" asked elizabeth after the supper-table was cleared off. "o, chrishun'deavor! yes, i used t' b'long," answered lizzie. she had removed the gum from her mouth while she ate her supper, but now it was busy again between sentences. "yes, we have one down to our church. it was real interesting, too; but i got mad at one of the members, and quit. she was a stuck-up old maid, anyway. she was always turning round and scowling at us girls if we just whispered the least little bit, or smiled; and one night she was leading the meeting, and jim forbes got in a corner behind a post, and made mouths at her behind his book. he looked awful funny. it was something fierce the way she always screwed her face up when she sang, and he looked just like her. we girls, hetty and em'line and i, got to laughing, and we just couldn't stop; and didn't that old thing stop the singing after one verse, and look right at us, and say she thought christian endeavor members should remember whose house they were in, and that the owner was there, and all that rot. i nearly died, i was so mad. everybody looked around, and we girls choked, and got up and went out. i haven't been down since. the lookout committee came to see us 'bout it; but i said i wouldn't go back where i'd been insulted, and i've never been inside the doors since. but she's moved away now. i wouldn't mind going back if you want to go." "whose house did she mean it was? was it her house?" "o, no, it wasn't her house," laughed lizzie. "it was the church. she meant it was god's house, i s'pose, but she needn't have been so pernickety. we weren't doing any harm." "does god have a house?" "why, yes; didn't you know that? why, you talk like a heathen, bessie. didn't you have churches in montana?" "yes, there was a church fifty miles away. i heard about it once, but i never saw it," answered elizabeth. "but what did the woman mean? who did she say was there? god? was god in the church? did you see him, and know he was there when you laughed?" "o, you silly!" giggled lizzie. "wouldn't the girls laugh at you, though, if they could hear you talk? why, of course god was there. he's everywhere, you know," with superior knowledge; "but i didn't see him. you can't see god." "why not?" "why, because you can't!" answered her cousin with final logic. "say, haven't you got any other clothes with you at all? i'd take you down with me in the morning if you was fixed up." chapter xi in flight again when elizabeth lay down to rest that night, with lizzie still chattering by her side, she found that there was one source of intense pleasure in anticipation, and that was the prospect of going to god's house to christian endeavor. now perhaps she would be able to find out what it all had meant, and whether it were true that god took care of people and hid them in time of trouble. she felt almost certain in her own little experience that he had cared for her, and she wanted to be quite sure, so that she might grasp this precious truth to her heart and keep it forever. no one could be quite alone in the world if there was a god who cared and loved and hid. the aunt and the grandmother were up betimes the next morning, looking over some meagre stores of old clothing, and there was found an old dress which it was thought could be furbished over for elizabeth. they were hard-working people with little money to spare, and everything had to be utilized; but they made a great deal of appearance, and lizzie was proud as a young peacock. she would not take elizabeth to the store to face the head man without having her fixed up according to the most approved style. so the aunt cut and fitted before she went off for the day, and elizabeth was ordered to sew while she was gone. the grandmother presided at the rattling old sewing-machine, and in two or three days elizabeth was pronounced to be fixed up enough to do for the present till she could earn some new clothes. with her fine hair snarled into a cushion and puffed out into an enormous pompadour that did not suit her face in the least, and with an old hat and jacket of lizzie's which did not become her nor fit her exactly, she started out to make her way in the world as a saleswoman. lizzie had already secured her a place if she suited. the store was a maze of wonder to the girl from the mountains--so many bright, bewildering things, ribbons and tin pans, glassware and toys, cheap jewelry and candies. she looked about with the dazed eyes of a creature from another world. but the manager looked upon her with eyes of favor. he saw that her eyes were bright and keen. he was used to judging faces. he saw that she was as yet unspoiled, with a face of refinement far beyond the general run of the girls who applied to him for positions. and he was not beyond a friendly flirtation with a pretty new girl himself; so she was engaged at once, and put on duty at the notion-counter. the girls flocked around her during the intervals of custom. lizzie had told of her cousin's long ride, embellished, wherever her knowledge failed, by her extremely wild notions of western life. she had told how elizabeth arrived wearing a belt with two pistols, and this gave elizabeth standing at once among all the people in the store. a girl who could shoot, and who wore pistols in a belt like a real cowboy, had a social distinction all her own. the novel-reading, theatre-going girls rallied around her to a girl; and the young men in the store were not far behind. elizabeth was popular from the first. moreover, as she settled down into the routine of life, and had three meals every day, her cheeks began to round out just a little; and it became apparent that she was unusually beautiful in spite of her dark skin, which whitened gradually under the electric light and high-pressure life of the store. they went to christian endeavor, elizabeth and her cousin; and elizabeth felt as if heaven had suddenly dropped down about her. she lived from week to week for that christian endeavor. the store, which had been a surprise and a novelty at first, began to be a trial to her. it wore upon her nerves. the air was bad, and the crowds were great. it was coming on toward christmas time, and the store was crammed to bursting day after day and night after night, for they kept open evenings now until christmas. elizabeth longed for a breath from the mountains, and grew whiter and thinner. sometimes she felt as if she must break away from it all, and take robin, and ride into the wilderness again. if it were not for the christian endeavor, she would have done so, perhaps. robin, poor beast, was well housed and well fed; but he worked for his living as did his mistress. he was a grocer's delivery horse, worked from monday morning early till saturday night at ten o'clock, subject to curses and kicks from the grocery boy, expected to stand meekly at the curbstones, snuffing the dusty brick pavements while the boy delivered a box of goods, and while trolleys and beer-wagons and automobiles slammed and rumbled and tooted by him, and then to start on the double-quick to the next stopping-place. he to be thus under the rod who had trod the plains with a free foot and snuffed the mountain air! it was a great come-down, and his life became a weariness to him. but he earned his mistress a dollar a week besides his board. there would have been some consolation in that to his faithful heart if he only could have known it. albeit she would have gladly gone without the dollar if robin could have been free and happy. one day, one dreadful day, the manager of the ten-cent store came to elizabeth with a look in his eyes that reminded her of the man in montana from whom she had fled. he was smiling, and his words were unduly pleasant. he wanted her to go with him to the theatre that evening, and he complimented her on her appearance. he stated that he admired her exceedingly, and wanted to give her pleasure. but somehow elizabeth had fallen into the habit ever since she left the prairies of comparing all men with george trescott benedict; and this man, although he dressed well, and was every bit as handsome, did not compare well. there was a sinister, selfish glitter in his eyes that made elizabeth think of the serpent on the plain just before she shot it. therefore elizabeth declined the invitation. it happened that there was a missionary meeting at the church that evening. all the christian endeavorers had been urged to attend. elizabeth gave this as an excuse; but the manager quickly swept that away, saying she could go to church any night, but she could not go to this particular play with him always. the girl eyed him calmly with much the same attitude with which she might have pointed her pistol at his head, and said gravely, "but i do not want to go with you." after that the manager hated her. he always hated girls who resisted him. he hated her, and wanted to do her harm. but he fairly persecuted her to receive his attentions. he was a young fellow, extremely young to be occupying so responsible a position. he undoubtedly had business ability. he showed it in his management of elizabeth. the girl's life became a torment to her. in proportion as she appeared to be the manager's favorite the other girls became jealous of her. they taunted her with the manager's attentions on every possible occasion. when they found anything wrong, they charged it upon her; and so she was kept constantly going to the manager, which was perhaps just what he wanted. she grew paler and paler, and more and more desperate. she had run away from one man; she had run away from a woman; but here was a man from whom she could not run away unless she gave up her position. if it had not been for her grandmother, she would have done so at once; but, if she gave up her position, she would be thrown upon her grandmother for support, and that must not be. she understood from the family talk that they were having just as much as they could do already to make both ends meet and keep the all-important god of fashion satisfied. this god of fashion had come to seem to elizabeth an enemy of the living god. it seemed to occupy all people's thoughts, and everything else had to be sacrificed to meet its demands. she had broached the subject of school one evening soon after she arrived, but was completely squelched by her aunt and cousin. "you're too old!" sneered lizzie. "school is for children." "lizzie went through grammar school, and we talked about high for her," said the grandmother proudly. "but i just hated school," grinned lizzie. "it ain't so nice as it's cracked up to be. just sit and study all day long. why, they were always keeping me after school for talking or laughing. i was glad enough when i got through. you may thank your stars you didn't have to go, bess." "people who have to earn their bread can't lie around and go to school," remarked aunt nan dryly, and elizabeth said no more. but later she heard of a night-school, and then she took up the subject once more. lizzie scoffed at this. she said night-school was only for very poor people, and it was a sort of disgrace to go. but elizabeth stuck to her point, until one day lizzie came home with a tale about temple college. she had heard it was very cheap. you could go for ten cents a night, or something like that. things that were ten cents appealed to her. she was used to bargain-counters. she heard it was quite respectable to go there, and they had classes in the evening. you could study gymnastics, and it would make you graceful. she wanted to be graceful. and she heard they had a course in millinery. if it was so, she believed she would go herself, and learn to make the new kind of bows they were having on hats this winter. she could not seem to get the right twist to the ribbon. elizabeth wanted to study geography. at least, that was the study lizzie said would tell her where the desert of sahara was. she wanted to know things, all kinds of things; but lizzie said such things were only for children, and she didn't believe they taught such baby studies in a college. but she would inquire. it was silly of bessie to want to know, she thought, and she was half ashamed to ask. but she would find out. it was about this time that elizabeth's life at the store grew intolerable. one morning--it was little more than a week before christmas--elizabeth had been sent to the cellar to get seven little red tin pails and shovels for a woman who wanted them for christmas gifts for some sunday-school class. she had just counted out the requisite number and turned to go up-stairs when she heard some one step near her, and, as she looked up in the dim light, there stood the manager. "at last i've got you alone, bessie, my dear!" he said it with suave triumph in his tones. he caught elizabeth by the wrists, and before she could wrench herself away he had kissed her. with a scream elizabeth dropped the seven tin pails and the seven tin shovels, and with one mighty wrench took her hands from his grasp. instinctively her hand went to her belt, where were now no pistols. if one had been there she certainly would have shot him in her horror and fury. but, as she had no other weapon, she seized a little shovel, and struck him in the face. then with the frenzy of the desert back upon her she rushed up the stairs, out through the crowded store, and into the street, hatless and coatless in the cold december air. the passers-by made way for her, thinking she had been sent out on some hurried errand. she had left her pocketbook, with its pitifully few nickels for car-fare and lunch, in the cloak-room with her coat and hat. but she did not stop to think of that. she was fleeing again, this time on foot, from a man. she half expected he might pursue her, and make her come back to the hated work in the stifling store with his wicked face moving everywhere above the crowds. but she turned not to look back. on over the slushy pavements, under the leaden sky, with a few busy flakes floating about her. the day seemed pitiless as the world. where could she go and what should she do? there seemed no refuge for her in the wide world. instinctively she felt her grandmother would feel that a calamity had befallen them in losing the patronage of the manager of the ten-cent store. perhaps lizzie would get into trouble. what should she do? she had reached the corner where she and lizzie usually took the car for home. the car was coming now; but she had no hat nor coat, and no money to pay for a ride. she must walk. she paused not, but fled on in a steady run, for which her years on the mountain had given her breath. three miles it was to flora street, and she scarcely slackened her pace after she had settled into that steady half-run, half-walk. only at the corner of flora street she paused, and allowed herself to glance back once. no, the manager had not pursued her. she was safe. she might go in and tell her grandmother without fearing he would come behind her as soon as her back was turned. chapter xii elizabeth's declaration of independence mrs. brady was at the wash-tub again when her most uncommon and unexpected grandchild burst into the room. she wiped her hands on her apron, and sat down with her usual exclamation, "fer the land sakes! what's happened? bessie, tell me quick. is anything the matter with lizzie? where is she?" but elizabeth was on the floor at her feet in tears. she was shaking with sobs, and could scarcely manage to stammer out that lizzie was all right. mrs. brady settled back with a relieved sigh. lizzie was the first grandchild, and therefore the idol of her heart. if lizzie was all right, she could afford to be patient and find out by degrees. "it's that awful man, grandmother!" elizabeth sobbed out. "what man? that feller in montana you run away from?" the grandmother sat up with snapping eyes. she was not afraid of a man, even if he did shoot people. she would call in the police and protect her own flesh and blood. let him come. mrs. brady was ready for him. "no, no, grandmother, the man--man--manager at the ten-cent store," sobbed the girl; "he kissed me! oh!" and she shuddered as if the memory was the most terrible thing that ever came to her. "fer the land sakes! is that all?" said the woman with much relief and a degree of satisfaction. "why, that's nothing. you ought to be proud. many a girl would go boasting round about that. what are you crying for? he didn't hurt you, did he? why, lizzie seems to think he's fine. i tell you lizzie wouldn't cry if he was to kiss her, i'm sure. she'd just laugh, and ask him fer a holiday. here, sit up, child, and wash your face, and go back to your work. you've evidently struck the manager on the right side, and you're bound to get a rise in your wages. every girl he takes a notion to gets up and does well. perhaps you'll get money enough to go to school. goodness knows what you want to go for. i s'pose it's in the blood, though bess used to say your pa wa'n't any great at study. but, if you've struck the manager the right way, no telling what he might do. he might even want to marry you." "grandmother!" mrs. brady was favored with the flashing of the bailey eyes. she viewed it in astonishment not unmixed with admiration. "well, you certainly have got spirit," she ejaculated. "i don't wonder he liked you. i didn't know you was so pretty, bessie; you look like your mother when she was eighteen; you really do. i never saw the resemblance before. i believe you'll get on all right. don't you be afraid. i wish you had your chance if you're so anxious to go to school. i shouldn't wonder ef you'd turn out to be something and marry rich. well, i must be getting back to me tub. land sakes, but you did give me a turn. i thought lizzie had been run over. i couldn't think what else'd make you run off way here without your coat. come, get up, child, and go back to your work. it's too bad you don't like to be kissed, but don't let that worry you. you'll have lots worse than that to come up against. when you've lived as long as i have and worked as hard, you'll be pleased to have some one admire you. you better wash your face, and eat a bite of lunch, and hustle back. you needn't be afraid. if he's fond of you, he won't bother about your running away a little. he'll excuse you ef 'tis busy times, and not dock your pay neither." "grandmother!" said elizabeth. "don't! i can never go back to that awful place and that man. i would rather go back to montana. i would rather be dead." "hoity-toity!" said the easy-going grandmother, sitting down to her task, for she perceived some wholesome discipline was necessary. "you can't talk that way, bess. you got to go to your work. we ain't got money to keep you in idleness, and land knows where you'd get another place as good's this one. ef you stay home all day, you might make him awful mad; and then it would be no use goin' back, and you might lose lizzie her place too." but, though the grandmother talked and argued and soothed by turns, elizabeth was firm. she would not go back. she would never go back. she would go to montana if her grandmother said any more about it. with a sigh at last mrs. brady gave up. she had given up once before nearly twenty years ago. bessie, her oldest daughter, had a will like that, and tastes far above her station. mrs. brady wondered where she got them. "you're fer all the world like yer ma," she said as she thumped the clothes in the wash-tub. "she was jest that way, when she would marry your pa. she could 'a' had jim stokes, the groceryman, or lodge, the milkman, or her choice of three railroad men, all of 'em doing well, and ready to let her walk over 'em; but she would have your pa, the drunken, good-for-nothing, slippery dude. the only thing i'm surprised at was that he ever married her. i never expected it. i s'posed they'd run off, and he'd leave her when he got tired of her; but it seems he stuck to her. it's the only good thing he ever done, and i'm not sure but she'd 'a' been better off ef he hadn't 'a' done that." "grandmother!" elizabeth's face blazed. "yes, _gran_'mother!" snapped mrs. brady. "it's all true, and you might's well face it. he met her in church. she used to go reg'lar. some boys used to come and set in the back seat behind the girls, and then go home with them. they was all nice enough boys 'cept him. i never had a bit a use fer him. he belonged to the swells and the stuck-ups; and he knowed it, and presumed upon it. he jest thought he could wind bessie round his finger, and he did. if he said, 'go,' she went, no matter what i'd do. so, when his ma found it out, she was hoppin' mad. she jest came driving round here to me house, and presumed to talk to me. she said bessie was a designing snip, and a bad girl, and a whole lot of things. said she was leading her son astray, and would come to no good end, and a whole lot of stuff; and told me to look after her. it wasn't so. bess got john bailey to quit smoking fer a whole week at a time, and he said if she'd marry him he'd quit drinking too. his ma couldn't 'a' got him to promise that. she wouldn't even believe he got drunk. i told her a few things about her precious son, but she curled her fine, aristocratic lip up, and said, 'gentlemen never get drunk.' humph! gentlemen! that's all she knowed about it. he got drunk all right, and stayed drunk, too. so after that, when i tried to keep bess at home, she slipped away one night; said she was going to church; and she did too; went to the minister's study in a strange church, and got married, her and john; and then they up and off west. john, he'd sold his watch and his fine diamond stud his ma had give him; and he borrowed some money from some friends of his father's, and he off with three hundred dollars and bess; and that's all i ever saw more of me bessie." the poor woman sat down in her chair, and wept into her apron regardless for once of the soap-suds that rolled down her red, wet arms. "is my grandmother living yet?" asked elizabeth. she was sorry for this grandmother, but did not know what to say. she was afraid to comfort her lest she take it for yielding. "yes, they say she is," said mrs. brady, sitting up with a show of interest. she was always ready for a bit of gossip. "her husband's dead, and her other son's dead, and she's all alone. she lives in a big house on rittenhouse square. if she was any 'count, she'd ought to provide fer you. i never thought about it. but i don't suppose it would be any use to try. you might ask her. perhaps she'd help you go to school. you've got a claim on her. she ought to give you her son's share of his father's property, though i've heard she disowned him when he married our bess. you might fix up in some of lizzie's best things, and go up there and try. she might give you some money." "i don't want her money," said elizabeth stiffly. "i guess there's work somewhere in the world i can do without begging even of grandmothers. but i think i ought to go and see her. she might want to know about father." mrs. brady looked at her granddaughter wonderingly. this was a view of things she had never taken. "well," said she resignedly, "go your own gait. i don't know where you'll come up at. all i say is, ef you're going through the world with such high and mighty fine notions, you'll have a hard time. you can't pick out roses and cream and a bed of down every day. you have to put up with life as you find it." elizabeth went to her room, the room she shared with lizzie. she wanted to get away from her grandmother's disapproval. it lay on her heart like lead. was there no refuge in the world? if grandmothers were not refuges, where should one flee? the old lady in chicago had understood; why had not grandmother brady? then came the sweet old words, "let not your heart be troubled." "in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me." she knelt down by the bed and said "our father." she was beginning to add some words of her own now. she had heard them pray so in christian endeavor in the sentence prayers. she wished she knew more about god, and his book. she had had so little time to ask or think about it. life seemed all one rush for clothes and position. at supper-time lizzie came home much excited. she had been in hot water all the afternoon. the girls had said at lunch-time that the manager was angry with bessie, and had discharged her. she found her coat and hat, and had brought them home. the pocketbook was missing. there was only fifteen cents in it; but lizzie was much disturbed, and so was the grandmother. they had a quiet consultation in the kitchen; and, when the aunt came, there was another whispered conversation among the three. elizabeth felt disapproval in the air. aunt nan came, and sat down beside her, and talked very coldly about expenses and being dependent upon one's relatives, and let her understand thoroughly that she could not sit around and do nothing; but elizabeth answered by telling her how the manager had been treating her. the aunt then gave her a dose of worldly wisdom, which made the girl shrink into herself. it needed only lizzie's loud-voiced exhortations to add to her misery and make her feel ready to do anything. supper was a most unpleasant meal. at last the grandmother spoke up. "well, bessie," she said firmly, "we've decided, all of us, that, if you are going to be stubborn about this, something will have to be done; and i think the best thing is for you to go to mrs. bailey and see what she'll do for you. it's her business, anyway." elizabeth's cheeks were very red. she said nothing. she let them go on with the arrangements. lizzie went and got her best hat, and tried it on elizabeth to see how she would look, and produced a silk waist from her store of garments, and a spring jacket. it wasn't very warm, it is true; but lizzie explained that the occasion demanded strenuous measures, and the jacket was undoubtedly stylish, which was the main thing to be considered. one could afford to be cold if one was stylish. lizzie was up early the next morning. she had agreed to put elizabeth in battle-array for her visit to rittenhouse square. elizabeth submitted meekly to her borrowed adornings. her hair was brushed over her face, and curled on a hot iron, and brushed backward in a perfect mat, and then puffed out in a bigger pompadour than usual. the silk waist was put on with lizzie's best skirt, and she was adjured not to let that drag. then the best hat with the cheap pink plumes was set atop the elaborate coiffure; the jacket was put on; and a pair of lizzie's long silk gloves were struggled into. they were a trite large when on, but to the hands unaccustomed to gloves they were like being run into a mould. elizabeth stood it all until she was pronounced complete. then she came and stood in front of the cheap little glass, and surveyed herself. there were blisters in the glass that twisted her head into a grotesque shape. the hairpins stuck into her head. lizzie had tied a spotted veil tight over her nose and eyes. the collar of the silk waist was frayed, and cut her neck. the skirt-band was too tight, and the gloves were torture. elizabeth turned slowly, and went down-stairs, past the admiring aunt and grandmother, who exclaimed at the girl's beauty, now that she was attired to their mind, and encouraged her by saying they were sure her grandmother would want to do something for so pretty a girl. lizzie called out to her not to worry, as she flew for her car. she said she had heard there was a variety show in town where they wanted a girl who could shoot. if she didn't succeed with her grandmother, they would try and get her in at the show. the girls at the store knew a man who had charge of it. they said he liked pretty girls, and they thought would be glad to get her. indeed, mary james had promised to speak to him last night, and would let her know to-day about it. it would likely be a job more suited to her cousin's liking. elizabeth shuddered. another man! would he be like all the rest?--all the rest save one! she walked a few steps in the direction she had been told to go, and then turned resolutely around, and came back. the watching grandmother felt her heart sink. what was this headstrong girl going to do next? rebel again? "what's the matter, bessie?" she asked, meeting her anxiously at the door. "it's bad luck to turn back when you've started." "i can't go this way," said the girl excitedly. "it's all a cheat. i'm not like this. it isn't mine, and i'm not going in it. i must have my own clothes and be myself when i go to see her. if she doesn't like me and want me, then i can take robin and go back." and like another david burdened with saul's armor she came back to get her little sling and stones. she tore off the veil, and the sticky gloves from her cold hands, and all the finery of silk waist and belt, and donned her old plain blue coat and skirt in which she had arrived in philadelphia. they had been frugally brushed and sponged, and made neat for a working dress. elizabeth felt that they belonged to her. under the jacket, which fortunately was long enough to hide her waist, she buckled her belt with the two pistols. then she took the battered old felt hat from the closet, and tried to fasten it on; but the pompadour interfered. relentlessly she pulled down the work of art that lizzie had created, and brushed and combed her long, thick hair into subjection again, and put it in its long braid down her back. her grandmother should see her just as she was. she should know what kind of a girl belonged to her. then, if she chose to be a real grandmother, well and good. mrs. brady was much disturbed in mind when elizabeth came down-stairs. she exclaimed in horror, and tried to force the girl to go back, telling her it was a shame and disgrace to go in such garments into the sacred precincts of rittenhouse square; but the girl was not to be turned back. she would not even wait till her aunt and lizzie came home. she would go now, at once. mrs. brady sat down in her rocking-chair in despair for full five minutes after she had watched the reprehensible girl go down the street. she had not been so completely beaten since the day when her own bessie left the house and went away to a wild west to die in her own time and way. the grandmother shed a few tears. this girl was like her own bessie, and she could not help loving her, though there was a streak of something else about her that made her seem above them all; and that was hard to bear. it must be the bailey streak, of course. mrs. brady did not admire the baileys, but she was obliged to reverence them. if she had watched or followed elizabeth, she would have been still more horrified. the girl went straight to the corner grocery, and demanded her own horse, handing back to the man the dollar he had paid her last saturday night, and saying she had need of the horse at once. after some parley, in which she showed her ability to stand her own ground, the boy unhitched the horse from the wagon, and got her own old saddle for her from the stable. then elizabeth mounted her horse and rode away to rittenhouse square. chapter xiii another grandmother elizabeth's idea in taking the horse along with her was to have all her armor on, as a warrior goes out to meet the foe. if this grandmother proved impossible, why, then so long as she had life and breath and a horse she could flee. the world was wide, and the west was still open to her. she could flee back to the wilderness that gave her breath. the old horse stopped gravely and disappointedly before the tall, aristocratic house in rittenhouse square. he had hoped that city life was now to end, and that he and his dear mistress were to travel back to their beloved prairies. no amount of oats could ever make up to him for his freedom, and the quiet, and the hills. he had a feeling that he should like to go back home and die. he had seen enough of the world. she fastened the halter to a ring in the sidewalk, which surprised him. the grocer's boy never fastened him. he looked up questioningly at the house, but saw no reason why his mistress should go in there. it was not familiar ground. koffee and sons never came up this way. elizabeth, as she crossed the sidewalk and mounted the steps before the formidable carved doors, felt that here was the last hope of finding an earthly habitation. if this failed her, then there was the desert, and starvation, and a long, long sleep. but while the echo of the cell still sounded through the high-ceiled hall there came to her the words: "let not your heart be troubled.... in my father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, i would have told you. i go to prepare a place for you.... i will come again and receive you." how sweet that was! then, even if she died on the desert, there was a home prepared for her. so much she had learned in christian endeavor meeting. the stately butler let her in. he eyed her questioningly at first, and said madam was not up yet; but elizabeth told him she would wait. "is she sick?" asked elizabeth with a strange constriction about her heart. "o no, she is not up yet, miss," said the kind old butler; "she never gets up before this. you're from mrs. sands, i suppose." poor soul, for once his butler eyes had been mistaken. he thought she was the little errand-girl from madam bailey's modiste. "no, i'm just elizabeth," said the girl, smiling. she felt that this man, whoever he was, was not against her. he was old, and he had a kind look. he still thought she meant she was not the modiste, just her errand-girl. her quaint dress and the long braid down her back made her look like a child. "i'll tell her you've come. be seated," said the butler, and gave her a chair in the dim hall just opposite the parlor door, where she had a glimpse of elegance such as she had never dreamed existed. she tried to think how it must be to live in such a room and walk on velvet. the carpet was deep and rich. she did not know it was a rug nor that it was woven in some poor peasant's home and then was brought here years afterward at a fabulous price. she only knew it was beautiful in its silvery sheen with gleaming colors through it like jewels in the dew. on through another open doorway she caught a glimpse of a painting on the wall. it was a man as large as life, sitting in a chair; and the face and attitude were her father's--her father at his best. she was fairly startled. who was it? could it be her father? and how had they made this picture of him? he must be changed in those twenty years he had been gone from home. then the butler came back, and before he could speak she pointed toward the picture. "who is it?" she asked. "that, miss? that's mr. john, madam's husband that's dead a good many years now. but i remember him well." "could i look at it? he is so much like my father." she walked rapidly over the ancient rug, unheeding its beauties, while the wondering butler followed a trifle anxiously. this was unprecedented. mrs. sands's errand-girls usually knew their place. "madam said you was to come right up to her room," said the butler pointedly. but elizabeth stood rooted to the ground, studying the picture. the butler had to repeat the message. she smiled and turned to follow him, and as she did so saw on a side wall the portraits of two boys. "who are they?" she pointed swiftly. they were much like her own two brothers. "them are mr. john and mr. james, madam's two sons. they's both of them dead now," said the butler. "at least, mr. james is, i'm sure. he died two years ago. but you better come right up. madam will be wondering." she followed the old man up the velvet-shod stairs that gave back no sound from footfall, and pondered as she went. then that was her father, that boy with the beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back from his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don't-care look. and here was where he had lived. here amid all this luxury. like a flash came the quick contrast of the home in which he had died, and a great wave of reverence for her father rolled over her. from such a home and such surroundings it would not have been strange if he had grown weary of the rough life out west, and deserted his wife, who was beneath him in station. but he had not. he had stayed by her all the years. true, he had not been of much use to her, and much of the time had been but a burden and anxiety; but he had stayed and loved her--when he was sober. she forgave him his many trying ways, his faultfindings with her mother's many little blunders--no wonder, when he came from this place. the butler tapped on a door at the head of the stairs, and a maid swung it open. "why, you're not the girl mrs. sands sent the other day," said a querulous voice from a mass of lace-ruffled pillows on the great bed. "i am elizabeth," said the girl, as if that were full explanation. "elizabeth? elizabeth who? i don't see why she sent another girl. are you sure you will understand the directions? they're very particular, for i want my frock ready for to-night without fail." the woman sat up, leaning on one elbow. her lace nightgown and pale-blue silk dressing-sack fell away from a round white arm that did not look as if it belonged to a very old lady. her gray hair was becomingly arranged, and she was extremely pretty, with small features. elizabeth looked and marvelled. like a flash came the vision of the other grandmother at the wash-tub. the contrast was startling. "i am elizabeth bailey," said the girl quietly, as if she would break a piece of hard news gently. "my father was your son john." "the idea!" said the new grandmother, and promptly fell back upon her pillows with her hand upon her heart. "john, john, my little john. no one has mentioned his name to me for years and years. he never writes to me." she put up a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and sobbed. "father died five years ago," said elizabeth. "you wicked girl!" said the maid. "can't you see that madam can't bear such talk? go right out of the room!" the maid rushed up with smelling-salts and a glass of water, and elizabeth in distress came and stood by the bed. "i'm sorry i made you feel bad, grandmother," she said when she saw that the fragile, childish creature on the bed was recovering somewhat. "what right have you to call me that? grandmother, indeed! i'm not so old as that. besides, how do i know you belong to me? if john is dead, your mother better look after you. i'm sure i'm not responsible for you. it's her business. she wheedled john away from his home, and carried him off to that awful west, and never let him write to me. she has done it all, and now she may bear the consequences. i suppose she has sent you here to beg, but she has made a mistake. i shall not have a thing to do with her of her children." "grandmother!" elizabeth's eyes flashed as they had done to the other grandmother a few hours before. "you must not talk so. i won't hear it. i wouldn't let grandmother brady talk about my father, and you can't talk so about mother. she was my mother, and i loved her, and so did father love her; and she worked hard to keep him and take care of him when he drank years and years, and didn't have any money to help her. mother was only eighteen when she married father, and you ought not to blame her. she didn't have a nice home like this. but she was good and dear, and now she is dead. father and mother are both dead, and all the other children. a man killed my brother, and then as soon as he was buried he came and wanted me to go with him. he was an awful man, and i was afraid, and took my brother's horse and ran away. i rode all this long way because i was afraid of that man, and i wanted to get to some of my own folks, who would love me, and let me work for them, and let me go to school and learn something. but i wish now i had stayed out there and died. i could have lain down in the sage-brush, and a wild beast would have killed me perhaps, and that would be a great deal better than this; for grandmother brady does not understand, and you do not want me; but in my father's house in heaven there are many mansions, and he went to prepare a place for me; so i guess i will go back to the desert, and perhaps he will send for me. good-by, grandmother." then before the astonished woman in the bed could recover her senses from this remarkable speech elizabeth turned and walked majestically from the room. she was slight and not very tall, but in the strength of her pride and purity she looked almost majestic to the awestruck maid and the bewildered woman. * * * * * down the stairs walked the girl, feeling that all the wide world was against her. she would never again try to get a friend. she had not met a friend except in the desert. one man had been good to her, and she had let him go away; but he belonged to another woman, and she might not let him stay. there was just one thing to be thankful for. she had knowledge of her father in heaven, and she knew what christian endeavor meant. she could take that with her out into the desert, and no one could take it from her. one wish she had, but maybe that was too much to hope for. if she could have had a bible of her own! she had no money left. nothing but her mother's wedding-ring, the papers, and the envelope that had contained the money the man had given her when he left. she could not part with them, unless perhaps some one would take the ring and keep it until she could buy it back. but she would wait and hope. she walked by the old butler with her hand on her pistol. she did not intend to let any one detain her now. he bowed pleasantly, and opened the door for her, however; and she marched down the steps to her horse. but just as she was about to mount and ride away into the unknown where no grandmother, be she brady or bailey, would ever be able to search her out, no matter how hard she tried, the door suddenly opened again, and there was a great commotion. the maid and the old butler both flew out, and laid hands upon her. she dropped the bridle, and seized her pistol, covering them both with its black, forbidding nozzle. they stopped, trembling, but the butler bravely stood his ground. he did not know why he was to detain this extraordinary young person, but he felt sure something wrong. probably she was a thief, and had taken some of madam's jewels. he could call the police. he opened his mouth to do so when the maid explained. "madam wants you to come back. she didn't understand. she wants to see you and ask about her son. you must come, or you will kill her. she has heart trouble, and you must not excite her." elizabeth put the pistol back into its holster and, picking up the bridle again, fastened it in the ring, saying simply, "i will come back." "what do you want?" she asked abruptly when she returned to the bedroom. "don't you know that's a disrespectful way to speak?" asked the woman querulously. "what did you have to get into a temper for, and go off like that without telling me anything about my son? sit down, and tell me all about it." "i'm sorry, grandmother," said elizabeth, sitting down. "i thought you didn't want me and i better go." "well, the next time wait until i send you. what kind of a thing have you got on, anyway? that's a queer sort of a hat for a girl to wear. take it off. you look like a rough boy with that on. you make me think of john when he had been out disobeying me." elizabeth took off the offending headgear, and revealed her smoothly parted, thick brown hair in its long braid down her back. "why, you're rather a pretty girl if you were fixed up," said the old lady, sitting up with interest now. "i can't remember your mother, but i don't think she had fine features like that." "they said i looked like father," said elizabeth. "did they? well, i believe it's true," with satisfaction. "i couldn't bear you if you looked like those lowdown ----" "grandmother!" elizabeth stood up, and flashed her bailey eyes. "you needn't 'grandmother' me all the time," said the lady petulantly. "but you look quite handsome when you say it. take off that ill-fitting coat. it isn't thick enough for winter, anyway. what in the world have you got round your waist? a belt? why, that's a man's belt! and what have you got in it? pistols? horrors! marie, take them away quick! i shall faint! i never could bear to be in a room with one. my husband used to have one on his closet shelf, and i never went near it, and always locked the room when he was out. you must put them out in the hall. i cannot breathe where pistols are. now sit down and tell me all about it, how old you are, and how you got here." elizabeth surrendered her pistols with hesitation. she felt that she must obey her grandmother, but was not altogether certain whether it was safe for her to be weaponless until she was sure this was friendly ground. at the demand she began back as far as she could remember, and told the story of her life, pathetically, simply, without a single claim to pity, yet so earnestly and vividly that the grandmother, lying with her eyes closed, forgot herself completely, and let the tears trickle unbidden and unheeded down her well-preserved cheeks. when elizabeth came to the graves in the moonlight, she gasped, and sobbed: "o, johnny, johnny, my little johnny! why did you always be such a bad, bad boy?" and when the ride in the desert was described, and the man from whom she fled, the grandmother held her breath, and said, "o, how fearful!" her interest in the girl was growing, and kept at white heat during the whole of the story. there was one part of her experience, however, that elizabeth passed over lightly, and that was the meeting with george trescott benedict. instinctively she felt that this experience would not find a sympathetic listener. she passed it over by merely saying that she had met a kind gentleman from the east who was lost, and that they had ridden together for a few miles until they reached a town; and he had telegraphed to his friends, and gone on his way. she said nothing about the money he had lent to her, for she shrank from speaking about him more than was necessary. she felt that her grandmother might feel as the old woman of the ranch had felt about their travelling together. she left it to be inferred that she might have had a little money with her from home. at least, the older woman asked no questions about how she secured provisions for the way. when elizabeth came to her chicago experience, her grandmother clasped her hands as if a serpent had been mentioned, and said: "how degrading! you certainly would have been justified in shooting the whole company. i wonder such places are allowed to exist!" but marie sat with large eyes of wonder, and retailed the story over again in the kitchen afterwards for the benefit of the cook and the butler, so that elizabeth became henceforth a heroine among them. elizabeth passed on to her philadelphia experience, and found that here her grandmother was roused to blazing indignation, but the thing that roused her was the fact that a bailey should serve behind a counter in a ten-cent store. she lifted her hands, and uttered a moan of real pain, and went on at such a rate that the smelling-salts had to be brought into requisition again. when elizabeth told of her encounter with the manager in the cellar, the grandmother said: "how disgusting! the impertinent creature! he ought to be sued. i will consult the lawyer about the matter. what did you say his name was? marie, write that down. and so, dear, you did quite right to come to me. i've been looking at you while you talked, and i believe you'll be a pretty girl if you are fixed up. marie, go to the telephone, and call up blandeaux, and tell him to send up a hair-dresser at once. i want to see how miss elizabeth will look with her hair done low in one of those new coils. i believe it will be becoming. i should have tried it long ago myself; only it seems a trifle too youthful for hair that is beginning to turn gray." elizabeth watched her grandmother in wonder. here truly was a new phase of woman. she did not care about great facts, but only about little things. her life was made up of the great pursuit of fashion, just like lizzie's. were people in cities all alike? no, for he, the one man she had met in the wilderness, had not seemed to care. maybe, though, when he got back to the city he did care. she sighed and turned toward the new grandmother. "now i have told you everything, grandmother. shall i go away? i wanted to go to school; but i see that it costs a great deal of money, and i don't want to be a burden on any one. i came here, not to ask you to take me in, because i did not want to trouble you; but i thought before i went away i ought to see you once because--because you are my grandmother." "i've never been a grandmother," said the little woman of the world reflectively, "but i don't know but it would be rather nice. i'd like to make you into a pretty girl, and take you out into society. that would be something new to live for. i'm not very pretty myself any more, but i can see that you will be. do you wear blue or pink? i used to wear pink myself, but i believe you could wear either when you get your complexion in shape. you've tanned it horribly, but it may come out all right. i think you'll take. you say you want to go to school. why, certainly, i suppose that will be necessary; living out in that barbarous, uncivilized region, of course you don't know much. you seem to speak correctly, but john always was particular about his speech. he had a tutor when he was little who tripped him up every mistake he made. that was the only thing that tutor was good for; he was a linguist. we found out afterwards he was terribly wild, and drank. he did john more harm than good, marie, i shall want elizabeth to have the rooms next mine. ring for martha to see that everything is in order. elizabeth, did you ever have your hands manicured? you have a pretty-shaped hand. i'll have the woman attend to it when she comes to shampoo your hair and put it up. did you bring any clothes along? of course not. you couldn't on horseback. i suppose you had your trunk sent by express. no trunk? no express? no railroad? how barbarous! how john must have suffered, poor fellow! he, so used to every luxury! well, i don't see that it was my fault. i gave him everything he wanted except his wife, and he took her without my leave. poor fellow, poor fellow!" mrs. bailey in due time sent elizabeth off to the suite of rooms that she said were to be hers exclusively, and arose to bedeck herself for another day. elizabeth was a new toy, and she anticipated playing with her. it put new zest into a life that had grown monotonous. elizabeth, meanwhile, was surveying her quarters, and wondering what lizzie would think if she could see her. according to orders, the coachman had taken robin to the stable, and he was already rolling in all the luxuries of a horse of the aristocracy, and congratulating himself on the good taste of his mistress to select such a stopping-place. for his part he was now satisfied not to move further. this was better than the wilderness any day. oats like these, and hay such as this, were not to be found on the plains. toward evening the grave butler, with many a deprecatory glance at the neighborhood, arrived at the door of mrs. brady, and delivered himself of the following message to that astonished lady, backed by her daughter and her granddaughter, with their ears stretched to the utmost to hear every syllable: "mrs. merrill wilton bailey sends word that her granddaughter, miss elizabeth, has reached her home safely, and will remain with her. miss elizabeth will come sometime to see mrs. brady, and thank her for her kindness during her stay with her." the butler bowed, and turned away with relief. his dignity and social standing had not been so taxed by the family demands in years. he was glad he might shake off the dust of flora street forever. he felt for the coachman. he would probably have to drive the young lady down here sometime, according to that message. mrs. brady, her daughter, and lizzie stuck their heads out into the lamplighted street, and watched the dignified butler out of sight. then they went in and sat down in three separate stages of relief and astonishment. "fer the land sakes!" ejaculated the grandmother. "wall, now, if that don't beat all!" then after a minute: "the impertinent fellow! and the impidence of the woman! thank me fer my kindness to me own grandchild! i'd thank her to mind her business, but then that's just like her." "her nest is certainly well feathered," said aunt nan enviously. "i only wish lizzie had such a chance." said lizzie: "it's awful queer, her looking like that, too, in that crazy rig! well, i'm glad she's gone, fer she was so awful queer it was jest fierce. she talked religion a lot to the girls, and then they laughed at her behind her back; and they kep' a telling me i'd be a missionary 'fore long if she stayed with us. i went to mr. wray, the manager, and told him my cousin was awfully shy, and she sent word she wanted to be excused fer running away like that. he kind of colored up, and said 'twas all right, and she might come back and have her old place if she wanted, and he'd say no more about it. i told him i'd tell her. but i guess her acting up won't do me a bit of harm. the girls say he'll make up to me now. wish he would. i'd have a fine time. it's me turn to have me wages raised, anyway. he said if bess and i would come to-morrow ready to stay in the evening, he'd take us to a show that beat everything he ever saw in philadelphia. i mean to make him take me, anyway. i'm just glad she's out of the way. she wasn't like the rest of us." said mrs. brady: "it's the bailey in her. but she said she'd come back and see me, didn't she?" and the grandmother in her meditated over that fact for several minutes. chapter xiv in a new world meantime the panorama of elizabeth's life passed on into more peaceful scenes. by means of the telephone and the maid a lot of new and beautiful garments were provided for her, which fitted perfectly, and which bewildered her not a little until they were explained by marie. elizabeth had her meals up-stairs until these things had arrived and she had put them on. the texture of the garments was fine and soft, and they were rich with embroidery and lace. the flannels were as soft as the down in a milkweed pod, and everything was of the best. elizabeth found herself wishing she might share them with lizzie,--lizzie who adored rich and beautiful things, and who had shared her meagre outfit with her. she mentioned this wistfully to her grandmother, and in a fit of childish generosity that lady said: "certainly, get her what you wish. i'll take you downtown some day, and you can pick out some nice things for them all. i hate to be under obligations." a dozen ready-made dresses had been sent out before the first afternoon was over, and elizabeth spent the rest of the day in trying on and walking back and forth in front of her grandmother. at last two or three were selected which it was thought would "do" until the dressmaker could be called in to help, and elizabeth was clothed and allowed to come down into the life of the household. it was not a large household. it consisted of the grandmother, her dog, and the servants. elizabeth fitted into it better than she had feared. it seemed pleasanter to her than the house on flora street. there was more room, and more air, and more quiet. with her mountain breeding she could not get her breath in a crowd. she was presently taken in a luxurious carriage, drawn by two beautiful horses, to a large department store, where she sat by the hour and watched her grandmother choose things for her. another girl might have gone half wild over the delightful experience of being able to have anything in the shops. not so elizabeth. she watched it all apathetically, as if the goods displayed about had been the leaves upon the trees set forth for her admiration. she could wear but one dress at once, and one hat. why were so many necessary? her main hope lay in the words her grandmother had spoken about sending her to school. the third day of her stay in rittenhouse square, elizabeth had reminded her of it, and the grandmother had said half impatiently: "yes, yes, child; you shall go of course to a finishing school. that will be necessary. but first i must get you fixed up. you have scarcely anything to put on." so elizabeth subsided. at last there dawned a beautiful sabbath when, the wardrobe seemingly complete, elizabeth was told to array herself for church, as they were going that morning. with great delight and thanksgiving she put on what she was told; and, when she looked into the great french plate mirror after marie had put on the finishing touches, she was astonished at herself. it was all true, after all. she was a pretty girl. she looked down at the beautiful gown of finest broadcloth, with the exquisite finish that only the best tailors can put on a garment, and wondered at herself. the very folds of dark-green cloth seemed to bring a grace into her movements. the green velvet hat with its long curling plumes of green and cream-color seemed to be resting lovingly above the beautiful hair that was arranged so naturally and becomingly. elizabeth wore her lovely ermine collar and muff without ever knowing they were costly. they all seemed so fitting and quiet and simple, so much less obtrusive than lizzie's pink silk waist and cheap pink plumes. elizabeth liked it, and walked to church beside her grandmother with a happy feeling in her heart. the church was just across the square. its tall brown stone spire and arched doorways attracted elizabeth when she first came to the place. now she entered with a kind of delight. it was the first time she had ever been to a sabbath morning regular service in church. the christian endeavor had been as much as lizzie had been able to stand. she said she had to work too hard during the week to waste so much time on sunday in church. "the sabbath was made for man" and "for rest," she had quoted glibly. for the first time in her life since she left montana elizabeth felt as if she had a real home and was like other people. she looked around shyly to see whether perchance her friend of the desert might be sitting near, but no familiar face met her gaze. then she settled back, and gave herself up to delight in the service. the organ was playing softly, low, tender music. she learned afterward that the music was handel's "largo." she did not know that the organ was one of the finest in the city, nor that the organist was one of the most skilful to be had; she knew only that the music seemed to take her soul and lift it up above the earth so that heaven was all around her, and the very clouds seemed singing to her. then came the processional, with the wonderful voices of the choir-boys sounding far off, and then nearer. it would be impossible for any one who had been accustomed all his life to these things to know how it affected elizabeth. it seemed as though the lord himself was leading the girl in a very special way. at scarcely any other church in a fashionable quarter of the great city would elizabeth have heard preaching so exactly suited to her needs. the minister was one of those rare men who lived with god, and talked with him daily. he had one peculiarity which marked him from all other preachers, elizabeth heard afterward. he would turn and talk with god in a gentle, sweet, conversational tone right in the midst of his sermon. it made the lord seem very real and very near. if he had not been the great and brilliant preacher of an old established church, and revered by all denominations as well as his own, the minister would have been called eccentric and have been asked to resign, because his religion was so very personal that it became embarrassing to some. however, his rare gifts, and his remarkable consecration and independence in doing what he thought right, had produced a most unusual church for a fashionable neighborhood. most of his church-members were in sympathy with him, and a wonderful work was going forward right in the heart of sodom, unhampered by fashion or form or class distinctions. it is true there were some who, like madam bailey sat calmly in their seats, and let the minister attend to the preaching end of the service without ever bothering their thoughts as to what he was saying. it was all one to them whether he prayed three times or once, so the service got done at the usual hour. but the majority were being led to see that there is such a thing as a close and intimate walk with god upon this earth. into this church came elizabeth, the sweet heathen, eager to learn all that could be learned about the things of the soul. she sat beside her grandmother, and drank in the sermon, and bowed her lovely, reverent head when she became aware that god was in the room and was being spoken to by his servant. after the last echo of the recessional had died away, and the bowed hush of the congregation had grown into a quiet, well-bred commotion of the putting on of wraps and the low sabbath greetings, elizabeth turned to her grandmother. "grandmother, may i please go and ask that man some questions? he said just what i have been longing and longing to know, and i must ask him more. nobody else ever told me these things. who is he? how does he know it is all true?" the elder woman watched the eager, flushed face of the girl; and her heart throbbed with pride that this beautiful young thing belonged to her. she smiled indulgently. "the rector, you mean? why, i'll invite him to dinner if you wish to talk with him. it's perfectly proper that a young girl should understand about religion. it has a most refining influence, and the doctor is a charming man. i'll invite his wife and daughter too. they move in the best circles, and i have been meaning to ask them for a long time. you might like to be confirmed. some do. it's a very pretty service. i was confirmed myself when i was about your age. my mother thought it a good thing for a girl before she went into society. now, just as you are a schoolgirl, is the proper time. i'll send for him this week. he'll be pleased to know you are interested in these things. he has some kind of a young people's club that meets on sunday. 'christian something' he calls it; i don't know just what, but he talks a great deal about it, and wants every young person to join. you might pay the dues, whatever they are, anyway. i suppose it's for charity. it wouldn't be necessary for you to attend the meetings, but it would please the doctor." "is it christian endeavor?" asked elizabeth, with her eyes sparkling. "something like that, i believe. good morning, mrs. schuyler. lovely day, isn't it? for december. no, i haven't been very well. no, i haven't been out for several weeks. charming service, wasn't it? the doctor grows more and more brilliant, i think. mrs. schuyler, this is my granddaughter, elizabeth. she has just come from the west to live with me and complete her education. i want her to know your daughter." elizabeth passed through the introduction as a necessary interruption to her train of thought. as soon as they were out upon the street again she began. "grandmother, was god in that church?" "dear me, child! what strange questions you do ask! why, yes, i suppose he was, in a way. god is everywhere, they say. elizabeth, you had better wait until you can talk these things over with a person whose business it is. i never understood much about such questions. you look very nice in that shade of green, and your hat is most becoming." so was the question closed for the time, but not put out of the girl's thoughts. the christmas time had come and passed without much notice on the part of elizabeth, to whom it was an unfamiliar festival. mrs. bailey had suggested that she select some gifts for her "relatives on her mother's side," as she always spoke of the bradys; and elizabeth had done so with alacrity, showing good sense and good taste in her choice of gifts, as well as deference to the wishes of the one to whom they were to be given. lizzie, it is true, was a trifle disappointed that her present was not a gold watch or a diamond ring; but on the whole she was pleased. a new world opened before the feet of elizabeth. school was filled with wonder and delight. she absorbed knowledge like a sponge in the water, and rushed eagerly from one study to another, showing marvellous aptitude, and bringing to every task the enthusiasm of a pleasure-seeker. her growing intimacy with jesus christ through the influence of the pastor who knew him so well caused her joy in life to blossom into loveliness. the bible she studied with the zest of a novel-reader, for it was a novel to her; and daily, as she took her rides in the park on robin, now groomed into self-respecting sleekness, and wearing a saddle of the latest approved style, she marvelled over god's wonderful goodness to her, just a maid of the wilderness. so passed three beautiful years in peace and quietness. every month elizabeth went to see her grandmother brady, and to take some charming little gifts; and every summer she and her grandmother bailey spent at some of the fashionable watering-places or in the catskills, the girl always dressed in most exquisite taste, and as sweetly indifferent to her clothes as a bird of the air or a flower of the field. the first pocket-money she had been given she saved up, and before long had enough to send the forty dollars to the address the man in the wilderness had given her. but with it she sent no word. it was like her to think she had no right. she went out more and more with her grandmother among the fashionable old families in philadelphia society, though as yet she was not supposed to be "out," being still in school; but in all her goings she neither saw nor heard of george trescott benedict. often she looked about upon the beautiful women that came to her grandmother's house, who smiled and talked to her, and wondered which of them might be the lady to whom his heart was bound. she fancied she must be most sweet and lovely in every way, else such as he could not care for her; so she would pick out this one and that one; and then, as some disagreeableness or glaring fault would appear, she would drop that one for another. there were only a few, after all, that she felt were good enough for the man who had become her ideal. but sometimes in her dreams he would come and talk with her, and smile as he used to do when they rode together; and he would lay his hand on the mane of her horse--there were always the horses in her dreams. she liked to think of it when she rode in the park, and to think how pleasant it would be if he could be riding there beside her, and they might talk of a great many things that had happened since he left her alone. she felt she would like to tell him of how she had found a friend in jesus christ. he would be glad to know about it, she was sure. he seemed to be one who was interested in such things, not like other people who were all engaged in the world. sometimes she felt afraid something had happened to him. he might have been thrown from that terrible train and killed, perhaps; and no one know anything about it. but as her experience grew wider, and she travelled on the trains herself, of course this fear grew less. she came to understand that the world was wide, and many things might have taken him away from his home. perhaps the money she had sent reached him safely, but she had put in no address. it had not seemed right that she should. it would seem to draw his attention to her, and she felt "the lady" would not like that. perhaps they were married by this time, and had gone far away to some charmed land to live. perhaps--a great many things. only this fact remained; he never came any more into the horizon of her life; and therefore she must try to forget him, and be glad that god had given her a friend in him for her time of need. some day in the eternal home perhaps she would meet him and thank him for his kindness to her, and then they might tell each other all about the journey through the great wilderness of earth after they had parted. the links in elizabeth's theology had been well supplied by this time, and her belief in the hereafter was strong and simple like a child's. she had one great longing, however, that he, her friend, who had in a way been the first to help her toward higher things, and to save her from the wilderness, might know jesus christ as he had not known him when they were together. and so in her daily prayer she often talked with her heavenly father about him, until she came to have an abiding faith that some day, somehow, he would learn the truth about his christ. during the third season of elizabeth's life in philadelphia her grandmother decided that it was high time to bring out this bud of promise, who was by this time developing into a more beautiful girl than even her fondest hopes had pictured. so elizabeth "came out," and grandmother brady read her doings and sayings in the society columns with her morning coffee and an air of deep satisfaction. aunt nan listened with her nose in the air. she could never understand why elizabeth should have privileges beyond her lizzie. it was the bailey in her, of course, and mother ought not to think well of it. but grandmother brady felt that, while elizabeth's success was doubtless due in large part to the bailey in her, still, she was a brady, and the brady had not hindered her. it was a step upward for the bradys. lizzie listened, and with pride retailed at the ten-cent store the doings of "my cousin, elizabeth bailey," and the other girls listened with awe. and so it came on to be the springtime of the third year that elizabeth had spent in philadelphia. chapter xv an eventful picnic it was summer and it was june. there was to be a picnic, and elizabeth was going. grandmother brady had managed it. it seemed to her that, if elizabeth could go, her cup of pride would be full to overflowing; so after much argument, pro and con, with her daughter and lizzie, she set herself down to pen the invitation. aunt nan was decidedly against it. she did not wish to have lizzie outshone. she had been working nights for two weeks on an elaborate organdie, with pink roses all over it, for lizzie to wear. it had yards and yards of cheap lace and insertion, and a whole bolt of pink ribbons of various widths. the hat was a marvel of impossible roses, just calculated for the worst kind of a wreck if a thunder-shower should come up at a sunday-school picnic. lizzie's mother was even thinking of getting her a pink chiffon parasol to carry; but the family treasury was well-nigh depleted, and it was doubtful whether that would be possible. after all that, it did not seem pleasant to have lizzie put in the shade by a fine-lady cousin in silks and jewels. but grandmother brady had waited long for her triumph. she desired above all things to walk among her friends, and introduce her granddaughter, elizabeth bailey, and inadvertently remark: "you must have seen me granddaughter's name in the paper often, mrs. babcock. she was giving a party in rittenhouse square the other day." elizabeth would likely be married soon, and perhaps go off somewhere away from philadelphia--new york or europe, there was no telling what great fortune might come to her. now the time was ripe for triumph if ever, and when things are ripe they must be picked. mrs. brady proceeded to pick. she gathered together at great pains pen, paper, and ink. a pencil would be inadequate when the note was going to rittenhouse square. she sat down when nan and lizzie had left for their day's work, and constructed her sentences with great care. "_dear bessie_--" elizabeth had never asked her not to call her that, although she fairly detested the name. but still it had been her mother's name, and was likely dear to her grandmother. it seemed disloyalty to her mother to suggest that she be called "elizabeth." so grandmother brady serenely continued to call her "bessie" to the end of her days. elizabeth decided that to care much about such little things, in a world where there were so many great things, would be as bad as to give one's mind entirely over to the pursuit of fashion. the letter proceeded laboriously: "our sunday school is going to have a picnic out to willow grove. it's on tuesday. we're going in the trolley. i'd be pleased if you would go 'long with us. we will spend the day, and take our dinner and supper along, and wouldn't get home till late; so you could stay overnight here with us, and not go back home till after breakfast. you needn't bring no lunch; fer we've got a lot of things planned, and it ain't worth while. but if you wanted to bring some candy, you might. i ain't got time to make any, and what you buy at our grocery might not be fine enough fer you. i want you to go real bad. i've never took my two granddaughters off to anything yet, and your grandmother bailey has you to things all the time. i hope you can manage to come. i am going to pay all the expenses. your old christian deaver you used to 'tend is going to be there; so you'll have a good time. lizzie has a new pink organdie, with roses on her hat; and we're thinking of getting her a pink umbreller if it don't cost too much. the kind with chiffon flounces on it. you'll have a good time, fer there's lots of side-shows out to willow grove, and we're going to see everything there is to see. there's going to be some music too. a man with a name that sounds like swearing is going to make it. i don't remember it just now, but you can see it advertised round on the trolley-cars. he comes to willow grove every year. now please let me hear if you will go at once, as i want to know how much cake to make. "your loving grandmother, elizabeth brady." elizabeth laughed and cried over this note. it pleased her to have her grandmother show kindness to her. she felt that whatever she did for grandmother brady was in a sense showing her love to her own mother; so she brushed aside several engagements, much to the annoyance of her grandmother bailey, who could not understand why she wanted to go down to flora street for two days and a night just in the beginning of warm weather. true, there was not much going on just now between seasons, and elizabeth could do as she pleased; but she might get a fever in such a crowded neighborhood. it wasn't in the least wise. however, if she must, she must. grandmother bailey was on the whole lenient. elizabeth was too much of a success, and too willing to please her in all things, for her to care to cross her wishes. so elizabeth wrote on her fine note-paper bearing the bailey crest in silver: _"dear grandmother:_ i shall be delighted to go to the picnic with you, and i'll bring a nice big box of candy, huyler's best. i'm sure you'll think it's the best you ever tasted. don't get lizzie a parasol; i'm going to bring her one to surprise her. i'll be at the house by eight o'clock. "your loving granddaughter, elizabeth." mrs. brady read this note with satisfaction and handed it over to her daughter to read with a gleam of triumph in her eyes at the supper-table. she knew the gift of the pink parasol would go far toward reconciling aunt nan to the addition to their party. elizabeth never did things by halves, and the parasol would be all that could possibly be desired without straining the family pocketbook any further. so elizabeth went to the picnic in a cool white dimity, plainly made, with tiny frills of itself, edged with narrow lace that did not shout to the unknowing multitude, "i am real!" but was content with being so; and with a white panama hat adorned with only a white silken scarf, but whose texture was possible only at a fabulous price. the shape reminded elizabeth of the old felt hat belonging to her brother, which she had worn on her long trip across the continent. she had put it on in the hat-store one day; and her grandmother, when she found how exquisite a piece of weaving the hat was, at once purchased it for her. it was stylish to wear those soft hats in all sorts of odd shapes. madam bailey thought it would be just the thing for the seashore. her hair was worn in a low coil in her neck, making the general appearance and contour of her head much as it had been three years before. she wore no jewelry, save the unobtrusive gold buckle at her belt and the plain gold hatpin which fastened her hat. there was nothing about her which marked her as one of the "four hundred." she did not even wear her gloves, but carried them in her hand, and threw them carelessly upon the table when she arrived in flora street. long, soft white ones, they lay there in their costly elegance beside lizzie's post-card album that the livery-stable man gave her on her birthday, all the long day while elizabeth was at willow grove, and lizzie sweltered around under her pink parasol in long white silk gloves. grandmother brady surveyed elizabeth with decided disapproval. it seemed too bad on this her day of triumph, and after she had given a hint, as it were, about lizzie's fine clothes, that the girl should be so blind or stubborn or both as to come around in that plain rig. just a common white dress, and an old hat that might have been worn about a livery-stable. it was mortifying in the extreme. she expected a light silk, and kid gloves, and a beflowered hat. why, lizzie looked a great deal finer. did mrs. bailey rig her out this way for spite? she wondered. but, as it was too late to send elizabeth back for more fitting garments, the old lady resigned herself to her disappointment. the pink parasol was lovely, and lizzie was wild over it. even aunt nan seemed mollified. it gave her great satisfaction to look the two girls over. her own outshone the one from rittenhouse square by many counts, so thought the mother; but all day long, as she walked behind them or viewed them from afar, she could not understand why it was that the people who passed them always looked twice at elizabeth and only once at lizzie. it seemed, after all, that clothes did not make the girl. it was disappointing. the box of candy was all that could possibly be desired. it was ample for the needs of them all, including the two youths from the livery-stable who had attached themselves to their party from the early morning. in fact, it was two boxes, one of the most delectable chocolates of all imaginable kinds, and the other of mixed candies and candied fruit. both boxes bore the magic name "huyler's" on the covers. lizzie had often passed huyler's, taking her noon walk on chestnut street, and looked enviously at the girls who walked in and out with white square bundles tied with gold cord as if it were an everyday affair. and now she was actually eating all she pleased of those renowned candies. it was almost like belonging to the great élite. it was a long day and a pleasant one even to elizabeth. she had never been to willow grove before, and the strange blending of sweet nature and vanity fair charmed her. it was a rest after the winter's round of monotonous engagements. even the loud-voiced awkward youths from the livery-stable did not annoy her extremely. she took them as a part of the whole, and did not pay much attention to them. they were rather shy of her, giving the most of their attention to lizzie, much to the satisfaction of aunt nan. they mounted the horses in the merry-go-rounds, and tried each one several times. elizabeth wondered why anybody desired this sort of amusement, and after her first trip would have been glad to sit with her grandmother and watch the others, only that the old lady seemed so much to desire to have her get on with the rest. she would not do anything to spoil the pleasure of the others if she could help it; so she obediently seated herself in a great sea-shell drawn by a soiled plaster nymph, and whirled on till lizzie declared it was time to go to something else. they went into the old mill, and down into the mimic mine, and sailed through the painted venice, eating candy and chewing gum and shouting. all but elizabeth. elizabeth would not chew gum nor talk loud. it was not her way. but she smiled serenely on the rest, and did not let it worry her that some one might recognize the popular miss bailey in so ill-bred a crowd. she knew that it was their way, and they could have no other. they were having a good time, and she was a part of it for to-day. they weighed one another on the scales with many jokes and much laughter, and went to see all the moving pictures in the place. they ate their lunch under the trees, and then at last the music began. they seated themselves on the outskirts of the company, for lizzie declared that was the only pleasant place to be. she did not want to go "way up front." she had a boy on either side of her, and she kept the seat shaking with laughter. now and then a weary guard would look distressedly down the line, and motion for less noise; but they giggled on. elizabeth was glad they were so far back that they might not annoy more people than was necessary. but the music was good, and she watched the leader with great satisfaction. she noticed that there were many people given up to the pleasure of it. the melody went to her soul, and thrilled through it. she had not had much good music in her life. the last three years, of course, she had been occasionally to the academy of music; but, though her grandmother had a box there, she very seldom had time or cared to attend concerts. sometimes, when melba, or caruso, or some world-renowned favorite was there, she would take elizabeth for an hour, usually slipping out just after the favorite solo with noticeable loftiness, as if the orchestra were the common dust of the earth, and she only condescended to come for the soloist. so elizabeth had scarcely known the delight of a whole concert of fine orchestral music. she heard lizzie talking. "yes, that's walter damrosch! ain't that name fierce? grandma thinks it's kind of wicked to pernounce it that way. they say he's fine, but i must say i liked the band they had last year better. it played a whole lot of lively things, and once they had a rattle-box and a squeaking thing that cried like a baby right out in the music, and everybody just roared laughing. i tell you that was great. i don't care much for this here kind of music myself. do you?" and jim and joe both agreed that they didn't, either. elizabeth smiled, and kept on enjoying it. peanuts were the order of the day, and their assertive crackle broke in upon the finest passages. elizabeth wished her cousin would take a walk; and by and by she did, politely inviting elizabeth to go along; but she declined, and they were left to sit through the remainder of the afternoon concert. after supper they watched the lights come out, elizabeth thinking about the description of the heavenly city as one after another the buildings blazed out against the darkening blue of the june night. the music was about to begin. indeed, it could be heard already in the distance, and drew the girl irresistibly. for the first time that day she made a move, and the others followed, half wearied of their dissipations, and not knowing exactly what to do next. they stood the first half of the concert very well, but at the intermission they wandered out to view the electric fountain with its many-colored fluctuations, and to take a row on the tiny sheet of water. elizabeth remained sitting where she was, and watched the fountain. even her grandmother and aunt grew restless, and wanted to walk again. they said they had had enough music, and did not want to hear any more. they could hear it well enough, anyway, from further off. they believed they would have some ice-cream. didn't elizabeth want some? she smiled sweetly. would grandmother mind if she sat right there and heard the second part of the concert? she loved music, and this was fine. she didn't feel like eating another thing to-night. so the two ladies, thinking the girl queer that she didn't want ice-cream, went off to enjoy theirs with a clear conscience; and elizabeth drew a long breath, and sat back with her eyes closed, to test and breathe in the sweet sounds that were beginning to float out delicately as if to feel whether the atmosphere were right for what was to come after. it was just at the close of this wonderful music, which the programme said was mendelssohn's "spring song," when elizabeth looked up to meet the eyes of some one who stood near in the aisle watching her, and there beside her stood the man of the wilderness! he was looking at her face, drinking in the beauty of the profile and wondering whether he were right. could it be that this was his little brown friend, the maid of the wilderness? this girl with the lovely, refined face, the intellectual brow, the dainty fineness of manner? she looked like some white angel dropped down into that motley company of sunday-school picknickers and city pleasure-seekers. the noise and clatter of the place seemed far away from her. she was absorbed utterly in the sweet sounds. when she looked up and saw him, the smile that flashed out upon her face was like the sunshine upon a day that has hitherto been still and almost sad. the eyes said, "you are come at last!" the curve of the lips said, "i am glad you are here!" he went to her like one who had been hungry for the sight of her for a long time, and after he had grasped her hand they stood so for a moment while the hum and gentle clatter of talk that always starts between numbers seethed around them and hid the few words they spoke at first. "o, i have so longed to know if you were safe!" said the man as soon as he could speak. then straightway the girl forgot all her three years of training, and her success as a débutante, and became the grave, shy thing she had been to him when he first saw her, looking up with awed delight into the face she had seen in her dreams for so long, and yet might not long for. the orchestra began again, and they sat in silence listening. but yet their souls seemed to speak to each other through the medium of the music, as if the intervening years were being bridged and brought together in the space of those few waves of melody. "i have found out," said elizabeth, looking up shyly with a great light in her eyes. "i have found what it all means. have you? o, i have wanted so much to know whether you had found out too!" "found out what?" he asked half sadly that he did not understand. "found out how god hides us. found what a friend jesus christ can be." "you are just the same," said the man with satisfaction in his eyes. "you have not been changed nor spoiled. they could not spoil you." "have you found out too?" she asked softly. she looked up into his eyes with wistful longing. she wanted this thing so very much. it had been in her prayers for so long. he could not withdraw his own glance. he did not wish to. he longed to be able to answer what she wished. "a little, perhaps," he said doubtfully. "not so much as i would like to. will you help me?" "_he_ will help you. you will find him if you search for him with all your heart," she said earnestly. "it says so in his book." then came more music, wistful, searching, tender. did it speak of the things of heaven to other souls there than those two? he stooped down, and said in a low tone that somehow seemed to blend with the music like the words that fitted it, "i will try with all my heart if you will help me." she smiled her answer, brimming back with deep delight. into the final lingering notes of an andante from one of beethoven's sublime symphonies clashed the loud voice of lizzie: "o bess! bess! b-es-see! i say, bessie! ma says we'll have to go over by the cars now if we want to get a seat. the concert's most out, and there'll be a fierce rush. come on! and grandma says, bring your friend along with you if you want." this last with a smirking recognition of the man, who had turned around wonderingly to see who was speaking. with a quick, searching glance that took in bedraggled organdie, rose hat, and pink parasol, and set them aside for what they were worth, george benedict observed and classified lizzie. "will you excuse yourself, and let me take you home a little later?" he asked in a low tone. "the crowd will be very great, and i have my automobile here." she looked at him gratefully, and assented. she had much to tell him. she leaned across the seats, and spoke in a clear tone to her cousin. "i will come a little later," she said, smiling with her rittenhouse square look that always made lizzie a little afraid of her. "tell grandmother i have found an old friend i have not seen for a long time. i will be there almost as soon as you are." they waited while lizzie explained, and the grandmother and aunt nodded a reluctant assent. aunt nan frowned. elizabeth might have brought her friend along, and introduced him to lizzie. did elizabeth think lizzie wasn't good enough to be introduced? he wrapped her in a great soft rug that was in the automobile, and tucked her in beside him; and she felt as if the long, hard days that had passed since they had met were all forgotten and obliterated in this night of delight. not all the attentions of all the fine men she had met in society had ever been like his, so gentle, so perfect. she had forgotten the lady as completely as if she had never heard of her. she wanted now to tell her friend about her heavenly friend. he let her talk, and watched her glowing, earnest face by the dim light of the sky; for the moon had come out to crown the night with beauty, and the unnatural brilliance of electric blaze, with all the glitter and noise of willow grove, died into the dim, sweet night as those two sped onward toward the city. the heart of the man kept singing, singing, singing: "i have found her at last! she is safe!" "i have prayed for you always," he said in one of the pauses. it was just as they were coming into flora street. the urchins were all out on the sidewalk yet, for the night was hot; and they gathered about, and ran hooting after the car as it slowed up at the door. "i am sure he did hide you safely, and i shall thank him for answering my prayer. and now i am coming to see you. may i come to-morrow?" there was a great gladness in her eyes. "yes," she said. the bradys had arrived from the corner trolley, and were hovering about the door self-assertively. it was most apparent to an onlooker that this was a good opportunity for an introduction, but the two young people were entirely oblivious. the man touched his hat gravely, a look of great admiration in his eyes, and said, "good night" like a benediction. then the girl turned and went into the plain little home and to her belligerent relatives with a light in her eyes and a joy in her steps that had not been there earlier in the day. the dreams that visited her hard pillow that night were heavenly and sweet. chapter xvi alone again "now we're goin' to see ef the paper says anythin' about our bessie," said grandmother brady the next morning, settling her spectacles over her nose comfortably and crossing one fat gingham knee over the other. "i always read the society notes, bess." elizabeth smiled, and her grandmother read down, the column: "mr. george trescott benedict and his mother, mrs. vincent benedict, have arrived home after an extended tower of europe," read mrs. brady. "mrs. benedict is much improved in health. it is rumored they will spend the summer at their country seat on wissahickon heights." "my!" interrupted lizzie with her mouth full of fried potatoes. "that's that fellow that was engaged to that miss what's-her-name loring. don't you 'member? they had his picture in the papers, and her; and then all at once she threw him over for some dook or something, and this feller went off. i heard about it from mame. her sister works in a department-store, and she knows miss loring. she says she's an awfully handsome girl, and george benedict was just gone on her. he had a fearful case. mame says miss loring--what is her name?--o, geraldine--geraldine loring bought some lace of her. she heard her say it was for the gown she was going to wear at the horse-show. they had her picture in the paper just after the horse-show, and it was all over lace, i saw it. it cost a whole lot. i forget how many dollars a yard. but there was something the matter with the dook. she didn't marry him, after all. in her picture she was driving four horses. don't you remember it, grandma? she sat up tall and high on a seat, holding a whole lot of ribbons and whips and things. she has an elegant figger. i guess mebbe the dook wasn't rich enough. she hasn't been engaged to anybody else, and i shouldn't wonder now but she'd take george benedict back. he was so awful stuck on her!" lizzie rattled on, and the grandmother read more society notes, but elizabeth heard no more. her hear had suddenly frozen, and dropped down like lead into her being. she felt as if she never would be able to raise it again. the lady! surely she had forgotten the lady. but geraldine loring! of all women! could it be possible? geraldine loring was almost--well, fast, at least, as nearly so as one who was really of a fine old family, and still held her own in society, could be. she was beautiful as a picture; but her face, to elizabeth's mind, was lacking in fine feeling and intellect. a great pity went out from her heart to the man whose fate was in that doll-girl's hands. true, she had heard that miss loring's family were unquestionable, and she knew her mother was a most charming woman. perhaps she had misjudged her. she must have done so if he cared for her, for it could not be otherwise. the joy had gone out of the morning when elizabeth went home. she went up to her grandmother bailey at once, and after she had read her letters for her, and performed the little services that were her habit, she said: "grandmother, i'm expecting a man to call upon me to-day. i thought i had better tell you." "a man!" said madam bailey, alarmed at once. she wanted to look over and portion out the right man when the time came. "what man?" "why, a man i met in montana," said elizabeth, wondering how much she ought to tell. "a man you met in montana! horrors!" exclaimed the now thoroughly aroused grandmother. "not that dreadful creature you ran away from?" "o no!" said elizabeth, smiling. "not that man. a man who was very kind to me, and whom i like very much." so much the worse. immediate action was necessary. "well, elizabeth," said madam bailey in her stiffest tones, "i really do not care to have any of your montana friends visit you. you will have to excuse yourself. it will lead to embarrassing entanglements. you do not in the least realize your position in society. it is all well enough to please your relatives, although i think you often overdo that. you could just as well send them a present now and then, and please them more than to go yourself. but as for any outsiders, it is impossible. i draw the line there." "but grandmother----" "don't interrupt me, elizabeth; i have something more to say. i had word this morning from the steamship company. they can give us our staterooms on the deutschland on saturday, and i have decided to take them. i have telegraphed, and we shall leave here to-day for new york. i have one or two matters of business i wish to attend to in new york. we shall go to the waldorf for a few days, and you will have more opportunity to see new york than you have had yet. it will not be too warm to enjoy going about a little, i fancy; and a number of our friends are going to be at the waldorf, too. the craigs sail on saturday with us. you will have young company on the voyage." elizabeth's heart sank lower than she had known it could go, and she grew white to the lips. the observant grandmother decided that she had done well to be so prompt. the man from montana was by no means to be admitted. she gave orders to that effect, unknown to elizabeth. the girl went slowly to her room. all at once it had dawned upon her that she had not given her address to the man the night before, nor told him by so much as a word what were her circumstances. an hour's meditation brought her to the unpleasant decision that perhaps even now in this hard spot god was only hiding her from worse trouble. mr. george benedict belonged to geraldine loring. he had declared as much when he was in montana. it would not be well for her to renew the acquaintance. her heart told her by its great ache that she would be crushed under a friendship that could not be lasting. very sadly she sat down to write a note. "_my dear friend_," she wrote on plain paper with no crest. it was like her to choose that. she would not flaunt her good fortune in his face. she was a plain montana girl to him, and so she would remain. "my grandmother has been very ill, and is obliged to go away for her health. unexpectedly i find that we are to go to-day. i supposed it would not be for a week yet. i am so sorry not to see you again, but i send you a little book that has helped me to get acquainted with jesus christ. perhaps it will help you too. it is called 'my best friend.' i shall not forget to pray always that you may find him. he is so precious to me! i must thank you in words, though i never can say it as it should be said, for your very great kindness to me when i was in trouble. god sent you to me, i am sure. always gratefully your friend, "elizabeth." that was all, no date, no address. he was not hers, and she would hang out no clues for him to find her, even if he wished. it was better so. she sent the note and the little book to his address on walnut street; and then after writing a note to her grandmother brady, saying that she was going away for a long trip with grandmother bailey, she gave herself into the hands of the future like a submissive but weary child. the noon train to new york carried in its drawing-room-car madam bailey, her granddaughter, her maid, and her dog, bound for europe. the society columns so stated; and so read grandmother brady a few days afterward. so also read george benedict, but it meant nothing to him. when he received the note, his mind was almost as much excited as when he saw the little brown girl and the little brown horse vanishing behind the little brown station on the prairie. he went to the telephone, and reflected that he knew no names. he called up his automobile, and tore up to flora street; but in his bewilderment of the night before he had not noticed which block the house was in, nor which number. he thought he knew where to find it, but in broad daylight the houses were all alike for three blocks, and for the life of him he could not remember whether he had turned up to the right or the left when he came to flora street. he tried both, but saw no sign of the people he had but casually noticed at willow grove. he could not ask where she lived, for he did not know her name. nothing but elizabeth, and they had called her bessie. he could not go from house to house asking for a girl named bessie. they would think him a fool, as he was, for not finding out her name, her precious name, at once. how could he let her slip from him again when he had just found her? at last he hit upon a bright idea. he asked some children along the street whether they knew of any young woman named bessie or elizabeth living there, but they all with one accord shook their heads, though one volunteered the information that "lizzie smith lives there." it was most distracting and unsatisfying. there was nothing for it but for him to go home and wait in patience for her return. she would come back sometime probably. she had not said so, but she had not said she would not. he had found her once; he might find her again. and he could pray. she had found comfort in that; so would he. he would learn what her secret was. he would get acquainted with her "best friend." diligently did he study that little book, and then he went and hunted up the man of god who had written it, and who had been the one to lead elizabeth into the path of light by his earnest preaching every sabbath, though this fact he did not know. the days passed, and the saturday came. elizabeth, heavy-hearted, stood on the deck of the deutschland, and watched her native land disappear from view. so again george benedict had lost her from sight. it struck elizabeth, as she stood straining her eyes to see the last of the shore through tears that would burn to the surface and fall down her white cheeks, that again she was running away from a man, only this time not of her own free will. she was being taken away. but perhaps it was better. and it never once entered her mind that, if she had told her grandmother who the friend in montana was, and where he lived in philadelphia, it would have made all the difference in the world. from the first of the voyage grandmother bailey grew steadily worse, and when they landed on the other side they went from one place to another seeking health. carlsbad waters did not agree with her, and they went to the south of france to try the climate. at each move the little old lady grew weaker and more querulous. she finally made no further resistance, and gave up to the rôle of invalid. then elizabeth must be in constant attendance. madam bailey demanded reading, and no voice was so soothing as elizabeth's. gradually elizabeth substituted books of her own choice as her grandmother seemed not to mind, and now and then she would read a page of some book that told of the best friend. at first because it was written by the dear pastor at home it commanded her attention, and finally because some dormant chord in her heart had been touched, she allowed elizabeth to speak of these things. but it was not until they had been away from home for three months, and she had been growing daily weaker and weaker, that she allowed elizabeth to read in the bible. the girl chose the fourteenth chapter of john, and over and over again, whenever the restless nerves tormented their victim, she would read those words, "let not your heart be troubled" until the selfish soul, who had lived all her life to please the world and do her own pleasure, came at last to hear the words, and feel that perhaps she did believe in god, and might accept that invitation, "believe also in me." one day elizabeth had been reading a psalm, and thought her grandmother was asleep. she was sitting back with weary heart, thinking what would happen if her grandmother should not get well. the old lady opened her eyes. "elizabeth," she said abruptly, just as when she was well, "you've been a good girl. i'm glad you came. i couldn't have died right without you. i never thought much about these things before, but it really is worth while. in my father's house. he is my father, elizabeth." she went to sleep then, and elizabeth tiptoed out and left her with the nurse. by and by marie came crying in, and told her that the madam was dead. elizabeth was used to having people die. she was not shocked; only it seemed lonely again to find herself facing the world, in a foreign land. and when she came to face the arrangements that had to be made, which, after all, money and servants made easy, she found herself dreading her own land. what must she do after her grandmother was laid to rest? she could not live in the great house in rittenhouse square, and neither could she very well go and live in flora street. o, well, her father would hide her. she need not plan; he would plan for her. the mansions on the earth were his too, as well as those in heaven. and so resting she passed through the weary voyage and the day when the body was laid to rest in the bailey lot in the cemetery, and she went back to the empty house alone. it was not until after the funeral that she went to see grandmother brady. she had not thought it wise or fitting to invite the hostile grandmother to the other one's funeral. she had thought grandmother bailey would not like it. she rode to flora street in the carriage. she felt too weary to walk or go in the trolley. she was taking account of stock in the way of friends, thinking over whom she cared to see. one of the first bits of news she had heard on arriving in this country had been that miss loring's wedding was to come off in a few days. it seemed to strike her like a thunderbolt, and she was trying to arraign herself for this as she rode along. it was therefore not helpful to her state of mind to have her grandmother remark grimly: "that feller o' yours 'n his oughtymobble has been goin' up an' down this street, day in, day out, this whole blessed summer. ain't been a day he didn't pass, sometimes once, sometimes twicet. i felt sorry fer him sometimes. ef he hadn't been so high an' mighty stuck up that he couldn't recognize me, i'd 'a' spoke to him. it was plain ez the nose on your face he was lookin' fer you. don't he know where you live?" "i don't believe he does," said elizabeth languidly. "say, grandmother, would you care to come up to rittenhouse square and live?" "me? in rittenhouse square? fer the land sakes, child, no. that's flat. i've lived me days out in me own sp'ere, and i don't intend to change now at me time o' life. ef you want to do somethin' nice fer me, child, now you've got all that money, i'd like real well to live in a house that hed white marble steps. it's been me one aim all me life. there's some round on the next street that don't come high. there'd be plenty room fer us all, an' a nice place fer lizzie to get married when the time comes. the parlor's real big, and you would send her some roses, couldn't you?" "all right, grandmother. you shall have it," said elizabeth with a relieved sigh, and in a few minutes she went home. some day pretty soon she must think what to do, but there was no immediate hurry. she was glad that grandmother brady did not want to come to rittenhouse square. things would be more congenial without her. but the house seemed great and empty when she entered, and she was glad to hear the friendly telephone bell ringing. it was the wife of her pastor, asking her to come to them for a quiet dinner. this was the one home in the great city where she felt like going in her loneliness. there would be no form nor ceremony. just a friend with them. it was good. the doctor would give her some helpful words. she was glad they had asked her. chapter xvii a final flight and pursuit "george," said mrs. vincent benedict, "i want you to do something for me." "certainly, mother, anything i can." "well, it's only to go to dinner with me to-night. our pastor's wife has telephoned me that she wants us very much. she especially emphasized you. she said she absolutely needed you. it was a case of charity, and she would be so grateful to you if you would come. she has a young friend with her who is very sad, and she wants to cheer her up. now don't frown. i won't bother you again this week. i know you hate dinners and girls. but really, george, this is an unusual case. the girl is just home from europe, and buried her grandmother yesterday. she hasn't a soul in the world belonging to her that can be with her, and the pastor's wife has asked her over to dinner quietly. of course she isn't going out. she must be in mourning. and you know you're fond of the doctor." "yes, i'm fond of the doctor," said george, frowning discouragedly; "but i'd rather take him alone, and not with a girl flung at me everlastingly. i'm tired of it. i didn't think it of christian people, though; i thought she was above such things." "now, george," said his mother severely, "that's a real insult to the girl, and to our friend too. she hasn't an idea of doing any such thing. it seems this girl is quite unusual, very religious, and our friend thought you would be just the one to cheer her. she apologized several times for presuming to ask you to help her. you really will have to go." "well, who is this paragon, anyway? any one i know? i s'pose i've got to go." "why, she's a miss bailey," said the mother, relieved. "mrs. wilton merrill bailey's granddaughter. did you ever happen to meet her? i never did." "never heard of her," growled george. "wish i hadn't now." "george!" "well, mother, go on. i'll be good. what does she do? dance, and play bridge, and sing?" "i haven't heard anything that she does," said his mother, laughing. "well, of course she's a paragon; they all are, mother. i'll be ready in half an hour. let's go and get it done. we can come home early, can't we?" mrs. benedict sighed. if only george would settle down on some suitable girl of good family! but he was so queer and restless. she was afraid for him. ever since she had taken him away to europe, when she was so ill, she had been afraid for him. he seemed so moody and absent-minded then and afterwards. now this miss bailey was said to be as beautiful as she was good. if only george would take a notion to her! elizabeth was sitting in a great arm-chair by the open fire when he entered the room. he had not expected to find any one there. he heard voices up-stairs, and supposed miss bailey was talking with her hostess. his mother followed the servant to remove her wraps, and he entered the drawing-room alone. she stirred, looked up, and saw him. "elizabeth!" he said, and came forward to grasp her hand. "i have found you again. how came you here?" but she had no opportunity to answer, for the ladies entered almost at once, and there stood the two smiling at each other. "why, you have met before!" exclaimed the hostess. "how delighted i am! i knew you two would enjoy meeting. elizabeth, child, you never told me you knew george." george benedict kept looking around for miss bailey to enter the room; but to his relief she did not come, and, when they went out to the dining-room, there was no place set for her. she must have preferred to remain at home. he forgot her, and settled down to the joy of having elizabeth by his side. his mother, opposite, watched his face blossom into the old-time joy as he handed this new girl the olives, and had eyes for no one else. it was to elizabeth a blessed evening. they held sweet converse one with another as children of the king. for a little time under the old influence of the restful, helpful talk she forgot "the lady," and all the perplexing questions that had vexed her soul. she knew only that she had entered into an atmosphere of peace and love and joy. it was not until the evening was over, and the guests were about to leave, that mrs. benedict addressed elizabeth as miss bailey. up to that moment it had not entered her son's mind that miss bailey was present at all. he turned with a start, and looked into elizabeth's eyes; and she smiled back to him as if to acknowledge the name. could she read his thoughts? he wondered. it was only a few steps across the square, and mrs. benedict and her son walked to elizabeth's door with her. he had no opportunity to speak to elizabeth alone, but he said as he bade her good-night, "i shall see you to-morrow, then, in the morning?" the inflection was almost a question; but elizabeth only said, "good night," and vanished into the house. "then you have met her before, george?" asked his mother wonderingly. "yes," he answered hurriedly, as if to stop her further question. "yes, i have met her before. she is very beautiful, mother." and because the mother was afraid she might say too much she assented, and held her peace. it was the first time in years that george had called a girl beautiful. meantime elizabeth had gone to her own room and locked the door. she hardly knew what to think, her heart was so happy. yet beneath it all was the troubled thought of the lady, the haunting lady for whom they had prayed together on the prairie. and as if to add to the thought she found a bit of newspaper lying on the floor beside her dressing-table. marie must have dropped it as she came in to turn up the lights. it was nothing but the corner torn from a newspaper, and should be consigned to the waste-basket; yet her eye caught the words in large head-lines as she picked it up idly, "miss geraldine loring's wedding to be an elaborate affair." there was nothing more readable. the paper was torn in a zigzag line just beneath. yet that was enough. it reminded her of her duty. down beside the bed she knelt, and prayed: "o my father, hide me now; hide me! i am in trouble; hide me!" over and over she prayed till her heart grew calm and she could think. then she sat down quietly, and put the matter before her. this man whom she loved with her whole soul was to be married in a few days. the world of society would be at the wedding. he was pledged to another, and he was not hers. yet he was her old friend, and was coming to see her. if he came and looked into her face with those clear eyes of his, he might read in hers that she loved him. how dreadful that would be! yes, she must search yet deeper. she had heard the glad ring in his voice when he met her, and said, "elizabeth!" she had seen his eyes. he was in danger himself. she knew it; she might not hide it from herself. she must help him to be true to the woman to whom he was pledged, whom now he would have to marry. she must go away from it all. she would run away, now at once. it seemed that she was always running away from some one. she would go back to the mountains where she had started. she was not afraid now of the man from whom she had fled. culture and education had done their work. religion had set her upon a rock. she could go back with the protection that her money would put about her, with the companionship of some good, elderly woman, and be safe from harm in that way; but she could not stay here and meet george benedict in the morning, nor face geraldine loring on her wedding-day. it would be all the same the facing whether she were in the wedding-party or not. her days of mourning for her grandmother would of course protect her from this public facing. it was the thought she could not bear. she must get away from it all forever. her lawyers should arrange the business. they would purchase the house that grandmother brady desired, and then give her her money to build a church. she would go back, and teach among the lonely wastes of mountain and prairie what jesus christ longed to be to the people made in his image. she would go back and place above the graves of her father and mother and brothers stones that should bear the words of life to all who should pass by in that desolate region. and that should be her excuse to the world for going, if she needed any excuse--she had gone to see about placing a monument over her father's grave. but the monument should be a church somewhere where it was most needed. she was resolved upon that. that was a busy night. marie was called upon to pack a few things for a hurried journey. the telephone rang, and the sleepy night-operator answered crossly. but elizabeth found out all she wanted to know about the early chicago trains, and then lay down to rest. early the next morning george benedict telephoned for some flowers from the florist; and, when they arrived, he pleased himself by taking them to elizabeth's door. he did not expect to find her up, but it would be a pleasure to have them reach her by his own hand. they would be sent up to her room, and she would know in her first waking thought that he remembered her. he smiled as he touched the bell and stood waiting. the old butler opened the door. he looked as if he had not fully finished his night's sleep. he listened mechanically to the message, "for miss bailey with mr. benedict's good-morning," and then his face took on a deprecatory expression. "i'm sorry, mr. benedict," he said, as if in the matter he were personally to blame; "but she's just gone. miss elizabeth's mighty quick in her ways, and last night after she come home she decided to go to chicago on the early train. she's just gone to the station not ten minutes ago. they was late, and had to hurry. i'm expecting the footman back every minute." "gone?" said george benedict, standing blankly on the door-step and looking down the street as if that should bring her. "gone? to chicago, did you say?" "yes, sir, she's gone to chicago. that is, she's going further, but she took the chicago limited. she's gone to see about a monument for madam's son john, miss 'lizabuth's father. she said she must go at once, and she went." "what time does that train leave?" asked the young man. it was a thread of hope. he was stung into a superhuman effort as he had been on the prairie when he had caught the flying vision of the girl and horse, and he had shouted, and she would not stop for him. "nine-fifty, sir," said the butler. he wished this excited young man would go after her. she needed some one. his heart had often stirred against fate that this pearl among young mistresses should have no intimate friend or lover now in her loneliness. "nine-fifty!" he looked at his watch. no chance! "broad street?" he asked sharply. "yes, sir." would there be a chance if he had his automobile? possibly, but hardly unless the train was late. there would be a trifle more chance of catching the train at west philadelphia. o for his automobile! he turned to the butler in despair. "telephone her!" he said. "stop her if you possibly can on board the train, and i will try to get there. i must see her. it is important." he started down the steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. how should he go? the trolley would be the only available way, and yet the trolley would be useless; it would take too long. nevertheless, he sped down toward chestnut street blindly, and now in his despair his new habit came to him. "o my father, help me! help me! save her for me!" up walnut street at a breakneck pace came a flaming red automobile, sounding its taunting menace, "honk-honk! honk-honk!" but george benedict stopped not for automobiles. straight into the jaws of death he rushed, and was saved only by the timely grasp of a policeman, who rolled him over on the ground. the machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted: "conscience alive, george, is that you? what are you trying to do? say, but that was a close shave! where you going in such a hurry, anyway? hustle in, and i'll take you there." the young man sprang into the seat, and gasped: "west philadelphia station, chicago limited! hurry! train leaves broad street station at nine-fifty. get me there if you can, billy. i'll be your friend forever." by this time they were speeding fast. neither of the two had time to consider which station was the easier to make; and, as the machine was headed toward west philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws or vainly shouting policemen. george benedict sprang from the car before it had stopped, and nearly fell again. his nerves were not steady from his other fall yet. he tore into the station and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand of the ticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, and strode up three steps at a time. the guard shouted: "hurry! you may get it; she's just starting!" and a friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on the platform of the last car. for an instant after he was safely in the car he was too dazed to think. it seemed as if he must keep on blindly rushing through that train all the way to chicago, or she would get away from him. he sat down in an empty seat for a minute to get his senses. he was actually on the train! it had not gone without him! now the next question was, was she on it herself, or had she in some way slipped from his grasp even yet? the old butler might have caught her by telephone. he doubted it. he knew her stubborn determination, and all at once he began to suspect that she was with intention running away from him, and perhaps had been doing so before! it was an astonishing thought and a grave one, yet, if it were true, what had meant that welcoming smile in her eyes that had been like dear sunshine to his heart? but there was no time to consider such questions now. he had started on this quest, and he must continue it until he found her. then she should be made to explain once and for all most fully. he would live through no more torturing agonies of separation without a full understanding of the matter. he got upon his shaking feet, and started to hunt for elizabeth. then all at once he became aware that he was still carrying the box of flowers. battered and out of shape it was, but he was holding it as if it held the very hope of life for him. he smiled grimly as he tottered shakily down the aisle, grasping his floral offering with determination. this was not exactly the morning call he had planned, nor the way he had expected to present his flowers; but it seemed to be the best he could do. then, at last, in the very furthest car from the end, in the drawing-room he found her, sitting gray and sorrowful, looking at the fast-flying landscape. "elizabeth!" he stood in the open door and called to her; and she started as from a deep sleep, her face blazing into glad sunshine at sight of him. she put her hand to her heart, and smiled. "i have brought you some flowers," he said grimly. "i am afraid there isn't much left of them now; but, such as they are, they are here. i hope you will accept them." "oh!" gasped elizabeth, reaching out for the poor crushed roses as if they had been a little child in danger. she drew them from the battered box and to her arms with a delicious movement of caressing, as if she would make up to them for all they had come through. he watched her, half pleased, half savagely. why should all that tenderness be wasted on mere fading flowers? at last he spoke, interrupting her brooding over his roses. "you are running away from me!" he charged. "well, and what if i am?" she looked at him with a loving defiance in her eyes. "don't you know i love you?" he asked, sitting down beside her and talking low and almost fiercely. "don't you know i've been torn away from you, or you from me, twice before now, and that i cannot stand it any more? say, don't you know it? answer, please," the demand was kind, but peremptory. "i was afraid so," she murmured with drooping eyes, and cheeks from which all color had fled. "well, why do you do it? why did you run away? don't you care for me? tell me that. if you can't ever love me, you are excusable; but i must know it all now." "yes, i care as much as you," she faltered, "but----" "but what?" sharply. "but you are going to be married this week," she said in desperation, raising her miserable eyes to his. he looked at her in astonishment. "am i?" said he. "well, that's news to me; but it's the best news i've heard in a long time. when does the ceremony come off? i wish it was this morning. make it this morning, will you? let's stop this blessed old train and go back to the doctor. he'll fix it so we can't ever run away from each other again. elizabeth, look at me!" but elizabeth hid her eyes now. they were full of tears. "but the lady--" she gasped out, struggling with the sobs. she was so weary, and the thought of what he had suggested was so precious. "what lady? there is no lady but you, elizabeth, and never has been. haven't you known that for a long time? i have. that was all a hallucination of my foolish brain. i had to go out on the plains to get rid of it, but i left it there forever. she was nothing to me after i saw you." "but--but people said--and it was in the paper, i saw it. you cannot desert her now; it would be dishonorable." "thunder!" ejaculated the distracted young man. "in the paper! what lady?" "why, miss loring! geraldine loring. i saw that the preparations were all made for her wedding, and i was told she was to marry you." in sheer relief he began to laugh. at last he stopped, as the old hurt look spread over her face. "excuse me, dear," he said gently, "there was a little acquaintance between miss loring and myself. it only amounted to a flirtation on her part, one of many. it was a great distress to my mother, and i went out west, as you know, to get away from her. i knew she would only bring me unhappiness, and she was not willing to give up some of her ways that were impossible. i am glad and thankful that god saved me from her. i believe she is going to marry a distant relative of mine by the name of benedict, but i thank the kind father that i am not going to marry her. there is only one woman in the whole wide world that i am willing to marry, or ever will be; and she is sitting beside me now." the train was going rapidly now. it would not be long before the conductor would reach them. the man leaned over, and clasped the little gloved hand that lay in the girl's lap; and elizabeth felt the great joy that had tantalized her for these three years in dreams and visions settle down about her in beautiful reality. she was his now forever. she need never run away again. the conductor was not long in coming to them, and the matter-of-fact world had to be faced once more. the young man produced his card, and said a few words to the conductor, mentioning the name of his uncle, who, by the way, happened to be a director of the road; and then he explained the situation. it was very necessary that the young lady be recalled at once to her home because of a change in the circumstances. he had caught the train at west philadelphia by automobile, coming as he was in his morning clothes, without baggage and with little money. would the conductor be so kind as to put them off that they might return to the city by the shortest possible route? the conductor glared and scolded, and said people "didn't know their own minds," and "wanted to move the earth." then he eyed elizabeth, and she smiled. he let a grim glimmer of what might have been a sour smile years ago peep out for an instant, and--he let them off. they wandered delightedly about from one trolley to another until they found an automobile garage, and soon were speeding back to philadelphia. they waited for no ceremony, these two who had met and loved by the way in the wilderness. they went straight to mrs. benedict for her blessing, and then to the minister to arrange for his services; and within the week a quiet wedding-party entered the arched doors of the placid brown church with the lofty spire, and elizabeth bailey and george benedict were united in the sacred bonds of matrimony. there were present mrs. benedict and one or two intimate friends of the family, besides grandmother brady, aunt nan, and lizzie. lizzie brought a dozen bread-and-butter-plates from the ten-cent store. they were adorned with cupids and roses and much gilt. but lizzie was disappointed. no display, no pomp and ceremony. just a simple white dress and white veil. lizzie did not understand that the veil had been in the bailey family for generations, and that the dress was an heirloom also. it was worn because grandmother bailey had given it to her, and told her she wanted her to wear it on her wedding-day. sweet and beautiful she looked as she turned to walk down the aisle on her husband's arm, and she smiled at grandmother brady in a way that filled the grandmother's heart with pride and triumph. elizabeth was not ashamed of the bradys even among her fine friends. but lizzie grumbled all the way home at the plainness of the ceremony, and the lack of bridesmaids and fuss and feathers. the social column of the daily papers stated that young mr. and mrs. george benedict were spending their honeymoon in an extended tour of the west, and grandmother brady so read it aloud at the breakfast table to the admiring family. only lizzie looked discontented: "she just wore a dark blue tricotine one-piece dress and a little plain dark hat. she ain't got a bit of taste. oh _boy_! if i just had her pocket book wouldn't i show the world? but anyhow i'm glad she went in a private car. there was a _little_ class to her, though if t'had been mine i'd uv preferred ridin' in the parlor coach an' havin' folks see me and my fine husband. he's some looker, george benedict is! everybody turns to watch 'em as they go by, and they just sail along and never seem to notice. it's all perfectly throwed away on 'em. gosh! i'd hate to be such a nut!" "now, lizzie, you know you hadn't oughtta talk like that!" reproved her grandmother, "after her giving you all that money fer your own wedding. a thousand dollars just to spend as you please on your cloes and a blow out, and house linens. jest because she don't care for gewgaws like you do, you think she's a fool. but she's no fool. she's got a good head on her, and she'll get more in the long run out of life than you will. she's been real loving and kind to us all, and she didn't have any reason to neither. we never did much fer her. and look at how nice and common she's been with us all, not a bit high headed. i declare, lizzie, i should think you'd be ashamed!" "oh, well," said lizzie shrugging her shoulders indifferently, "she's all right in her way, only 'taint my way. and i'm thankful t'goodness that i had the nerve to speak up when she offered to give me my trousseau. she askt me would i druther hav her buy it for me, or have the money and pick it out m'self, and i spoke up right quick and says, 'oh, cousin bessie, i wouldn't _think_ of givin' ya all that trouble. i'd take the _money_ ef it's all the same t'you,' and she jest smiled and said all right, she expected i knew what i wanted better'n she did. so yes'teddy when i went down to the station to see her off she handed me a bank book. and--oh, say, i fergot! she said there was a good-bye note inside. i ain't had time to look at it since. i went right to the movies on the dead run to get there 'fore the first show begun, and it's in my coat pocket. wait 'till i get it. i spose it's some of her old _religion_! she's always preaching at me. it ain't that she says so much as that she's always _meanin'_ it underneath, everything, that gets my goat! it's sorta like having a piece of god round with you all the time watching you. you kinda hate to be enjoyin' yerself fer fear she won't think yer doin' it accordin' to the bible." lizzie hurtled into the hall and brought back her coat, fumbling in the pocket. "yes, here 'tis ma! wanta see the figgers? you never had a whole thousand dollars in the bank t'woncet yerself, did ya?" mrs. brady put on her spectacles and reached for the book, while lizzie's mother got up and came behind her mother's chair to look over at the magic figures. lizzie stooped for the little white note that had fluttered to her feet as she opened the book, but she had little interest to see what it said. she was more intent upon the new bank book. it was grandmother brady that discovered it: "why, lizzie! it ain't _one_ thousand, it's _five_ thousand, the book says! you don't 'spose she's made a mistake, do you?" lizzie seized the book and gazed, her jaw dropping open in amaze. "let me have it!" demanded lizzie's mother, reaching for the book. "where's yer note, lizzie, mebbe it'll explain," said the excited grandmother. lizzie recovered the note which again had fluttered to the floor in the confusion and opening it began to read: "_dear lizzie_," it read "i've made it five thousand so you will have some over for furnishing your home, and if you still think you want the little bungalow out on the pike you will find the deed at my lawyer's, all made out in your name. it's my wedding gift to you, so you can go to work and buy your furniture at once, and not wait till dan gets a raise. and here's wishing you a great deal of happiness, "your loving cousin, elizabeth." "there!" said grandmother brady sitting back with satisfaction and holding her hands composedly, "whadd' i tell ya?" "mercy!" said lizzie's mother, "let me see that note! the idea of her _giving_ all that money when she didn't have to!" but lizzie's face was a picture of joy. for once she lost her hard little worldly screwed-up expression and was wreathed in smiles of genuine eagerness: "oh _boy_!" she exclaimed delightedly, dancing around the room, "now we can have a victrola, an' a player-piano, and dan'll get a ford, one o' those limousine-kind! won't i be some swell? what'll the girls at the store think now?" "h'm! you'd much better get a washing machine and a 'lectric iron!" grumbled grandmother brady practically. "well, all i got to say about it is, she was an awful fool to trust _you_ with so much money," said lizzie's mother discontentedly, albeit with a pleased pride as she watched her giddy daughter fling on hat and coat to go down and tell dan. "i sh'll work in the store fer the rest of the week, jest to 'commodate 'em," she announced putting her head back in the door as she went out, "but not a day longer. i got a lot t'do. say, won't i be some lady in the five-an'-ten the rest o' the week? oh _boy! i'll tell the world!_" meantime in their own private car the bride and groom were whirled on their way to the west, but they saw little of the scenery, being engaged in the all-absorbing story of each other's lives since they had parted. and one bright morning, they stepped down from the train at malta and gazed about them. the sun was shining clear and wonderful, and the little brown station stood drearily against the brightness of the day like a picture that has long hung on the wall of one's memory and is suddenly brought out and the dust wiped away. they purchased a couple of horses, and with camp accoutrements following began their real wedding trip, over the road they had come together when they first met. elizabeth had to show her husband where she had hidden while the men went by, and he drew her close in his arms and thanked god that she had escaped so miraculously. it seemed so wonderful to be in the same places again, for nothing out here in the wilderness seemed much to have changed, and yet they two were so changed that the people they met did not seem to recognize them as ever having been that way before. they dined sumptuously in the same coulee, and recalled little things they had said and done, and elizabeth now worldly wise, laughed at her own former ignorance as her husband reminded her of some questions she had asked him on that memorable journey. and ever through the beautiful journey he was telling her how wonderful she seemed to him, both then and now. not however, till they reached the old ranchhouse, where the woman had tried to persuade her to stay, did they stop for long. elizabeth had a tender feeling in her heart for that motherly woman who had sought to protect her, and felt a longing to let her know how safely she had been kept through the long journey and how good the lord had been to her through the years. also they both desired to reward these kind people for their hospitality in the time of need. so, in the early evening they rode up just as they did before to the little old log house. but no friendly door flung open wide as they came near, and at first they thought the cabin deserted, till a candle flare suddenly shone forth in the bedroom, and then benedict dismounted and knocked. after some waiting the old man came to the door holding a candle high above his head. his face was haggard and worn, and the whole place looked dishevelled. his eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and it was evident that he had no thought of ever having seen them before: "i can't do much fer ya, strangers," he said, his voice sounding tired and discouraged. "if it's a woman ye have with ye, ye better ride on to the next ranch. my woman is sick. very sick. there's nobody here with her but me, and i have all i can tend to. the house ain't kept very tidy. it's six weeks since she took to bed." elizabeth had sprung lightly to the ground and was now at the threshold: "oh, is she sick? i'm so sorry? couldn't i do something for her? she was good to me once several years ago!" the old man peered at her blinkingly, noting her slender beauty, the exquisite eager face, the dress that showed her of another world--and shook his head: "i guess you made a mistake, lady. i don't remember ever seeing you before--" "but i remember you," she said eagerly stepping into the room, "won't you please let me go to her?" "why, shore, lady, go right in ef you want to. she's layin' there in the bed. she ain't likely to get out of it again' i'm feared. the doctor says nothin' but a 'noperation will ever get her up, and we can't pay fer 'noperations. it's a long ways to the hospital in chicago where he wants her sent, and m'ria and i, we ain't allowin' to part. it can't be many years--" but elizabeth was not waiting to hear. she had slipped into the old bedroom that she remembered now so well and was kneeling beside the bed talking to the white faced woman on the thin pillow: "don't you remember me," she asked, "i'm the girl you tried to get to stay with you once. the girl that came here with a man she had met in the wilderness. you told me things that i didn't know, and you were kind and wanted me to stay here with you? don't you remember me? i'm elizabeth!" the woman reached out a bony hand and touched the fair young face that she could see but dimly in the flare of the candle that the old man now brought into the room: "why, yes, i remember," the woman said, her voice sounded alive yet in spite of her illness, "yes, i remember you. you were a dear little girl, and i was so worried about you. i would have kept you for my own--but you wouldn't stay. and he was a nice looking young man, but i was afraid for you--you can't always tell about them--you _mostly_ can't--!" "but he was all right mother!" elizabeth's voice rang joyously through the cabin, "he took care of me and got me safely started toward my people, and now he's my husband. i want you to see him. george come here!" the old woman half raised herself from the pillow and looked toward the young man in the doorway: "you don't say! he's your _husband_! well, now isn't that grand! well, i certainly am glad! i was that worried--!" they sat around the bed talking, elizabeth telling briefly of her own experiences and her wedding trip which they were taking back over the old trail, and the old man and woman speaking of their trouble, the woman's breakdown and how the doctor at malta said there was a chance she could get well if she went to a great doctor in chicago, but how they had no money unless they sold the ranch and that nobody wanted to buy it. "oh, but we have money," laughed elizabeth joyously, "and it is our turn now to help you. you helped us when we were in trouble. how soon can you start? i'm going to play you are my own father and mother. we can send them both, can't we george?" it was a long time before they settled themselves to sleep that night because there was so much planning to be done, and then elizabeth and her husband had to get out their stores and cook a good supper for the two old people who had been living mostly on corn meal mush, for several weeks. and after the others were all asleep the old woman lay praying and thanking god for the two angels who had dropped down to help them in their distress. the next morning george benedict with one of the men who looked after their camping outfit went to malta and got in touch with the chicago doctor and hospital, and before he came back to the ranch that night everything was arranged for the immediate start of the two old people he had even planned for an automobile and the malta doctor to be in attendance in a couple of days to get the invalid to the station. meantime elizabeth had been going over the old woman's wardrobe which was scanty and coarse, and selecting garments from her own baggage that would do for the journey. the old woman looked glorified as she touched the delicate white garments with their embroidery and ribbons: "oh, dear child! why, i couldn't wear a thing like that on my old worn-out body. those look like angels' clothes." she put a work-worn finger on the delicate tracery of embroidery and smoothed a pink satin ribbon bow. but elizabeth overruled her. it was nothing but a plain little garment she had bought for the trip. if the friend thought it was pretty she was glad, but nothing was too pretty for the woman who had taken her in in her distress and tried to help her and keep her safe. the invalid was thin with her illness, and it was found that she could easily wear the girl's simple dress of dark blue with a white collar, and little dark hat, and elizabeth donned a khaki skirt and brown cap and sweater herself and gladly arrayed her old friend in her own bridal travelling gown for her journey. she had not brought a lot of things for her journey because she did not want to be bothered, but she could easily get more when she got to a large city, and what was money for but to cloth the naked and feed the hungry? she rejoiced in her ability to help this woman of the wilderness. on the third day, garbed in elizabeth's clothes, her husband fitted out for the east in some of george benedict's extra things, they started. they carried a bag containing some necessary changes, and some wonderful toilet accessories with silver monograms, enough to puzzle the most snobbish nurse, also there was a luscious silk kimona of elizabeth's in the bag. the two old people were settled in the benedict private car, and in due time hitched on to the chicago express and hurried on their way. before the younger pair went back to their pilgrimage they sent a series of telegrams arranging for every detail of the journey for the old couple, so that they would be met with cars and nurses and looked after most carefully. and the thanksgiving and praise of the old people seemed to follow them like music as they rode happily on their way. they paused at the little old school house where they had attended the christian endeavor meeting, and elizabeth looked half fearfully up the road where her evil pursuers had ridden by, and rode closer to her husband's side. so they passed on the way as nearly as elizabeth could remember every step back as she had come, telling her husband all the details of the journey. that night they camped in the little shelter where benedict had come upon the girl that first time they met, and under the clear stars that seemed so near they knelt together and thanked god for his leading. they went to the lonely cabin on the mountain, shut up and going to ruin now, and benedict gazing at the surroundings and then looking at the delicate face of his lovely wife was reminded of a white flower he had once seen growing out of the blackness down in a coal mine, pure and clean without a smirch of soil. they visited the seven graves in the wilderness, and standing reverently beside the sand-blown mounds she told him much of her early life that she had not told him before, and introduced him to her family, telling a bit about each that would make him see the loveable side of them. and then they planned for seven simple white stones to be set up, bearing words from the book they both loved. over the care worn mother was to be written "come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and i will give you rest." it was on that trip that they planned what came to pass in due time. the little cabin was made over into a simple, pretty home, with vines planted about the garden, and a garage with a sturdy little car; and not far away a church nestled into the side of the hill, built out of the stones that were native, with many sunny windows and a belfry in which bells rang out to the whole region round. at first it had seemed impractical to put a church out there away from the town, but elizabeth said that it was centrally located, and high up where it could be seen from the settlements in the valleys, and was moreover on a main trail that was much travelled. she longed to have some such spot in the wilderness that could be a refuge for any who longed for better things. when they went back they sent out two consecrated missionaries to occupy the new house and use the sturdy little car. they were to ring the bells, preach the gospel and play the organ and piano in the little church. over the pulpit there was a beautiful window bearing a picture of christ, the good shepherd, and in clear letters above were the words: "and thou shalt remember all the way which the lord thy god led thee these forty years in the wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know what was in thine heart, whether thou wouldst keep his commandments, or no." and underneath the picture were the words: "'in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me.' in memory of his hidings, "george and elizabeth benedict." but in the beautiful home in philadelphia, in an inner intimate room these words are exquisitely graven on the wall, "let not your heart be troubled." tenting to-night _a chronicle of sport and adventure in glacier park and the cascade mountains by_ mary roberts rinehart with illustrations [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company =the riverside press cambridge= copyright, , by international magazine company (cosmopolitan magazine) copyright, , by mary roberts rinehart all rights reserved _published april _ [illustration: _chiwawa mountain and lyman lake_] contents i. the trail ii. the big adventure iii. bridge creek to bowman lake iv. a fisherman's paradise v. to kintla lake vi. running the rapids of the flathead vii. the second day on the flathead viii. through the flathead caÑon ix. the round-up at kalispell x. off for cascade pass xi. lake chelan to lyman lake xii. cloudy pass and the agnes creek valley xiii. caÑon fishing and a telegram xiv. doing the impossible xv. doubtful lake xvi. over cascade pass xvii. out to civilization illustrations chiwawa mountain and lyman lake _frontispiece_ trail over gunsight pass, glacier national park _photograph by fred h. kiser, portland, oregon_ the author, the middle boy, and the little boy looking south from pollock pass, glacier national park _photograph by kiser photo co._ lake elizabeth from ptarmigan pass, glacier national park _photograph by a. j. baker, kalispell, mont._ a mountain lake in glacier national park _photograph by fred h. kiser_ getting ready for the day's fishing at camp on bowman lake _photograph by r. e. marble, glacier park_ the horses in the rope corral _photograph by a. j. baker_ bear-grass _photograph by fred h. kiser_ a glacier park lake _photograph by a. j. baker_ still-water fishing _photograph by r. e. marble_ mountains of glacier national park from the north fork of the flathead river _photograph by r. e. marble_ the beginning of the caÑon, middle fork of the flathead river _photograph by r. e. marble_ pi-ta-mak-an, or running eagle (mrs. rinehart), with two other members of the blackfoot tribe _photograph by haynes, st. paul_ a high mountain meadow _photograph by l. d. lindsley, lake chelan_ sitting bull mountain, lake chelan _photograph by l. d. lindsley_ looking out of ice-cave, lyman glacier _photograph by l. d. lindsley_ looking southeast from cloudy pass _photograph by l. d. lindsley_ stream fishing _photograph by haynes, st. paul_ mountain miles: the trail up swiftcurrent pass, glacier national park _photograph by a. j. baker_ where the rock-slides start (glacier national park) _photograph by a. j. baker_ switchbacks on the trail (glacier national park) _photograph by fred h. kiser_ watching the pack-train coming down at cascade pass a field of bear-grass _photograph by fred h. kiser_ tenting to-night i the trail the trail is narrow--often but the width of the pony's feet, a tiny path that leads on and on. it is always ahead, sometimes bold and wide, as when it leads the way through the forest; often narrow, as when it hugs the sides of the precipice; sometimes even hiding for a time in river bottom or swamp, or covered by the débris of last winter's avalanche. sometimes it picks its precarious way over snow-fields which hang at dizzy heights, and again it flounders through mountain streams, where the tired horses must struggle for footing, and do not even dare to stoop and drink. it is dusty; it is wet. it climbs; it falls; it is beautiful and terrible. but always it skirts the coast of adventure. always it goes on, and always it calls to those that follow it. tiny path that it is, worn by the feet of earth's wanderers, it is the thread which has knit together the solid places of the earth. the path of feet in the wilderness is the onward march of life itself. city-dwellers know nothing of the trail. poor followers of the pavements, what to them is this six-inch path of glory? life for many of them is but a thing of avenues and streets, fixed and unmysterious, a matter of numbers and lights and post-boxes and people. they know whither their streets lead. there is no surprise about them, no sudden discovery of a river to be forded, no glimpse of deer in full flight or of an eagle poised over a stream. no heights, no depths. to know if it rains at night, they look down at shining pavements; they do not hold their faces to the sky. [illustration: _trail over gunsight pass, glacier national park_] now, i am a near-city-dweller. for ten months in the year, i am particular about mail-delivery, and eat an evening dinner, and occasionally agitate the matter of having a telephone in every room in the house. i run the usual gamut of dinners, dances, and bridge, with the usual country-club setting as the spring goes on. and each may i order a number of flimsy frocks, in the conviction that i have done all the hard going i need to, and that this summer we shall go to the new england coast. and then--about the first of june there comes a day when i find myself going over the fishing-tackle unearthed by the spring house-cleaning and sorting out of inextricable confusion the family's supply of sweaters, old riding-breeches, puttees, rough shoes, trout-flies, quirts, ponchos, spurs, reels, and old felt hats. some of the hats still have a few dejected flies fastened to the ribbon, melancholy hackles, sadly ruffled royal coachmen, and here and there the determined gayety of the parmachene belle. i look at my worn and rubbed high-laced boots, at my riding-clothes, snagged with many briers and patched from many saddles, at my old brown velours hat, survival of many storms in many countries. it has been rained on in flanders, slept on in france, and has carried many a refreshing draft to my lips in my "ain countree." i put my fishing-rod together and give it a tentative flick across the bed, and--i am lost. the family professes surprise, but it is acquiescent. and that night, or the next day, we wire that we will not take the house in maine, and i discover that the family has never expected to go to maine, but has been buying more trout-flies right along. as a family, we are always buying trout-flies. we buy a great many. i do not know what becomes of them. to those whose lives are limited to the unexciting sport of buying golf-balls, which have endless names but no variety, i will explain that the trout do not eat the flies, but merely attempt to. so that one of the eternal mysteries is how our flies disappear. i have seen a junior rinehart start out with a boat, a rod, six large cakes of chocolate, and four dollars' worth of flies, and return a few hours later with one fish, one professor, one doctor, and one black moth minus the hook. and the boat had not upset. june, after the decision, becomes a time of subdued excitement. for fear we shall forget to pack them, things are set out early. stringers hang from chandeliers, quirts from doorknobs. shoe-polish and disgorgers and adhesive plaster litter the dressing-tables. rows of boots line the walls. and, in the evenings, those of us who are at home pore over maps and lists. this last year, our plans were ambitious. they took in two complete expeditions, each with our own pack-outfit. the first was to take ourselves, some eight packers, guides, and cooks, and enough horses to carry our outfit--thirty-one in all--through the western and practically unknown side of glacier national park, in northwestern montana, to the canadian border. if we survived that, we intended to go by rail to the chelan country in northern washington and there, again with a pack-train, cross the cascades over totally unknown country to puget sound. we did both, to the eternal credit of our guides and horses. the family, luckily for those of us who have the _wanderlust_, is four fifths masculine. i am the odd fifth--unlike the story of king george the fifth and queen mary the other four fifths. it consists of the head of the family, to be known hereafter as the head, the big boy, the middle boy, the little boy, and myself. as the big boy is very, very big, and the little boy is not really very little, being on the verge of long trousers, we make a comfortable traveling unit. and, because we were leaving the beaten path and going a-gypsying, with a new camp each night no one knew exactly where, the party gradually augmented. first, we added an optimist named bob. then we added a "movie"-man, called joe for short and because it was his name, and a "still" photographer, who was literally still most of the time. some of these pictures are his. he did some beautiful work, but he really needed a mouth only to eat with. (the "movie"-man is unpopular with the junior members of the family just now, because he hid his camera in the bushes and took the little boy in a state of goose flesh on the bank of bowman lake.) [illustration: _the author, the middle boy, and the little boy_] but, of course, we have not got to bowman lake yet. during the year before, i had ridden over the better-known trails of glacier park with howard eaton's riding party, and when i had crossed the gunsight pass, we had looked north and west to a great country of mountains capped with snow, with dense forests on the lower slopes and in the valleys. "what is it?" i had asked the ranger who had accompanied us across the pass. "it is the west side of glacier park," he explained. "it is not yet opened up for tourist travel. once or twice in a year, a camping party goes up through this part of the park. that is all." "what is it like?" i asked. "wonderful!" so, sitting there on my horse, i made up my mind that sometime _i_ would go up the west side of glacier park to the canadian border. roughly speaking, there are at least six hundred square miles of glacier park on the west side that are easily accessible, but that are practically unknown. probably the area is more nearly a thousand square miles. and this does not include the fastnesses of the range itself. it comprehends only the slopes on the west side to the border-line of the flathead river. the reason for the isolation of the west side of glacier park is easily understood. the park is divided into two halves by the rocky mountain range, which traverses it from northwest to southeast. over it there is no single wagon-road of any sort between the canadian border and helena, perhaps two hundred and fifty miles. a railroad crosses at the marias pass. but from that to the canadian line, one hundred miles, travel from the east is cut off over the range, except by trail. to reach the west side of glacier park at the present time, the tourist, having seen the wonders of the east side, must return to glacier park station, take a train over the marias pass, and get out at belton. even then, he can only go by boat up to lewis's hotel on lake mcdonald, a trifling distance. there are no hotels beyond lewis's, and no roads. naturally, this tremendous area is unknown and unvisited. it is being planned, however, by the new department of national parks to build a road this coming year along lake mcdonald. eventually, this much-needed highway will connect with the canadian roads, and thus indirectly with banff and lake louise. the opening-up of the west side of glacier park will make it perhaps the most unique of all our parks, as it is undoubtedly the most magnificent. the grandeur of the east side will be tempered by the more smiling and equally lovely western slopes. and when, between the east and the west sides, there is constructed the great motor-highway which will lead across the range, we shall have, perhaps, the most scenic motor-road in the united states--until, in the fullness of time, we build another road across cascade pass in washington. ii the big adventure came at last the day to start west. in spite of warnings, we found that our irreducible minimum of luggage filled five wardrobe-trunks. in vain we went over our lists and cast out such bulky things as extra handkerchiefs and silk socks and fancy neckties and toilet-silver. we started with all five. it was boiling hot; the sun beat in at the windows of the transcontinental train and stifled us. over the prairies, dust blew in great clouds, covering the window-sills with white. the big boy and the middle boy and the little boy referred scornfully to the flannels and sweaters on which i had been so insistent. the head slept across the continent. the little boy counted prairie-dogs. then, almost suddenly, we were in the mountains--for the rockies seem to rise out of a great plain. the air was stimulating. there had been a great deal of snow last winter, and the wind from the ice-capped peaks overhead blew down and chilled us. we threw back our heads and breathed. before going to belton for our trip with the pack-outfit, we rode again for two weeks with the howard eaton party through the east side of the park, crossing again those great passes, for each one of which, like the indians, the traveler counts a _coup_--mount morgan, a mile high and the width of an army-mule on top; old piegan, under the shadow of the garden wall; mount henry, where the wind blows always a steady gale. we had scaled dawson with the aid of ropes, since snowslides covered the trail, and crossed the cut bank in a hailstorm. like the noble duke of york, howard eaton had led us "up a hill one day and led us down again." only, he did it every day. once, in my notebook, i wrote on top of a mountain my definition of a mountain pass. i have used it before, but because it was written with shaking fingers and was torn from my very soul, i cannot better it. this is what i wrote:-- a pass is a blood-curdling spot up which one's horse climbs like a goat and down the other side of which it slides as you lead it, trampling ever and anon on a tender part of your foot. a pass is the highest place between two peaks. a pass is not an opening, but a barrier which you climb with chills and descend with prayer. a pass is a thing which you try to forget at the time, and which you boast about when you get back home. at last came the day when we crossed the gunsight pass and, under sperry glacier, looked down and across to the north and west. it was sunset and cold. the day had been a long and trying one. we had ridden across an ice-field which sloped gently off--into china, i dare say. i did not look over. our horses were weary, and we were saddle-sore and hungry. pete, our big guide, whose name is really not pete at all, waved an airy hand toward the massed peaks beyond--the land of our dreams. "well," he said, "there it is!" and there it was. * * * * * getting a pack-outfit ready for a long trip into the wilderness is a serious matter. we were taking thirty-one horses, guides, packers, and a cook. but we were doing more than that--we were taking two boats! this was bob's idea. any highly original idea, such as taking boats where not even tourists had gone before, or putting eggs on a bucking horse, or carrying grapefruit for breakfast into the wilderness, was bob's idea. "you see, i figure it out like this," he said, when, on our arrival at belton, we found the boats among our equipment: "if we can get those boats up to the canadian line and come down the flathead rapids all the way, it will only take about four days on the river. it's a stunt that's never been pulled off." "do you mean," i said, "that we are going to run four days of rapids that have never been run?" "that's it." i looked around. there, in a group, were the head and the big boy and the middle boy and the little boy. and a fortune-teller at atlantic city had told me to beware of water! "at the worst places," the optimist continued, "we can send joe ahead in one boat with the 'movie' outfit, and get you as you come along." "i dare say," i observed, with some bitterness. "of course we may upset. but if we do, i'll try to go down for the third time in front of the camera." but even then the boats were being hoisted into a wagon-bed filled with hay. and i knew that i was going to run four days of rapids. it was written. it was a bright morning. in a corral, the horses were waiting to be packed. rolls of blankets, crates of food, and camping-utensils lay everywhere. the big boy marshaled the fishing-tackle. bill, the cook, was searching the town for the top of an old stove to bake on. we had provided two reflector ovens, but he regarded them with suspicion. they would, he suspected, not do justice to his specialty, the corn-meal saddle-bag, a sort of sublimated hot cake. i strolled to the corral and cast a horsewoman's eye on my mount. [illustration: copyright, , by kiser photo co. _looking south from pollock pass, glacier national park_] "he looks like a very nice horse," i said. "he's quite handsome." pete tightened up the cinch. "yes," he observed; "he's all right. he's a pretty good mare." the head was wandering around with lists in his hand. his conversation ran something like this:-- "pocket-flashes, chocolate, jam, medicine-case, reels, landing-nets, cigarettes, tooth-powder, slickers, matches." he was always accumulating matches. one moment, a box of matches would be in plain sight and the next it had disappeared. he became a sort of match-magazine, so that if anybody had struck him violently, in almost any spot, he would have exploded. hours went by. the sun was getting high and hot. the crowd which had been watching gradually disappeared about its business. the two boats--big, sturdy river-boats they were--had rumbled along toward the wilderness, one on top of the other, with george locke and mike shannon as pilots, watching for breakers ahead. in the corral, our supplies were being packed on the horses, bill shea and pete, tom sullivan and tom farmer and their assistants working against time. in crates were our cooking-utensils, ham, bacon, canned salmon, jam, flour, corn-meal, eggs, baking-powder, flies, rods, and reels, reflector ovens, sunburn lotion, coffee, cocoa, and so on. cocoa is the cowboy's friend. innumerable blankets, "tarp" beds, and war-sacks lay rolled ready for the pack-saddles. the cook was declaiming loudly that some one had opened his pack and taken out his cleaver. for a pack-outfit, the west side of glacier park is ideal. the east side is much the best so far for those who wish to make short trips along the trails into the mountains, although as yet only a small part, comparatively, of the eastern wonderland is open. there, one may spend a day, or several days, in the midst of the wildest possible country and yet return at night to excellent hotels. on the west side, however, a pack-outfit is necessary. there is but one hotel, lewis's, on lake mcdonald. to get to the canadian line, there must be camping facilities for at least eight days if there are no stop-overs. and not to stop over is to lose the joy of the trip. it is an ideal two to three weeks' jaunt with a pack-train. a woman who can sit a horse--and every one can ride in a western saddle--a woman can make the land trip not only with comfort but with joy. that is, a woman who likes the outdoors. what did we wear, that bright morning when, all ready at last, the cook on the chuck-wagon, the boats ambling ahead, with bill hossick, the teamster, driving the long line of heavily packed horses and our own saddlers lined up for the adventure, we moved out on to the trail? well, the men wore khaki riding-trousers and flannel shirts, broad-brimmed felt hats, army socks drawn up over the cuff of the breeches, and pack-shoes. a pack-shoe is one in which the leather of the upper part makes the sole also, without a seam. on to this soft sole is sewed a heavy leather one. the pack-shoe has a fastened tongue and is waterproof. and i? i had not counted on the "movie"-man, and i was dressed for comfort in the woods. i had buckskin riding-breeches and high boots, and over my thin riding-shirt i wore a cloth coat. i had packed in my warbag a divided skirt also, and a linen suit, for hot days, of breeches and coat. but of this latter the least said the better. it betrayed me and, in portions, deserted me. all of us carried tin drinking-cups, which vied with the bells on the pack-animals for jingle. most of us had sweaters or leather wind-jammers. the guides wore "chaps" of many colors, boots with high heels, which put our practical packs in the shade, and gay silk handkerchiefs. joe was to be a detachable unit. as a matter of fact, he became detached rather early in the game, having been accidentally given a bucker. it was on the second day, i think, that his horse buried his head between his fore legs, and dramatized one of the best bits of the trip when joe was totally unable to photograph it. he had his own guide and extra horse for the camera. it had been our expectation that, at the most hazardous parts of the journey, he would perch on some crag and show us courageously risking our necks to have a good time. but on the really bad places he had his own life to save, and he never fully trusted maud, i think, after the first day. maud was his horse. besides, when he did climb to some aerie, and photographed me, for instance, in a sort of napoleon-crossing-the-alps attitude, sitting my horse on the brink of eternity and being reassured from safety by the optimist--outside the picture, of course--the developed film flattened out the landscape. so that, although i was on the edge of a cañon a mile deep, i might as well have been posing on the bank of the ohio river. on the east side of the park i had ridden highball. it is not particularly significant that i started the summer on highball and ended it on budweiser. now i had angel, a huge white mare with a pink nose, a loving disposition, and a gait that kept me swallowing my tongue for fear i would bite the end off it. the little boy had prince, a small pony which ran exactly like an airedale dog, and in every canter beat out the entire string. the head had h----, and considered him well indicated. one bronco was called "bronchitis." the top horse of the string was bill shea's dynamite, according to bill shea. there were dusty, shorty, sally goodwin, buffalo tom, chalk-eye, comet, and swapping tater--swapping tater being a pacer who, when he hit the ground, swapped feet. bob had sister sarah. at last, everything was ready. the pack-train got slowly under way. we leaped into our saddles--"leaped" being a figurative term which grew more and more figurative as time went on and we grew saddle-weary and stiff--and, passing the pack-train on a canter, led off for the wilderness. all that first day we rode, now in the sun, now in deep forest. luncheon-time came, but the pack-train was far behind. we waited, but we could not hear so much as the tinkle of its bells. so we munched cakes of chocolate from the pockets of our riding-coats and went grimly on. the wagon with the boats had made good time. it was several miles along the wagon-trail before we caught up with it. it had found a quiet harbor beside the road, and the boatmen were demanding food. we tossed them what was left of the chocolate and went on. the presence of a wagon-trail in that empty land, unvisited and unknown, requires explanation. in the first place, it was not really a road. it was a trail, and in places barely that. but, sixteen years before, a road had been cleared through the forest by some people who believed there was oil near the canadian line. they cut down trees and built corduroy bridges. but in sixteen years it has not been used. no wheels have worn it smooth. it takes its leisurely way, now through wilderness, now through burnt country where the trees stand stark and dead, now through prairie or creek-bottom, now up, now down, always with the range rising abruptly to the east, and with the flathead river somewhere to the west. it will not take much expenditure to make that old wagon-trail into a good road. it has its faults. it goes down steep slopes--on the second day out, the chuck-wagon got away, and, fetching up at the bottom, threw out bill the cook and nearly broke his neck. it climbs like a cat after a young robin. it is rocky or muddy or both. but it is, potentially, a road. the rocky mountains run northwest and southeast, and in numerous basins, fed by melting glaciers and snow-fields, are deep and quiet lakes. these lakes, on the west side, discharge their overflow through roaring and precipitous streams to the flathead, which flows south and east. while our general direction was north, it was our intention to turn off east and camp at the different lakes, coming back again to the wagon-trail to resume our journey. [illustration: _lake elizabeth from ptarmigan pass, glacier national park_] therefore, it became necessary, day after day, to take our boats off the wagon-road and haul them along foot-trails none too good. the log of the two boats is in itself a thrilling story. there were days and days when the wagon was mired, when it stuck in the fords of streams or in soft places on the trail. it was a land flotilla by day, and, with its straw, a couch at night. and there came, toward the end of the journey, that one nerve-racking day when, over a sixty-foot cliff down a foot-trail, it was necessary to rope wagon, boats, and all, to get the boats into the flathead river. but all this was before us then. we only knew it was summer, that the days were warm and the nights cool, that the streams were full of trout, that such things as telegraphs and telephones were falling far in our rear, and that before us was the big adventure. iii bridge creek to bowman lake the first night we camped at bridge creek on a river-flat. beside us, the creek rolled and foamed. the horses, in their rope corral, lay down and rolled in sheer ecstasy when their heavy packs were removed. the cook set up his sheet-iron stove beside the creek, built a wood fire, lifted the stove over it, fried meat, boiled potatoes, heated beans, and made coffee while the tents were going up. from a thicket near by came the thud of an axe as branches were cut for bough beds. i have slept on all kinds of bough beds. they may be divided into three classes. there is the one which is high in the middle and slopes down at the side--there is nothing so slippery as pine-needles--so that by morning you are quite likely to be not only off the bed but out of the tent. and there is the bough bed made by the guide when he is in a great hurry, which consists of large branches and not very many needles. so that in the morning, on rising, one is as furrowed as a waffle off the iron. and there is the third kind, which is the real bough bed, but which cannot be tossed off in a moment, like a poem, but must be the result of calculation, time, and much labor. it is to this bough bed that i shall some day indite an ode. this is the way you go about it: first, you take a large and healthy woodsman with an axe, who cuts down a tree--a substantial tree. because this is the frame of your bed. but on no account do this yourself. one of the joys of a bough bed is seeing somebody else build it. the tree is an essential. it is cut into six-foot lengths--unless one is more than six feet long. if the bed is intended for one, two side pieces with one at the head and one at the foot are enough, laid flat on a level place, making a sort of boxed-in rectangle. if the bed is intended for two, another log down the center divides it into two bunks and prevents quarreling. now begins the real work of constructing the bough bed. if one is a good manager, while the frame is being made, the younger members of the family have been performing the loving task of getting the branches together. when a sufficient number of small branches has been accumulated, this number varying from one ton to three, judging by size and labor, the bough bed is built by the simple expedient of sticking the branches into the enclosed space like flowers into a vase. they must be packed very closely, stem down. this is a slow and not particularly agreeable task for one's loving family and friends, owing to the tendency of pine-and balsam-needles to jag. indeed, i have known it to happen that, after a try or two, some one in the outfit is delegated to the task of official bed-maker, and a slight coldness is noticeable when one refers to dusk and bedtime. over these soft and feathery plumes of balsam--soft and feathery only through six blankets--is laid the bedding, and on this couch the wearied and saddle-sore tourist may sleep as comfortably as in his grandaunt's feather bed. but, dear traveler, it is much simpler to take an air-mattress and a foot-pump. true, even this has its disadvantages. it is not safe to stick pins into it while disrobing at night. occasionally, a faulty valve lets go, and the sleeper dreams he is falling from the woolworth tower. but lacking a sturdy woodsman and a loving family to collect branches, i advise the air-bed. fishing at bridge creek, that first evening, was poor. we caught dozens of small trout. but it would have taken hundreds to satisfy us after our lunchless day, and there were other reasons. one casts for trout. there is no sitting on a mossy stone and watching a worm guilefully struggling to attract a fish to the hooks. no; one casts. now, i have learned to cast fairly well. on the lawn at home, or in the middle of a ten-acre lot, cleared, or the center of a lake, i can put out quite a lot of line. in one cast out of three, i can drop a fly so that it appears to be committing suicide--which is the correct way. but in a thicket i am lost. i hold the woman's record for getting the hook in my hair or the lobe of the little boy's ear. i have hung fish high in trees more times than phonographs have hanged danny deever. i can, under such circumstances (i.e., the thicket), leave camp with a rod, four six-foot leaders, an expensive english line, and a smile, and return an hour later with a six-inch trout, a bandaged hand, a hundred and eighty mosquito bites, no leaders, and no smile. so we fished little that first evening, and, on the discovery that candles had been left out of the cook's outfit, we retired early to our bough beds, which were, as it happened that night, of class a. there was a deer-lick on our camp-ground there at bridge creek, and during the night deer came down and strayed through the camp. one of the guides saw a black bear also. we saw nothing. some day i shall write an article called: "wild animals i have missed." we had made fourteen miles the first day, with a late start. it was not bad, but the next day we determined to do better. at five o'clock we were up, and at five-thirty tents were down and breakfast under way. we had had a visitor the night before--that curious anomaly, a young hermit. he had been a very well-known pugilist in the light-weight class and, his health failing, he had sought the wilderness. there he had lived for seven years alone. we asked him if he never cared to see people. but he replied that trees were all the company he wanted. deer came and browsed around his tiny shack there in the woods. all the trout he could use played in his front garden. he had a dog and a horse, and he wanted nothing else. he came to see us off the next morning, and i think we amused him. we seemed to need so much. he stared at our thirty-one horses, sixteen of them packed with things he had learned to live without. but i think he rather hated to see us go. we had brought a little excitement into his quiet life. the first bough bed had been a failure. for--note you--i had not then learned of the bough bed _de luxe_. this information, which i have given you so freely, dear reader, what has it not cost me in sleepless nights and family coldness and aching muscles! so i find this note in my daily journal, written that day on horseback, and therefore not very legible:-- mem: after this, must lie over the camp-ground until i find a place that fits me to sleep on. then have the tent erected over it. there was a little dissension in the party that morning, joe having wakened in the night while being violently shoved out under the edge of his tent by his companion, who was a restless sleeper. but ill-temper cannot live long in the open. we settled to the swinging walk of the trail. in the mountain meadows there were carpets of flowers. they furnished highly esthetic if not very substantial food for our horses during our brief rests. they were very brief, those rests. all too soon, pete would bring angel to me, and i would vault into the saddle--extremely figurative, this--and we would fall into line, pete swaying with the cowboy's roll in the saddle, the optimist bouncing freely, joe with an eye on that pack-horse which carried the delicacies of the trip, the big boy with long legs that almost touched the ground, the middle boy with eyes roving for adventure, the little boy deadly serious and hoping for a bear. and somewhere in the rear, where he could watch all responsibilities and supply the smokers with matches, the head. that second day, we crossed dutch ridge and approached the flathead. what i have called here the flathead is known locally as the north fork. the pack-outfit had started first. long before we caught up with them, we heard the bells on the lead horses ringing faintly. passing a pack-outfit on the trail is a difficult matter. the wise little horses, traveling free and looked after only by a wrangler or two, do not like to be passed. one of two things happens when the saddle-outfit tries to pass the pack. either the pack starts on a smart canter ahead, or it turns wildly off into the forest to the accompaniment of much complaint by the drivers. a pack-horse loose on a narrow trail is a dangerous matter. with its bulging pack, it worms its way past anything on the trail, and bad accidents have followed. here, however, there was room for us to pass. tiny gophers sat up beside the trail and squeaked at us. a coyote yelped. bumping over fallen trees, creaking and groaning and swaying, came the boat-wagon. mike had found a fishing-line somewhere, and pretended to cast from the bow. "ship ahoy!" he cried, when he saw us, and his instructions to the driver were purely nautical. "hard astern!" he yelled, going down a hill, and instead of "gee" or "haw" he shouted "port" or "starboard." an acquaintance of george and mike has built a boat which is intended to go up-stream by the force of the water rushing against it and turning a propeller. we had a spirited discussion about it. "because," as one of the men objected, "it's all right until you get to the head of the stream. then what are you going to do?" he asked. "she'll only go up--she won't go down." pete, the chief guide, was a german. he was rather uneasy for fear we intended to cross the canadian line. but we reassured him. a big blond in a wide-flapping stetson, black angora chaps, and flannel shirt with a bandana, he led our little procession into the wilderness and sang as he rode. the head frequently sang with him. and because the only song the head knew very well in german was the "lorelei," we had it hour after hour. being translated to one of the boatmen, he observed: "i have known girls like that. i guess i'd leave most any boat for them. but i'd leave this boat for most any girl." we were approaching the mountains, climbing slowly but steadily. we passed through lone tree prairie, where one great pine dominated the country for miles around, and stopped by a small river for luncheon. of all the meals that we took in the open, perhaps luncheon was the most delightful. condensed milk makes marvelous cocoa. we opened tins of things, consulted maps, eased the horses' cinches, rested our own tired bodies for an hour or so. for the going, while much better than we had expected, was still slow. it was rare, indeed, to be able to get the horses out of a walk. and there is no more muscle-racking occupation than riding a walking horse hour after hour through a long day. by the end of the second day we were well away from even that remote part of civilization from which we had started, and a terrible fact was dawning on us. the cook did not like us! now, we all have our small vanities, and mine has always been my success with cooks. i like cooks. as time goes on, i am increasingly dependent on cooks. i never fuss a cook, or ask how many eggs a cake requires, or remark that we must be using the lard on the hardwood floors. i never make any of the small jests on that order, with which most housewives try to reduce the cost of living. no; i really go out of my way to ignore the left-overs, and not once on this trip had i so much as mentioned dish-towels or anything unpleasant. i had seen my digestion slowly going with a course of delicious but indigestible saddle-bags, which were all we had for bread. but--i was failing. bill unpacked and cooked and packed up again and rode on the chuck-wagon. but there was something wrong. perhaps it was the fall out of the wagon. perhaps we were too hungry. we were that, i know. perhaps he looked ahead through the vista of days and saw that formidable equipment of fishing-tackle, and mentally he was counting the fish to clean and cook and clean and cook and clean and-- the center of a camping-trip is the cook. if, in the spring, men's hearts turn to love, in the woods they turn to food. and cooking is a temperamental art. no unhappy cook can make a soufflé. not, of course, that we had soufflé. a camp cook should be of a calm and placid disposition. he has the hardest job that i know of. he cooks with inadequate equipment on a tiny stove in the open, where the air blows smoke into his face and cinders into his food. he must cook either on his knees or bending over to within a foot or so of the ground. and he must cook moving, as it were. worse than that, he must cook not only for the party but for a hungry crowd of guides and packers that sits around in a circle and watches him, and urges him, and gets under his feet, and, if he is unpleasant, takes his food fairly out of the frying-pan under his eyes if he is not on guard. he is the first up in the morning and the last in bed. he has to dry his dishes on anything that comes handy, and then pack all of his grub on an unreliable horse and start off for the next eating-ground. so, knowing all this, and also that we were about a thousand miles from the nearest employment-office and several days' hard riding from a settlement, we went to bill with tribute. we praised his specialties. we gave him a college lad, turned guide for the summer, to assist him. we gathered up our own dishes. we inquired for his bruise. but gloom hung over him like a cloud. [illustration: copyright by fred h. kiser, portland, oregon _a mountain lake in glacier national park_] and he _could_ cook. well-- we had made a forced trip that day, and the last five miles were agonizing. in vain we sat sideways on our horses, threw a leg over the pommel, got off, and walked and led them. bowman lake, our objective point, seemed to recede. very few people have ever seen bowman lake. yet i believe it is one of the most beautiful lakes in this country. it is not large, perhaps only twelve miles long and from a mile to two miles in width. save for the lower end, it lies entirely surrounded by precipitous and inaccessible peaks--old rainbow, on whose mist-cap the setting sun paints a true rainbow day after day, square peak, reuter peak, and peabody, named with the usual poetic instinct of the geological survey. they form a natural wall, round the upper end of the lake, of solid-granite slopes which rise over a mile in height above it. perpetual snow covers the tops of these mountains, and, melting in innumerable waterfalls, feeds the lake below. so far as i can discover, we were taking the first boat, with the possible exception of an indian canoe long ago, to bowman lake. not the first boat, either, for the geological survey had nailed a few boards together, and the ruin of this venture was still decaying on the shore. there was a report that bowman lake was full of trout. that was one of the things we had come to find out. it was for bowman lake primarily that all the reels and flies and other lure had been arranged. if it was true, then twenty-four square miles of virgin lake were ours to fish from. iv a fisherman's paradise after our first view of the lake, the instant decision was to make a permanent camp there for a few days. and this we did. tents were put up for the luxurious-minded, three of them. mine was erected over me, when, as i had pre-determined, i had found a place where i could lie comfortably. the men belonging to the outfit, of course, slept under the stars. a packer, a guide, or the cook with an outfit like ours has, outside of such clothing as he wears or carries rolled in his blankets, but one possession--and that is his tarp bed. with such a bed, a can of tomatoes, and a gun, it is said that a cow-puncher can go anywhere. once or twice i was awake in the morning before the cook's loud call of "come and get it!" brought us from our tents. i never ceased to view with interest this line of tarp beds, each with its sleeping occupant, his hat on the ground beside him, ready, when the call came, to sit up blinking in the sunlight, put on his hat, crawl out, and be ready for the day. the boats had traveled well. the next morning, after a breakfast of ham and eggs, fried potatoes, coffee, and saddle-bags, we were ready to try them out. and here i shall be generous. for this means that next year we shall go there and find other outfits there before us, and people in the latest thing in riding-clothes, and fancy trout-creels and probably sixty-dollar reels. bowman lake is a fisherman's paradise. the first day on the lake we caught sixty-nine cut-throat trout averaging a pound each, and this without knowing where to look. [illustration: _getting ready for the day's fishing at camp on bowman lake_] in the morning, we could see them lying luxuriously on shelving banks in the sunlight, only three to six feet below the surface. they rose, like a shot, to the flies. for some reason, george locke, our fisherman, resented their taking the parmachene belle. perhaps because the trout of his acquaintance had not cared for this fly. or maybe he considered the belle not sportsmanly. the brown hackle and royal coachman did well, however, and, in later fishing on this lake, we found them more reliable than the gayer flies. in the afternoon, the shallows failed us. but in deep holes where the brilliant walls shelved down to incredible depths, they rose again in numbers. it was perfectly silent. doubtless, countless curious wild eyes watched us from the mountain-slopes and the lake-borders. but we heard not even the cracking of brushwood under cautious feet. the tracks of deer, where they had come down to drink, a dead mountain-lion floating in a pool, the slow flight of an eagle across the face of old rainbow, and no sound but the soft hiss of a line as it left the reel--that was bowman lake, that day, as it lay among its mountains. so precipitous are the slopes, so rank the vegetation where the forest encroaches, that we were put to it to find a ridge large enough along the shore to serve as a foothold for luncheon. at last we found a tiny spot, perhaps ten feet long by three feet wide, and on that we landed. the sun went down; the rainbow clouds gathered about the peaks above, and still the trout were rising. when at last we turned for our ten-mile row back to camp, it was almost dusk. now and then, when i am tired and the things of this world press close and hard, i think of those long days on that lonely lake, and the home-coming at nightfall. toward the pin-point of glow--the distant camp-fire which was our beacon light--the boat moved to the long, tired sweep of the oars; around us the black forest, the mountains overhead glowing and pink, as if lighted from within. and then, at last, the grating of our little boat on the sand--and night. during the day, our horses were kept in a rope corral. sometimes they were quiet; sometimes a spirit of mutiny seemed to possess the entire thirty-one. there is in such a string always one bad horse that, with ears back and teeth showing, keeps the entire bunch milling. when such a horse begins to stir up trouble, the wrangler tries to rope him and get him out. mad excitement follows as the noose whips through the air. but they stay in the corral. so curious is the equine mind that it seldom realizes that it could duck and go under the rope, or chew it through, or, for that matter, strain against it and break it. at night, we turned the horses loose. almost always in the morning, some were missing, and had to be rounded up. the greater part, however, stayed close to the bell-mare. it was our first night at bowman lake, i think, that we heard a mountain-lion screaming. the herd immediately stampeded. it was far away, so that we could not hear the horses running. but we could hear the agitated and rapid ringing of the bell, and, not long after, the great cat went whining by the camp. in the morning, the horses were far up the mountain-side. sometime i shall write that article on "wild animals i have missed." we were in a great game-country. but we had little chance to creep up on anything but deer. the bells of the pack-outfit, our own jingling spurs, the accouterments, the very tinkle of the tin cups on our saddles must have made our presence known to all the wilderness-dwellers long before we appeared. after we had been at bowman lake a day or two, while at breakfast one morning, we saw two of the guides racing their horses in a mad rush toward the camp. just outside, one of the ponies struck a log, turned a somersault, and threw his rider, who, nothing daunted, came hurrying up on foot. they had seen a bull moose not far away. instantly all was confusion. the horses were not saddled. one of the guides gave me his and flung me on it. the little boy made his first essay at bareback riding. in a wild scamper we were off, leaping logs and dodging trees. the little boy fell off with a terrific thud, and sat up, looking extremely surprised. and when we had got there, as clandestinely as a steam calliope in a circus procession, the moose was gone. i sometimes wonder, looking back, whether there really was a moose there or not. did i or did i not see a twinkle in bill shea's eye as he described the sweep of the moose's horns? i wonder. [illustration: _the horses in the rope corral_] birds there were in plenty; wild ducks that swam across the lake at terrific speed as we approached; plover-snipe, tiny gray birds with long bills and white breasts, feeding along the edge of the lake peacefully at our very feet; an eagle carrying a trout to her nest. brown squirrels came into the tents and ate our chocolate and wandered over us fearlessly at night. bears left tracks around the camp. but we saw none after we left the lake mcdonald country. yet this is a great game-country. the warden reports a herd of thirty-six moose in the neighborhood of bowman lake; mountain-lion, lynx, marten, bear, and deer abound. a trapper built long ago a substantial log shack on the north shore of the lake, and although it is many years since it was abandoned, it is still almost weather-proof. all of us have our dreams. some day i should like to go back and live for a little time in that forest cabin. in the long snow-bound days after he set his traps, the trapper had busied himself fitting it up. a tin can made his candle-bracket on the wall, axe-hewn planks formed a table and a bench, and diagonally across a corner he had built his fireplace of stones from the lakeside. he had a simple method of constructing a chimney; he merely left without a roof that corner of the cabin and placed slanting boards in it. he had made a crane, too, which swung out over the fireplace. all of the rocky mountains were in his back garden, and his front yard was bowman lake. we had had fair weather so far. but now rain set in. hail came first; then a steady rain. the tents were cold. we got out our slickers and stood out around the beach fire in the driving storm, and ate our breakfast of hot cakes, fried ham, potatoes and onions cooked together, and hot coffee. the cook rigged up a tarpaulin over his little stove and stood there muttering and frying. he had refused to don a slicker, and his red sweater, soaking up the rain, grew heavy with moisture and began to stretch. down it crept, down and down. the cook straightened up from his frying-pan and looked at it. then he said:-- "there, little sweater, don't you cry; you'll be a blanket by and by." this little touch of humor on his part cheered us. perhaps, seeing how sporting we were about the weather, he was going to like us after all. well-- our new tents leaked--disheartening little drips that came in and wandered idly over our blankets, to lodge in little pools here and there. a cold wind blew. i resorted to that camper's delight--a stone heated in the camp-fire--to warm my chilled body. we found one or two magazines, torn and dejected, and read them, advertisements and all. and still, when it seemed the end of the day, it was not high noon. by afternoon, we were saturated; the camp steamed. we ate supper after dark, standing around the camp-fire, holding our tin plates of food in our hands. the firelight shone on our white faces and dripping slickers. the horses stood with their heads low against the storm. the men of the outfit went to bed on the sodden ground with the rain beating in their faces. the next morning was gray, yet with a hint of something better. at eight o'clock, the clouds began to lift. their solidity broke. the lower edge of the cloud-bank that had hung in a heavy gray line, straight and ominous, grew ragged. shreds of vapor detached themselves and moved off, grew smaller, disappeared. overhead, the pall was thinner. finally it broke, and a watery ray of sunlight came through. and, at last, old rainbow, at the upper end of the lake, poked her granite head through its vapory sheathings. angel, my white horse, also eyed the sky, and then, putting her pink nose under the corral-rope, she gently worked her way out. the rain was over. the horses provided endless excitement. whether at night being driven off by madly circling riders to the grazing-ground or rounded up into the corral in the morning, they gave the men all they could do. getting them into the corral was like playing pigs-in-clover. as soon as a few were in, and the wrangler started for others, the captives escaped and shot through the camp. there were times when the air seemed full of flying hoofs and twitching ears, of swinging ropes and language. on the last day at bowman lake, we realized that although the weather had lifted, the cook's spirits had not. he was polite enough--he had always been polite to the party. but he packed in a dejected manner. there was something ominous in the very way he rolled up the strawberry jam in sacking. the breaking-up of a few days' camp is a busy time. the tents are taken down at dawn almost over one's head. blankets are rolled and strapped; the pack-ponies groan and try to roll their packs off. bill shea quotes a friend of his as contending that the way to keep a pack-pony cinched is to put his pack on him, throw the diamond hitch, cinch him as tight as possible, and then take him to a drinking-place and fill him up with water. however, we did not resort to this. v to kintla lake we had washed at dawn in the cold lake. the rain had turned to snow in the night, and the mountains were covered with a fresh white coating. and then, at last, we were off, the wagons first, although we were soon to pass them. we had lifted the boats out of the water and put them lovingly in their straw again. and mike and george formed the crew. the guides were ready with facetious comments. "put up a sail!" they called. "never give up the ship!" was another favorite. the head, who has a secret conviction that he should have had his voice trained, warbled joyously:-- "i'll stick to the ship, lads; you save your lives. i've no one to love me; you've children and wives." and so, still in the cool of the morning, our long procession mounted the rise which some great glacier deposited ages ago at the foot of what is now bowman lake. we turned longing eyes back as we left the lake to its winter ice and quiet. for never again, probably, will it be ours. we have given its secret to the world. at two o'clock we found a ranger's cabin and rode into its enclosure for luncheon. breakfast had been early, and we were very hungry. we had gone long miles through the thick and silent forest, and now we wanted food. we wanted food more than we wanted anything else in the world. we sat in a circle on the ground and talked about food. and, at last, the chuck-wagon drove in. it had had a long, slow trip. we stood up and gave a hungry cheer, and then--_bill was gone!_ some miles back he had halted the wagon, got out, taken his bed on his back, and started toward civilization afoot. we stared blankly at the teamster. "well," we said; "what did he say?" "all he said to me was, 'so long,'" said the teamster. and that was all there was to it. so there we were in the wilderness, far, far from a cook. the hub of our universe had departed. or, to make the figure modern, we had blown out a tire. and we had no spare one. i made my declaration of independence at once. i could cook; but i would not cook for that outfit. there were too many; they were too hungry. besides, i had come on a pleasure-trip, and the idea of cooking for fifteen men and thirty-one horses was too much for me. i made some cocoa and grumbled while i made it. we lunched out of tins and in savage silence. when we spoke, it was to impose horrible punishments on the defaulting cook. we hoped he would enjoy his long walk back to civilization without food. "food!" answered one of the boys. "he's got plenty cached in that bed of his, all right. what you should have done," he said to the teamster, "was to take his bed from him and let him starve." in silence we finished our luncheon; in silence, mounted our horses. in black and hopeless silence we rode on north, farther and farther from cooks and hotels and tables-d'hôte. we rode for an hour--two hours. and, at last, sitting in a cleared spot, we saw a man beside the trail. he was the first man we had seen in days. he was sitting there quite idly. probably that man to-day thinks that he took himself there on his own feet, of his own volition. we know better. he was directed there for our happiness. it was a direct act of providence. for we rode up to him and said:-- "do you know of any place where we can find a cook?" and this man, who had dropped from heaven, replied: "_i am a cook._" so we put him on our extra saddle-horse and took him with us. he cooked for us with might and main, day and night, until the trip was over. and if you don't believe this story, write to norman lee, kintla, montana, and ask him if it is true. what is more, norman lee could cook. he could cook on his knees, bending over, and backward. he had been in cuba, in the philippines, in the boxer rebellion in china, and was now a trapper; is now a trapper, for, as i write this, norman lee is trapping marten and lynx on the upper left-hand corner of montana, in one of the empty spaces of the world. we were very happy. we caracoled--whatever that may be. we sang and whistled, and we rode. how we rode! we rode, and rode, and rode, and rode, and rode, and rode, and rode. and, at last, just when the end of endurance had come, we reached our night camp. here and there upon the west side of glacier park are curious, sharply defined treeless places, surrounded by a border of forest. on round prairie, that night, we pitched our tents and slept the sleep of the weary, our heads pillowed on war-bags in which the heel of a slipper, the edge of a razor-case, a bottle of sunburn lotion, and the tooth-end of a comb made sleeping an adventure. it was cold. it was always cold at night. but, in the morning, we wakened to brilliant sunlight, to the new cook's breakfast, and to another day in the saddle. we were roused at dawn by a shrill yell. startled, every one leaped to the opening of his tent and stared out. it proved, however, not to be a mountain-lion, and was, indeed, nothing more than one of the packers struggling to get into a wet pair of socks, and giving vent to his irritation in a wild fury of wrath. as pete and bill shea and tom farmer threw the diamond hitch over the packs that morning, they explained to me that all camp cooks are of two kinds--the good cooks, who are evil of disposition, and the tin-can cooks, who only need a can-opener to be happy. but i lived to be able to refute that. norman lee was a cook, and he was also amiable. but that morning, in spite of the bright sunlight, started ill. for seven horses were missing, and before they were rounded up, the guides had ridden a good forty miles of forest and trail. but, at last, the wanderers were brought in and we were ready to pack. on a pack-horse there are two sets of rope. there is a sling-rope, twenty or twenty-five feet long, and a lash-rope, which should be thirty-five feet long. the sling-rope holds the side pack; the top pack is held by the lash-rope and the diamond hitch. when a cow-puncher on a bronco yells for a diamond, he does not refer to a jewel. he means a lash-rope. when the diamond is finally thrown, the packer puts his foot against the horse's face and pulls. the packer pulls, and the horse grunts. if the packer pulls a shade too much, the horse bucks, and there is an exciting time in which everybody clears and the horse has the field--every one, that is, but joe, whose duty it was to be on the spot in dangerous moments. generally, however, by the time he got his camera set up and everything ready, the bucker was feeding placidly and the excitement was over. we rather stole away from round prairie that morning. a settler had taken advantage of a clearing some miles away to sow a little grain. when our seven truants were found that brilliant morning, they had eaten up practically the grain-field and were lying gorged in the center of it. [illustration: _bear-grass_] so "we folded our tents like the arabs, and as silently stole away." (this has to be used in every camping-story, and this seems to be a good place for it.) we had come out on to the foothills again on our way to kintla lake. again we were near the flathead, and beyond it lay the blue and purple of the kootenai hills. the kootenais on the left, the rockies on the right, we were traveling north in a great flat basin. the meadow-lands were full of flowers. there was rather less indian paint-brush than on the east side of the park. we were too low for much bear-grass. but there were masses everywhere of june roses, true forget-me-nots, and larkspur. and everywhere in the burnt areas was the fireweed, that phoenix plant that springs up from the ashes of dead trees. there were, indeed, trees, flowers, birds, fish--everything but fresh meat. we had had no fresh meat since the first day out. and now my soul revolted at the sight of bacon. i loathed all ham with a deadly loathing. i had eaten canned salmon until i never wanted to see it again. and our provisions were getting low. just to the north, where we intended to camp, was starvation ridge. it seemed to be an ominous name. norman lee knew a man somewhere within a radius of one hundred miles--they have no idea of distance there--who would kill a forty-pound calf if we would send him word. but it seemed rather too much veal. we passed it up. on and on, a hot day, a beautiful trail, but no water. no little rivulets crossing the path, no icy lakes, no rolling cataracts from the mountains. we were tanned a blackish purple. we were saddle-sore. one of the guides had a bottle of liniment for saddle-gall and suggested rubbing it on the saddle. packs slipped and were tightened. the mountain panorama unrolled slowly to our right. and all day long the boatmen struggled with the most serious problem yet, for the wagon-trail was now hardly good enough for horses. where the trail turned off toward the mountains and kintla lake, we met a solitary horseman. he had ridden sixty miles down and sixty miles back to get his mail. there is a sort of r.f.d. in this corner of the world, but it is not what i should call in active operation. it was then august, and there had been just two mails since the previous christmas! aside from the geological survey, very few people, except an occasional trapper, have ever seen kintla lake. it lies, like bowman lake, in a recess in the mountains. we took some photographs of kintla peak, taking our boats to the upper end of the lake for the work. they are, so far as i can discover, the only photographs ever taken of this great mountain which towers, like rainbow, a mile or so above the lake. across from kintla, there is a magnificent range of peaks without any name whatever. the imagination of the geological survey seemed to die after starvation ridge; at least, they stopped there. kintla is a curious lemon-yellow color, a great, flat wall tapering to a point and frequently hidden under a cap of clouds. but kintla lake is a disappointment to the fisherman. with the exception of one of the guides, who caught a four-pound bull-trout there, repeated whippings of the lake with the united rods and energies of the entire party failed to bring a single rise. no fish leaped of an evening; none lay in the shallows along the bank. it appeared to be a dead lake. i have a strong suspicion that that guide took away kintla's only fish, and left it without hope of posterity. we rested at kintla,--for a strenuous time was before us,--rested and fasted. for supplies were now very low. starvation ridge loomed over us, and starvation stared us in the face. we had counted on trout, and there were no trout. that night, we supped off our last potatoes and off cakes made of canned salmon browned in butter. breakfast would have to be a repetition minus the potatoes. we were just a little low in our minds. [illustration: _a glacier park lake_] the last thing i saw that night was the cook's shadowy figure as he crouched working over his camp-fire. and we wakened in the morning to catastrophe. in spite of the fact that we had starved our horses the day before, in order to keep them grazing near camp that night, they had wandered. eleven were missing, and eleven remained missing. up the mountain-slopes and through the woods the wranglers rode like madmen, only to come in on dejected horses with failure written large all over them. one half of the saddlers were gone; my angel had taken wings and flown away. we sat dejectedly on the bank and fished those dead waters. we wrangled among ourselves. around us was the forest, thick and close save for the tiny clearing, perhaps forty feet by forty feet. there was no open space, no place to walk, nothing to do but sit and wait. at last, some of us in the saddle and some afoot, we started. it looked as though the walkers might have a long hike. but sometime about midday there was a sound of wild cheering behind us, and the wranglers rode up with the truants. they had been far up on the mountain-side. it is curious how certain comparatively unimportant things stand out about such a trip as this. of kintla itself, i have no very vivid memories. but standing out very sharply is that figure of the cook crouched over his dying fire, with the black forest all about him. there is a picture, too, of a wild deer that came down to the edge of the lake to drink as we sat in the first boat that had ever been on kintla lake, whipping a quiet pool. and there is a clear memory of the assistant cook, the college boy who was taking his vacation in the wilds, whistling the dvo[vr]ák "humoresque" as he dried the dishes on a piece of clean sacking. vi running the rapids of the flathead it was now approaching time for bob's great idea to materialize. for this, and to this end, had he brought the boats on their strange land-journey--such a journey as, i fancy, very few boats have ever had before. the project was, as i have said, to run the unknown reaches of the north fork of the flathead from the canadian border to the town of columbia falls. "the idea is this," bob had said: "it's never been done before, do you see? it makes the trip unusual and all that." "makes it unusually risky," i had observed. "well, there's a risk in pretty nearly everything," he had replied blithely. "there's a risk in crossing a city street, for that matter. riding these horses is a risk, if you come to that. anyhow, it would make a good story." so that is why i did it. and this is the story: we were headed now for the flathead just south of the canadian line. to reach the river, it was necessary to take the boats through a burnt forest, without a trail of any sort. they leaped and plunged as the wagon scrambled, jerked, careened, stuck, détoured, and finally got through. there were miles of such going--heart-breaking miles--and at the end we paused at the top of a sixty-foot bluff and looked down at the river. now, i like water in a tub or drinking-glass or under a bridge. i am very keen about it. but i like still water--quiet, well-behaved, stay-at-home water. the north fork of the flathead river is a riotous, debauched, and highly erratic stream. it staggers in a series of wild zigzags for a hundred miles of waterway from the canadian border to columbia falls, our destination. and that hundred miles of whirlpools, jagged rocks, and swift and deadly cañons we were to travel. i turned around and looked at the family. it was my ambition that had brought them to this. we might never again meet, as a whole. we were sure to get to columbia falls, but not at all sure to get there in the boats. i looked at the boats; they were, i believe, stout river-boats. but they were small. undeniably, they were very small. the river appeared to be going about ninety miles an hour. there was one hope, however. perhaps they could not get the boats down over the bluff. it seemed a foolhardy thing even to try. i suggested this to bob. but he replied, rather tartly, that he had not brought those boats at the risk of his life through all those miles of wilderness to have me fail him now. he painted the joys of the trip. he expressed so strong a belief in them that he said that he himself would ride with the outfit, thus permitting most of the family in the boats that first day. he said the river was full of trout. i expressed a strong doubt that any trout could live in that stream and hold their own. i felt that they had all been washed down years ago. and again i looked at the family. because i knew what would happen. the family would insist on going along. it was not going to let mother take this risk alone; it was going to drown with her if necessary. the family jaws were set. _they were going._ the entire outfit lowered the wagon by roping it down. there was one delicious moment when i thought boats and all were going over the edge. but the ropes held. nothing happened. _they put the boats in the water._ i had one last rather pitiful thought as i took my seat in the stern of one of them. "this is my birthday," i said wistfully. "it's rather a queer way to spend a birthday, i think." but this was met with stern silence. i was to have my story whether i wanted it or not. yet once in the river, the excitement got me. i had run brief spells of rapids before. there had been a gasp or two and it was over. but this was to be a prolonged four days' gasp, with intervals only to sleep at night. fortunately for all of us, it began rather quietly. the current was swift, so that, once out into the stream, we shot ahead as if we had been fired out of a gun. but, for all that, the upper reaches were comparatively free of great rocks. friendly little sandy shoals beckoned to us. the water was shallow. but, even then, i noticed what afterward i found was to be a delusion of the entire trip. this was the impression of riding downhill. i do not remember now how much the flathead falls per mile. i have an impression that it is ninety feet, but as that would mean a drop of nine thousand feet, or almost two miles, during the trip, i must be wrong somewhere. it was sixteen feet, perhaps. but hour after hour, on the straight stretches, there was that sensation, on looking ahead, of staring down a toboggan-slide. it never grew less. and always i had the impression that just beyond that glassy slope the roaring meant uncharted falls--and destruction. it never did. the outfit, following along the trail, was to meet us at night and have camp ready when we appeared--if we appeared. only a few of us could use the boats. george locke in one, mike shannon in the other, could carry two passengers each. for the sake of my story, i was to take the entire trip; the others were to alternate. i do not know, but i am very confident that no other woman has ever taken this trip. i am fairly confident that no other men have ever taken it. we could find no one who had heard of it being taken. all that we knew was that it was the north fork of the flathead river, and that if we stayed afloat long enough, we would come out at columbia falls. the boatmen knew the lower part of the river, but not the upper two thirds of it. [illustration: _still-water fishing_] now that it is over, i would not give up my memory of that long run for anything. it was one of the most unique experiences in a not uneventful career. it was beautiful always, terrible occasionally. there were dozens of places each day where the boatmen stood up, staring ahead for the channel, while the boats dodged wildly ahead. but always these skillful pilots of ours found a way through. and so fast did we go that the worst places were always behind us before we had time to be really terrified. the flathead river in these upper reaches is fairly alive with trout. on the second day, i think it was, i landed a bull-trout that weighed nine pounds, and got it with a six-ounce rod. i am very proud of that. i have eleven different pictures of myself holding the fish up. there were trout everywhere. the difficulty was to stop the boat long enough to get them. in fact, we did not stop, save in an occasional eddy in the midst of the torrent. we whipped the stream as we flew along. under great boulders, where the water seethed and roared, under deep cliffs where it flew like a mill-race, there were always fish. it was frightful work for the boatmen. it required skill every moment. there was not a second in the day when they could relax. only men trained to river rapids could have done it, and few, even, of these. to the eternal credit of george and mike, we got through. it was nothing else. on the evening of the first day, in the dusk which made the river doubly treacherous, we saw our camp-fire far ahead. with the going-down of the sun, the river had grown cold. we were wet with spray, cramped from sitting still and holding on. but friendly hands drew our boats to shore and helped us out. vii the second day on the flathead in a way, this is a fairy-story. because a good fairy had been busy during our absence. days before, at the ranger's cabin, unknown to most of us, an order had gone down to civilization for food. during all those days under starvation ridge, food had been on the way by pack-horse--food and an extra cook. so we went up to camp, expecting more canned salmon and fried trout and little else, and beheld-- a festive board set with candles--the board, however, in this case is figurative; it was the ground covered with a tarpaulin--fried chicken, fresh green beans, real bread, jam, potatoes, cheese, cake, candy, cigars, and cigarettes. and--champagne! that champagne had traveled a hundred miles on horseback. it had been cooled in the icy water of the river. we drank it out of tin cups. we toasted each other. we toasted the flathead flowing just beside us. we toasted the full moon rising over the kootenais. we toasted the good fairy. the candles burned low in their sockets--this, also, is figurative; they were stuck on pieces of wood. with due formality i was presented with a birthday gift, a fishing-reel purchased by the big and the middle and the little boy. of all the birthdays that i can remember--and i remember quite a few--this one was the most wonderful. over mountain-tops, glowing deep pink as they rose above masses of white clouds, came slowly a great yellow moon. it turned the flathead beside us to golden glory, and transformed the evergreen thickets into fairy glades of light and shadow. flickering candles inside the tents made them glow in luminous triangles against their background of forest. behind us, in the valley lands at the foot of the rockies, the horses rested and grazed, and eased their tired backs. the men lay out in the open and looked at the stars. the air was fragrant with pine and balsam. night creatures called and answered. and, at last, we went to our tents and slept. for the morning was a new day, and i had not got all my story. that first day's run of the river we got fifty trout, ranging from one half-pound to four pounds. we should have caught more, but they could not keep up with the boat. we caught, also, the most terrific sunburn that i have ever known anything about. we had thought that we were thoroughly leathered, but we had not passed the primary stage, apparently. in vain i dosed my face with cold-cream and talcum powder, and with a liquid warranted to restore the bloom of youth to an aged skin (mine, however, is not aged). my journal for the second day starts something like this:-- cold and gray. stood in the water fifteen minutes in hip-boots for a moving picture. river looks savage. of that second day, one beautiful picture stands out with distinctness. the river is lovely; it winds and twists through deep forests with always that marvelous background of purple mountains capped with snow. here and there, at long intervals, would come a quiet half-mile where, although the current was incredibly swift, there were, at least, no rocks. it was on coming round one of these bends that we saw, out from shore and drinking quietly, a deer. he was incredulous at first, and then uncertain whether to be frightened or not. he threw his head up and watched us, and then, turning, leaped up the bank and into the forest. except for fish, there was surprisingly little life to be seen. bald eagles sat by the river, as intent on their fishing as we were on ours. wild ducks paddled painfully up against the current. kingfishers fished in quiet pools. but the real interest of the river, its real life, lay in its fish. what piscine tragedies it conceals, with those murderous, greedy, and powerful assassins, the bull-trout, pursuing fish, as i have seen them, almost into the landing-net! what joyous interludes where, in a sunny shallow, tiny baby trout played tag while we sat and watched them! [illustration: _mountains of glacier national park from the north fork of the flathead river_] the danger of the river is not all in the current. there are quicksands along the flathead, sands underlain with water, apparently secure but reaching up clutching hands to the unwary. our noonday luncheon, taken along the shore, was always on some safe and gravelly bank or tiny island. our second camp on the flathead was less fortunate than the first. always, in such an outfit as ours, the first responsibility is the horses. camp must be made within reach of grazing-grounds for them, and in these mountain and forest regions this is almost always a difficult matter. here and there are meadows where horses may eat their fill; but, generally, pasture must be hunted. often, long after we were settled for the night, our horses were still ranging far, hunting for grass. so, on this second night, we made an uncomfortable camp for the sake of the horses, a camp on a steep bluff sloping into the water in a dead forest. it had been the intention, as the river was comparatively quiet here, to swim the animals across and graze them on the other side. but, although generally a horse can swim when put to it, we discovered too late that several horses in our string could not swim at all. in the attempt to get them across, one horse with a rider was almost drowned. so we gave that up, and they were driven back five miles into the country to pasture. there is something ominous and most depressing about a burnt forest. there is no life, nothing green. it is a ghost-forest, filled with tall tree skeletons and the mouldering bones of those that have fallen, and draped with dry gray moss that swings in the wind. moving through such a forest is almost impossible. fallen and rotten trees, black and charred stumps cover every foot of ground. it required two hours' work with an axe to clear a path that i might get to the little ridge on which my tent was placed. the day had been gray, and, to add to our discomfort, there was a soft, fine rain. the middle boy had developed an inflamed knee and was badly crippled. sitting in the drizzle beside the camp-fire, i heated water in a tin pail and applied hot compresses consisting of woolen socks. it was all in the game. eggs tasted none the worse for being fried in a skillet into which the rain was pattering. skins were weather-proof, if clothes were not. and heavy tarpaulins on the ground protected our bedding from dampness. the outfit, coming down by trail, had passed a small store in a clearing. they had bought a whole cheese weighing eleven pounds, a difficult thing to transport on horseback, a wooden pail containing nineteen pounds of chocolate chips, and six dozen eggs--our first eggs in many days. in the shop, while making the purchase, the head had pulled out a box of cigarettes. the woman who kept the little store had never seen machine-made cigarettes before, and examined them with the greatest interest. for in that country every man is his own cigarette-maker. the middle boy later reported with wide eyes that at her elbow she kept a loaded revolver lying, in plain view. she is alone a great deal of the time there in the wilderness, and probably she has many strange visitors. it was at the shop that a terrible discovery was made. we had been in the wilderness on the east side and then on the west side of the park for four weeks. and days in the woods are much alike. no one had had a calendar. the discovery was that we had celebrated my birthday on the wrong day! that night, in the dead forest, we gathered round the camp-fire. i made hot compresses. the packers and guides told stories of the west, and we matched them with ones of the east. from across the river, above the roaring, we could hear the sharp stroke of the axe as branches were being cut for our beds. there was nothing living, nothing green about us where we sat. i am aware that the camp-fire is considered one of the things about which the camper should rave. my own experience of camp-fires is that they come too late in the day to be more than a warming-time before going to bed. we were generally too tired to talk. a little desultory conversation, a cigarette or two, an outline of the next day's work, and all were off to bed. yet, in that evergreen forest, our fires were always rarely beautiful. the boughs burned with a crackling white flame, and when we threw on needles, they burst into stars and sailed far up into the night. as the glare died down, each of us took his hot stone from its bed of ashes and, carrying it carefully, retired with it. viii through the flathead caÑon the next morning we wakened to sunshine, and fried trout and bacon and eggs for breakfast. the cook tossed his flapjacks skillfully. as the only woman in the party, i sometimes found an air of festivity about my breakfast-table. whereas the others ate from a tarpaulin laid on the ground, i was favored with a small box for a table and a smaller one for a seat. on the table-box was set my graniteware plate, knife, fork, and spoon, a paper napkin, the prince albert and the st. charles. lest this sound strange to the uninitiated, the st. charles was the condensed milk and the prince albert was an old tin can which had once contained tobacco but which now contained the sugar. thus, in our camp-etiquette, one never asked for the sugar, but always for the prince albert; not for the milk, but always for the st. charles, sometimes corrupted to the charlie. i was late that morning. the men had gone about the business of preparing the boats for the day. the packers and guides were out after the horses. the cook, hot and weary, was packing up for the daily exodus. he turned and surveyed that ghost-forest with a scowl. "another camping-place like this, and i'll be braying like a blooming burro." on the third day, we went through the flathead river cañon. we had looked forward to this, both because of its beauty and its danger. bitterly complaining, the junior members of the family were exiled to the trail with the exception of the big boy. it had been joe's plan to photograph the boat with the moving-picture camera as we came down the cañon. he meant, i am sure, to be on hand if anything exciting happened. but impenetrable wilderness separated the trail from the edge of the gorge, and that evening we reached the camp unphotographed, unrecorded, to find joe sulking in a corner and inclined to blame the forest on us. in one of the very greatest stretches of the rapids, a long straightaway, we saw a pigmy figure, far ahead, hailing us from the bank. "pigmy" is a word i use generally with much caution, since a friend of mine, in the excitement of a first baby, once published a poem entitled "my pigmy counterpart," which a type-setter made, in the magazine version, "my pig, my counterpart." nevertheless, we will use it here. behind this pigmy figure stretched a cliff, more than one hundred feet in height, of sheer rock overgrown with bushes. the figure had apparently but room on which to stand. george stood up and surveyed the prospect. "well," he said, in his slow drawl, "if that's lunch, i don't think we can hit it." the river was racing at mad speed. great rocks caught the current, formed whirlpools and eddies, turned us round again and again, and sent us spinning on, drenched with spray. that part of the river the boatmen knew--at least by reputation. it had been the scene, a few years before, of the tragic drowning of a man they knew. for now we were getting down into the better known portions. [illustration: _the beginning of the cañon, middle fork of the flathead river_] to check a boat in such a current seemed impossible. but we needed food. we were tired and cold, and we had a long afternoon's work still before us. at last, by tremendous effort and great skill, the boatmen made the landing. it was the college boy who had clambered down the cliff and brought the lunch, and it was he who caught the boats as they were whirling by. we had to cling like limpets--whatever a limpet is--to the edge, and work our way over to where there was room to sit down. it reminded the head of roosevelt's expression about peace raging in mexico. he considered that enjoyment was raging here. nevertheless, we ate. we made the inevitable cocoa, warmed beans, ate a part of the great cheese purchased the day before, and, with gingersnaps and canned fruit, managed to eke out a frugal repast. and shrieked our words over the roar of the river. it was here that the boats were roped down. critical examination and long debate with the boatmen showed no way through. on the far side, under the towering cliff, was an opening in the rocks through which the river boiled in a drop of twenty feet. so it was fortunate, after all, that we had been hailed from the shore and had stopped, dangerous as it had been. for not one of us would have lived had we essayed that passage under the cliff. the flathead river is not a deep river; but the force of its flow is so great, its drop so rapid, that the most powerful swimmer is hopeless in such a current. light as our flies were, again and again they were swept under and held as though by a powerful hand. another year, the flathead may be a much simpler proposition to negotiate. owing to the unusually heavy snows of last winter, which had not commenced to melt on the mountain-tops until july, the river was high. in a normal summer, i believe that this trip could be taken--although always the boatmen must be expert in river rapids--with comparative safety and enormous pleasure. there is a thrill and exultation about running rapids--not for minutes, not for an hour or two, but for days--that gets into the blood. and when to that exultation is added the most beautiful scenery in america, the trip becomes well worth while. however, i am not at all sure that it is a trip for a woman to take. i can swim, but that would not have helped at all had the boat, at any time in those four days, struck a rock and turned over. nor would the men of the party, all powerful swimmers, have had any more chance than i. we were a little nervous that afternoon. the cañon grew wilder; the current, if possible, more rapid. but there were fewer rocks; the river-bed was clearer. we were rapidly nearing the middle fork. another day would see us there, and from that point, the river, although swift, would lose much of its danger. late the afternoon of the third day we saw our camp well ahead, on a ledge above the river. everything was in order when we arrived. we unloaded ourselves solemnly out of the boats, took our fish, our poles, our graft-hooks and landing-nets, our fly-books, my sunburn lotion, and our weary selves up the bank. then we solemnly shook hands all round. we had come through; the rest was easy. on the last day, the river became almost a smiling stream. once again, instead of between cliffs, we were traveling between great forests of spruce, tamarack, white and yellow pine, fir, and cedar. a great golden eagle flew over the water just ahead of our boat. and in the morning we came across our first sign of civilization--a wire trolley with a cage, extending across the river in lieu of a bridge. high up in the air at each end, it sagged in the middle until the little car must almost have touched the water. we had a fancy to try it, and landed to make the experiment. but some ungenerous soul had padlocked it and had gone away with the key. for the first time that day, it was possible to use the trolling-lines. we had tried them before, but the current had carried them out far ahead of the boat. cut-throat trout now and then take a spoon. but it is the bull-trout which falls victim, as a rule, to the troll. i am not gifted with the trolling-line. sometime i shall write an article on the humors of using it--on the soft and sibilant hiss with which it goes out over the stern; on the rasping with which it grates on the edge of the boat as it holds on, stanch and true, to water-weeds and floating branches; on the low moan with which it buries itself under a rock and dies; on the inextricable confusion into which it twists and knots itself when, hand over hand, it is brought in for inspection. i have spent hours over a trolling-line, hours which, otherwise, i should have wasted in idleness. there are thirty-seven kinds of knots which, so far, i have discovered in a trolling-line, and i am but at the beginning of my fishing career. "what are you doing," the head said to me that last day, as i sat in the stern busily working at the line. "knitting?" we got few fish that day, but nobody cared. the river was wide and smooth; the mountains had receded somewhat; the forest was there to the right and left of us. but it was an open, smiling forest. still far enough away, but slipping toward us with the hours, were settlements, towns, the fertile valley of the lower river. we lunched that night where, just a year before, i had eaten my first lunch on the flathead, on a shelving, sandy beach. but this time the meal was somewhat shadowed by the fact that some one had forgotten to put in butter and coffee and condensed milk. however, we were now in that part of the river which our boatmen knew well. from a secret cache back in the willows, george and mike produced coffee and condensed milk and even butter. so we lunched, and far away we heard a sound which showed us how completely our wilderness days were over--the screech of a railway locomotive. late that afternoon, tired, sunburned, and unkempt, we drew in at the little wharf near columbia falls. it was weeks since we had seen a mirror larger than an inch or so across. our clothes were wrinkled from being used to augment our bedding on cold nights. the whites of our eyes were bloodshot with the sun. my old felt hat was battered and torn with the fish-hooks that had been hung round the band. each of us looked at the other, and prayed to heaven that he looked a little better himself. ix the round-up at kalispell columbia falls had heard of our adventure, and was prepared to do us honor. automobiles awaited us on the river-bank. in a moment we were snatched from the jaws of the river and seated in the lap of luxury. if this is a mixed metaphor, it is due to the excitement of the change. with one of those swift transitions of the northwest, we were out of the wilderness and surrounded by great yellow fields of wheat. cleared land or natural prairie, these valleys of the northwest are marvelously fertile. wheat grows an incredible number of bushels to the acre. everything thrives. and on the very borders of the fields stands still the wilderness to be conquered, the forest to be cleared. untold wealth is there for the man who will work and wait, land rich beyond the dreams of fertilizer. but it costs about eighty dollars an acre, i am told, to clear forest-land after it has been cut over. it is not a project, this northwestern farming, to be undertaken on a shoestring. the wilderness must be conquered. it cannot be coaxed. and a good many hearts have been broken in making that discovery. a little money--not too little--infinite patience, cheerfulness, and red-blooded effort--these are the factors which are conquering the northwest. i like the northwest. in spite of its pretensions, its large cities, its wealth, it is still peopled by essential frontiersmen. they are still pioneers--because the wilderness encroaches still so close to them. i like their downrightness, their pride in what they have achieved, their hatred of sham and affectation. and if there is to be real progress among us in this present generation, the growth of a political and national spirit, that sturdy insistence on better things on which our pioneer forefathers founded this nation, it is likely to come, as a beginning, from these newer parts of our country. these people have built for themselves. what we in the east have inherited, they have made. they know its exact cost in blood and sweat. they value it. and they will do their best by it. perhaps, after all, this is the end of this particular adventure. and yet, what western story is complete without a round-up? there was to be a round-up the next day at kalispell, farther south in that wonderful valley. but there was a difficulty in the way. our horses were glacier park horses. columbia falls was outside of glacier park. kalispell was even farther outside of glacier park, and horses were needed badly in the park. for last year glacier park had the greatest boom in its history and found the concessionnaires unprepared to take care of all the tourists. what we should do, we knew, was to deadhead our horses back into the park as soon as they had had a little rest. but, on the other hand, there was kalispell and the round-up. it would make a difference of just one day. true, we could have gone to the round-up on the train. but, for two reasons, this was out of the question. first, it would not make a good story. second, we had nothing but riding-clothes, and ours were only good to ride in and not at all to walk about in. after a long and serious conclave, it was decided that glacier park would not suffer by the absence of our string for twenty-four hours more. on the following morning, then, we set off down the white and dusty road, a gay procession, albeit somewhat ragged. sixteen miles in the heat we rode that morning. it was when we were halfway there that one of the party--it does not matter which one--revealed that he had received a telegram from the government demanding the immediate return of our outfit. we halted in the road and conferred. it is notorious of governments that they are short-sighted, detached, impersonal, aloof, and haughty. we gathered in the road, a gayly bandanaed, dusty, and highly indignant crowd, and conferred. the telegram had been imperative. it did not request. it commanded. it unhorsed us violently at a time when it did not suit either ourselves or our riding-clothes to be unhorsed. we conferred. we were, we said, paying two dollars and a half a day for each of those horses. besides, we were out of adhesive tape, which is useful for holding on patches. besides, also, we had the horses. if they wanted them, let them come and get them. besides, this was discrimination. ever since the park was opened, horses had been taken out of it, either on to the reservation or into canada, to get about to other parts of the park. why should the government pick on us? we were very bitter and abusive, and the rest of the way i wrote mentally a dozen sarcastic telegrams. yes; the rest of the way. because we went on. with a round-up ahead and the department of the interior in the rear, we rode forward to our stolen holiday, now and then pausing, an eye back to see if we were pursued. but nothing happened; no sheriff in a buckboard drove up with a shotgun across his knees. the government, or its representative in glacier park, was contenting itself with foaming at the mouth. we rode on through the sunlight, and sang as we rode. kalispell is a flourishing and attractive town of northwestern montana. it is notable for many other things besides its annual round-up. but it remains dear to me for one particular reason. my hat was done. it had no longer the spring and elasticity of youth. it was scarred with many rains and many fish-hooks. it had ceased to add its necessary jaunty touch to my costume. it detracted. in its age, i loved it, but the family insisted cruelly on a change. so, sitting on angel, a new one was brought me, a chirky young thing, a cowgirl affair of high felt crown and broad rim. and, at this moment, a gentleman i had never seen before, but who is green in my memory, stepped forward and presented me with his own hat-band. it was of leather, and it bore this vigorous and inspiriting inscription: "give 'er pep and let 'er buck." to-day, when i am low in my mind, i take that cowgirl hat from its retreat and read its inscription: "give 'er pep and let 'er buck." it is a whole creed. somewhere among my papers i have the programme of that round-up at kalispell. it was a very fine round-up. there was a herd of buffalo; there were wild horses and long-horned mexican steers. there was a cheering crowd. there was roping, and marvelous riding. but my eyes were fixed on the grand-stand with a stony stare. i am an adopted blackfoot indian, known in the tribe as "pi-ta-mak-an," and only a few weeks before i had had a long conference with the chiefs of the tribe, two guns, white calf (the son of old white calf, the great chief who dropped dead in the white house during president cleveland's administration), medicine owl and curly bear and big spring and bird plume and wolf plume and bird rattler and bill shute and stabs-by-mistake and eagle child and many tail-feathers--and many more. [illustration: _pi-ta-mak-an, or running eagle (mrs. rinehart), with two other members of the blackfoot tribe_] and these indians had all promised me that, as soon as our conference was over, they were going back to the reservation to get in their hay and work hard for the great herd which the government had promised to give them. they were going to be good indians. so i stared at the grand-stand with a cold and fixed eye. for there, very many miles from where they should have been, off the reservation without permission of the indian agent, painted and bedecked in all the glory of their forefathers--paint, feathers, beads, strings of thimbles and little mirrors--handsome, bland, and enjoying every instant to the full in their childish hearts, were my chiefs. during the first lull in the proceedings, a delegation came to visit me and to explain. this is what they said: first of all, they desired me to make peace with the indian agent. he was, they considered, most unreasonable. there were many times when one could labor, and there was but one round-up. they petitioned, then, that i intercede and see that their ration-tickets were not taken away. and even as the interpreter told me their plea, one old brave caught my hand and pointed across to the enclosure, where a few captive buffalo were grazing. i knew what it meant. these, my blackfeet, had been the great buffalo-hunters. with bow and arrow they had followed the herds from canada to the far south. these chiefs had been mighty hunters. but for many years not a single buffalo had their eyes beheld. they who had lived by the buffalo were now dying with them. a few full-bloods shut away on a reservation, a few buffalo penned in a corral--children of the open spaces and of freedom, both of them, and now dying and imprisoned. for the blackfeet are a dying people. they had come to see the buffalo. but they did not say so. an indian is a stoic. he has both imagination and sentiment, but the latter he conceals. and this was the explanation they gave me for the indian agent:-- i knew that, back in my home, when a friend asked me to come to an entertainment, i must go or that friend would be offended with me. and so it was with the blackfeet indians--they had been invited to this round-up, and they felt that they should come or they would hurt the feelings of those who had asked them. therefore, would i, pi-ta-mak-an, go to the indian agent and make their peace for them? for, after all, summer was short and winter was coming. the old would need their ration-tickets again. and they, the braves, would promise to go back to the reservation and get in the hay, and be all that good indians should be. and i, too, was as good an indian as i knew how to be, for i scolded them all roundly and then sat down at the first possible opportunity and wrote to the agent. and the agent? he is a very wise and kindly man, facing one of the biggest problems in our country. he gave them back their ration-tickets and wiped the slate clean, to the eternal credit of a government that has not often to the indian tempered justice with mercy. x off for cascade pass how many secrets the mountains hold! they have forgotten things we shall never know. and they are cruel, savagely cruel. what they want, they take. they reach out a thousand clutching hands. they attack with avalanche, starvation, loneliness, precipice. they lure on with green valleys and high flowering meadows where mountain-sheep move sedately, with sunlit peaks and hidden lakes, with silence for tired ears and peace for weary souls. and then--they kill. because man is a fighting animal, he obeys their call, his wit against their wisdom of the ages, his strength against their solidity, his courage against their cunning. and too often he loses. [illustration: copyright by l. d. lindsley _a high mountain meadow_] i am afraid of the mountains. i have always the feeling that they are lying in wait. at night, their very silence is ominous. the crack of ice as a bit of slow-moving glacier is dislodged, lightning, and the roar of thunder somewhere below where i lie--these are the artillery of the range, and from them i am safe. i am too small for their heavy guns. but a shelving trail on the verge of a chasm, a slip on an ice-field, a rolling stone under a horse's foot--these are the weapons i fear above the timber-line. even below there is danger--swamps and rushing rivers, but above all the forest. in mountain valleys it grows thick on the bodies of dead forests beneath. it crowds. there is barely room for a tent. and all through the night the trees protest. they creak and groan and sigh, and sometimes they burn. in a _cul-de-sac_, with only frowning cliffs about, the forest becomes ominous, a thing of dreadful beauty. on nights when, through the crevices of the green roof, there are stars hung in the sky, the weight lifts. but there are other nights when the trees close in like ranks of hostile men and take the spirit prisoner. the peace of the wilderness is not peace. it is waiting. on the glacier park trip, there had been one subject which came up for discussion night after night round the camp-fire. it resolved itself, briefly, into this: should we or should we not get out in time to go over to the state of washington and there perform the thrilling feat which bob, the optimist, had in mind? this was nothing more nor less than the organization of a second pack-outfit and the crossing of the cascade mountains on horseback by a virgin route. the head, bob, and joe had many discussions about it. i do not recall that my advice was ever asked. it is generally taken for granted in these wilderness-trips of ours that i will be there, ready to get a story when the opportunity presents itself. owing to the speed with which the north fork of the flathead river descends from the canadian border to civilization, we had made very good time. and, at last, the decision was made to try this new adventure. "it will be a bully story," said the optimist, "and you can be dead sure of this: it's never been done before." so, at last, it was determined, and we set out on that wonderful harebrain excursion of which the very memory gives me a thrill. yet, now that i know it can be done, i may try it again some day. it paid for itself over and over in scenery, in health, and in thrills. but there were several times when it seemed to me impossible that we could all get over the range alive. we took through thirty-one horses and nineteen people. when we got out, our horses had had nothing to eat, not a blade of grass or a handful of grain, for thirty-six hours, and they had had very little for five days. on the last morning, the head gave his horse for breakfast one rain-soaked biscuit, an apple, two lumps of sugar, and a raw egg. the other horses had nothing. we dropped three pack-horses over cliffs in two days, but got them again, cut and bruised, and we took out our outfit complete, after two weeks of the most arduous going i have ever known anything about. when the news that we had got over the pass penetrated to the settlements, a pack-outfit started over cascade pass in our footsteps to take supplies to a miner. they killed three horses on that same trail, and i believe gave it up in the end. doubtless, by next year, a passable trail will have been built up to doubtful lake and another one up that eight-hundred-foot mountain-wall above the lake, where, when one reaches the top, there is but room to look down again on the other side. perhaps, too, there will be a trail down the agnes creek valley, so that parties can get through easily. when that is done,--and it is promised by the forest supervisor,--one of the most magnificent horseback trips in the country will be opened for the first time to the traveler. most emphatically, the trip across the cascades at doubtful lake and cascade pass is not a trip for a woman in the present condition of things, although any woman who can ride can cross cloudy pass and get down agnes creek way. but perhaps before this is published, the chelan national forest will have been made a national park. it ought to be. it is superb. there is no other word for it. and it ought not to be called a forest, because it seems to have everything but trees. rocks and rivers and glaciers--more in one county than in all switzerland, they claim--and granite peaks and hair-raising precipices and lakes filled with ice in midsummer. but not many trees, until, at cascade pass, one reaches the boundaries of the washington national forest and begins to descend the pacific slope. the personnel of our party was slightly changed. of the original one, there remained the head, the big, the middle, and the little boy, joe, bob, and myself. to these we added at the beginning six persons besides our guides and packers. two of them did not cross the pass, however--the forest pathologist from washington, who travels all over the country watching for tree-diseases and tree-epidemics and who left us after a few days, and the supervisor of chelan forest, who had but just come from oregon and was making his first trip over his new territory. we were fortunate, indeed, in having four forest-men with us, men whose lives are spent in the big timber, who know the every mood and tense of the wilderness. for besides these two, the pathologist and the forest supervisor, there was "silent lawrie" lindsley, naturalist, photographer, and lover of all that is wild, a young man who has spent years wandering through the mountains around chelan, camera and gun at hand, the gun never raised against the wild creatures, but used to shoot away tree-branches that interfere with pictures, or, more frequently, to trim a tree into such outlines as fit it into the photograph. and then there was the man who went ahead. for forty years this man, mr. hilligoss, has lived in the forest. hardly a big timber-deal in the northwest but was passed by him. hardly a tree in that vast wilderness but he knew it. he knew everything about the forest but fear--fear and fatigue. and, with an axe and a gun, he went ahead, clearing trail, blazing trees, and marking the détours to camp-sites by an arrow made of bark and thrust through a slash in a tree. hour after hour we would struggle on, seeing everywhere evidences of his skill on the trail, to find, just as endurance had reached its limit, the arrow that meant camp and rest. and--there was dan devore and his dog, whiskers. dan devore was our chief guide and outfitter, a soft voiced, bearded, big souled man, neither very large nor very young. all soul and courage was dan devore, and one of the proud moments of my life was when it was all over and he told me i had done well. i wanted most awfully to have dan devore think i had done well. he was sitting on a stone at the time, i remember, and whiskers, his old airedale, had his head on dan's knee. all of his thirteen years, whiskers had wandered through the mountains with dan devore, always within call. to see dan was to see whiskers; to see whiskers was to see dan. he slept on dan's tarp bed at night, and in the daytime led our long and winding procession. indomitable spirit that he was, he traveled three miles to our one, saved us from the furious onslaughts of many a marmot and mountain-squirrel, and, in the absence of fresh meat, ate his salt pork and scraps with the zest of a hungry traveler. then there were mr. and mrs. fred. i call them mr. and mrs. fred, because, like joe, that was a part of their name. i will be frank about mrs. fred. i was worried about her before i knew her. i was accustomed to roughing it; but how about another woman? would she be putting up her hair in curlers every night, and whimpering when, as sometimes happens, the slow gait of her horse became intolerable? little did i know mrs. fred. she was a natural wanderer, a follower of the trail, a fine and sound and sporting traveling companion. and i like to think that she is typical of the women of that western country which bred her, feminine to the core, but strong and sweet still. both the freds were great additions. was it not after mr. fred that we trailed on that famous game-hunt of ours, of which a spirited account is coming later? was it not mr. fred who, night after night, took the junior rineharts away from an anxious mother into the depths of the forest or the bleakness of mountain-slopes, there to lie, armed to the teeth, and wait for the first bears to start out for breakfast? now you have us, i think, except the men of the outfit, and they deserve space i cannot give them. they were a splendid lot, and it was by their incessant labor that we got over. try to see us, then, filing along through deep valleys, climbing cliffs, stumbling, struggling, not talking much, a long line of horses and riders. first, far ahead, mr. hilligoss. then the riders, led by "silent lawrie," with me just behind him, because of photographs. then, at the head of the pack-horses, dan devore. then the long line of pack-ponies, sturdy and willing, and piled high with our food, our bedding, and our tents. and here, there, and everywhere, joe, with the moving-picture camera. we were determined, this time, to have no repetition of the glacier park fiasco, where bill, our cook, had deserted us at a bad time--although it is always a bad time when the cook leaves. so now we had two cooks. much as i love the mountains and the woods, the purple of evening valleys, the faint pink of sunrise on snow-covered peaks, the most really thrilling sight of a camping-trip is two cooks bending over an iron grating above a fire, one frying trout and the other turning flapjacks. our trail led us through one of the few remaining unknown portions of the united states. it cannot long remain unknown. it is too superb, too wonderful. and it has mineral in it, silver and copper and probably coal. the middle boy, who is by way of being a chemist and has systematically blown himself up with home-made explosives for years--the middle boy found at least a dozen silver mines of fabulous value, although the men in the party insisted that his specimens were iron pyrites and other unromantic minerals. xi lake chelan to lyman lake now, as to where we were--those long days of fording rivers and beating our way through jungle or of dizzy climbs up to the snow, those short nights, so cold that six blankets hardly kept us warm, while our tired horses wandered far, searching for such bits of grass as grew among the shale. in the north-central part of the state of washington, nature has done a curious thing. she has built a great lake in the eastern shoulders of the cascade mountains. lake chelan, more than fifty miles long and averaging a mile and a half in width, is ten hundred and seventy-five feet above sea-level, while its bottom is four hundred feet below the level of the ocean. it is almost completely surrounded by granite walls and peaks which reach more than a mile and a half into the air. the region back from the lake is practically unknown. a small part of it has never been touched by the geological survey, and, in one or two instances, we were able to check up errors on our maps. thus, a lake shown on our map as belonging at the head of mcallister creek really belongs at the head of rainbow creek, while mcallister lake is not shown at all. mr. coulter, a forester who was with us for a time, last year discovered three lakes at the head of rainbow creek which have never been mapped, and, so far as could be learned, had never been seen by a white man before. yet lake chelan itself is well known in the northwest. it is easily reached, its gateway being the famous wenatchee valley, celebrated for its apples. it was from chelan that we were to make our start. long before we arrived, dan devore and the packers were getting the outfit ready. [illustration: _sitting bull mountain, lake chelan_] yet the first glimpse of chelan was not attractive. we had motored half a day through that curious, semi-arid country, which, when irrigated, proves the greatest of all soils in the world for fruit-raising. the august sun had baked the soil into yellow dust which covered everything. arid hillsides without a leaf of green but dotted thickly with gray sagebrush, eroded valleys, rocks and gullies--all shone a dusty yellow in the heat. the dust penetrated everything. wherever water could be utilized were orchards, little trees planted in geometrical rows and only waiting the touch of irrigation to make their owners wealthy beyond dreams. the lower end of lake chelan was surrounded by these bleak hillsides, desert without the great spaces of the desert. yet unquestionably, in a few years from now, these bleak hillsides will be orchard land. only the lower part, however, is bleak--only an end, indeed. there is nothing more beautiful and impressive than the upper part of that strangely deep and quiet lake lying at the foot of its enormous cliffs. by devious stages we reached the head of lake chelan, and there for four days the outfitting went on. horses were being brought in, saddles fitted; provisions in great cases were arriving. to outfit a party of our size for two weeks means labor and generous outlay. and we were going to be comfortable. we were willing to travel hard and sleep hard. but we meant to have plenty of food. i think we may claim the unique distinction of being the only people who ever had grapefruit regularly for breakfast on the top of that portion of the cascade range. while we waited, we learned something about the country. it is volcanic ash, disintegrated basalt, this great fruit-country to the right of the range. and three things, apparently, are responsible for its marvelous fruit-growing properties. first, the soil itself, which needs only water to prove marvelously fertile; second, the length of the growing-season, which around lake chelan is one hundred and ninety-two days in the year. and this just south of the canadian border! there is a third reason, too: the valleys are sheltered from frost. even if a frost comes,--and i believe it is almost unknown,--the high mountains surrounding these valleys protect the blossoms so that the frost has evaporated before the sun strikes the trees. there is no such thing known as a killing frost. but it is irrigation on a virgin and fertile soil that is primarily responsible. they run the water to the orchards in conduits, and then dig little trenches, running parallel among the trees. then they turn it on, and the tree-roots are bathed, soaked. and out of the desert spring such trees of laden fruit that each branch must be supported by wires! so we ate such apples as i had never dreamed of, and waited. joe got his films together. the boys practiced shooting. i rested and sharpened lead-pencils. bob had found a way to fold his soft hat into what he fondly called the "jennings do," which means a plait in the crown to shed the rain, and which turned an amiable _ensemble_ into something savage and extremely flat on top. the head played croquet. and then into our complacency came, one night, a bit of tragedy. a man staggered into the little hotel at the head of the lake, carrying another man on his back. he had carried him for forty hours, lowering him down, bit by bit, from that mountain highland where he had been hurt--forty hours of superhuman effort and heart-breaking going, over cliffs and through wilderness. the injured man was a sheep-herder. he had cut his leg with his wood-axe, and blood-poisoning had set in. i do not know the rest of that story. the sheep-herder was taken to a hospital the next day, traveling a very long way. but whether he traveled still farther, to the land of the great shepherd, i do not know. only this i do know: that this western country i love is full of such stories, and of such men as the hero of this one. at last we were ready. some of the horses were sent by boat the day before, for this strange lake has little or no shore-line. granite mountains slope stark and sheer to the water's edge, and drop from there to frightful depths below. there are, at the upper end, no roads, no trails or paths that border it. so the horses and all of us went by boat to the mouth of railroad creek,--so called, i suppose, because the nearest railroad is more than forty miles away,--up which led the trail to the great unknown. all around and above us were the cliffs, towering seven thousand feet over the lake. and beyond those cliffs lay adventure. for it _was_ adventure. even dan devore, experienced mountaineer and guide that he was, had only been to cascade pass once, and that was sixteen years before. he had never been across the divide. "silent lawrie" lindsley, the naturalist, had been only part-way down the agnes creek valley, which we intended to follow. only in a general way had we any itinerary at all. now a national forest is a happy hunting-ground. whereas in the national parks game is faithfully preserved, hunting is permitted in the forests. to this end, we took with us a complete arsenal. the naturalist carried a colt's revolver; the big boy had a twelve-gauge hammerless, called a "howitzer." we had two twenty-four-gauge shotguns in case we met an elephant or anything similarly large and heavy, and the little boy proudly carried, strapped to his saddle, a twenty-two high-power rifle, shooting a steel-jacketed, soft-nose bullet, an express-rifle of high velocity and great alarm to mothers. in addition to this, we had a savage repeater and two winchester thirties, and the forest supervisor carried his own winchester thirty-eight. we were entirely prepared to meet the whole german army. it is rather sad to relate that, with all this preparation, we killed nothing whatever. although it is not true that, on the day we encountered a large bear, and the three junior members of the family were allowed to turn the artillery loose on him, at the end of the firing the bear pulled out a flag and waved it, thinking it was the fourth of july. as we started, that august midday, for the long, dusty ride up the railroad creek trail, i am sure that the three junior rineharts had nothing less in mind than two or three bearskins apiece for school bedrooms. they deserved better luck than they had. night after night, sitting in the comparative safety of the camp-fire, i have seen my three sons, the big, the middle, and the little boy, starting off, armed to the teeth with deadly weapons, to sleep out under the stars and catch the first unwary bear on his way to breakfast in the morning. morning after morning, i have sat breakfastless and shaken until the weary procession of young america toiled into camp, hungry and bearless, but, thank heaven, whole of skin save where mosquitoes and black flies had taken their toll of them. they would trudge five miles, sleep three hours, hunt, walk five miles back, and then ride all day. * * * * * the first day was the least pleasant. we were still in the railroad creek valley; the trail was dusty; packs slipped on the sweating horses and had to be replaced. the bucking horse of the outfit had, as usual, been given the eggs, and, burying his head between his fore legs, threw off about a million dollars' worth before he had been on the trail an hour. on that first part of the trip, we had three dogs with us--chubb and doc, as well as whiskers. they ran in the dust with their tongues out, and lay panting under bushes at each stop. here and there we found the track of sheep driven into the mountain to graze. for a hundred or two hundred feet in width, it was eaten completely clean, for sheep have a way of tearing up even the roots of the grass so that nothing green lives behind them. they carry blight into a country like this. then, at last, we found the first arrow of the journey, and turned off the trail to camp. on that first evening, the arrow landed us in a great spruce grove where the trees averaged a hundred and twenty-five feet in height. below, the ground was cleared and level and covered with fine moss. the great gray trunks rose to gothic arches of green. it was a churchly place. and running through it were little streams living with trout. and in this saintly spot, quiet and peaceful, its only noise the babbling of little rivers, dwelt billions on billions of mosquitoes that were for the first time learning the delights of the human frame as food. there was no getting away from them. open our mouths and we inhaled them. they hung in dense clouds about us and fought over the best locations. they held loud and noisy conversations about us, and got in our ears and up our nostrils and into our coffee. they went trout-fishing with us and put up the tents with us; dined with us and on us. but they let us alone at night. it is a curious thing about the mountain mosquito as i know him. he is a lazy insect. he retires at sundown and does not begin to get in any active work until eight o'clock the following morning. he keeps union hours. something of this we had anticipated, and i had ordered mosquito-netting, to be worn as veils. when it was unrolled, it proved to be a brilliant scarlet, a scarlet which faded in hot weather on to necks and faces and turned us suddenly red and hideous. although it was late in the afternoon when we reached that first camp, camp romany, two or three of us caught more than a hundred trout before sundown. we should have done better had it not been necessary to stop and scratch every thirty seconds. that night, the woodsman built a great bonfire. we huddled about it, glad of its warmth, for although the days were hot, the nights, with the wind from the snow-covered peaks overhead, were very cold. the tall, unbranching gray spruce-trunks rose round it like the pillars of a colonnade. the forester blew up his air bed. in front of the supper-fire, the shadowy figures of the cooks moved back and forward. from a near-by glacier came an occasional crack, followed by a roar which told of ice dropping into cavernous depths below. the little boy cleaned his gun and dreamed of mighty exploits. we rested all the next day at camp romany--rested and fished, while three of the more adventurous spirits climbed a near-by mountain. late in the afternoon they rode in, bringing in their midst joe, who had, at the risk of his life, slid a distance which varied in the reports from one hundred yards to a mile and a half down a snow-field, and had hung fastened on the brink of eternity until he was rescued. very white was joe that evening, white and bruised. it was twenty-four hours before he began to regret that the camera had not been turned on him at the time. not until we left camp romany did we feel that we were really off for the trip. and yet that first day out from romany was not agreeable going. the trail was poor, although there came a time when we looked back on it as superlative. the sun was hot, and there was no shade. years ago, prospectors hunting for minerals had started forest-fires to level the ridges. the result was the burning-over of perhaps a hundred square miles of magnificent forest. the second growth which has come up is scrubby, a wilderness of young trees and chaparral, through which progress was difficult and uninteresting. up the bottom of the great glacier-basin toward the mountain at its head, we made our slow and painful way. more dust, more mosquitoes. even the beauty of the snow-capped peaks overhead could not atone for the ugliness of that destroyed region. yet, although it was not lovely, it was vastly impressive. literally, hundreds of waterfalls cascaded down the mountain wall from hidden lakes and glaciers above, and towering before us was the mountain wall which we were to climb later that day. we had seen no human creature since leaving the lake, but as we halted for luncheon by a steep little river, we suddenly found that we were not alone. standing beside the trail was an italian bandit with a knife two feet long in his hands. ha! come adventure! come romance! come rifles and pistols and all the arsenal, including the little boy, with pure joy writ large over him! a bandit, armed to the teeth! but this is a disappointing world. he was the cook from a mine--strange, the way we met cooks, floating around loose in a world that seems to be growing gradually cookless. and he carried with him his knife and his bread-pan, which was, even then, hanging to a branch of a tree. we fed him, and he offered to sing. the optimist nudged me. "now, listen," he said; "these fellows can _sing_. be quiet, everybody!" the bandit twisted up his mustachios, smiled beatifically, and took up a position in the trail, feet apart, eyes upturned. and then--he stopped. "i start a leetle high," he said; "i start again." so he started again, and the woods receded from around us, and the rushing of the river died away, and nothing was heard in that lonely valley but the most hideous sounds that ever broke a primeval silence into rags and tatters. when, at last, he stopped, we got on our horses and rode on, a bitter and disillusioned party of adventurers whose first bubble of enthusiasm had been pricked. it was four o'clock when we began the ascent of the switchback at the top of the valley. up and up we went, dismounting here and there, going slowly but eagerly. for, once over the wall, we were beyond the reach of civilization. so strange a thing is the human mind! we who were for most of the year most civilized, most dependent on our kind and the comforts it has wrought out of a primitive world, now we were savagely resentful of it. we wanted neither men nor houses. stirring in us had commenced that primeval call that comes to all now and then, the longing to be alone with mother earth, savage, tender, calm old mother earth. and yet we were still in touch with the world. for even here man had intruded. hanging to the cliff were the few buildings of a small mine which sends out its ore by pack-pony. i had already begun to feel the aloofness of the quiet places, so it was rather disconcerting to have a miner with a patch over one eye come to the doorway of one of the buildings and remark that he had read some of my political articles and agreed with them most thoroughly. [illustration: copyright, , by l. d. lindsley _looking out of ice-cave, lyman glacier_] that was a long day. we traveled from early morning until long after late sundown. up the switchback to a green plateau we went, meeting our first ice there, and here again that miracle of the mountains, meadow flowers and snow side by side. far behind us strung the pack-outfit, plodding doggedly along. from the rim we could look back down that fire-swept valley toward heart lake and the camp we had left. but there was little time for looking back. somewhere ahead was a brawling river descending in great leaps from lyman lake, which lay in a basin above and beyond. our camp, that night, was to be on the shore of lyman lake, at the foot of lyman glacier. and we had still far to go. mr. hilligoss met us on the trail. he had found a camp-site by the lake and had seen a bear and a deer. there were wild ducks also. now and then there are scenes in the mountains that defy the written word. the view from cloudy pass is one; the outlook from cascade pass is another. but for sheer loveliness there are few things that surpass lyman lake at sunset, its great glacier turned to pink, the towering granite cliffs which surround it dark purple below, bright rose at the summits. and lying there, still with the stillness of the ages, the quiet lake. there was, as a matter of fact, nothing to disturb its quiet. not a fish, so far as we could discover, lived in its opalescent water, cloudy as is all glacial water. it is only good to look at, is lyman lake, and there are no people to look at it. set in its encircling, snow-covered mountains, it lies fifty-five hundred feet above sea-level. we had come up in two days from eleven hundred feet, a considerable climb. that night, for the first time, we saw the northern lights--at first, one band like a cold finger set across the sky, then others, shooting ribbons of cold fire, now bright, now dim, covering the northern horizon and throwing into silhouette the peaks over our heads. xii cloudy pass and the agnes creek valley i think i have said that one of the purposes of our expedition was to hunt. we were to spend a day or two at lyman lake, and the sportsmen were busy by the camp-fire that evening, getting rifles and shotguns in order and preparing fishing-tackle. at dawn the next morning, which was at four o'clock, one of the packers roused the big boy with the information that there were wild ducks on the lake. he was wakened with extreme difficulty, put on his bedroom slippers, picked up his shotgun, and, still in his sleeping-garments, walked some ten feet from the mouth of his tent. there he yawned, discharged both barrels of his gun in the general direction of the ducks, yawned again, and went back to bed. i myself went on a hunting-excursion on the second day at lyman lake. now, theoretically, i am a mighty hunter. i have always expected to shoot something worth while and be photographed with my foot on it, and a "bearer"--whatever that may be--holding my gun in the background. so when mr. fred proposed an early start and a search along the side of chiwawa mountain for anything from sheep to goats, including a grizzly if possible, my imagination was roused. so jealous were we that the first game should be ours that the party was kept a profound secret. mr. fred and mrs. fred, the head, and i planned it ourselves. we would rise early, and, armed to the teeth, would stalk the skulking bear to his den. rising early is also a theory of mine. i approve of it. but i do not consider it rising early to get up at three o'clock in the morning. three o'clock in the morning is late at night. the moon was still up. it was frightfully cold. my shoes were damp and refused to go on. i could not find any hairpins. and i recalled a number of stories of the extreme disagreeableness of bears when not shot in a vital spot. with all our hurry, it was four o'clock when we were ready to start. no sun was in sight, but already a faint rose-colored tint was on the tops of the mountains. whiskers raised a sleepy head and looked at us from dan's bed. we tiptoed through the camp and started. we climbed. then we climbed some more. then we kept on climbing. mr. fred led the way. he had the energy of a high-powered car and the hopefulness of a pacifist. from ledge to ledge he scrambled, turning now and then to wave an encouraging hand. it was not long before i ceased to have strength to wave back. hours went on. five hundred feet, one thousand feet, fifteen hundred feet above the lake. i confided to the head, between gasps, that i was dying. we had seen no living thing; we continued to see no living thing. two thousand feet, twenty-five hundred feet. there was not enough air in the world to fill my collapsed lungs. once mr. fred found a track, and scurried off in a new direction. still no result. the sun was up by that time, and i judged that it was about noon. it was only six-thirty. a sort of desperation took possession of us all. we would keep up with mr. fred or die trying. and then, suddenly, we were on the very roof of the world, on the top of cloudy pass. all the kingdoms of the earth lay stretched out around us, and all the kingdoms of the earth were empty. now, the usual way to climb cloudy pass is to take a good businesslike horse and sit on his back. then, by devious and circuitous routes, with frequent rests, the horse takes you up. when there is a place the horse cannot manage, you get off and hold his tail, and he pulls you. even at that, it is a long business and a painful one. but it is better--oh, far, far better!--than the way we had taken. have you ever reached a point where you fix your starting eyes on a shrub or a rock ten feet ahead and struggle for it? and, having achieved it, fix on another five feet farther on, and almost fail to get it? because, if you have not, you know nothing of this agony of tearing lungs and hammering heart and throbbing muscles that is the mountain-climber's price for achievement. [illustration: copyright by l. d. lindsley _looking southeast from cloudy pass_] and then, after all, while resting on the top of the world with our feet hanging over, discussing dilated hearts, because i knew mine would never go back to normal, to see a ptarmigan, and have mr. fred miss it because he wanted to shoot its head neatly off! strange birds, those ptarmigan. quite fearless of man, because they know him not or his evil works, on alarm they have the faculty of almost instantly obliterating themselves. i have seen a mother bird and her babies, on an alarm, so hide themselves on a bare mountain-side that not so much as a bit of feather could be seen. but unless frightened, they will wander almost under the hunter's feet. i dare say they do not know how very delicious they are, especially after a diet of salt meat. as we sat panting on cloudy pass, the sun rose over the cliff of the great granite bowl. the peaks turned from red to yellow. it was absolutely silent. no trees rustled in the morning air. there were no trees. only, here and there, a few stunted evergreens, two or three feet high, had rooted on the rock and clung there, gnarled and twisted from their winter struggles. ears that had grown tired of the noises of cities grew rested. but our ears were more rested than our bodies. i have always believed that it is easier to go downhill than to go up. this is not true. i say it with the deepest earnestness. after the first five hundred feet of descent, progress down became agonizing. the something that had gone wrong with my knees became terribly wrong; they showed a tendency to bend backward; they shook and quivered. the last mile of that four-mile descent was one of the most dreadful experiences of my life. a broken thing, i crept into camp and tendered mute apologies to budweiser, my horse, called familiarly "buddy." (although he was not the sort of horse one really became familiar with.) the remainder of that day, mrs. fred and i lay under a mosquito-canopy, played solitaire, and rested our aching bodies. the forest supervisor climbed lyman glacier. the head and the little boy made the circuit of the lake, and had to be roped across the rushing river which is its outlet. and the horses rested for the real hardship of the trip, which was about to commence. one thing should be a part of the equipment of every one who intends to camp in the mountains near the snow-fields. this is a mosquito-tent. ours was brought by that experienced woodsman and mountaineer, mr. hilligoss, and was made with a light-muslin top three feet long by the width of double-width muslin. to this was sewed sides of cheese-cloth, with double seams and reinforced corners. at the bottom it had an extra piece of netting two feet wide, to prevent the insects from crawling under. erecting such a shelter is very simple. four stakes, five feet high, were driven into the ground and the mosquito-canopy simply hung over them. we had no face-masks, except the red netting, but, for such a trip, a mask is simple to make and occasionally most acceptable. the best one i know--and it, too, is the woodsman's invention--consists of a four-inch band of wire netting; above it, whipped on, a foot of light muslin to be tied round the hat, and, below, a border of cheese-cloth two feet deep, with a rubber band. such a mask does not stick to the face. through the wire netting, it is possible to shoot with accuracy. the rubber band round the neck allows it to be lifted with ease. i do not wish to give the impression that there were mosquitoes everywhere. but when there were mosquitoes, there was nothing clandestine about it. the next day we crossed cloudy pass and started down the agnes creek valley. it was to be a forced march of twenty-five miles over a trail which no one was sure existed. there had, at one time, been a trail, but avalanches have a way, in these mountain valleys, of destroying all landmarks, and rock-slides come down from the great cliffs, fill creek-beds, and form swamps. whether we could get down at all or not was a question. to the eternal credit of our guides, we made it. for the upper five miles below cloudy pass it was touch and go. even with the sharp hatchet of the woodsman ahead, with his blazes on the trees where the trail had been obliterated, it was the hardest kind of going. here were ditches that the horses leaped; here were rushing streams where they could hardly keep their footing. again, a long mile or two of swamp and almost impenetrable jungle, where only the woodsman's axe-marks gave us courage to go on. we were mired at times, and again there were long stretches over rock-slides, where the horses scrambled like cats. but with every mile there came a sense of exhilaration. we were making progress. there was little or no life to be seen. the woodsman, going ahead of us, encountered a brown bear reaching up for a cluster of salmon-berries. he ambled away, quite unconcerned, and happily ignorant of that desperate trio of junior rineharts, bearing down on him with almost the entire contents of the best gun shop in spokane. it should have been a great place for bears, that agnes creek valley. there were ripe huckleberries, service-berries, salmon-and manzanita-berries. there were plenty of places where, if i had been a bear, i should have been entirely happy--caves and great rocks, and good, cold water. and i believe they were there. but thirty-one horses and a sort of family tendency to see if there is an echo anywhere about, and such loud inquiries as, "are you all right, mother?" and "who the dickens has any matches?"--these things are fatal to seeing wild life. indeed, the next time i am overcome by one of my mad desires to see a bear, i shall go to the zoo. it was fifteen years, i believe, since dan devore had seen the agnes creek valley. from the condition of the trail, i am inclined to think that dan was the last man who had ever used it. and such a wonderland as it is! such marvels of flowers as we descended, such wild tiger-lilies and columbines and mariposa lilies! what berries and queen's-cup and chalice-cup and bird's-bill! there was trillium, too, although it was not in bloom, and devil's-club, a plant which stings and sets up a painful swelling. there were yew trees, those trees which the indians use for making their bows, wild white rhododendron and spirea, cottonwood, white pine, hemlock, douglas spruce, and white fir. everywhere there was mountain-ash, the berries beloved of bears. and high up on the mountain there was always heather, beautiful to look at but slippery, uncertain footing for horse and man. twenty-five miles, broken with canter and trot, is not more than i have frequently taken on a brisk sunny morning at home. but twenty-five miles at a slow walk, now in a creek-bed, now on the edge of a cliff, is a different matter. the last five miles of the agnes creek trip were a long despair. we found and located new muscles that the anatomists have overlooked.--a really first-class anatomist ought never to make a chart without first climbing a high mountain and riding all day on the creature alluded to in this song of bob's, which gained a certain popularity among the male members of the party. "a sailor's life is bold and free. he lives upon the bright blue sea. he has to work like h----, of course, but he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse." it was dark when we reached our camp-ground at the foot of the valley. a hundred feet below, in a gorge, ran the stehekin river, a noisy and turbulent stream full of trout. we groped through the darkness for our tents that night and fell into bed more dead than alive. but at three o'clock the next morning, the junior rineharts, following mr. fred, were off for bear, reappearing at ten, after breakfast was over, with an excited story of having seen one very close but having unaccountably missed it. there was no water for the horses at camp that night, and none for them in the morning. there was no way to get them down to the river, and the poor animals were almost desperate with thirst. they were having little enough to eat even then, at the beginning of the trip, and it was hard to see them without water, too. xiii caÑon fishing and a telegram it was eleven o'clock the next morning before i led buddy--i had abandoned "budweiser" in view of the drought--into a mountain stream and let him drink. he would have rolled in it, too, but i was on his back and i fiercely restrained him. the next day was a comparatively short trip. there was a trapper's cabin at the fork of bridge creek in the stehekin river. there we were to spend the night before starting on our way to cascade pass. as it turned out, we spent two days there. there was a little grass for the horses, and we learned of a cañon, some five or six miles off our trail, which was reported as full of fish. the most ardent of us went there the next day--mr. hilligoss, weaver, and "silent lawrie" and the freds and bob and the big boy and the little boy and joe. and, without expecting it, we happened on adventure. have you ever climbed down a cañon with rocky sides, a straight and precipitous five hundred feet, clinging with your finger nails to any bit of green that grows from the cliff, and to footholds made by an axe, and carrying a fly-book and a trout-rod which is an infinitely precious trout-rod? also, a share of the midday lunch and twenty pounds more weight than you ought to have by the beauty-scale? because, unless you have, you will never understand that trip. it was a series of wild drops, of blood-curdling escapes, of slips and recoveries, of bruises and abrasions. but at last we made it, and there was the river! i have still in mind a deep pool where the water, rushing at tremendous speed over a rocky ledge, fell perhaps fifteen feet. i had fixed my eyes on that pool early in the day, but it seemed impossible of access. to reach it it was necessary again to scale a part of the cliff, and, clinging to its face, to work one's way round along a ledge perhaps three inches wide. when i had once made it, with the aid of friendly hands and a leather belt, by which i was lowered, i knew one thing--knew it inevitably. i was there for life. nothing would ever take me back over that ledge. however, i was there, and there was no use wasting time. for there were fish there. now and then they jumped. but they did not take the fly. the water seethed and boiled, and i stood still and fished, because a slip on that spray-covered ledge and i was gone, to be washed down to lake chelan, and lie below sea-level in the cascade mountains. which might be a glorious sort of tomb, but it did not appeal to me. i tried different flies with no result. at last, with a weighted line and a fish's eye, i got my first fish--the best of the day, and from that time on i forgot the danger. some day, armed with every enticement known to the fisherman, i am going back to that river. for there, under a log, lurks the wiliest trout i have ever encountered. in full view he stayed during the entire time of my sojourn. he came up to the fly, leaped over it, made faces at it. then he would look up at me scornfully. [illustration: _stream fishing_] "old tricks," he seemed to say. "old stuff--not good enough." i dare say he is still there. late in the day, we got out of that cañon. got out at infinite peril and fatigue, climbed, struggled, stumbled, held on, pulled. i slipped once and had a bad knee for six weeks. never once did i dare to look back and down. it was always up, and the top was always receding. and when we reached camp, the head, who had been on an excursion of his own, refused to be thrilled, and spent the evening telling how he had been climbing over the top of the world on his hands and knees. in sheer scorn, we let him babble. but my hat is off to him, after all, for he had ready for us, and swears to this day to its truth, the best fish-story of the trip. lying on the top of one of our packing-cases was a great bull-trout. now a bull-trout has teeth, and held in a vise-like grip in the teeth of this one was a smaller trout. in the mouth of the small trout was a gray-and-black fly. the head maintained that he had hooked the small fish and was about to draw it to shore when the bull-trout leaped out of the water, caught the small fish, and held on grimly. the head thereupon had landed them both. in proof of this, as i have said, he had the two fish on top of a packing-case. but it is not a difficult matter to place a small trout cross-wise in the jaws of a bull-trout, and to this day we are not quite certain. there _were_ tooth-marks on the little fish, but, as one of the guides said, he wouldn't put it past the head to have made them himself. that night we received a telegram. i remember it with great distinctness, because the man who brought it in charged fifteen dollars for delivering it. he came at midnight, and how he had reached us no one will ever know. the telegram notified us that a railroad strike was about to take place and that we should get out as soon as possible. early the next morning we held a conference. it was about as far back as it was to go ahead over the range. and before us still lay the great adventure of the pass. we took a vote on it at last and the "ayes" carried. we would go ahead, making the best time we could. if the railroads had stopped when we got out, we would merely turn our pack-outfit toward the east and keep on moving. we had been all summer in the saddle by that time, and a matter of thirty-five hundred miles across the continent seemed a trifle. dan devore brought us other news that morning, however. cascade pass was closed with snow. a miner who lived alone somewhere up the gorge had brought in the information. it was a serious moment. we could get to doubtful lake, but it was unlikely we could get any farther. the comparatively simple matter thus became a complicated one, for doubtful lake was not only a détour; it was almost inaccessible, especially for horses. but we hated to acknowledge defeat. so again we voted to go ahead. that day, while the pack-outfit was being got ready, i had a long talk with the forest supervisor. he told me many things about our national forests, things which are worth knowing and which every american, whose playgrounds the forests are, should know. in the first place, the forestry department welcomes the camper. he is given his liberty, absolutely. he is allowed to hunt such game as is in season, and but two restrictions are placed on him. he shall leave his camp-ground clean, and he shall extinguish every spark of fire before he leaves. beyond that, it is the policy of the government to let campers alone. it is possible in a national forest to secure a special permit to put up buildings for permanent camps. an act passed on the th of march, , gives the camper a permit for a definite period, although until that time the government could revoke the permit at will. the rental is so small that it is practically negligible. all roads and trails are open to the public; no admission can be charged to a national forest, and no concession will be sold. the whole idea of the national forest as a playground is to administer it in the public interest. good lots on lake chelan can be obtained for from five to twenty-five dollars a year, depending on their locality. it is the intention of the government to pipe water to these allotments. for the hunters, there is no protection for bear, cougar, coyotes, bobcats, and lynx. no license is required to hunt them. and to the persistent hunter who goes into the woods, not as we did, with an outfit the size of a cavalry regiment, there is game to be had in abundance. we saw goat-tracks in numbers at cloudy pass and the marks of bruin everywhere. the chelan national forest is well protected against fires. a fire-launch patrols the lake and lookouts are stationed all the time on strong mountain and crow's hill. they live there on the summits, where provisions and water must be carried up to them. these lookouts now have telephones, but until last summer they used the heliograph instead. so now we prepared, having made our decision to go on. that night, if the trail was possible, we would camp at doubtful lake. xiv doing the impossible the first part of that adventurous day was quiet. we moved sedately along on an overgrown trail, mountain walls so close on each side that the valley lay in shadow. i rode next to dan devore that day, and on the trail he stopped his horse and showed me the place where hughie mckeever was found. dan devore and hughie mckeever went out one november to go up to horseshoe basin. dan left before the heaviest snows came, leaving mckeever alone. when mckeever had not appeared by february, dan went in for him. his cabin was empty. he had kept a diary up to the th of december, when it stopped abruptly. there were a few marten skins in the cabin, and his outfit. that was all. in some cottonwoods, not far from the camp, they found his hatchet and his bag hanging to a tree. it looked for a time, as though the mystery of hughie mckeever's disappearance would be one of the unsolved tragedies of the mountains. but a trapper, whose route took him along thunder creek that spring, noticed that his dog made a side trip each time, away from the trail. at last he investigated, and found the body of hughie mckeever. he had probably been caught in a snow-slide, for his leg was broken below the knee. unable to walk, he had put his snowshoes on his hands and, dragging the broken leg, had crawled six miles through the snow and ice of the mountain winter. when he was found, he was only a mile and a half from his cabin and safety. there are many other tragedies of that valley. there was a man who went up bridge creek to see a claim he had located there. he was to be out four days. but in ten days he had not appeared, which was not surprising, for there was twenty-five feet of snow, and when the snow had frozen so that rescuers could travel over the crust, they went up after him. he was lying in one of the bunks of his cabin with a mattress over him, frozen to death. so, dan said, they covered him in the snow with a mattress, and went back in the spring to bury him. every winter, in those mountain valleys, men who cannot get their outfits out before the snow shoot their horses or cut their throats rather than let them freeze or starve to death. it is a grim country, the cascade country. one man shot nine in this very valley last winter. our naturalist had been caught the winter before in the first snowstorm of the season. he was from daylight until eight o'clock at night making two miles of trail. he had to break it, foot by foot, for the horses. as we rode up the gorge toward the pass, it was evident, from the amount of snow in the mountains, that stories had not been exaggerated. the packers looked dubious. even if we could make the climb to doubtful lake, it seemed impossible that we could get farther. but the monotony of the long ride was broken that afternoon by our first sight, as a party, of a bear. [illustration: _mountain miles: the trail up swiftcurrent pass, glacier national park_] it came out on a ledge of the mountain, perhaps three hundred yards away, and proceeded, with great deliberation, to walk across a rock-slide. it paid no attention whatever to us and to the wild excitement which followed its discovery. instantly, the three junior rineharts were off their horses, and our artillery attack was being prepared. at the first shot, the pack-ponies went crazy. they lunged and jumped, and even buddy showed signs of strain, leaping what i imagine to be some eleven feet in the air and coming back on four rigid knees. followed such a peppering of that cliff as it had never had before. little clouds of rock-dust rose above the bear, in front of him, behind him, and below him. he stopped, mildly astonished, and looked around. more noise, more bucking on the trail, more dust. the bear walked on a trifle faster. it had been arranged that the first bear was to be left for the juniors. so the packers and the rest of the party watched and advised. but, as i have related elsewhere in this narrative, there were no casualties. the bear, as far as i know, is living to-day, an honored member of his community, and still telling how he survived the great war. at last he disappeared into a cave, and we went on without so much as a single skin to decorate a college room. we went on. what odds and ends of knowledge we picked up on those long days in the saddle! that if lightning strikes a pine even lightly, it kills, but that a fir will ordinarily survive; that mountain miles are measured air-line, so that twenty-five miles may really be forty, and that, even then, they are calculated on the level, so that one is credited with only the base of the triangle while he is laboriously climbing up its hypotenuse. i am personally acquainted with the hypotenuses of a good many mountains, and there is no use trying to pretend that they are bases. they are not. then we learned that the purpose of the national forests is not to preserve timber but to conserve it. the idea is to sell and reseed. about twenty-five per cent of the timber we saw was yellow pine. but most of the timber we saw on the east side of the cascades will be safe for some time. i wouldn't undertake to carry out, from most of that region, enough pine-needles to make a sofa-cushion. it is quite enough to get oneself out. up to now it had been hard going, but not impossible. now we were to do the impossible. it is a curious thing about mountains, but they have a hideous tendency to fall down. whole cliff-faces, a mile or so high, are suddenly seized with a wandering disposition. leaving the old folks at home and sliding down into the valleys, they come awful croppers and sustain about eleven million compound comminuted fractures. these family breaks are known as rock-slides. now to travel twenty feet over a rock-slide is to twist an ankle, bruise a shin-bone, utterly discourage a horse, and sour the most amiable disposition. there is no flat side to these wandering rocks. with the diabolical ingenuity that nature can show when she goes wrong, they lie edge up. do you remember the little mermaid who wished to lose her tail and gain legs so she could follow the prince? and how her penalty was that every step was like walking on the edges of swords? that is a mountain rock-slide, but i do not recall that the little mermaid had to drag a frightened and slipping horse, which stepped on her now and then. or wear riding-boots. or stop every now and then to be photographed, and try to persuade her horse to stop also. or keep looking up to see if another family jar threatened. or look around to see if any of the party or the pack was rolling down over the spareribs of that ghastly skeleton. no; the little mermaid's problem was a simple and uncomplicated one. we were climbing, too. only one thing kept us going. the narrow valley twisted, and around each cliff-face we expected the end--either death or solid ground. but not so, or, at least, not for some hours. riding-boots peeled like a sunburnt face; stones dislodged and rolled down; the sun beat down in early september fury, and still we went on. [illustration: copyright, , by a. j. baker, kalispell, mont. _where the rock-slides start_ (_glacier national park_)] only three miles it was, but it was as bad a three miles as i have ever covered. then--the naturalist turned and smiled. "now we are all right," he said. "_we start to climb soon!_" xv doubtful lake of all the mountain-climbing i have ever done the switchback up to doubtful lake is the worst. we were hours doing it. there were places when it seemed no horse could possibly make the climb. back and forth, up and up, along that narrow rock-filled trail, which was lost here in a snow-bank, there in a jungle of evergreen that hung out from the mountain-side, we were obliged to go. there was no going back. we could not have turned a horse around, nor could we have reversed the pack-outfit without losing some of the horses. as a matter of fact, we dropped two horses on that switchback. with infinite labor the packers got them back to the trail, rolling, tumbling, and roping them down to the ledge below, and there salvaging them. it was heart-breaking, nerve-racking work. near the top was an ice-patch across a brawling waterfall. to slip on that ice-patch meant a drop of incredible distance. from broken places in the crust it was possible to see the stream below. yet over the ice it was necessary to take ourselves and the pack. "absolutely no riding here," was the order, given in strained tones. for everybody's nerves were on edge. somehow or other, we got over. i can still see one little pack-pony wandering away from the others and traveling across that tiny ice-field on the very brink of death at the top of the precipice. the sun had softened the snow so that i fell flat into it. and there was a dreadful moment when i thought i was going to slide. even when i was safely over, my anxieties were just beginning. for the head and the juniors were not yet over. and there was no space to stop and see them come. it was necessary to move on up the switchback, that the next horse behind might scramble up. buddy went gallantly on, leaping, slipping, his flanks heaving, his nostrils dilated. then, at last, the familiar call,-- "are you all right, mother?" and i knew it was all right with them--so far. three thousand feet that switchback went straight up in the air. how many thousand feet we traveled back and forward, i do not know. but these things have a way of getting over somehow. the last of the pack-horses was three hours behind us in reaching doubtful lake. the weary little beasts, cut, bruised, and by this time very hungry, looked dejected and forlorn. it was bitterly cold. doubtful lake was full of floating ice, and a chilling wind blew on us from the snow all about. a bear came out on the cliff-face across the valley. but no one attempted to shoot at him. we were too tired, too bruised and sore. we gave him no more than a passing glance. it had been a tremendous experience, but a most alarming one. from the brink of that pocket on the mountain-top where we stood the earth fell away to vast distances beneath. the little river which empties doubtful lake slid greasily over a rock and disappeared without a sound into the void. [illustration: copyright by fred h. kiser, portland, oregon _switchbacks on the trail_ (_glacier national park_)] until the pack-outfit arrived, we could have no food. we built a fire and huddled round it, and now and then one of us would go to the edge of the pit which lay below to listen. the summer evening was over and night had fallen before we heard the horses coming near the top of the cliff. we cheered them, as, one by one, they stumbled over the edge, dark figures of horses and men, the animals with their bulging packs. they had put up a gallant fight. and we had no food for the horses. the few oats we had been able to carry were gone, and there was no grass on the little plateau. there was heather, deceptively green, but nothing else. and here, for the benefit of those who may follow us along the trail, let me say that oats should be carried, if two additional horses are required for the purpose--carried, and kept in reserve for the last hard days of the trip. the two horses that had fallen were unpacked first. they were cut, and on their cuts the head poured iodine. but that was all we could do for them. one little gray mare was trembling violently. she went over a cliff again the next day, but i am glad to say that we took her out finally, not much the worse except for a badly cut shoulder. the other horse, a sorrel, had only a day or two before slid five hundred feet down a snow-bank. he was still stiff from his previous accident, and if ever i saw a horse whose nerve was gone, i saw one there--a poor, tragic, shaken creature, trembling at a word. that night, while we lay wrapped in blankets round the fire while the cooks prepared supper at another fire near by, the optimist produced a bottle of claret. we drank it out of tin cups, the only wine of the journey, and not until long afterward did we know its history--that a very great man to whose faith the northwest owes so much of its development had purchased it, twenty-five years before, for the visit to this country of albert, king of the belgians. that claret, taken so casually from tin cups near the summit of the cascades, had been a part of the store of that great dreamer and most abstemious of men, james j. hill, laid in for the use of that other great dreamer and idealist, albert, when he was his guest. while we ate, weaver said suddenly,-- "listen!" his keen ears had caught the sound of a bell. he got up. "either johnny or buck," he said, "starting back home!" then commenced again that heart-breaking task of rounding up the horses. that is a part of such an expedition. and, even at that, one escaped and was found the next morning high up the cliffside, in a basin. it was too late to put up all the tents that night. mrs. fred and i slept in our clothes but under canvas, and the men lay out with their faces to the sky. toward dawn a thunder-storm came up. for we were on the crest of the cascades now, where the rain-clouds empty themselves before traveling to the arid country to the east. just over the mountain-wall above us lay the pacific slope. the rain came down, and around the peaks overhead lightning flashed and flamed. no one moved except joe, who sat up in his blankets, put his hat on, said, "let 'er rain," and lay down to sleep again. peanuts, the naturalist's horse, sought human companionship in the storm, and wandered into camp, where one of the young bear-hunters wakened to find him stepping across his prostrate and blanketed form. then all was still again, except for the solid beat of the rain on canvas and blanket, horse and man. it cleared toward morning, and at dawn dan was up and climbed the wall on foot. at breakfast, on his return, we held a conference. he reported that it was possible to reach the top--possible but difficult, and that what lay on the other side we should have to discover later on. a night's sleep had made joe all business again. on the previous day he had been too busy saving his camera and his life--camera first, of course--to try for pictures. but now he had a brilliant idea. "now see here," he said to me; "i've got a great idea. how's buddy about water?" "he's partial to it," i admitted, "for drinking, or for lying down and rolling in it, especially when i am on him. why?" "well, it's like this," he observed: "i'm set up on the bank of the lake. see? and you ride him into the water and get him to scramble up on one of those ice-cakes. do you get it? it'll be a whale of a picture." "joe," i said, in a stern voice, "did you ever try to make a horse go into an icy lake and climb on to an ice-cake? because if you have, you can do it now. i can turn the camera all right. anyhow," i added firmly, "i've been photographed enough. this film is going to look as if i'd crossed the cascades alone. some of you other people ought to have a chance." but a moving-picture man after a picture is as determined as a cook who does not like the suburbs. i rode buddy to the brink of the lake, and there spoke to him in friendly tones. i observed that this lake was like other lakes, only colder, and that it ought to be mere play after the day before. i also selected a large ice-cake, which looked fairly solid, and pointed buddy at it. then i kicked him. he took a step and began to shake. then he leaped six feet to one side and reared, still shaking. then he turned round and headed for the camp. by that i was determined on the picture. there is nothing like two wills set in opposite directions to determine a woman. buddy and i again and again approached the lake, mostly sideways. but at last he went in, took twenty steps out, felt the cold on his poor empty belly, and--refused the ice-cake. we went out much faster than we went in, making the bank in a great bound and a very bad humor--two very bad humors. xvi over cascade pass to get out of the doubtful lake plateau to cascade pass it was necessary to climb eight hundred feet up a steep and very slippery cliffside. on the other side lay the pass, but on the level of the lake. it was here that we "went up a hill one day and then went down again" with a vengeance. and on this cliffside it was that the little gray mare went over again, falling straight on to a snow-bank, which saved her, and then rolling over and over shedding parts of our equipment, and landing far below dazed and almost senseless. it was on the top of that wall above doubtful lake that i had the greatest fright of the trip. that morning, as a special favor, the little boy had been allowed to go ahead with mr. hilligoss, who was to clear trail and cut footholds where they were necessary. when we were more than halfway to the top of the wall above the lake, two alternative routes to the top offered themselves, one to the right across a snow-field that hugged the edge of a cliff which dropped sheer five hundred feet to the water, another to the left over slippery heather which threatened a slide and a casualty at every step. the woodsman had left no blazes, there being no tree to mark. holding on by clutching to the heather with our hands, we debated. finally, we chose the left-hand route as the one they had probably taken. but when we reached the top, the woodsman and the little boy were not there. we hallooed, but there was no reply. and, suddenly, the terrible silence of the mountains seemed ominous. had they ventured across the snow-bank and slipped? i am not ashamed to say that, sitting on my horse on the top of that mountain-wall, i proceeded to have a noiseless attack of hysterics. there were too many chances of accident for any of the party to take the matter lightly. there we gathered on that little mountain meadow, not much bigger than a good-sized room, and waited. there was snow and ice and silence everywhere. below, doubtful lake lay like a sapphire set in granite, and far beneath it lay the valley from which we had climbed the day before. but no one cared for scenery. then it was that "silent lawrie" turned his horse around and went back. soon he hallooed, and, climbing back to us, reported that they had crossed the ice-bank. he had found the marks of the axe making footholds. and soon afterward there was another halloo from below, and the missing ones rode into sight. they were blithe and gay. they had crossed the ice-field and had seen a view which they urged we should not miss. but i had had enough view. all i wanted was the level earth. there could be nothing after that flat enough to suit me. sliding, stumbling, falling, leading our scrambling horses, we got down the wall on the other side. it was easier going, but slippery with heather and that green moss of the mountains, which looks so tempting but which gives neither foothold nor nourishment. then, at last, the pass. it was thirty-six hours since our horses had had anything to eat. we had had food and sleep, but during the entire night the poor animals had been searching those rocky mountain-sides for food and failing to find it. they stood in a dejected group, heads down, feet well braced to support their weary bodies. but last summer was not a normal one. unusually heavy snowfalls the winter before had been followed by a late, cold spring. the snow was only beginning to melt late in july, and by september, although almost gone from the pass itself, it still covered deep the trail on the east side. so, some of those who read this may try the same great adventure hereafter and find it unnecessary to make the doubtful lake détour. i hope so. because the pass is too wonderful not to be visited. some day, when this magnificent region becomes a national park, and there is something more than a dollar a mile to be spent on trails, a thousand dollars or so invested in trail-work will put this roof of the world within reach of any one who can sit a horse. and those who go there will be the better for the going. petty things slip away in the silent high places. it is easy to believe in god there. and the stars and heaven seem very close. one thing died there forever for me--my confidence in the man who writes the geography and who says that, representing the earth by an orange, the highest mountains are merely as the corrugations on its skin. on cascade pass is the dividing-line between the chelan and the washington national forests. for some reason we had confidently believed that reaching the pass would see the end of our difficulties. the only question that had ever arisen was whether we could get to the pass or not. and now we were there. we were all perceptibly cheered; even the horses seemed to feel that the worst was over. tame grouse scudded almost under our feet. they had never seen human beings, and therefore had no terror of them. and here occurred one of the small disappointments that the middle boy will probably remember long after he has forgotten the altitude in feet of that pass and other unimportant matters. for he scared up some grouse, and this is the tragedy. the open season for grouse is september st in chelan and september th across the line. and the birds would not cross the line. they were wise birds, and must have had a calendar about them, for, although we were vague as to the date, we knew it was not yet the th. so they sat or fluttered about, and looked most awfully good to eat. but they never went near the danger-zone or the enemy's trenches. we lay about and rested, and the grouse laughed at us, and a great marmot, sentinel of his colony, sat on a near-by rock and whistled reports of what we were doing. joe unlimbered the moving-picture camera, and the head used the remainder of his small stock of iodine on the injured horses. the sun shone on the flowers and the snow, on the pail in which our cocoa was cooking, on the barrels of our unused guns and the buckles of the saddles. we watched the pack-horses coming down, tiny pin-point figures, oddly distorted by the great packs. and we rested for the descent. i do not know why we thought that descent from cascade pass on the pacific side was going to be easy. it was by far the most nerve-racking part of the trip. yet we started off blithely enough. perhaps buddy knew that he was the first horse to make that desperate excursion. he developed a strange nervousness, and took to leaping off the trail in bad places, so that one moment i was a part of the procession and the next was likely to be six feet above the trail on a rocky ledge, with no apparent way to get down. we had expected that there would be less snow on the western slope, but at the beginning of the trip we found snow everywhere. and whereas before the rock-slides had been wretchedly uncomfortable but at comparatively low altitudes, now we found ourselves climbing across slides which hugged the mountain thousands of feet above the valley. our nerves began to go, too, i think, on that last day. we were plainly frightened, not for ourselves but each for the other. there were many places where to dislodge a stone was to lose it as down a bottomless well. there was one frightful spot where it was necessary to go through a waterfall on a narrow ledge slippery with moss, where the water dropped straight, uncounted feet to the valley below. the little boy paused blithely, his reins over his arm, and surveyed the scenery from the center of this death-trap. "if anybody slipped here," he said, "he'd fall quite a distance." then he kicked a stone to see it go. "_quit that!_" said the head, in awful tones. midway of the descent, we estimated that we should lose at least ten horses. the pack was behind us, and there was no way to discover how they were faring. but as the ledges were never wide enough for a horse and the one leading him to move side by side, it seemed impossible that the pack-ponies with their wide burdens could edge their way along. [illustration: _watching the pack-train coming down at cascade pass_] i had mounted buddy again. i was too fatigued to walk farther, and, besides, i had fallen so often that i felt he was more sure-footed than i. perhaps my narrowest escape on that trip was where a huge stone had slipped across the ledge we were following. buddy, afraid to climb its slippery sides, undertook to leap it. there was one terrible moment when he failed to make a footing with his hind feet and we hung there over the gorge. after that, dan devore led him. in spite of our difficulties, we got down to the timber-line rather quickly. but there trouble seemed to increase rather than diminish. trees had fallen across the way, and dangerous détours on uncertain footing were necessary to get round them. the warm rains of the pacific slope had covered the mountain-sides with thick vegetation also. our way, hardly less steep than on the day before, was overgrown with greenery that was often a trap for the unwary. and even when, at last, we were down beyond the imminent danger of breaking our necks at every step, there were more difficulties. the vegetation was rank, tremendously high. we worked our way through it, lost to each other and to the world. wilderness snows had turned the small streams to roaring rivers and spread them over flats through which we floundered. so long was it since the trail had been used that it was often difficult to tell where it took off from the other side of the stream. and our horses were growing very weary. they had made the entire trip without grain and with such bits of pasture as they could pick up in the mountains. now it was a long time since they had had even grass. it will never be possible to know how many miles we covered in that cascade pass trip. as mr. hilligoss said, mountain miles were measured with a coonskin, and they threw in the tail. often to make a mile's advance we traveled four on the mountain-side. so when they tell me that it was a trifle of sixteen miles from the top of cascade pass to the camp-site we made that night, i know that it was nearer thirty. in point of difficulties, it was a thousand. yet the last part of the trip, had we not been too weary to enjoy it, was superbly beautiful. there was a fine rain falling. the undergrowth was less riotous and had taken on the form of giant ferns, ten feet high, which overhung the trail. here were great cypress trees thirty-six feet in circumference--a forest of them. we rode through green aisles where even the death of the forest was covered by soft moss. out of the green and moss-covered trunks of dead giants, new growth had sprung, new trees, hanging gardens of ferns. there had been much talk of mineral park. it was our objective point for camp that night, and i think i had gathered that it was to be a settlement. i expected nothing less than a post-office and perhaps some miners' cabins. when, at the end of that long, hard day, we reached mineral park at twilight and in a heavy rain, i was doomed to disappointment. mineral park consists of a deserted shack in a clearing perhaps forty feet square, on the bank of a mountain stream. all around it is impenetrable forest. the mountains converge here so that the valley becomes a cañon. so dense was the growth that we put up our tents on the trail itself. in the little clearing round the empty shack, the horses were tied in the cold rain. it was impossible to let them loose, for we could never have found them again. our hearts ached that night for the hungry creatures; the rain had brought a cold wind and they could not even move about to keep warm. i was too tired to eat that night. i went to bed and lay in my tent, listening to the sound of the rain on the canvas. the camp-stove was set up in the trail, and the others gathered round it, eating in the rain. but, weary as i was, i did not sleep. for the first time, terror of the forest gripped me. it menaced; it threatened. the roar of the river sounded like the rush of flame. i lay there and wondered what would happen if the forest took fire. for the gentle summer rain would do little good once a fire started. there would be no way out. the giant cliffs would offer no refuge. we could not even have reached them through the jungle had we tried. and forest-fires were common enough. we had ridden over too many burned areas not to realize that. xvii out to civilization it was still raining in the morning. the skies were gray and sodden and the air was moist. we stood round the camp-fire and ate our fried ham, hot coffee, and biscuits. it was then that the head, prompted by sympathy, fed his horse the rain-soaked biscuit, the apple, the two lumps of sugar, and the raw egg. yet, in spite of the weather, we were jubilant. the pack-train had come through without the loss of a single horse. again the impossible had become possible. and that day was to see us out of the mountains and in peaceful green valleys, where the horses could eat their fill. the sun came out as we started. had it not been for the horses, we should have been entirely happy. but sympathy for them had become an obsession. we rode slowly to save them; we walked when we could. it was strange to go through that green wonderland and find not a leaf the horses could eat. it was all moss, ferns, and evergreens. from the semi-arid lands east of the cascades to the rank vegetation of the pacific side was an extraordinary change. trees grew to enormous sizes. in addition to the great cedars, there were hemlocks fifteen and eighteen feet in circumference. only the strong trees survive in these valleys, and by that ruthless selection of nature weak young saplings die early. so we found cedar, hemlock, lodge-pole pine, white and douglas fir, cottonwood, white pine, spruce, and alder of enormous size. the brake ferns were the most common, often growing ten feet tall. we counted five varieties of ferns growing in profusion, among them brake ferns, sword-ferns, and maidenhair, most beautiful and luxuriant. the maidenhair fern grew in masses, covering dead trunks of trees and making solid walls of delicate green beside the trail. "silent lawrie" knew them all. he knew every tiniest flower and plant that thrust its head above the leaf-mould. he saw them all, too. peanuts, his horse, made his own way now, and the naturalist sat a trifle sideways in his saddle and showed me his discoveries. i am no naturalist, so i rode behind him, notebook in hand, and i made a list something like this. if there are any errors they are not the naturalist's, but mine, because, although i have written a great deal on a horse's back, i am not proof against the accident of whiskers stirring a yellow-jackets' nest on the trail, or of buddy stumbling, weary beast that he was, over a root on the path. this is my list: red-stemmed dogwood; bunchberries, in blossom on the higher reaches, in bloom below; service-berries, salmon-berries; skunk-cabbage, beloved by bears, and the roots of which the indians roast and eat; above four thousand feet, white rhododendrons, and, above four thousand five hundred feet, heather; hellebore also in the high places; thimble-berries and red elderberries, tag-alder, red honeysuckle, long stretches of willows in the creek-bottoms; vining maples, too, and yew trees, the wood of which the indians use for making bows. [illustration: copyright by fred h. kiser, portland, oregon _a field of bear-grass_] around cloudy pass we found the red monkey-flower. in different places there was the wild parsnip; the ginger-plant, with its heart-shaped leaf and blossom, buried in the leaf-mould, its crushed leaves redolent of ginger; masses of yellow violets, twinflowers, ox-eye daisies, and sweet-in-death, which is sold on the streets in the west as we sell sweet lavender. there were buttercups, purple asters, bluebells, goat's-beard, columbines, mariposa lilies, bird's-bill, trillium, devil's-club, wild white heliotrope, brick-leaved spirea, wintergreen, everlasting. and there are still others, where buddy collided with the yellow-jacket, that i find i cannot read at all. something lifted for me that day as buddy and i led off down that fat, green valley, with the pass farther and farther behind--a weight off my spirit, a deadly fear of accident, not to myself but to the family, which had obsessed me for the last few days. but now i could twist in my saddle and see them all, ruddy and sound and happy, whistling as they rode. and i knew that it was all right. it had been good for them and good for me. it is always good to do a difficult thing. and no one has ever fought a mountain and won who is not the better for it. the mountains are not for the weak or the craven, or the feeble of mind or body. we went on, to the distant tinkle of the bell on the lead-horse of the pack-train. it was that day that "silent lawrie" spoke i remember, because he had said so little before, and because what he said was so well worth remembering. "why can't all this sort of thing be put into music?" he asked. "it _is_ music. think of it, the drama of it all!" then he went on, and this is what "silent lawrie" wants to have written. i pass it on to the world, and surely it can be done. it starts at dawn, with the dew, and the whistling of the packers as they go after the horses. then come the bells of the horses as they come in, the smoke of the camp-fire, the first sunlight on the mountains, the saddling and packing. and all the time the packers are whistling. then the pack starts out on the trail, the bells of the leaders jingling, the rattle and crunch of buckles and saddle-leather, the click of the horses' feet against the rocks, the swish as they ford a singing stream. the wind is in the trees and birds are chirping. then comes the long, hard day, the forest, the first sight of snow-covered peaks, the final effort, and camp. after that, there is the thrush's evening song, the afterglow, the camp-fire, and the stars. and over all is the quiet of the night, and the faint bells of grazing horses, like the silver ringing of the bell at a mass. i wish i could do it. at noon that day in the skagit valley, we found our first civilization, a camp where a man was cutting cedar blocks for shingles. he looked absolutely astounded when our long procession drew in around his shanty. he meant only one thing to us; he meant oats. if he had oats, we were saved. if he had no oats, it meant again long hours of traveling with our hungry horses. he had a bag of oats. but he was not inclined, at first, to dispose of them, and, as a matter of fact, he did not sell them to us at all. when we finally got them from him, it was only on our promise to send back more oats. money was of no use to him there in the wilderness; but oats meant everything. thirty-one horses we drove into that little bit of a clearing under the cedar trees, perhaps a hundred feet by thirty. such wild excitement as prevailed among the horses when the distribution of oats began, such plaintive whinnying and restless stirring! but i think they behaved much better than human beings would have under the same circumstances. and at last each was being fed--such a pathetically small amount, too, hardly more than a handful apiece, it seemed. in his eagerness, the little boy's horse breathed in some oats, and for a time it looked as though he would cough himself to death. the wood-cutter's wife was there. we were the one excitement in her long months of isolation. i can still see her rather pathetic face as she showed me the lace she was making, the one hundred and one ways in which she tried to fill her lonely hours. all through the world there are such women, shut away from their kind, staying loyally with the man they have chosen through days of aching isolation. that woman had children. she could not take them into the wilderness with her, so they were in a town, and she was here in the forest, making things for them and fretting about them and longing for them. there was something tragic in her face as she watched us mount to go on. we were to reach marblemont that day and there to leave our horses. after they had rested and recovered, dan devore was to take them back over the range again, while we went on to civilization and a railroad. we promised the wood-cutter to send the oats back with the outfit; and when we sent them, we sent at the same time some magazines to that lonely wife and mother on the skagit. late in the afternoon, we emerged from the forest. it was like coming from a darkened room into the light. one moment we were in the aisles of that great green cathedral, the next there was an open road and the sunlight and houses. we prodded the horses with our heels and raced down the road. surprised inhabitants came out and stared. we waved to them; we loved them; we loved houses and dogs and cows and apple trees. but most of all we loved level places. we were in time, too, for the railroad strike had not yet taken place. as bob got off his horse, he sang again that little ditty with which, during the most strenuous hours of the trip, we had become familiar:-- "oh, a sailor's life is bold and free, he lives upon the bright blue sea: he has to work like h--, of course, but he doesn't have to ride on a darned old horse." the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: the poems on pages and , were punctuated differently. this was retained. on page , dvorak is printed with a hacek over the r. the contraints of text preclude this from being used in this one instance. the night-riders a romance of early montana by ridgwell cullum _author of "the watchers of the plains," "the sheriff of dyke hole," "the trail of the axe," "the one-way trail," etc._ philadelphia george w. jacobs & company publishers copyright, , by george w. jacobs & company _published february, _ _all rights reserved_ printed in u. s. a. [illustration: he took her in his powerful arms and drew her to his breast] contents i. in the hands of the philistines ii. mosquito bend iii. the blind man iv. the night-riders v. tresler begins his education vi. the killing of manson orr vii. which deals with the matter of drink viii. joe nelson indulges in a little match-making ix. tresler involves himself further; the lady jezebel in a freakish mood x. a wild ride xi. the trail of the night-riders xii. the rising of a summer storm xiii. the bearding of jake xiv. a portentous interview xv. at willow bluff xvi. what love will do xvii. the lighted lamp xviii. the renunciation xix. hot upon the trail xx. by the light of the lamp xxi. at widow dangley's xxii. the pursuit of red mask xxiii. a return to the land of the philistines xxiv. arizona illustrations he took her in his powerful arms and drew her to his breast _frontispiece_ a moment later he beheld two horsemen _facing page_ left alone with her patient, she had little to do but reflect _facing page_ the night-riders chapter i in the hands of the philistines forks settlement no longer occupies its place upon the ordnance map of the state of montana. at least not _the_ forks settlement--the one which nestled in a hollow on the plains, beneath the shadow of the rocky mountains. it is curious how these little places do contrive to slip off the map in the course of time. there is no doubt but that they do, and are wholly forgotten, except, perhaps, by those who actually lived or visited there. it is this way with all growing countries, and anywhere from twenty to thirty years ago montana was distinctly a new country. it was about ' that forks settlement enjoyed the height of its prosperity--a prosperity based on the supply of dry-goods and machinery to a widely scattered and sparse population of small ranchers and farmers. these things brought it into existence and kept it afloat for some years. then it gradually faded from existence--just as such places do. when john tresler rode into forks he wondered what rural retreat he had chanced upon. he didn't wonder in those words, his language was much more derogatory to the place than that. it was late one afternoon when his horse ambled gently on to the green patch which served forks as a market-place. he drew up and looked around him for some one to give him information. the place was quite deserted. it was a roasting hot day, and the people of forks were not given to moving about much on hot days, unless imperative business claimed them. as there were only two seasons in the year when such a thing was likely to happen, and this was not one of them, no one was stirring. the sky was unshaded by a single cloud. tresler was tired, stiff, and consumed by a sponge-like thirst, for he was unused to long hours in the saddle. and he had found a dreary monotony in riding over the endless prairie lands of the west. now he found himself surrounded by an uncertain circle of wooden houses. none of them suggested luxury, but after the heaving rollers of grass-land they suggested companionship and life. and just now that was all the horseman cared about. he surveyed each house in turn, searching for a single human face. and at last he beheld a window full of faces staring curiously at him from the far side of the circle. it was enough. touching his jaded horse's flanks he rode over toward it. further life appeared now in the form of a small man who edged shyly round the angle of the building and stood gazing at him. the stranger was a queer figure. his face was as brown as the surface of a prairie trail and just as scored with ruts. his long hair and flowing beard were the color of matured hay. his dress was simple and in keeping with his face; moleskin trousers, worn and soiled, a blue serge shirt, a shabby black jacket, and a fiery handkerchief about his neck, while a battered prairie hat adorned the back of his head. tresler pulled his horse up before this welcome vision and slid stiffly to the ground, while the little man slanted his eyes over his general outfit. "is this forks settlement?" the newcomer asked, with an ingratiating smile. he was a manly looking fellow with black hair and steel-blue eyes; he was dressed in a plain norfolk jacket and riding kit. he was not particularly handsome, but possessed a strong, reliant face. the stranger closed his eyes in token of acquiescence. "ur-hum," he murmured. "will you point me out the hotel?" the other's eyes had finally settled themselves on the magnificent pair of balloon-shaped corduroy riding-breeches tresler was wearing, which had now resettled themselves into their natural voluminous folds. he made no audible reply. he was engrossed with the novel vision before him. a backward jerk of the head was the only sign he permitted himself. tresler looked at the house indicated. he felt in some doubt, and not without reason. the place was a mere two-storied shanty, all askew and generally unpromising. "can i--that is, does the proprietor take--er--guests?" he asked. "guess carney takes most anythin'," came the easy reply. the door of the hotel opened and two men came out, eyeing the newcomer and his horse critically. then they propped themselves in leisurely fashion against the door-casing, and chewed silently, while they gazed abroad with marked unconcern. tresler hazarded another question. he felt strange in this company. it was his first real acquaintance with a prairie settlement, and he didn't quite know what to expect. "i wonder if there is any one to see to my horse," he said with some hesitation. "hitch him to the tie-post an' ast in ther'," observed the uncommunicative man, pointing to a post a few yards from the door, but without losing interest in the other's nether garments. "that sounds reasonable." tresler moved off and secured his horse and loosened the saddle-girths. "pardon me, sir," he said, when he came back, his well-trimmed six feet towering over the other's five feet four. "might i ask whom i have the pleasure of addressing? my name is john tresler; i am on my way to mosquito bend, julian marbolt's ranch. a stranger, you see, in a strange land. no doubt you have observed that already," he finished up good-naturedly. but the other's attention was not to be diverted from the interesting spectacle of the corduroys, and he answered without shifting his gaze. "my name's ranks--gener'ly called 'slum.' howdy." "well, mr. ranks----" "gener'ly called 'slum,'" interrupted the other. "mr. slum, then----" tresler smiled. "slum!" the man's emphasis was marked. there was no cheating him of his due. "slum" was his sobriquet by the courtesy of prairie custom. "ranks" was purely a paternal heirloom and of no consequence at all. "well, slum," tresler laughed, "suppose we go and sample carney's refreshments. i'm tired, and possess a thirst." he stepped toward the doorway and looked back. mr. ranks had not moved. only his wondering eyes had followed the other's movements. "won't you join me?" tresler asked. then, noting the fixed stare in the man's eyes, he went on with some impatience, "what the dickens are you staring at?" and, in self-defense, he was forced into a survey of his own riding-breeches. slum looked up. a twinkle of amusement shone beneath his heavy brows, while a broad grin parted the hair on his face. "oh, jest nothin'," he said amiably. "i wer' kind o' figgerin' out what sort of a feller them pants o' yours wus made for." he doused the brown earth at his feet with tobacco juice. then shaking his head thoughtfully, a look of solemn wonder replaced the grin. "say," he added, "but he must 'a' bin a dandy chunk of a man." tresler was about to reply. but a glance at mr. ranks, and an audible snigger coming from the doorway, suddenly changed his mind. he swung round to face a howl of laughter; and he understood. "the drinks are on me," he said with some chagrin. "come on, all of you. yes, i'm a 'tenderfoot.'" and it was the geniality of his reply that won him a place in the society of forks settlement at once. in five minutes his horse was stabled and cared for. in five minutes he was addressing the occupants of the saloon by their familiar nicknames. in five minutes he was paying for whisky at an exorbitant price. in five minutes--well, he sniffed his first breath of prairie habits and prairie ways. it is not necessary to delve deeply into the characters of these citizens of forks. it is not good to rake bad soil, the process is always offensive. a mere outline is alone necessary. ike carney purveyed liquor. a little man with quick, cunning eyes, and a mouth that shut tight under a close-cut fringe of gray moustache. "shaky" pindle, the carpenter, was a sad-eyed man who looked as gentle as a disguised wolf. his big, scarred face never smiled, because, his friends said, it was a physical impossibility for it to do so, and his huge, rough body was as uncouth as his manners, and as unwieldy as his slow-moving tongue. taylor, otherwise "twirly," the butcher, was a man so genial and rubicund that in five minutes you began to wish that he was built like the lower animals that have no means of giving audible expression to their good humor, or, if they have, there is no necessity to notice it except by a well-directed kick. and slum, quiet, unsophisticated slum, shadier than the shadiest of them all, but a man who took the keenest delight in the humors of life, and who did wrong from an inordinate delight in besting his neighbors. a man to smile at, but to avoid. these were the men john tresler, fresh from harvard and a generous home, found himself associated with while he rested on his way to mosquito bend. ike carney laid himself out to be pleasant. "goin' to skitter bend?" he observed, as he handed his new guest the change out of a one hundred dollar bill. "wal, it's a tidy layout;--ninety-five dollars, mister; a dollar a drink. you'll find that c'rect--best ranch around these parts. say," he went on, "the ol' blind hoss has hunched it together pretty neat. i'll say that." "blind mule," put in slum, vaulting to a seat on the bar. "mule?" questioned shaky, with profound scorn. "guess you ain't worked around his layout, slum. skunk's my notion of him. i 'lows his kickin's most like a mule's, but ther' ain't nothin' more to the likeness. a mule's a hard-workin', decent cit'zen, which ain't off'n said o' julian marbolt." shaky swung a leg over the back of a chair and sat down with his arms folded across it, and his heavy bearded chin resting upon them. "but you can't expect a blind man to be the essence of amiability," said tresler. "think of his condition." "see here, young feller," jerked in shaky, thrusting his chin-beard forward aggressively. "condition ain't to be figgered on when a man keeps a great hulkin', bulldozin' swine of a foreman like jake harnach. say, them two, the blind skunk an' jake, ken raise more hell in five minutes around that ranch than a tribe o' neches on the war-path. i built a barn on that place last summer, an' i guess i know." "comforting for me," observed tresler, with a laugh. "oh, you ain't like to git his rough edge," put in carney, easily. "guess you're payin' a premium?" asked shaky. "i'm going to have three years' teaching." "three years o' skitter bend?" said slum, quietly. "guess you'll learn a deal in three years o' skitter bend." the little man chewed the end of a cigar tresler had presented him with, while his twinkling eyes exchanged meaning glances with his comrades. twirly laughed loudly and backed against the bar, stretching out his arms on either side of him, and gripping its moulded edge with his beefy hands. "an' you're payin' fer that teachin'?" the butcher asked incredulously, when his mirth had subsided. "it seems the custom in this country to pay for everything you get," tresler answered, a little shortly. he was being laughed at more than he cared about. still he checked his annoyance. he wanted to know something about the local reputation of the rancher he had apprenticed himself to, so he fired a direct question in amongst his audience. "look here," he said sharply. "what's the game? what's the matter with this julian marbolt?" he looked round for an answer, which, for some minutes, did not seem to be forthcoming. slum broke the silence at last. "he's blind," he said quietly. "i know that," retorted tresler, impatiently. "it's something else i want to know." he looked at the butcher, who only laughed. he turned on the saloon-keeper, who shook his head. finally he applied to shaky. "wal," the carpenter began, with a ponderous air of weighing his words. "i ain't the man to judge a feller offhand like. i 'lows i know suthin' o' the blind man o' skitter bend, seein' i wus workin' contract fer him all last summer. an' wot i knows is--nasty. i've see'd things on that ranch as made me git a tight grip on my axe, an' long a'mighty hard to bust a few heads in. i've see'd that all-fired jake harnach, the foreman, hammer hell out o' some o' the hands, wi' tha' blind man standin' by jest as though his gummy eyes could see what was doin', and i've watched his ugly face workin' wi' every blow as jake pounded, 'cos o' the pleasure it give him. i've see'd some o' those fellers wilter right down an' grovel like yaller dorgs at their master's feet. i've see'd that butcher-lovin' lot handle their hosses an' steers like so much dead meat--an' wuss'n. i've see'd hell around that ranch. 'an' why for,' you asks, 'do their punchers an' hands stand it?' ''cos,' i answers quick, 'ther' ain't a job on this countryside fer 'em after julian marbolt's done with 'em.' that's why. 'wher' wus you workin' around before?' asks a foreman. 'skitter bend,' says the puncher. 'ain't got nothin' fer you,' says the foreman quick; 'guess this ain't no butcherin' bizness!' an' that's jest how it is right thro' with skitter bend," shaky finished up, drenching the spittoon against the bar with consummate accuracy. "right--dead right," said twirly, with a laugh. "guess, mebbe, you're prejudiced some," suggested carney, with an eye on his visitor. "shaky's taken to book readin'," said slum, gently. "guess dime fiction gits a powerful holt on some folk." "dime fiction y'rself," retorted shaky, sullenly. "mebbe young dave steele as come back from ther' with a hole in his head that left him plumb crazy ever since till he died, 'cos o' some racket he had wi' jake--mebbe that's out of a dime fiction. say, you git right to it, an' kep on sousin' whisky, slum ranks. you ken do that--you can't tell me 'bout the blind man." a pause in the conversation followed while ike dried some glasses. the room was getting dark. it was a cheerless den. tresler was thoughtfully smoking. he was digesting and sifting what he had heard; trying to separate fact from fiction in shaky's story. he felt that there must be some exaggeration. at last he broke the silence, and all eyes were turned on him. "and do you mean to say there is no law to protect people on these outlying stations? do you mean to tell me that men sit down quietly under such dastardly tyranny?" his questions were more particularly directed toward shaky. "law?" replied the carpenter. "law? say, we don't rec'nize no law around these parts--not yet. mebbe it's comin', but--i 'lows ther's jest one law at present, an' that we mostly carries on us. oh, jake harnach's met his match 'fore now. but 'tain't frekent. yes, jake's a big swine, wi' the muscle o' two men; but i've seen him git downed, and not a hund'ed mile from wher' we're settin'. say, ike," he turned to the man behind the bar, "you ain't like to fergit the night black anton called his 'hand.' ther' ain't no bluff to anton. when he gits to the bizness end of a gun it's best to get your thumbs up sudden." the saloon-keeper nodded. "guess there's one man who's got jake's measure, an' that's black anton." the butcher added a punctuating laugh, while slum nodded. "and who's black anton?" asked tresler of the saloon-keeper. "anton? wal, i guess he's marbolt's private hoss keeper. he's a half-breed. french-canadian; an' tough. say, he's jest as quiet an' easy you wouldn't know he was around. soft spoken as a woman, an' jest about as vicious as a rattler. guess you'll meet him. an' i 'lows he's meetable--till he's riled." "pleasant sort of man if he can cow this wonderful jake," observed tresler, quietly. "oh, yes, pleasant 'nough," said ike, mistaking his guest's meaning. "the only thing i can't understand 'bout anton," said slum, suddenly becoming interested, "is that he's earnin' his livin' honest. he's too quiet, an'--an' iley. he sort o' slid into this territory wi'out a blamed cit'zen of us knowin'. we've heerd tell of him sence from 'crost the border, an' the yarns ain't nice. i don't figger to argue wi' strangers at no time, an' when anton's around i don't never git givin' no opinion till he's done talkin', when i mostly find mine's the same as his." "some folks ain't got no grit," growled shaky, contemptuously. "an' some folk 'a' got so much grit they ain't got no room fer savee," rapped in slum sharply. "meanin' me," said shaky, sitting up angrily. "i 'lows you've got grit," replied the little man quietly, looking squarely into the big man's eyes. "go to h----" "guess i'd as lief be in forks; it's warmer," replied slum, imperturbably. "stow yer gas! you nag like a widder as can't git a second man." "which wouldn't happen wi' folk o' your kidney around." shaky was on his feet in an instant, and his anger was blazing in his fierce eyes. "say, you gorl----" "set right ther', shaky," broke in slum, as the big man sprang toward him. "set right ther'; ther' ain't goin' to be no hoss-play." slum ranks had not shifted his position, but his right hand had dived into his jacket pocket and his eyes flashed ominously. and the carpenter dropped back into his seat without a word. and tresler looked on in amazement. it was all so quick, so sudden. there had hardly been a breathing space between the passing of their good-nature and their swift-rising anger. the strangeness of it all, the lawlessness, fascinated him. he knew he was on the fringe of civilization, but he had had no idea of how sparse and short that fringe was. he thought that civilization depended on the presence of white folk. that, of necessity, white folk must themselves have the instincts of civilization. here he saw men, apparently good comrades all, who were ready, on the smallest provocation, to turn and rend each other. it was certainly a new life to him, something that perhaps he had vaguely dreamt of, but the possibility of the existence of which he had never seriously considered. but, curiously enough, as he beheld these things for himself for the first time, they produced no shock, they disturbed him in nowise. it all seemed so natural. more, it roused in him a feeling that such things should be. possibly this feeling was due to his own upbringing, which had been that of an essentially athletic university. he even felt the warm blood surge through his veins at the prospect of a forcible termination to the two men's swift passage of arms. but the ebullition died out as quickly as it had risen. slum slid from the bar to the ground, and his deep-set eyes were smiling again. "pshaw," he said, with a careless shrug, "ther' ain't nothin' to grit wi'out savee." shaky rose and stretched himself as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of the meeting. the butcher relinquished his hold on the bar and moved across to the window. "guess the missis'll be shoutin' around fer you fellers to git your suppers," slum observed cheerfully. then he turned to tresler. "ike, here, don't run no boarders. mebbe you'd best git around to my shack. sally'll fix you up with a blanket or two, an' the grub ain't bad. you see, i run a boardin'-house fer the boys--leastways, sally does." and tresler adopted the suggestion. he had no choice but to do so. anyway, he was quite satisfied with the arrangement. he had entered the life of the prairie and was more than willing to adopt its ways and its people. and the recollection of that first night in forks remained with him when the memory of many subsequent nights had passed from him. it stuck to him as only the first strong impressions of a new life can. he met sally ranks--she was two sizes too large for the dining-room of the boarding-house--who talked in a shrieking nasal manner that cut the air like a knife, and who heaped the plates with coarse food that it was well to have a good appetite to face. he dined for the first time in his life at a table that had no cloth, and devoured his food with the aid of a knife and fork that had never seen a burnish since they had first entered the establishment, and drank boiled tea out of a tin cup that had once been enameled. he was no longer john tresler, fresh from the new england states, but one of fourteen boarders, the majority of whom doubled the necessary length of their sentences when they conversed by reason of an extensive vocabulary of blasphemy, and picked their teeth with their forks. but it was pleasant to him. he was surrounded by something approaching the natural man. maybe they were drawn from the dregs of society, but nevertheless they had forcibly established their right to live--a feature that had lifted them from the ruck of thousands of law-abiding citizens. he experienced a friendly feeling for these ruffians. more, he had a certain respect for them. after supper many of them drifted back to their recreation-ground, the saloon. tresler, although he had no inclination for drink, would have done the same. he wished to see more of the people, to study them as a man who wishes to prepare himself for a new part. but the quiet slum drew him back and talked gently to him; and he listened. "say, tresler," the little man remarked offhandedly, "ther's three fellers lookin' fer a gamble. two of 'em ain't a deal at 'draw,' the other's pretty neat. i tho't, mebbe, you'd notion a hand up here wi' us. it's better'n loafin' down 't the saloon. we most gener'ly play a dollar limit." and so it was arranged. tresler stayed. he was initiated. he learned the result of a game of "draw" in forks, where the players made the whole game of life a gamble, and attained a marked proficiency in the art. the result was inevitable. by midnight there were four richer citizens in forks, and a newcomer who was poorer by his change out of a hundred-dollar bill. but tresler lost quite cheerfully. he never really knew how it was he lost, whether it was his bad play or bad luck. he was too tired and sleepy long before the game ended. he realized next morning, when he came to reflect, that in some mysterious manner he had been done. however, he took his initiation philosophically, making only a mental reservation for future guidance. that night he slept on a palliasse of straw, with a pillow consisting of a thin bolster propped on his outer clothes. three very yellow blankets made up the tally of comfort. and the whole was spread out on the floor of a room in which four other men were sleeping noisily. after breakfast he paid his bill, and, procuring his horse, prepared for departure. his first acquaintance in forks stood his friend to the last. slum it was who looked round his horse to see that the girths of the saddle were all right; slum it was who praised the beast in quiet, critical tones; slum it was who shook him by the hand and wished him luck; slum it was who gave him a parting word of advice; just as it was slum who had first met him with ridicule, cared for him--at a price--during his sojourn, and quietly robbed him at a game he knew little about. and tresler, with the philosophy of a man who has that within him which must make for achievement, smiled, shook hands heartily and with good will, and quietly stored up the wisdom he had acquired in his first night in forks settlement. "say, tresler," exclaimed slum, kindly, as he wrung his departing guest's hand, "i'm real glad i've met you. i 'lows, comin' as you did, you might 'a' run dead into some durned skunk as hadn't the manners for dealin' with a hog. there's a hatful of 'em in forks. s'long. say, ther's a gal at skitter bend. she's the ol' blind boss's daughter, an' she's a dandy. but don't git sparkin' her wi' the ol' man around." tresler laughed. slum amused him. "good-bye," he said. "your kindness has taken a load--off my mind. i know more than i did yesterday morning. no, i won't get sparking the girl with the old man around. see you again some time." and he passed out of forks. "that feller's a decent--no, he's a gentleman," muttered slum, staring after the receding horseman. "guess skitter bend's jest about the place fer him. he'll bob out on top like a cork in a water bar'l. say, jake harnach'll git his feathers trimmed or i don't know a 'deuce-spot' from a 'straight flush.'" which sentiment spoke volumes for his opinion of the man who had just left him. chapter ii mosquito bend forks died away in a shimmering haze of heat as tresler rode out over the hard prairie trail. ten miles they had told him it was to mosquito bend; a ten-mile continuation of the undulating plains he had now grown accustomed to. he allowed his horse to take it leisurely. there was no great hurry for an early arrival. john tresler had done what many an enterprising youngster from the new england states has done since. at the age of twenty-five, finding himself, after his university career at harvard, with an excellent training in all athletics, particularly boxing and wrestling and all those games pertaining to the noble art of self-defense, but with only a limited proficiency in matters relating to the earning of an adequate living, he had decided to break new ground for himself on the prairie-lands of the west. stock-raising was his object, and, to this end, he had sought out a ranch where he could thoroughly master the craft before embarking on his own enterprise. it was through official channels that he had heard of mosquito bend as one of the largest ranches in the country at the time, and he had at once entered into negotiations with the owner, julian marbolt, for a period of instruction. his present journey was the result. he thought a good deal as his horse ambled over that ten miles. he weighed the stories he had heard from shaky, and picked them threadbare. he reduced his efforts to a few pointed conclusions. things were decidedly rough at mosquito bend. probably the brutality was a case of brute force pitted against brute force--he had taken into consideration the well-known disposition of the western cowpuncher--and, as such, a matter of regretable necessity for the governing of the place. shaky had in some way fallen foul of the master and foreman and had allowed personal feelings to warp his judgment. and, lastly, taking his "greenness" into account, he had piled up the agony simply from the native love of the "old hand" for scaring a newcomer. tresler was no weakling or he would never have set out to shape his own course as he was now doing. he was a man of considerable purpose, self-reliant and reasonable, with sufficient easy good-nature to be compatible with strength. he liked his own experiences too, though he never scorned the experiences of another. slum had sized him up pretty shrewdly when he said "he'll bob out on top like a cork in a water bar'l," but he had not altogether done him full justice. the southwestern trail headed slantwise for the mountains, which snowy barrier bounded his vision to the west the whole of his journey. he had watched the distant white-capped ramparts until their novelty had worn off, and now he took their presence as a matter of course. his eyes came back to the wide, almost limitless plains about him, and he longed for the sight of a tree, a river, even a cultivated patch of nodding wheat. but there was just nothing but the lank, tawny grass for miles and miles, and the blazing sunlight that scorched him and baked gray streaks of dusty sweat on his horse's shoulders and flanks. he rode along dreaming, as no doubt hundreds of others have dreamt before and since. there was nothing new or original about his dreams, for he was not a man given to romance. he was too direct and practical for that. no, his were just the thoughts of a young man who has left his home, which thereby gains in beauty as distance lends enchantment to it, and kindly recollection crowns it with a glory that it could never in reality possess. without indication or warning, he came upon one of those strangely hidden valleys in which the prairie near the rockies abounds. he found himself at the edge of it, gazing down upon a wide woodland-bound river, which wound away to the east and west like the trail of some prehistoric monster. the murmur of the flowing waters came to him with such a suggestion of coolness and shade that, for the first time on his long journey from whitewater, he was made to forget the park-like beauties of his own native land. there was a delightful variation of color in the foliage down there. such a density of shadow, such a brilliancy. and a refreshing breeze was rustling over the tree-tops, a breath he had longed for on the plains but had never felt. the opposite side was lower. he stood on a sort of giant step. a wall that divided the country beyond from the country he was leaving. a wall that seemed to isolate those who might live down there and shut them out as though theirs was another world. he touched his horse's flanks, and, with careful, stilted steps, the animal began the descent. and now he speculated as to the whereabouts of the ranch, for he knew that this was the mosquito river, and somewhere upon its banks stood his future home. as he thought of this he laughed. his future home; well, judging by what he had been told, it would certainly possess the charm of novelty. he was forced to give up further speculation for a while. the trail descended so sharply that his horse had to sidle down it, and the loose shingle under its feet set it sliding and slipping dangerously. in a quarter of an hour he drew up on the river bank and looked about him. whither? that was the question. he was at four crossroads. east and west, along the river bank; and north and south, the way he had come and across the water. along the bank the woods were thick and dark, and the trail split them like the aisle of an aged gothic church. the surface of red sand was hard, but there were marks of traffic upon it. then he looked across the river at the distant rolling plains. "of course," he said aloud. "who's going to build a ranch on this side? where could the cattle run?" and he put his horse at the water and waded across without further hesitation. beyond the river the road bent away sharply to the right, and cut through a wide avenue of enormous pine trees, and along this he bustled his horse. half a mile further on the avenue widened. the solemn depths about him lightened, and patches of sunlight shone down into them and lit up the matted underlay of rotting cones and pine-needles which covered the earth. the road bent sharply away from the river, revealing a scrub of low bush decorated with a collection of white garments, evidently set out to dry. his horse shied at the unusual sight, and furthermore took exception to the raucous sound of a man's voice chanting a dismal melody, somewhere away down by the river on his right. in this direction he observed a cattle-path. and the sight of it suggested ascertaining the identity of the doleful minstrel. no doubt this man could give him the information he needed. he turned off the road and plunged into scrub. and at the river bank he came upon a curious scene. there was a sandy break in the bush, and the bank sloped gradually to the water's edge. three or four wash-tubs, grouped together in a semicircle, stood on wooden trestles, and a quaint-looking little man was bending over one of them washing clothes, rubbing and beating a handful of garments on a board like any washerwoman. his back was turned to the path, and he faced the river. on his right stood an iron furnace and boiler, with steam escaping from under the lid. and all around him the bushes were hung with drying clothes. "hello!" cried tresler, as he slipped to the ground. "holy smoke!" the scrubbing and banging had ceased, and the most curiously twisted face tresler had ever seen glanced back over the man's bowed shoulder. a red, perspiring face, tufted at the point of the chin with a knot of gray whisker, a pair of keen gray eyes, and a mouth--yes, it was the mouth that held tresler's attention. it went up on one side, and had somehow got mixed up with his cheek, while a suggestion of it was continued by means of a dark red scar right up to the left eye. for a second or two tresler could not speak, he was so astonished, so inclined to laugh. and all the while the gray eyes took him in from head to foot; then another exclamation, even more awestruck, broke from the stranger. "gee-whizz!" and tresler sobered at once. "where's mosquito bend ranch?" he asked. the little man dropped his washing and turned round, propping himself against the edge of the tub. "skitter bend ranch?" he echoed slowly, as though the meaning of the question had not penetrated to his intellect. then a subdued whisper followed. "gee, but i----" and he looked down at his own clothes as though to reassure himself. tresler broke in; he understood the trend of the other's thoughts. "yes, mosquito bend," he said sharply. "nigh to a mile on. keep to the trail, an' you'll strike blind hell in a few minutes. say----" he broke off, and looked up into tresler's face. "yes, i'm going there. you don't happen to belong to--to blind hell?" "happen i do," assured the washerman. "i do the chores around the ranch. joe nelson, once a stock raiser m'self. kerrville, texas. now----" he broke off, and waved a hand in the direction of the drying clothes. "well, i'm john tresler, and i'm on my way to mosquito bend." "so you're the 'tenderfoot,'" observed the choreman, musingly. "you're the feller from noo england as jake's goin' to lick into shape." "going to teach, you mean." "i s'pose i do," murmured the other gently, but without conviction. the twisted side of his face wrinkled hideously, while the other side smiled. "you mentioned blind hell just now?" questioned tresler, as the other relapsed into a quiet survey of him. "blind hell, did i?" said nelson, repeating the name, a manner which seemed to be a habit of his. "yes. what is it? what did you mean?" tresler's questions were a little peremptory. he felt that the riding-breeches that had caused such notice in forks were likely to bring him further ridicule. "oh, it's jest a name. 'tain't of no consequence. say," the choreman broke out suddenly, "you don't figger to git boostin' steers in that rig?" he stretched out an abnormally long arm, and pointed a rough but wonderfully clean finger at the flowing corduroys tresler had now become so sensitive about. "great scott, man!" he let out testily. "have you never seen riding-breeches before?--you, a ranchman." the tufted beard shot sideways again as the face screwed up and half of it smiled. "i do allow i've seen such things before. oncet," he drawled slowly, with a slight southern accent, but in a manner that betokened a speech acquired by association rather than the natural tongue. "he was a feller that came out to shoot big game up in the hills. i ain't seen him sence, sure. guess nobody did." he looked away sadly. "we heerd tell of him. guess he got fossicking after b'ar. the wind was blowin' ter'ble. he'd climbed a mount'n. it was pretty high. ther' wa'n't no shelter. a gust o' that wind come an'--took him." nelson had turned back to his tubs, and was again banging and rubbing. "a mile down the trail, i think you said?" tresler cried, springing hastily into the saddle. "sure." and for the first time tresler's horse felt the sharp prick of the spurs as he rode off. mosquito bend ranch stood in a wide clearing, with the house on a rising ground above it. it was lined at the back by a thick pinewood. for the rest the house faced out on to the prairie, and the verandahed front overlooked the barns, corrals, and outhouses. it stood apart, fully one hundred yards from the nearest outbuildings. this was the first impression tresler obtained on arrival. the second was that it was a magnificent ranch and the proprietor must be a wealthy man. the third was one of disappointment; everything was so quiet, so still. there was no rush or bustle. no horsemen riding around with cracking whips; no shouting, no atmosphere of wildness. and, worst of all, there were no droves of cattle tearing around. just a few old milch cows near by, peacefully grazing their day away, and philosophically awaiting milking time. these, and a few dogs, a horse or two loose in the corrals, and a group of men idling outside a low, thatched building, comprised the life he first beheld as he rode into the clearing. "and this is blind hell," he said to himself as he came. "it belies its name. a more peaceful, beautiful picture, i've never clapped eyes on." and then his thoughts went back to forks. that too had looked so innocent. after all, he remembered, it was the people who made or marred a place. so he rode straight to a small, empty corral, and, off-saddling, turned his horse loose, and deposited his saddle and bridle in the shadow of the walls. then he moved up toward the buildings where the men were grouped. they eyed him steadily as he came, much as they might eye a strange animal, and he felt a little uncomfortable as he recollected his encounter first with slum and more recently with joe nelson. he had grown sensitive about his appearance, and a spirit of defiance and retaliation awoke within him. but for some reason the men paid little attention to him just then. one man was talking, and the rest were listening with rapt interest. they were cowpunchers, every one. cowpunchers such as tresler had heard of. some were still wearing their fringed "chapps," their waists belted with gun and ammunition; some were in plain overalls and thin cotton shirts. all, except one, were tanned a dark, ruddy hue, unshaven, unkempt, but tough-looking and hardy. the pale-faced exception was a thin, sick-looking fellow with deep hollows under his eyes, and lips as ashen as a corpse. he it was who was talking, and his recital demanded a great display of dramatic gesture. tresler came up and joined the group. "i never ast to git put up ther'," he heard the sick man saying; "never ast, an' didn't want. it was her doin's, an' i tell you fellers right here she's jest thet serrupy an' good as don't matter. i'd 'a' rotted down here wi' flies an' the heat for all they'd 'a' cared. that blind son of a ---- 'ud 'a' jest laffed ef i'd handed over, an' jake--say, we'll level our score one day, sure. next time red mask, or any other hoss thief, gits around, i'll bear a hand drivin' off the bunch. i ain't scrappin' no more fer the blind man. look at me. guess i ain't no more use'n yon 'tenderfoot.'" the speaker pointed scornfully at tresler, and his audience turned and looked. "guess i've lost quarts o' blood, an' have got a hole in my chest ye couldn't plug with a corn-sack. an' now, jest when i'm gittin' to mend decent, he comes an' boosts me right out to the bunkhouse 'cause he ketches me yarnin' wi' that bit of a gal o' his. but, say, she just let out on him that neat as you fellers never heerd. yes, sir, guess her tongue's like velvet mostly, but when she turned on that blind hulk of a father of hers--wal, ther', ef i was a cat an' had nine lives to give fer her they jest wouldn't be enough by a hund'ed." "say, arizona," said one of the men quietly, "what was you yarnin' 'bout? guess you allus was sweet on miss dianny." arizona turned on the speaker fiercely. "that'll do fer you, raw; mebbe you ain't got savee, an' don't know a leddy when you sees one. i'm a cow-hand, an' good as any man around here, an' ef you've any doubts about it, why----" "don't take no notice, arizona," put in a lank youth quickly. he was a tall, hungry-looking boy, in that condition of physical development when nature seems in some doubt as to her original purpose. "'e's only laffin' at you." "guess mister raw harris ken quit right here then, teddy. i ain't takin' his slack noways." "git on with the yarn, arizona," cried another. "say, wot was you sayin' to the gal?" "y' see, jacob," the sick man went on, falling back into his drawling manner, "it wus this ways. miss dianny, she likes a feller to git yarnin', an', seein' as i've been punchin' most all through the states, she kind o' notioned my yarns. which i 'lows is reasonable. she'd fixed my chest up, an' got me trussed neat an' all, an' set right down aside me fer a gas. you know her ways, kind o' sad an' saft. wal, she up an' tells me how she'd like gittin' in to whitewater next winter, an' talked o' dances an' sech. say, she wus jest whoopin' wi' the pleasure o' the tho't of it. guess likely she'd be mighty pleased to git a-ways. wal, i don't jest know how it come, but i got yarnin' of a barbecue as was held down arizona way. i was tellin' as how i wus ther', an' got winged nasty. it wa'n't much. y' see i was tellin' her as i wus runnin' a bit of a hog ranch them times, an', on o-casions, we used to give parties. the pertickler party i wus referrin' to wus a pretty wholesome racket. the boys got good an' drunk, an' they got slingin' the lead frekent 'fore daylight come around. howsum, it wus the cause o' the trouble as i wus gassin' 'bout. y' see, brown was one of them juicy fellers that chawed hunks o' plug till you could nose virginny ev'ry time you got wi'in gunshot of him. he was a cantankerous cuss was brown, an' a deal too free wi' his tongue. y' see he'd a lady with him; leastways she wus the pot-wolloper from the saloon he favored, an' he guessed as she wus most as han'some as a bible 'lustration. wal, 'bout the time the rotgut wus flowin' good an' frekent, they started in to pool fer the prettiest wench in the room, as is the custom down ther'. brown, he wus dead set on his gal winnin', i guess; an' 'dyke hole' bill, he'd got a pretty tidy filly wi' him hisself, an' didn't reckon as no daisy from a bum saloon could gi' her any sort o' start. wal, to cut it short, i guess the boys went dead out fer bill's gal. it wus voted as ther' wa'n't no gal around spawn city as could dec'rate the country wi' sech beauty. i guess things went kind o' silent when shaggy steele read the ballot. the air o' that place got uneasy. i located the door in one gulp. y' see brown was allus kind o' sudden. but the trouble come diff'rent. the thing jest dropped, an' that party hummed fer a whiles. brown's gal up an' let go. sez she, 'here, guess i'm the dandy o' this run, an' i ain't settin' around while no old hen from dyke hole gits scoopin' prizes. she's goin' to lick me till i can't see, ef she's yearnin' fer that pool. mebbe you boys won't need more'n half an eye to locate the winner when i'm done.' wi' that she peels her waist off'n her, an' i do allow she wus a fine chunk. an' the 'dyke hole' daisy, she wa'n't no slouch; guess she wus jest bustin' wi' fight. but brown sticks his taller-fat nose in an' shoots his bazzoo an'---- "an' that's most as fer as i got when along comes that all-fired 'dead-eyes' an' points warnin' at me while he ogled me with them gummy red rims o' his. an', sez he, 'you light right out o' here sharp, arizona; the place fer you scum's down in the bunkhouse. an' i'm not goin' to have any skulkin' up here, telling disreputable yarns to my gal.' i wus jest beginnin' to argyfy. 'but,' sez i. an' he cut me short wi' a curse. 'out of here!' he roared. 'i give you ten minutes to git!' then she, miss dianny, bless her, she turned on him quick, an' dressed him down han'some. sez she, 'father, how can you be so unkind after what arizona has done for you? remember,' sez she, 'he saved you a hundred head of cattle, and fought red mask's gang until help came and he fell from his horse.' oh, she was a dandy, and heaped it on like bankin' a furnace. she cried lots an' lots, but it didn't signify. out i wus to git, an' out i got. an' now i'll gamble that swine jake'll try and set me to work. but i'll level him--sure." one of the men, lew cawley, laughed silently, and then put in a remark. lew was a large specimen of the fraternity, and history said that he was the son of an english cleric. but history says similar things of many ne'er-do-wells in the northwest. he still used the accent of his forebears. "old blind-hunks knows something. with all respect, arizona has winning ways; but," he added, before the fiery southerner could retort, "if i mistake not, here comes jake to fulfil arizona's prophecy." every one swung round as lew nodded in the direction of the house. a huge man of about six feet five was striding rapidly down the slope. tresler, who had been listening to the story on the outskirts of the group, eyed the newcomer with wonder. he came at a gait in which every movement displayed a vast, monumental strength. he had never seen such physique in his life. the foreman was still some distance off, and he could not see his face, only a great spread of black beard and whisker. so this was the much-cursed jake harnach, and, he thought without any particular pleasure, his future boss. there was no further talk. jake harnach looked up and halted. then he signaled, and a great shout came to the waiting group. "hi! hi! you there! you with the pants!" a snigger went round the gathering, and tresler knew that it was he who was being summoned. he turned away to hide his annoyance, but was given no chance of escape. "say, send that guy with the pants along!" roared the foreman. and tresler was forced into unwilling compliance. and thus the two men, chiefly responsible for the telling of this story of mosquito bend, met. the spirit of the meeting was antagonistic; a spirit which, in the days to come, was to develop into a merciless hatred. nor was the reason far to seek, nor could it have been otherwise. jake looked out upon the world through eyes that distorted everything to suit his own brutal nature, while tresler's simple manliness was the result of his youthful training as a public schoolboy. the latter saw before him a man of perhaps thirty-five, a man of gigantic stature, with a face handsome in its form of features, but disfigured by the harsh depression of the black brows over a pair of hard, bold eyes. the lower half of his face was buried beneath a beard so dense and black as to utterly disguise the mould of his mouth and chin, thus leaving only the harsh tones of his voice as a clue to what lay hidden there. his dress was unremarkable but typical--moleskin trousers, a thin cotton shirt, a gray tweed jacket, and a silk handkerchief about his neck. he carried nothing in the shape of weapons, not even the usual leather belt and sheath-knife. and in this he was apart from the method of his country, where the use of firearms was the practice in disputes. on his part, jake looked upon a well-built man five inches his inferior in stature, but a man of good proportions, with a pair of shoulders that suggested possibilities. but it was the steady look in the steel-blue eyes which told him most. there was a simple directness in them which told of a man unaccustomed to any browbeating; and, as he gazed into them, he made a mental note that this newcomer must be reduced to a proper humility at the earliest opportunity. there was no pretense of courtesy between them. neither offered to shake hands. jake blurted out his greeting in a vicious tone. "say, didn't you hear me callin'?" he asked sharply. "i did." and the new englander looked quietly into the eyes before him, but without the least touch of bravado or of yielding. "then why in h---- didn't you come?" "i was not to know you were calling me." "not to know?" retorted the other roughly. "i guess there aren't two guys with pants like yours around the ranch. now, see right here, young feller, you'll just get a grip on the fact that i'm foreman of this layout, and, as far as the 'hands' are concerned, i'm boss. when i call, you come--and quick." the man towered over tresler in a bristling attitude. his hands were aggressively thrust into his jacket pockets, and he emphasized his final words with a scowl. and it was his attitude that roused tresler; the words were the words of an overweening bully, and might have been laughed at, but the attitude said more, and no man likes to be browbeaten. his anger leapt, and, though he held himself tightly, it found expression in the biting emphasis of his reply. "when i'm one of the 'hands,' yes," he said incisively. jake stared. then a curious sort of smile flitted across his features. "hah!" he ejaculated. and tresler went on with cold indifference. "and, in the meantime, i may as well say that the primary object of my visit is to see mr. marbolt, not his foreman. that, i believe," he added, pointing to the building on the hill, "is his house." without waiting for a reply he stepped aside, and would have moved on. but jake had swung round, and his hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. "no, you don't, my dandy cock!" he cried violently, his fingers painfully gripping the muscle under the norfolk jacket. springing aside, and with one lithe twist, in a flash tresler had released himself, and stood confronting the giant with blazing eyes and tense drawn muscles. "lay a hand on me again, and there'll be trouble," he said sharply, and there was an oddly furious burr in his speech. the foreman stood for a moment as words failed him. then his fury broke loose. "i told you jest now," he cried, falling back into the twang of the country as his rage mastered him, "that i run this layout----" "and i tell you," broke in the equally angry tresler, "that i've nothing to do with you or the ranch either until i have seen your master. and i'll have you know that if there's any bulldozing to be done, you can keep it until i am one of the 'hands.' you shan't lack opportunity." the tone was as scathing as the violence of his anger would permit. he had not moved, except to thrust his right hand into his jacket pocket, while he measured the foreman with his eyes and watched his every movement. he saw harnach hunch himself as though to spring at him. he saw the great hands clench at his sides and his arms draw up convulsively. he saw the working face and the black eyes as they half closed and reduced themselves to mere slits beneath the overshadowing brows. then the hoarse, rage-choked voice came. "by g----! i'll smash you, you----" "i shouldn't say it." tresler's tone had suddenly changed to one of icy coldness. the flash of a white dress had caught his eye. "there's a lady present," he added abruptly. and at the same time he released his hold on the smooth butt of a heavy revolver he had been gripping in his pocket. what might have happened but for the timely interruption it would be impossible to say. jake's arms dropped to his sides, and his attitude relaxed with a suddenness that was almost ludicrous. the white dress fluttered toward him, and tresler turned and raised his prairie hat. he gave the foreman no heed whatever. the man might never have been there. he took a step forward. "miss marbolt, i believe," he said. "forgive me, but it seems that, being a stranger, i must introduce myself. i am john tresler. i have just been performing the same ceremony for your father's foreman's benefit. can i see mr. marbolt?" he was looking down into what he thought at the moment was the sweetest, saddest little face he had ever seen. it was dark with sunburn, in contrast with the prim white drill dress the girl wore, and her cheeks were tinged with a healthy color which might have been a reflection of the rosy tint of the ribbon about her neck. but it was the quiet, dark brown eyes, half wistful and wholly sad, and the slight droop at the corners of the pretty mouth, that gave him his first striking impression. she was a delightful picture, but one of great melancholy, quite out of keeping with her youth and fresh beauty. she looked up at him from under the brim of a wide straw sun-hat, trimmed with a plain silk handkerchief, and pinned to her wealth of curling brown hair so as to give her face the utmost shade. then she frankly held out her hand in welcome to him, whilst her eyes questioned his, for she had witnessed the scene between the two men and overheard their words. but tresler listened to her greeting with a disarming smile on his face. "welcome, mr. tresler," she said gravely. "we have been expecting you. but i'm afraid you can't see father just now. he's sleeping. he always sleeps in the afternoon. you see, daylight or night, it makes no difference to him. he's blind. he has drifted into a curious habit of sleeping in the day as well as at night. possibly it is a blessing, and helps him to forget his affliction. i am always careful, in consequence, not to waken him. but come along up to the house; you must have some lunch, and, later, a cup of tea." "you are awfully kind." tresler watched a troubled look that crept into the calm expression of her eyes. then he looked on while she turned and dismissed the discomfited foreman. "i shan't ride this afternoon, jake," she said coldly. "you might have bessie shod for me instead. her hoofs are getting very long." then she turned again to her guest. "come, mr. tresler." and the new englander readily complied. nor did he even glance again in the direction of the foreman. jake cursed, not audibly, but with such hateful intensity that even the mat of beard and moustache parted, and the cruel mouth and clenched teeth beneath were revealed. his eyes, too, shone with a diabolical light. for the moment tresler was master of the situation, but, as jake had said, he was "boss" of that ranch. "boss" with him did not mean "owner." chapter iii the blind man tresler was unfeignedly glad to leave jake harnach behind him, but he looked very serious as he and his companion moved on to the house. the result of his meeting with the foreman would come back on him later, he knew, and it was as well that he was prepared. the meeting had been unfortunate, but, judging by what he had heard of jake in forks, he must inevitably have crossed the bully sooner or later; jake himself would have seen to that. diane marbolt paused as she came to the verandah. they had not spoken since their greeting. now she turned abruptly, and quietly surveyed her guest. nor was there any rudeness in her look. tresler felt that he was undergoing a silent cross-examination, and waited, quietly smiling down at her from his superior height. at last she smiled up at him and nodded. "will i do?" he asked. "i think so." it was a curious position, and they both laughed. but in the girl's manner there was no levity. "you are not sure? is there anything wrong about me? my--my dress, for instance?" tresler laughed again; he had missed the true significance of his companion's attitude toward him. just for a moment the dark little face took on a look of perplexity. then the pucker of the brows smoothed out, and she smiled demurely as she answered. "oh, i see--no," doubtfully. then more decidedly, "no. you see, you are a 'tenderfoot.' you'll get over it later on." and the last barrier of formality was set aside. "good," exclaimed tresler, emphatically. "we are going to be friends, miss marbolt. i knew it. it was only that i feared that 'they' might ruin my chances of your approbation. you see, they've already caused me--er--trouble." "yes, i think we shall be friends," diane answered quietly. "in the meantime, come along into the house and have your lunch. it is ready, i saw you coming and so prepared it at once. you will not mind if i sit and look on while you eat. i have had mine. i want to talk to you before you see my father." there was distinct anxiety in her manner. more surely than all, her eyes betrayed her uneasiness. however, he gave no sign, contenting himself with a cordial reply. "you are very kind. i too should like a chat. you see, i am a 'tenderfoot,' and you have been kind enough to pass over my shortcomings." diane led the way into the house. and tresler, following her, was struck with the simple comfort of this home in the wilds. it was a roomy two-storied house, unpretentious, but very capacious. they entered through one of three french windows what was evidently a useful sort of drawing-room-parlor. beyond this they crossed a hallway, the entrance door of which stood open, and passed into a dining-room, which, in its turn, opened directly into a kitchen beyond. this room looked out on the woods at the back. diane explained that her father's sanctum was in front of this, while behind the parlor was his bedroom, opposite the dining-room and kitchen. the rooms up-stairs were bedrooms, and her own private parlor. "you see, we keep no female servants, mr. tresler," the girl said, as she brought a pot of steaming coffee from the kitchen and set it on the table. "i am housekeeper. joe nelson, the choreman, is my helper and does all the heavy work. he's quite a character." "yes, i know. i've met him," observed tresler, dryly. "ah! try that ham. i don't know about the cold pie, it may be tough. yes, old joe is an englishman; at least, he was, but he's quite americanized now. he spent forty years in texas. he's really an educated man. owned a nice ranch and got burned out. i'm very fond of him; but it isn't of joe i want to talk." "no." the man helped himself to the ham and veal pie, and found it anything but tough. diane seated herself in a chair with her back to the uncurtained window, through which the early summer sun was staring. "you have met jake harnach and made an enemy of him," she said suddenly, and with simple directness. "yes; the latter must have come anyway." the girl sighed, and her eyes shone with a brooding light. and tresler, glancing at her, recognized the sadness of expression he had noticed at their first meeting, and which, he was soon to learn, was habitual to her. "i suppose so," she murmured in response. then she roused herself, and spoke almost sharply. "what would you have done had he struck you? he is a man of colossal strength." tresler laughed easily. "that depends. i'm not quite sure. i should probably have done my best to retaliate. i had an alternative. i might have shot him." "oh!" the girl said with impulsive horror. "well, what would you have?" tresler raised his eyebrows and turned his astonished eyes upon her. "was i to stand lamb-like and accept a thrashing from that unconscionable ruffian? no, no," he shook his head. "i see it in your eyes. you condemn the method, but not the man. remember, we all have a right to live--if we can. maybe there's no absolute necessity that we should, but still we are permitted to do our best. that's the philosophy i've had hammered into me with the various thrashings the school bullies at home have from time to time administered. i should certainly have done my best." "and if you had done either of these things, i shudder to think what would have happened. it was unfortunate, terribly unfortunate. you do not know jake harnach. oh, mr. tresler," the girl hurried on, leaning suddenly forward in her chair, and reaching out until her small brown hand rested on his arm, "please, please promise me that you won't run foul of jake. he is terrible. you don't, you can't know him, or you would understand your danger." "on the contrary, miss marbolt. it is because i know a great deal of him that i should be ready to retaliate very forcibly. i thank my stars i do know him. had i not known of him before, your own words would have warned me to be ready for all emergencies. jake must go his way and i'll go mine. i am here to learn ranching, not to submit to any bulldozing. but let us forget jake for the moment, and talk of something more pleasant. what a charming situation the ranch has!" the girl dropped back in her chair. there was no mistaking the decision of her visitor's words. she felt that no persuasion of hers could alter him. with an effort she contrived to answer him. "yes, it is a beautiful spot. you have not yet had time to appreciate the perfections of our surroundings." she paused for him to speak, but as he remained silent she labored on with her thoughts set on other things. "the foot-hills come right down almost to our very doors. and then in the distance, above them, are the white caps of the mountains. we are sheltered, as no doubt you have seen, by the almost inaccessible wall beyond the river, and the pinewoods screen us from the northeast and north winds of winter. south and east are miles and miles of prairie-lands. father has been here for eighteen years. i was a child of four when we came. whitewater was a mere settlement then, and forks wasn't even in existence. we hadn't a neighbor nearer than whitewater in those days, except the indians and half-breeds. they were rough times, and father held his place only by the subtlety of his poor blind brain, and the arms of the men he had with him. jake has been with us as long as i can remember. so you see," she added, returning to her womanly dread for his safety, "i know jake. my warning is not the idle fear of a silly girl." tresler remained silent for a moment or two. then he asked sharply-- "why does your father keep him?" the girl shrugged her shoulders. "jake is the finest ranchman in the country." and in the silence that followed tresler helped himself to more coffee, and finished off with cheese and crackers. neither seemed inclined to break up the awkwardness of the pause. for the time the man's thoughts were wandering in interested speculation as to the possibilities of his future on the ranch. he was not thinking so much of jake, nor even of julian marbolt. it was of the gentler associations with the girl beside him--associations he had never anticipated in his wildest thoughts. she was no prairie-bred girl. her speech, her manner, savored too much of civilization. yes, he decided in his mind, although she claimed mosquito bend as her home since she was four, she had been educated elsewhere. his thoughts were suddenly cut short. a faint sound caught his quick ears. then diane's voice, questioning him, recalled his wandering attention. "i understand you intend to stay with us for three years?" "just as long as it will take to learn all the business of a ranch," he answered readily. "i am going to become one of the----" again he heard the peculiar noise, and he broke off listening. diane was listening too. it was a soft tap, tap, like some one knocking gently upon a curtained door. it was irregular, intermittent, like the tapping of a telegraph-sounder working very slowly. "what's that?" he asked. the girl had risen, and a puzzled look was in her eyes. "the noise? oh, it's father," she said, with a shadowy smile, and in a lowered tone. "something must have disturbed him. it is unusual for him to be awake so early." now they heard a door open, and the tapping ceased. then the door closed and the lock turned. a moment later there came the jingle of keys, and then shuffling footsteps accompanied the renewed tapping. tresler was still listening. he had turned toward the door, and while his attention was fixed on the coming of the blind rancher, he was yet aware that diane was clearing the table with what seemed to him unnecessary haste and noise. however, his momentary interest was centred upon the doorway and the passage outside, and he paid little heed to the girl's movements. the door stood open, and as he looked out the sound of shuffling feet drew nearer; then a figure passed the opening. it was gone in a moment. but in that moment he caught sight of a tall man wrapped in the gray folds of a dressing-gown that reached to his feet. that, and the sharp outline of a massive head of close-cropped gray hair. the face was lost, all except the profile. he saw a long, high-bridged nose and a short, crisp grayish beard. the tapping of the stick died slowly away. and he knew that the blind man had passed out on to the verandah. now he turned again to the girl, and would have spoken, but she raised a warning finger and shook her head. then, moving toward the door, she beckoned to him to follow. * * * * * "father, this is mr. tresler." tresler found himself looking down upon a remarkable face. he acknowledged diane's introduction, forgetful, for the moment, of the man's sightless eyes. he gripped the outstretched hand heartily, while he took in his first impression of a strange personality. they were out on the verandah. the rancher was sitting in a prim, uncushioned armchair. he had a strong, well-moulded, pale face, the sightless eyes of which held the attention. tresler at once appreciated shaky's description of them. they were dreadful eyes. the pupils were there, and, in a measure, appeared natural except for their enormous size. they were black, jet black, and divided from what should have been the whites by minute rings of blue, the only suspicion of iris they possessed. but it was the whites that gave them their dreadful expression. they were scarlet with inflammation--an inflammation which extended to the rims of the lids and had eaten away the lashes. of the rest of the face it was impossible for him to form much of an opinion. the iron-gray brows were depressed as though with physical pain, and so obliterated all natural expression. and the beard shut out the indications which the mouth and chin might have afforded. "you're welcome, mr. tresler," he said, in a low, gentle tone. "i knew you were here some time ago." tresler was astonished at the quiet refinement of his voice. he had grown so accustomed to the high, raucous twang of the men of these wilds that it came as a surprise to him. "i hope i didn't disturb you," he answered cheerily. "miss marbolt told me you were sleeping, and----" "you didn't disturb me--at least, not in the way you mean. you see, i have developed a strange sensitiveness--a sort of second sight," he laughed a little bitterly. "i awoke by instinct the moment you approached the house, and heard you come in. the loss of one sense, you see, has made others more acute. well, well, so you have come to learn ranching? diane"--the blind man turned to his daughter--"describe mr. tresler to me. what does he look like? forgive me, my dear sir," he went on, turning with unerring instinct to the other. "i glean a perfect knowledge of those about me in this way." "certainly." the object of the blind man's interest smiled over at the girl. diane hesitated in some confusion. "go on, child," her father said, with a touch of impatience in his manner. thus urged she began. "mr. tresler is tall. six feet. broad-shouldered." the man's red, staring eyes were bent on his pupil with a steady persistency. "yes, yes," he urged, as the girl paused. "dressed in--er fashionable riding costume." "his face?" "black hair, steel-blue eyes, black eyelashes and brows. broad forehead----" "any lines?" questioned the blind man. "only two strong marks between the brows." "go on." "broad-bridged, rather large nose; well-shaped mouth, with inclination to droop at the corners; broad, split chin; well-rounded cheeks and jaw." "ha! clean-shaven, of course--yes." the rancher sat silent for some moments after diane had finished her description. his lips moved, as though he were talking to himself; but no words came to those waiting. at last he stirred, and roused from his reverie. "you come from springfield, mr. tresler, i understand?" he said pleasantly. "yes." "um. new england. a good country that breeds good men," he nodded, with an expression that was almost a smile. "i'm glad to be able to welcome you; i only wish i could see. however," he went on kindly, "you will be able to learn ranching in all its branches here. we breed horses and cattle. you'll find it rough. my foreman is not exactly gentle, but, believe me, he knows his business. he is the finest ranchman in the country, and i owe much of my success to him. you must get on the right side of jake, though. it requires finding--the right side, i mean--but it is worth seeking." tresler smiled as he listened. he thoroughly agreed with the reference to the difficulty of finding jake's "right" side. he endeavored to catch diane's eye, but she avoided his gaze. as the rancher paused, he broke in at once. "i presume i start work in earnest to-morrow morning?" the blind man shook his head. "no; better start in to-day. our agreement reads to-day; it must not be broken. you take your position as one of the hands, and will be under the control of jake harnach." "we can have tea first, though," put in diane, who had followed her father's words with what seemed unnecessary closeness. "tut, tut, child," he replied impatiently. "yes, we will have tea. 'tis all you think of. see to it, and bring tresler a chair; i must talk to him." his words were a dismissal; and after diane had provided a chair, she retired into the house, leaving apprentice and master alone. and the two men talked, as men will talk who have just come together from the ends of the world. tresler avoided the details of his journey; nor did the blind man seem in any way interested in his personal affairs. it was the news of men, and matters concerning the world, that they discussed. and the rancher's information and remarks, and keen, incisive questions, set the newcomer wondering. he watched the face before him, the red, sightless eyes. he studied the quiet, gentle-voiced man, as one may study an abstruse problem. the result was disheartening. one long, weary expression of pain was all he beheld; no lights and shades of emotion and interest. it was the face of one grown patient under a lifelong course of suffering. tresler had listened to the bitter cursings against this man, but as the soft voice and cultured expressions fell upon his ears, the easy-flowing, pointed criticisms on matters of public interest, the broad philosophy, sometimes faintly dashed with bitterness and cynicism, but always sound, he found it hard to associate him with the significant sobriquet of the ranch. tea-time found him still wrestling with the unsolved problem. but, with the advent of diane with the table and laden tray, he set it aside for future study. for the next half-hour he transferred his attention to the relations between father and daughter, as they chatted pleasantly of the ranching prospects of the country, for the benefit of their visitor. this was a lesser problem, and one he came near to achieving. before he left them, he resolved that diane stood in great awe, not to say fear, of her father. this to him was astonishing, judging by the strength of character every feature in her face displayed. it seemed to him that she was striving hard to bestow affection on him--trying to create an affection that had no place in her heart. her efforts were painfully apparent. she convinced him at once of a lively sense of duty--a sense she was carrying to a point that was almost pitiful. all this he felt sure of, but it was the man who finally baffled him as he had baffled him before. how he regarded diane it was impossible to say. sometimes he could have sworn that the man's devotion to her was that of one who, helpless, clings to a support which never fails him; at others, he treated her to a sneering intolerance, which roused the young man's ire; and, again, he would change his tone, till the undercurrent of absolute hatred drowned the studied courtesy which veneered it. and when he finally rose to leave the verandah and seek out the foreman and report himself for duty, it was with a genuine feeling of relief at leaving the presence of those dreadful red eyes. diane was packing up the tea-things, and tresler still lingered on the verandah; he was watching the blind man as he tapped his way into the house. then, as he disappeared, and the sound of his shuffling feet grew faint and distant, he became aware that diane was standing holding the tray and watching him. he knew, too, by her attentive attitude, that she was listening to ascertain when her father should be out of ear-shot. as the sounds died away, and all became silent within the house, she came over to him. she spoke without pausing on her way; it seemed that she feared observation. "don't forget, mr. tresler, what i told you about jake. be warned. in spite of what you say, you do not know him." "thanks, miss marbolt," he replied warmly; "i shall not forget." diane was about to speak again, but the voice of her father, harsh and strident enough now, reached them from the hallway. "come in, child, and let tresler go to his work." and tresler noted the expression of fear that leapt into the girl's face as she hurriedly passed into the house. he stood for a moment wrathful and wondering; then he strode away toward the corrals, reflecting on the strange events which had so swiftly followed one upon the other. "ye gods," he muttered, "this is a queer place--and these are queer people." then as he saw the great figure of jake coming up the hill toward him, from the direction of a small isolated hut, he went out to meet him, unconsciously squaring himself as he drew near. he expected an explosion; at least an angry demonstration. but nothing of the sort happened. the whole attitude of the man had changed to one of studied amiability. not only that, but his diction was careful to a degree, as though he were endeavoring to impress this man from the east with his superiority over the other ranchmen. "well? you have seen him?" "yes. i have now come to report myself ready for work," tresler replied at once. he adopted a cold business tone, deeming it best to observe this from the start. to his surprise jake became almost cordial. "good. we can do with some hands, sure. had a pleasant talk with the old man?" the question came indifferently, but a sidelong glance accompanied it as the foreman turned away and gazed out over the distant prairie. "i have," replied tresler, shortly. "what are my orders, and where do i sleep?" "then you don't sleep up at the house?" jake inquired, pretending surprise. there was a slight acidity in his tone. "that is hardly to be expected when the foreman sleeps down there." tresler nodded, indicating the outbuildings. "that's so," observed the other, thoughtfully. "no, i guess the old man don't fancy folk o' your kidney around," he went on, relapsing into the speech of the bunkhouse unguardedly. "mebbe it's different wi' the other." tresler could have struck him as he beheld the meaning smile that accompanied the fellow's words. "where do i sleep?" he demanded sharply. "oh, i guess you'll roll into the bunkhouse. likely the boys'll fix you for blankets till your truck comes along. as for orders, why, we start work at sunup, and slushy dips out breakfast before that. guess i'll put you to work in the morning; you can't do a deal yet, but maybe you'll learn." "then i'm not wanted to-night?" "guess not." jake broke off. then he turned sharply and faced his man. "i've just one word to say to you 'fore you start in," he went on. "we kind o' make allowance fer 'tenderfeet' around here--once. after that, we deal accordin'--savee? say, ther' ain't no tea-parties customary around this layout." tresler smiled. if he had been killed for it he must have smiled. in that last remark the worthy jake had shown his hand. and the latter saw the smile, and his face darkened with swift-rising anger. but he had evidently made up his mind not to be drawn, for, with a curt "s'long," he abruptly strode off, leaving the other to make his way to the bunkhouse. the men had not yet come in for their evening meal, but he found arizona disconsolately sitting on a roll of blankets just outside the door of the quarters. he was chewing steadily, with his face turned prairieward, gazing out over the tawny plains as though nothing else in the world mattered to him. he looked up casually as tresler came along, and edged along the blankets to make room, contenting himself with a laconic-- "set." the two men sat in silence for some moments. the pale-faced cowpuncher seemed absorbed in deep reflection. tresler was thinking too; he was thinking of jake, whom he clearly understood was in love with his employer's daughter. it was patent to the veriest simpleton. not only that, but he felt that diane herself knew it. the way the foreman had desisted from his murderous onslaught upon himself at her coming was sufficient evidence without the jealousy he had betrayed in his reference to tea-parties. now he understood, too, that it was because the blind man was asleep, and in going up to the house he, tresler, would only meet diane, and probably spend a pleasant afternoon with her until her father awoke, that jake's unreasoning jealousy had been aroused, and he had endeavored to forcibly detain him. he felt glad that he had learned these things so soon. all such details would be useful. at last arizona turned from his impassive contemplation of the prairie. "wal?" he questioned. and he conveyed a world of interrogation in his monosyllable. "jake says i begin work to-morrow. to-night i sleep in the bunkhouse." "yes, i know." "you know?" tresler looked around in astonishment. "guess jake's bin 'long. say, i'll shoot that feller, sure--'less some interferin' cuss gits along an' does him in fust." "what's up? anything fresh?" for answer arizona spat forcibly into the little pool of tobacco-juice on the ground before him. then, with a vicious clenching of the teeth-- "he's a swine." "which is a libel on hogs," observed the other, with a smile. "libel?" cried arizona, his wild eyes rolling, and his lean nostrils dilating as his breath came short and quick. "yes, grin; grin like a blazin' six-foot ape. mebbe y'll change that grin later, when i tell you what he's done." "nothing he could do would surprise me after having met him." "no." arizona had calmed again. his volcanic nature was a study. tresler, although he had only just met this man, liked him for his very wildness. "say, pardner," he went on quietly, reaching one long, lean hand toward him, "shake! i guess i owe you gratitood fer bluffin' that hog. we see it all. say, you've got grit." and the fierce eyes looked into the other's face. tresler shook the proffered hand heartily. "but what's his latest achievement?" he asked, eager to learn the fresh development. "he come along here 'bout you. sed we wus to fix you up in pore dave steele's bunk." "yes? that's good. i rather expected he'd have me sleep on the floor." arizona gave a snort. his anger was rising again, but he checked it. "say," he went on, "guess you don't know a heap. ther' ain't bin a feller slep in that bunk since dave--went away." "why?" tresler's interest was agog. "why?" arizona's voice rose. "'cos it's mussed all up wi' a crazy man's blood. a crazy man as wus killed right here, kind of, by jake harnach." "i heard something of it." "heerd suthin' of it? wal, i guess ther' ain't a feller around this prairie as ain't yelled hisself hoarse 'bout dave. say, he wus the harmlessest lad as ever jerked a rope or slung a leg over a stock saddle. an' as slick a hand as ther' ever wus around this ranch. i tell ye he could teach every one of us, he wus that handy; an' that's a long trail, i 'lows. wal, we wus runnin' in a bunch of outlaws fer brandin', an' he wus makin' to rope an old bull. howsum he got him kind o' awkward. the rope took the feller's horns. 'fore dave could loose it that bull got mad, an' went squar' for the corral walls an' broke a couple o' the bars. dave jumped fer it an' got clear. then jake comes hollerin' an' swearin' like a stuck hog, an' dave he took it bad. y' see no one could handle an outlaw like dave. he up an' let fly at jake, an' cussed back. wot does jake do but grab up a brandin' iron an' lay it over the boy's head. dave jest dropped plumb in his tracks. then we got around and hunched him up, an' laid him out in his bunk, bleedin' awful. we plastered him, an' doctored him, an' after a whiles he come to. he lay on his back fer a month, an' never a sign o' jake or the blind man come along, only miss dianny. she come, an' we did our best. but arter a month he got up plump crazed an' silly-like. he died back ther' in forks soon after." arizona paused significantly. then he went on. "no, sir, ther' ain't bin a feller put in that bunk sense, fer they ain't never gotten pore dave's blood off'n it. say, ther' ain't a deal as 'ud scare us fellers, but we ain't sleepin' over a crazy man's blood." "which, apparently, i've got to do," tresler said sharply. then he asked, "is it the only spare bunk?" "no. ther's thompson's, an' ther's massy's." "then what's the object?" "cussedness. it's a kind o' delicate attention. it's fer to git back on you, knowin' as us fellers 'ud sure tell you of dave. it's to kind o' hint to you what happens to them as runs foul o' him. what's like to happen to you." arizona's fists clenched, and his teeth gritted with rage as he deduced his facts. tresler remained calm, but it did him good to listen to the hot-headed cowpuncher, and he warmed toward him. "i'm afraid i must disappoint him," he said, when the other had finished. "if you fellows will lend me some blankets, i'll sleep in massy's or thompson's bunk, and mr. jake can go hang." arizona shot round and peered into tresler's face. "an' you'll do that--sure?" "certainly. i'm not going to sleep in a filthy bunk." "say, you're the most cur'usest 'tenderfoot' i've seen. shake!" and again the two men gripped hands. that first evening around the bunkhouse tresler learned a lot about his new home, and, incidentally, the most artistic manner of cursing the flies. he had supper with the boys, and his food was hash and tea and dry bread. it was hard but wholesome, and there was plenty of it. his new comrades exercised their yarning propensities for him, around him, at him. he listened to their chaff, boisterous, uncultured; their savage throes of passion and easy comradeships. they seemed to have never a care in the world but the annoyances of the moment. even their hatred for the foreman and their employer seemed to lift from them, and vanish with the sound of the curses which they heaped upon them. it was a new life, a new world to him; and a life that appealed to him. as the sun sank and the twilight waned, the men gradually slipped away to turn in. arizona was the last to go. tresler had been shown massy's bunk, and friendly hands had spread blankets upon it for him. he was standing at the foot of it in the long aisle between the double row of trestle beds. arizona had just pointed out the dead man's disused couch, all covered with gunny sacks. "that's dave's," he said. "i kind o' think you'll sleep easier right here. say, tresler," he went on, with a serious light in his eyes, "i'd jest like to say one thing to you, bein' an old hand round these parts myself, an' that's this. when you git kind o' worried, use your gun. et's easy an' quick. guess you've plenty o' time an' to spare after fer sizin' things up. ther' ain't a man big 'nough in this world to lift a finger ef you sez 'no' and has got your gun pointin' right. s'long." but tresler detained him. "just one moment, arizona," he said, imitating the other's impressive manner. "i'd just like to say one thing to you, being a new hand around these parts myself, and that's this. you being about my size, i wonder if you could sell me a pair of pants, such as you fellows ordinarily wear?" the cowpuncher smiled a pallid, shadowy smile, and went over to his kit-bag. he returned a moment later with a pair of new moleskin trousers and threw them on the bunk. "you ken have them, i guess. kind o' remembrancer fer talkin' straight to jake. say, that did me a power o' good." "thanks, but i'll pay----" "not on your life, mister." "then i'll remember your advice." "good. s'long." chapter iv the night-riders tresler had not the smallest inclination for sleep. he was tired enough physically, but his brain was still much too active. besides, the bunkhouse was uninviting to him as yet. the two lines of trestle-beds, with their unkempt occupants, were suggestive of--well, anything but congenial sleeping companions. the atmosphere was close and stuffy, and the yellow glimmer of the two oil-lamps, one stationed at each end of the room, gave the place a distasteful suggestion of squalor. he was not unduly squeamish--far from it; but, be it remembered, he had only just left a world of ease and luxury, where snow-white linen and tasteful surroundings were necessary adjuncts to existence. therefore these things came to him in the nature of a shock. he looked at his blankets spread over the straw palliasse that disguised the loose bed-boards underneath, and this drew his attention to the mattress itself. it was well-worn and dusty, and as he moved it he felt that the straw inside was crushed to the smallest chaff. he laid it back carefully so as not to disturb the dust, and rearranged the blankets over it. then he sat on the foot of it and pondered. he gazed about him at the other beds. some of the men were already sleeping, announcing the fact more or less loudly. others were swathed in their blankets smoking in solemn silence. one was deep in the blood-curdling pages of a dime novel, straining his eyes in the fitful light of the lamps. the scene had novelty for him, but it was not altogether enthralling, so he filled his pipe and lit it, and passed out into the fresh night air. it was only ten o'clock, and he felt that a smoke and a comfortable think would be pleasant before facing the charms of his dusty couch. the moon had not yet risen, but the starry sheen of the sky dimly outlined everything. he was gazing upon the peaceful scene of a ranch when night has spread her soft, velvety wings. there were few sounds to distract his thoughts. the air still hummed with the busy insect life; one of the prowling ranch dogs occasionally gave tongue, its fiercely suspicious temper no doubt aroused by some vague shadow which surely no other eyes than his could possibly have detected in the darkness; sometimes the distressful plaint of a hungry coyote, hunting for what it never seems to find--for he is always prowling and hunting--would rouse the echoes and startle the "tenderfoot" with the suddenness and nearness of its uncanny call. but for the rest all was still. and he paced to and fro before the bunkhouse, thinking. and, strangely enough, of all the scenes he had witnessed that day, and of all the people he had met, it was the scene in which diane marbolt had taken part, and of her he mostly thought. perhaps it was the unexpectedness of meeting a girl so charming that held him interested. perhaps it was the eager desire she had displayed in warning him of his personal danger. perhaps, even, it was the recollection of the soft, brown eyes, the charming little sun-tanned face that had first looked up at him from beneath the broad-brimmed straw hat. certain it was her sad face haunted him as no woman's face had ever haunted him before as he looked out on the vast, dark world about him. he felt that he would like to know something of her story; not out of idle curiosity, but that he might discover some means of banishing the look of sadness so out of place upon her beautiful features. his pipe burned out, and he recharged and lit it afresh; then he extended his peregrinations. he moved out of the deeper shadows of the bunkhouse and turned the corner in the direction of the western group of corrals. now he saw the foreman's hut beyond the dark outline of the great implement shed, and a light was still shining in the window. turning away he passed to the left of the shed, and strolled leisurely on to the corrals. he had no desire in the world to meet jake harnach; not that he thought such a contingency likely, but still there was always the chance if the man had not yet gone to bed. he had already decided that the less he saw of jake the better it would be for both of them. he remained for some minutes seated on the top of the corral fence, but the mosquitoes were too thick, and drove him to further wanderings. just as he was about to move away, he saw the door of the foreman's hut open, and in the light that shone behind, the small figure of the choreman, joe nelson, come out. then the light was shut out as the great figure of jake blocked the doorway. now he distinctly heard them speaking. "i shall want it first thing in the morning," said the foreman, in his great hoarse voice. "guess i'll see to it," replied joe; "but 'tain't the saddle fer anybody who ain't used to it." "that's o' no consequence. your business is to have it there." then jake retired, and the door was shut. a moment later the waiting man saw joe emerge from the shadow and stump off in the direction of the bunkhouse. a few yards from the foreman's hut he halted and turned about. then tresler witnessed something that made him smile, while it raised a lively feeling of satisfaction in his heart. joe slowly raised one arm in the direction of the hut, and, although the light was insufficient for him to see it, and he could hear no words, he felt sure that the fist was clenched, and a string of blasphemous invective was desecrating the purity of the night air. a moment later joe passed leisurely on his way, and the light went out in jake's dwelling. and now, without concerning himself with his direction, tresler continued his walk. he moved toward an open shed crowded with wagons. this he skirted, intending to avoid the foreman's hut, but just as he moved out from the shadow, he became aware that jake's door had opened again and some one was coming out. he waited for a moment listening. he fancied he recognized the foreman's heavy tread. curiosity prompted him to inquire further, but he checked the impulse. after all, the bully's doings were no concern of his. so he waited until the sound of receding footsteps had died out, and then passed round the back of the shed and strolled on. there was nothing now in front of him but the dense black line of the boundary pinewoods. these stretched away to the right and left as far as the darkness permitted him to see. the blackness of their depths was like a solid barrier, and he had neither time nor inclination to explore them at that hour. therefore he skirted away to the right, intending to leave the forest edge before he came to the rancher's house, and so make his way back to his quarters. he was approaching the house, and it loomed dark and rigid before him. gazing upon it, his mind at once reverted to its blind owner, and he found himself wondering if he were in bed yet, if diane had retired, and in which portion of the house she slept. his pipe had gone out again, and he paused to relight it. he had his matches in his hand, and was about to strike one, when suddenly a light flashed out in front of him. it came and was gone in a second. yet it lasted long enough for him to realize that it came from a window, and the window, he knew, from its position, must be the window of julian marbolt's bedroom. he waited for it to reappear, but the house remained in darkness; and, after a moment's deliberation, he realized its meaning. the door of the blind man's room must be opposite the window, and probably it was the opening of it that had revealed the lamplight in the hall. the thought suggested the fact that the rancher had just gone to bed. he turned his attention again to his pipe; but he seemed destined not to finish his smoke. just as he had the match poised for a second time, his ears, now painfully acute in the stillness about him, caught the sound of horses' hoofs moving through the forest. they sounded quite near; he even heard the gush of the animals' nostrils. he peered into the depths. then, suddenly realizing the strangeness of his own position lurking so near the house and under cover of the forest at that hour of the night, he dropped down in the shadow of a low bush. nor was it any too soon, for, a moment or two later, he beheld two horsemen moving slowly toward him out of the black depths. they came on until they were within half a dozen yards of him, and almost at the edge of the woods. then they drew up and sat gazing out over the ranch in silent contemplation. tresler strained his eyes to obtain a knowledge of their appearance, but the darkness thwarted him. he could see the vague outline of the man nearest him, but it was so uncertain that he could make little of it. one thing only he ascertained, and that was because the figure was silhouetted against the starlit sky. the man seemed to have his face covered with something that completely concealed his profile. the whole scene passed almost before he realized it. the horsemen had appeared so suddenly, and were gone so swiftly, returning through the forest the way they had come, that he was not sure but that the whole apparition had been a mere trick of imagination. rising swiftly, he gazed after the vanished riders, and the crunching of the pine cones under the horses' hoofs, dying slowly away as they retreated, warned him that the stealthy, nocturnal visit was no illusion, but a curious fact that needed explanation. just for an instant it occurred to him that it might be two of the hands out on night work around the cattle, then he remembered that the full complement were even now slumbering in the bunkhouse. puzzled and somewhat disquieted, he turned his steps in the direction of his quarters, fully intending to go to bed; but his adventures were not over yet. as he drew near his destination he observed the figure of a man, bearing something on his back, coming slowly toward him. a moment later he was looking down upon the diminutive person of joe nelson in the act of carrying a saddle upon his shoulder. "hello, nelson, where are you going at this hour of the night?" he asked, as he came face to face with the little man. the choreman deposited the saddle on the ground, and looked his man up and down before he answered. "wher' am i goin'?" he said, as though he were thinking of other things. "i guess i'm doin' a job in case i git fergittin' by the mornin'. jake reckons to want my saddle in the mornin' over at the hoss corrals. but, say, why ain't you abed, mr. tresler?" "never mind the 'mister,' joe," tresler said amiably. [illustration: a moment later he beheld two horsemen] "if you're going to the horse corrals now i'll go with you. i'm so beastly wide awake that i can't turn in yet." "come right along, then. guess i ain't feelin' that ways, sure." joe jerked his saddle up and slung it across his back again, and the two men walked off in silence. and as they walked, joe, under cover of the darkness, eyed his companion with occasional sidelong glances, speculating as to what he wanted with him. he quite understood that his companion was not walking with him for the pleasure of his company. on his part tresler was wondering how much he ought to tell this man--almost a stranger--of what he had seen. he felt that some one ought to know--some one with more experience than himself. he felt certain that the stealthy visit of the two horsemen was not wholesome. such espionage pointed to something that was not quite open and aboveboard. they reached the corrals, and joe deposited his burden upon the wooden wall. then he turned sharply on his companion. "wal, out wi' it, man," he demanded. "guess you got something you're wantin' to git off'n your chest." tresler laughed softly. "you're pretty sharp, joe." "pretty sharp, eh?" returned the little man. "say, it don't need no razor to cut through the meanin' of a 'tenderfoot.' wal?" tresler was looking up at the saddle. it was a small, almost skeleton saddle, such as, at one time, was largely used in texas; that was before the heavier and more picturesque mexican saddles came into vogue among the ranchmen. "what does jake want that for?" he asked. his question was an idle one, and merely put for the sake of gaining time while he arrived at a definite decision upon the other matter. "guess it's fer some feller to ride to-morrow--eh? whew!" the choreman broke off and whistled softly. something had just occurred to him. he measured tresler with his eye, and then looked at the short-seated saddle with its high cantle and tall, abrupt horn in front. he shook his head. tresler was not heeding him. suddenly he stopped and sat on the ground, propping his back against the corral wall, while he looked up at joe. "sit down," he said seriously; "i've got something rather particular i want to talk about. at least, i think it's particular, being a stranger to the country." without replying, joe deposited himself on the ground beside his new acquaintance. his face was screwed up into the expression tresler had begun to recognize as a smile. he took a chew of tobacco and prepared to give his best attention. "git goin'," he observed easily. "well, look here, have we any near neighbors?" "none nigher than forks--'cep' the breeds, an' they're nigh on six mile south, out toward the hills. how?" then tresler told him what he had seen at the edge of the pinewoods, and the choreman listened with careful attention. at the end of his story tresler added-- "you see, it's probably nothing. of course, i know nothing as yet of prairie ways and doings. no doubt it can be explained. but i argued the matter out from my own point of view, and it struck me that two horsemen, approaching the ranch under cover of the forest and a dark night, and not venturing into the open after having arrived, simply didn't want to be seen. and their not wishing to be seen meant that their object in coming wasn't--well, just above suspicion." "tol'ble reasonin'," nodded joe, chewing his cud reflectively. "what do you make of it?" "a whole heap," joe said, spitting emphatically. "what do i make of it? yes, that's it, a whole heap. guess that feller you see most of had his face covered. was that cover a mask?" "it might have been." "a red mask?" "i couldn't see the color. it was too dark. might have been." joe turned and faced his companion, and, hunching his bent knees into his arms, looked squarely into his eyes. "see here, pard, guess you never heard o' hoss thieves? they ain't likely to mean much to you," he said, with some slight contempt. then he added, by way of rubbing it in, "you bein' a 'tenderfoot.' guess you ain't heard tell of red mask an' his gang, neither?" "wrong twice," observed tresler, with a quiet smile. "i've heard of both horse thieves and red mask." "you've heard tell of hoss thieves an' red mask? wal, i'm figgerin' you've seen both to-night, anyway; an' i'll further tell you this--if you'd got the drop on him this night an' brought him down, you'd 'a' done what most every feller fer two hundred miles around has been layin' to do fer years, an' you'd 'a' been the biggest pot in montana by sundown to-morrow." he spoke with an accent of triumph, and paused for effect. "say, ther' wouldn't 'a' been a feller around as wouldn't 'a' taken his hat off to you," he went on, to accentuate the situation. "say, it was a dandy chance. but ther', you're a 'tenderfoot,'" he added, with a sigh of profound regret. tresler was inclined to laugh, but checked himself as he realized the serious side of the matter. "well, if he were here to-night, what does it portend?" he asked. "if he was here to-night it portends a deal," said joe, sharply. "it portends that the biggest 'tough,' the biggest man-killer an' hoss thief in the country, is on the war-path, an' ther'll be trouble around 'fore we're weeks older." "who is he?" "who is he? wal, i 'lows that's a big question. guess ther' ain't no real sayin'. some sez he's from across the border, some sez he's a breed, some sez he's the feller called duncan, as used to run a bum saloon in whitewater, an' shot a man in his own bar an' skipped. no one rightly knows, 'cep' he's real 'bad,' an' duffs nigh on to a thousand head o' stock most every year." "then what's to be done?" tresler asked, watching the little man's twisted face as he munched his tobacco. "what's to be done? wal, i don't rightly know. say, what wus you doin' around that house? i ain't askin' fer cur'osity. ye see, if you got tellin' jake as you wus round ther', it's likely he'd git real mad. y' see, jake's dead sweet on miss dianny. it gives him the needle that i'm around that house. o' course, ther' ain't nuthin' wi' me an' miss dianny, 'cep' we're kind o' friendly. but jake's that mean-sperrited an' jealous. she hates him like pizen. i know, 'cos i'm kind o' friendly wi' her, so to speak, meanin' nuthin', o' course. but that ain't the point. if you wus to tell him he'd make your head swim." "oh, hang jake!" exclaimed tresler, impatiently; "i'm sick to death of hearing of his terrorizing. he can't eat me----" "no, but he'll make you wish he could," put in the choreman, quietly. "he'd find me a tough mouthful," tresler laughed. "mebbe. how came you around that house?" "i simply wandered there by chance. i was smoking and taking a stroll. i'd been all round the ranch." "that wouldn't suit jake. no." joe was silent for a moment. tresler waited. at last the little man made a move and spat out his chew. "that's it," he said, slapping his thigh triumphantly--"that's it, sure. say, we needn't to tell jake nuthin'. i'll git around among the boys, an' let 'em know as i heerd tell of red mask bein' in the region o' the bend, an' how a breed give me warnin', bein' scared to come along to the ranch lest red mask got wind of it an' shut his head lights fer him. ther' ain't no use in rilin' jake. meanin' for you. he's layin' fer you anyways, as i'm guessin' you'll likely know. savee? lie low, most as low as a dead cat in a well. i'll play this hand, wi'out you figgerin' in it; which, fer you, i guess is best." tresler got up and dusted his clothes. there was a slight pause while he fingered the leather-capped stirrups of the stock saddle on the wall. joe grew impatient. "wal?" he said at last; "y' ain't bustin' wi' 'preciation." "on the contrary, i appreciate your shrewdness and kindly interest on my behalf most cordially," tresler replied, dropping the stirrup and turning to his companion; "but, you see, there's one little weakness in the arrangement. jake's liable to underestimate the importance of the nocturnal visits unless he knows the real facts. besides----" "besides," broke in joe, with an impatience bred of his reading through tresler's lame objection, "you jest notion to rile jake some. wal, you're a fool, tresler--a dog-gone fool! guess you'll strike a snag, an' snags mostly hurts. howsum, i ain't no wet-nurse, an' ef you think to bluff jake harnach, get right ahead an' bluff. an' when you bluff, bluff hard, an' back it, or you'll drop your wad sudden. guess i'll turn in." joe moved off and tresler followed. at the door of the bunkhouse they parted, for joe slept in a lean-to against the kitchen of the rancher's house. they had said "good-night," and joe was moving away when he suddenly changed his mind and came back again. "say, ther' ain't nothin' like a 'tenderfoot' fer bein' a fool, 'less it's a settin' hen," he said, with profound contempt but with evident good-will. "you're kind o' gritty, tresler, i guess, but mebbe you'll be ast to git across a tol'ble broncho in the mornin'. that's as may be. but ef it's so, jest take two thinks 'fore settin' your six foot o' body on a saddle built fer a feller o' five foot one. it ain't reason'ble, an' it's dangerous. it's most like tryin' to do that as isn't, never wus, and ain't like to be, an' if it did, wouldn't amount to a heap anyway, 'cep' it's a heap o' foolishness." tresler laughed. "all right. two into one won't go without leaving a lot over. good-night, joe." "so long. them fellers as gits figgerin' mostly gits crazed fer doin' what's impossible. guess i ain't stuck on figgers nohow." and the man vanished into the night, while tresler passed into the bunkhouse to get what little sleep his first night as a ranchman might afford him. chapter v tresler begins his education but the story of the nocturnal visit of the horse thieves did not reach the foreman next morning. jake hailed tresler down to the corrals directly after breakfast. he was to have a horse told off to him, and this matter, and the presence of others, made him postpone his purpose to a more favorable time. when he arrived at the corrals, three of the boys, under jake's superintendence, were cutting out a big, raw-boned, mud-brown mare from a bunch of about sixty colts. she stood well over sixteen hands--a clumsy, big-footed, mean-looking, clean-limbed lady, rough-coated, and scored all over with marks of "savaging." she was fiddle-headed and as lean as a hay-rake, but in build she was every inch a grand piece of horse-flesh. and tresler was sufficient horseman to appreciate her lines, as well as the vicious, roving eye which displayed the flashing whites at every turn. jacob smith was after her with a rope, and the onlookers watched his lithe, active movements as he followed her, wildly racing round and round the corral seeking a means of escape. suddenly the man made a dart in to head her off. she turned to retreat, but the other two were there to frustrate her purpose. just for a second she paused irresolutely; then, lowering her head and setting her ears back, she came open-mouthed for jacob. but he anticipated her intention, and, as she came, sprang lightly aside, while she swept on, lashing out her heels at him as she went. it was the opportunity the man sought, and, in the cloud of dust that rose in her wake, his lariat shot out low over the ground. the next moment she fell headlong, roped by the two forefeet, and all three men sprang in to the task of securing her. it was done so quickly that tresler had hardly realized her capture when jake's harsh voice rang out-- "that's your mare, tresler!" he cried; "guess that plug of yours'll do for fancy ridin'. you'll break this one to handlin' cattle. you're a tolerable weight, but she's equal to it." he laughed, and his laugh sent an angry flush into the other's face. "say," he went on, in calmly contemptuous tones; "she's wild some. but she's been saddled before. oh, yes, she ain't raw off the grass. you, comin' from down east, can mebbe ride. they mostly reckon to be able to ride till they come along to these parts." tresler understood the man's game; he also understood and fully appreciated joe nelson's warning. he glanced at the saddle still hanging on the corral wall. it would be simple suicide for him to attempt to ride an outlaw with a saddle fit for a boy of fifteen. and it was jake's purpose, trading on his ignorance of such matters, to fool him into using a saddle that would probably rupture him. "i presume she's the worst outlaw on the ranch," he replied quietly, though his blue eyes shone dangerously. "she must be," he went on, as jake made no answer, "or you wouldn't give her to me, and point out that she's been saddled before." "kind o' weakenin'?" jake asked with a sneer. "no. i was just thinking of my saddle. it will be no use on her; she'd burst the girths." "that needn't worry you any. there's a stock saddle there, on the fence." "thank you, i'll ride on a saddle that fits a man of my size, or you can ride the mare yourself." tresler was round and facing his man, and his words came in a tone the other was unaccustomed to. but jake kept quite cool while he seemed to be debating with himself. then he abruptly turned away with a short, vicious laugh. "guess the 'tenderfoot's' plumb scared to ride her, boys," he called out to the men, relapsing into the vernacular as he addressed them. "any o' you boys lendin' a saddle, or shall we find him a rockin'-hoss to run around on?" tresler fell headlong into the trap. jake had drawn him with a skill worthy of a better object. "if there is anybody scared, i don't think it is i, boys," he said with a laugh as harsh as jake's had been. "if one of you will lend me a man's saddle, i'll break that mare or she'll break me." now, tresler was a very ordinary horseman. he had never in his life sat a horse that knew the first rudiments of bucking; but at that moment he would have mounted to the back of any horse, even if his life were to pay the forfeit next moment. besides, even in his blind anger, he realized that this sort of experience must come sooner or later. "broncho-busting" would be part of his training. therefore, when some one suggested arizona's saddle--since arizona was on the sick list--he jumped at the chance, for that individual was about his size. the mare was now on her legs again, and stood ready bridled, while two men held her with the lariat drawn tight over her windpipe. she stood as still as a rock, and to judge by the flashing of her eyes, inwardly raging. they led her out of the corral, and arizona's saddle was brought and the stirrups adjusted to tresler's requirements. she was taken well clear of the buildings into the open, and jacob, with the subtlety and art acquired by long practice in breaking horses, proceeded to saddle her. lew and raw harris choked her quiet with the lariat, and though she physically attempted to resent the indignity of being saddled, the cinchas were drawn tight. tresler had come over by himself, leaving jake to watch the proceedings from the vantage ground of the rise toward the house. he was quite quiet, and the boys stole occasional apprehensive glances at him. they knew this mare; they knew that she was a hopeless outlaw and fit only for the knacker's yard. at last jacob beckoned him over. "say, ther' ain't no need fer you to ride her, mister," he said, feeling that it was his duty as a man to warn him. "she's the worstest devil on the range, an' she'll break your neck an' jump on you with her maulin' great hoofs, sure. i guess ther' ain't a 'buster' in the country 'ud tackle her fer less 'an a fi' dollar wager, she's that mean." "and she looks all you say of her, jacob," replied tresler, with a grim smile. "thanks for your warning, but i'm going to try and ride her," he went on with quiet decision. "not because i think i can, but because that bully up there"--with a nod in jake's direction--"would only be too glad of the chance of taunting me with 'weakening.' she shall throw me till she makes it a physical impossibility for me to mount her again. all i ask is that you fellows stand by to keep her off when i'm on the ground." by this time jacob had secured the saddle, and now tresler walked round the great beast, patting her gently and speaking to her. and she watched him with an evil, staring eye that boded nothing good. then he took a rawhide quirt from jacob and, twisting it on his wrist, mounted her, while the men kept the choking rope taut about her throat, and she stood like a statue, except for the heaving of her sides as she gasped for breath. he gathered the reins up, which had been passed through the noose of the lariat, and sat ready. jacob drew off, and held the end of the rope. tresler gave the word. the two men left her, while, with a shake and a swift jerk, jacob flung the lariat clear of the mare's head. in an instant the battle had begun. down went the lady's head (the boys called her by a less complimentary name), and she shot into the air with her back humped till she shaped like an inverted u with its extremities narrowed and almost touching. there was no seesaw bucking about her. it was stiff-legged, with her four feet bunched together and her great fiddle-head lost in their midst. and at the first jump tresler shot a foot out of the saddle, lurched forward and then back, and finally came down where he had started from. and as he fell heavily into the saddle his hand struck against a coiled blanket strap behind the cantle, and he instinctively grabbed hold of it and clung to it for dear life. up she shot again, and deliberately swung round in the air and came down with her head where her tail had been. it was a marvelous, cat-like spring, calculated to unseat the best of horsemen. tresler was half out of the saddle again, but the blanket strap saved him, and the next buck threw him back into his seat. now her jumps came like the shots from a gatling gun, and the man on her back was dazed, and his head swam, and he felt the blood rushing to his ear-drums. but with desperate resolve he clung to his strap, and so retained his seat. but it couldn't last, and he knew it, although those looking on began to have hopes that he would tire the vixen out. but they didn't know the demon that possessed her. suddenly it seemed as though an accident had happened to her. her legs absolutely shot from under her as she landed from one terrific buck, and she plunged to the ground. then her intention became apparent. but luckily the antic had defeated its own end, for tresler was flung wide, and, as she rolled on the ground, he scrambled clear of her body. he struggled to his feet, but not before she had realized his escape, and, with the savage instinct of a man-eater, had sprung to her feet and was making for him open-mouthed. it was jacob's readiness and wonderful skill that saved him. the rope whistled through the air and caught her, the noose falling over her head with scarcely room between her nose and her victim's back for the rawhide to pass. in a flash the strands strung tight, and her head swung round with such a jolt that she was almost thrown from her feet. again she was choked down, and tresler, breathing desperately, but with his blood fairly up, was on top of her almost before the man holding her realized his intention. the mare was foaming at the mouth, and a lather of sweat dripped from her tuckered flanks. the whites of her eyes were flaming scarlet now, and when she was let loose again she tried to savage her rider's legs. failing this, she threw her head up violently, and, all unprepared for it, tresler received the blow square in the mouth. then she was up on her hind legs, fighting the air with her front feet, and a moment later crashed over backward. and again it seemed like a miracle that he escaped; he slid out of the saddle, not of his own intention, and rolled clear as she came down. this time she was caught before she could struggle to her feet, and when at last she stood up she was dazed and shaken, though still unconquered. again tresler mounted. he was bruised and bleeding, and shaking as with an ague. and now the mare tried a new move. she bucked; but it was a running buck, her body twisting and writhing with curious serpentine undulations, and her body seemed to shrink under his legs as though the brute were drawing in her whole frame of a settled purpose. then, having done enough in this direction, she suddenly stood, and began to kick violently, with her head stretched low between her forelegs. and tresler felt himself sliding, saddle and all, over her withers! suddenly the blanket strap failed him. it cracked and gave, and he shot from the saddle like a new-fired rocket. and when the mare had been caught again she was without the saddle, which was now lying close to where her rider had fallen. she had bucked and kicked herself clean through the still-fastened cinchas. tresler was bleeding from nose and ears when he mounted again. the saddle was cinched up very tight, and the mare herself was so blown that she was unable to distend herself to resist the pressure. but, nevertheless, she fought as though a devil possessed her, and, exhausted, and without the help of the blanket strap, he was thrown again and again. five times he fell; and each time, as no bones were broken, he remounted her. but he was growing helpless. but the men looking on realized that which was lost upon the rider himself. the mare was done; she was fairly beaten. the fifth time he climbed into the saddle her bucks wouldn't have thrown a babe; and when they beheld this, they, with one accord, shouted to him. "say, thrash her, boy! lace h---- out of her!" roared jacob. "cut her liver out wi' that quirt!" cried lew. "ay, run her till she can't see," added raw. and tresler obeyed mechanically. he was too exhausted to do much; but he managed to bring the quirt down over her shoulders, until, maddened with pain, she rose up on her hind legs, gave a mighty bound forward, and raced away down the trail like a creature possessed. it was dinner-time when tresler saw the ranch again. he returned with the mare jaded and docile. he had recovered from the battle, while she had scarcely energy enough to put one foot before the other. she was conquered. to use arizona's expression, when, from the doorway of the bunkhouse, he saw the mare crawling up the trail toward the ranch-- "guess she's loaded down till her springs is nigh busted." and tresler laughed outright in jake's face when that individual came into the barn, while he was rubbing her down, and generally returning good for evil, and found fault with his work. "where, i'd like to know, have you been all this time?" he asked angrily. then, as his eyes took in the pitiful sight of the exhausted mare, "say, you've ruined that mare, and you'll have to make it good. we don't keep horses for the hands to founder. d'you see what you've done? you've broke her heart." "and if i'd had the chance i'd have broken her neck too," tresler retorted, with so much heat, that, in self-defense, the foreman was forced to leave him alone. that afternoon the real business of ranching began. lew cawley was sent out with tresler to instruct him in mending barbed-wire fences. a distant pasture had been broken into by the roving cattle outside. lew remained with him long enough to show him how to strain the wires up and splice them, then he rode off to other work. tresler was glad to find himself out on the prairie away from the unbearable influence of the ranch foreman. the afternoon was hot, but it was bright with the sunshine, which, in the shadow of the mountains, is so bracing. the pastures he was working in were different from the lank weedy-grown prairie, although of the same origin. they were irrigated, and had been sown and re-sown with timothy grass and clover. the grass rose high up to the horse's knees as he rode, and the quiet, hard-working animal, his own property, reveled in the sweet-scented fodder which he could nip at as he moved leisurely along. and tresler worked very easily that afternoon. not out of indolence, not out of any ill-feeling toward his foreman. he was weary after his morning's exertions, and, besides, the joy of being out in the pure, bright air, on that wondrous sea of rolling green grass with its illimitable suggestion of freedom and its gracious odors, seduced him to an indolence quite foreign to him. he was beyond the view of the ranch, with two miles of prairie rollers intervening, so he did his work without concern for time. it was well after four o'clock when the last strand of wire was strung tight. then, for want of a shady tree to lean his back against, he sat down by a fence post and smoked, while his horse, with girths loosened, and bit removed from its mouth, grazed joyfully near by. and then he slept. the peace of the prairie world got hold of him; the profound silence lulled his fagged nerves, his pipe went out, and he slept. he awoke with a start. nor, for the moment, did he know where he was. his pipe had fallen from his mouth, and he found himself stretched full length upon the ground. but something unusual had awakened him, and when he had gathered his scattered senses he looked about him to ascertain what the nature of the disturbance had been. the next moment a laughing voice hailed him. "is this the way you learn ranching, mr. tresler? oh, shame! sleeping the glorious hours of sunshine away." it was the rich, gentle voice of diane marbolt, and its tone was one of quiet raillery. she was gazing down at him from the back of her sturdy broncho mare, bessie, with eyes from which, for the moment at least, all sadness had vanished. just now her lips were wreathed in a bright smile, and her soft brown eyes were dancing with a joyous light, which, when tresler had first seen her, had seemed impossible to them. she was out on the prairie, on the back of her favorite, bessie; she was away from the ranch, from the home that possessed so many cares for her. she was out in her world, the world she loved, the world that was the only world for her, breathing the pure, delicious air which, even in moments of profound unhappiness, had still power to carry her back to the days of happy, careless childhood; had still power to banish all but pleasant thoughts, and to bestow upon her that wild sense of freedom such as is only given to those who have made their home on its virgin bosom. tresler beheld this girl now in her native mood. he saw before him the true child of the prairie such as she really was. she was clad in a blue dungaree habit and straw sun-hat, and he marveled at the ravishing picture she made. he raised himself upon his elbow and stared at her, and a sensation of delight swept over him as he devoured each detail of face and figure. then, suddenly, he was recalled to his senses by the abrupt fading of the smile from the face before him; and he flushed with a rueful sense of guiltiness. "fairly caught napping, miss marbolt," he said, in confusion. "i acknowledge the sloth, but not the implied laxness anent ranching. believe me, i have learned an ample lesson to-day. i now have a fuller appreciation of our worthy foreman; a fair knowledge of the horse, most accurately termed 'outlaw', as the bruised condition of my body can testify; and, as for barbed-wire fencing, i really believe i have discovered every point in its construction worthy of consideration." he raised a pair of lacerated hands for the girl's inspection, and rose, smiling, to his feet. "i apologize." diane was smiling again now as she noted the network of scratches upon his outstretched palms. "you certainly have not been idle," she added, significantly. then she became serious with a suddenness that showed how very near the surface, how strongly marked was that quiet, thoughtful nature her companion had first realized in her. "but i saw you on that mare, and i thought you would surely be killed. do you know they've tried to break her for two seasons, and failed hopelessly. what happened after she bolted?" "oh, nothing much. i rode her to forks and back twice." "forty miles! good gracious! what is she like now?" "done up, of course. jake assures me i've broken her heart; but i haven't. my lady jezebel has a heart of stone that would take something in the nature of a sledge-hammer to break. she'll buck like the mischief again to-morrow." "yes." the girl nodded. she had witnessed the battle between the "tenderfoot" and the mare; and, now that it was all over, she felt pleased that he had won. and there was no mistaking the approval in the glance she gave him. she understood the spirit that had moved him to drive the mare that forty miles; nor, in spite of a certain sympathy for the jaded creature, did she condemn him for it. she was too much a child of the prairie to morbidly sentimentalize over the matter. the mare was a savage of the worst type, and she knew that prairie horses in their breaking often require drastic treatment. it was the stubborn, purposeful character of the man that she admired, and thought most of. he had carried out a task that the best horse-breaker in the country might reasonably have shrunk from, and all to please the brutal nature of jake harnach. "and you've christened her 'lady jezebel'?" she asked. tresler laughed. "why, yes, it seems to suit her," he said indifferently. then a slight pause followed which amounted almost to awkwardness. the girl had come to find him. her visit was not a matter of chance. she wanted to talk to this man from the east. and, somehow, tresler understood that this was so. for some moments she sat stroking bessie's shoulder with her rawhide riding-switch. the mare grew restive. she, too, seemed to understand something of the awkwardness, and did her best to break it up by one or two of her frivolous gambols. when she had been pacified, the girl leaned forward in her saddle and looked straight into her companion's eyes. "tell me," she said, abruptly; "why did you ride that animal?" the man laughed a little harshly. "because--well, because i hadn't sense enough to refuse, i suppose." "ah, i understand. jake harnach." tresler shrugged. "i came out purposely to speak to you," the girl went on, in a quiet, direct manner. there was not the least embarrassment now. she had made up her mind to avoid all chance of misunderstanding. "i want to put matters quite plainly before you. this morning's business was only a sequel to your meeting with jake, or rather a beginning of the sequel." tresler shook his head and smiled. "not the beginning of the sequel. that occurred last evening, after i left you." diane looked a swift inquiry. "yes, jake is not an easy man. but believe me, miss marbolt, you need have no fear. i see what it is; you, in the kindness of your heart, dread that i, a stranger here in your land, in your home, may be maltreated, or even worse by that unconscionable ruffian. knowing your father's affliction, you fear that i have no protection from jake's murderous savagery, and you are endeavoring bravely to thrust your frail self between us, and so stave off a catastrophe. have no fear. i do not anticipate a collision. he is only an atrocious bully." "he is more than that. you underestimate him." the girl's face had darkened. her lips were firmly compressed, and an angry fire burned in her usually soft eyes. tresler, watching, read the hatred for jake; read the hatred, and saw that which seemed so out of place in the reliant little face. a pronounced fear was also expressed, and the two were so marked that it was hard to say which feeling predominated. hatred had stirred depths of fire in her beautiful eyes, but fear had paled her features, had set drawn lines about her mouth and brows. he wondered. "you are right, mr. tresler, in that you think i dread for your safety," she went on presently. "it was certainly that dread that brought me out here to-day. you do not anticipate a collision because you are a brave man. you have no fear, therefore you give no thought to possibilities. i am weak and a woman, and i see with eyes of understanding and knowledge of jake, and i know that the collision will be forced upon you; and, further, when the trouble comes, jake will take no chances. but you must not think too well of me. believe me, there is selfishness at the root of my anxiety. do you not see what trouble it will cause to us; my father, me?" tresler looked away. the girl had a strange insistence. it seemed to him folly to consider the matter so seriously. he was convinced that she was holding something back; that she was concealing her real reason--perhaps the reason of her own fear of jake--for thus importuning him. it did not take him long to make up his mind with those lovely, appealing eyes upon him. he turned back to her with a frank smile, and held out his hand. diane responded, and they shook hands like two friends making a bargain. "you are right, miss marbolt," he said. "i promise you to do all in my power to keep the peace with jake. but," and here he held up a finger in mock warning, "anything in the nature of a physical attack will be resented--to the last." diane nodded. she had obtained all the assurance he would give, she knew, and wisely refrained from further pressure. now a silence fell. the sun was dropping low in the west, and already the shadows on the grass were lengthening. tresler brought his grazing horse back. when he returned diane reverted to something he had said before. "this 'sequel' you spoke of. you didn't tell me it." her manner had changed, and she spoke almost lightly. "the matter of the sequel was a trivial affair, and only took the form of jake's spleen in endeavoring to make my quarters as uncomfortable for me as possible. no, the incident i had chiefly in mind was something altogether different. it was all so strange--so very strange," he went on reflectively. "one adventure on top of another ever since my arrival. the last, and strangest of all, did not occur until nearly midnight." he looked up with a smile, but only to find that diane's attention was apparently wandering. the girl was gazing out over the waving grass-land with deep, brooding, dreamy eyes. there was no anger in them now, only her features looked a little more drawn and hard. the man waited for a moment, then as she did not turn he went on. "you have strange visitors at the ranch, miss marbolt--very strange. they come stealthily in the dead of night; they come through the shelter of the pinewoods, where it is dark, almost black, at night. they come with faces masked--at least one face----" he got no further. there was no lack of effect now. diane was round upon him, gazing at him with frightened eyes. "you saw them?" she cried; and a strident ring had replaced her usually soft tones. "them? who?" for a moment they stared into each other's eyes. he inquiringly; she with fear and mingled horror. "these--these visitors." the words came almost in a whisper. "yes." "and what were they like?" the girl spoke apprehensively. then tresler told his story as he had told it to joe nelson. and diane hung on every word he uttered, searching him through and through with her troubled eyes. "what are you going to do about it?" she asked as he finished. tresler was struck with the peculiarity of the question. she expressed no surprise, no wonder. it seemed as though the matter was in nowise new to her. her whole solicitude was in her anticipation of what he would do about it. "i am not sure," he said, concealing his surprise under a leisurely manner. "i had intended to tell jake," he went on a moment later, "only the lady jezebel put it out of my head. i told joe nelson last night. he told me i had seen red mask, the cattle thief, and one of his men. he also tried to get me to promise that i would say nothing about it to jake. i refused to give that promise. he gave me no sufficient reasons, you see, and--well, i failed to see the necessity for silence." "but there is a necessity, mr. tresler. the greatest." diane's tone was thrilling with an almost fierce earnestness. "joe was right. jake is the last person to whom you should tell your story." "why?" "why?" diane echoed, with a mirthless laugh. "pshaw!" "yes, why? i have a right to know, miss marbolt." "you shall know all i can tell you." the girl seemed on the verge of making an impulsive statement, but suddenly stopped; and when at last she did proceed her tone was more calm and so low as to be little above a whisper. "visitors such as you have seen have been seen by others before. the story, as you have told it, has in each case been told to jake by the unfortunate who witnessed these strange movements at night----" "unfortunate?" "yes. the informant has always met with misfortune, accident--whatever you like to call it. listen; it is a long story, but i will merely outline the details i wish to impress on you. some years ago this red mask appeared from no one knows where. curiously enough his appearance was in the vicinity of this ranch. we were robbed, and he vanished. some time later he was seen again, much the same as you saw him last night. one of our boys gave the warning to jake. two days later the poor fellow who informed upon him was found shot on the trail into forks. later, again, another hand witnessed a somewhat similar scene and gave information. his end was by drowning in a shallow part of the river. folks attributed his end to drink, but----again red mask showed up--always at night--again he was seen, and jake was warned. the victim this time met his death by the falling of a rock in the foot-hills. the rock killed horse and rider. and so it has gone on at varying intervals. eight men have been similarly treated. the ninth, arizona, barely escaped with his life a little while ago. i've no doubt but that some accident will happen to him yet. and, mark this, in each case the warning has gone first to jake. i may be altogether wrong; certainly other folks do not look upon the death of these various men with suspicion, but i have watched, and reasoned out all i have seen. and----" "why, jake must----" "hush!" diane gazed round her apprehensively. "no, no, mr. tresler," she went on hurriedly, "i do not say that; i dare not think of it. jake has been with us so long; he cares for father's interest as for his own. in spite of his terrible nature he is father's--friend." "and the man who intends to marry you," tresler added to himself. aloud he asked, "then how do you account for it?" "that's just it. i--i don't account for it. i only warn you not to take your story to jake." tresler drew a step nearer, and stood so close to her that her dungaree skirt was almost touching him. he looked up in a manner that compelled her gaze. "you do account for it, miss marbolt," he said emphatically. nor did the girl attempt denial. just for a moment there was a breathless silence. then bessie pawed the ground, and thrust her nose into the face of tresler's horse in friendly, caressing fashion; and the movement broke the spell. "urge me no further, mr. tresler," diane exclaimed appealingly. "do not make me say something i have no right to say; something i might have cause to regret all my life. believe me, i hardly know what to believe, and what not to believe; i hardly know what to think. i can only speak as my instinct guides me. oh, mr. tresler, i--i can trust you. yes--i know i can." the girl's appeal had its effect. tresler reached up and caught the little outstretched hands. "yes, you can trust me, miss marbolt," he said with infinite kindness. "you have done the very best thing you could have done. you have given me your confidence--a trouble that i can see has caused you ages of unhappiness. i confess you have opened up suspicions that seem almost preposterous, but you----" he broke off, and stood gazing down thoughtfully at the two hands he still held clasped within his. then he seemed to become suddenly aware of the position, and, with a slight laugh, released them. "pardon me," he said, glancing up into the troubled eyes with a kindly smile. "i was dreaming. come, let us return to the ranch. it is time. it will be pleasant riding in the cool. by jove, i begin to think that it is more than possible i owe jake considerable gratitude after all." "you owe him nothing," answered diane, with angry emphasis. "you owe him nothing but obedience as a ranch hand, and that you will have to pay him. for the rest, avoid him as you would a pest." tresler sprang into the saddle, and the horses ambled leisurely off in the direction of the ranch. and, as he rode, he set aside all thoughts of jake and of red mask. he thought only of the girl herself, of her delightful companionship. his steady-going horse, with due regard for the sex of his companion, allowed bess to lead him by a neck. he traveled amiably by her side, every now and then raising his nose as though to bite his spirited little companion, but it was only pretense. nor did tresler urge him faster. he preferred that they should travel thus. he could gaze to his heart's content upon diane without displaying rudeness. he could watch the trim, erect figure, poised so easily and gracefully upon the saddle. she rode like one born to the saddle, and by the gait of her mare, he could see that her hands were of the lightest, yet firm and convincing to the high-mettled animal they controlled. the girl was a perfect picture as she rode; her rich, dark hair was loosely coiled, and several waving ringlets had fluffed loose with the breeze and motion of riding, and strayed from the shadow of her wide hat. tresler's thoughts went back to his home; and, he told himself, none of the horsewomen he had known could have displayed such an abundant grace in the saddle with their rigid habits and smart hats. there was nothing of the riding-school here; just the horsemanship that is so much a natural instinct. and so they rode on to the ranch. chapter vi the killing of manson orr all was still and drowsy about the ranch. every available hand was out at work upon some set task, part of the daily routine of the cattle world. mosquito bend was a splendid example of discipline, for jake was never the man to let his men remain idle. even arizona had been set to herd the milch cows and generally tend the horses remaining in the barn; and tresler, too, was further acquainting himself with the cantankerous nature of barbed-wire fencing. on this particular afternoon there was nothing about the ranch to indicate the undercurrent of trouble tresler had so quickly discovered to be flowing beneath its calm surface. the sun was pouring down upon the wiltering foliage with a fierceness which had set the insect world droning its drowsy melody; the earth was already parching; the sloughs were already dry, and the tall grass therein was rapidly ripening against the season of haying. but in spite of the seeming peace; in spite of the cloudless sky, the pastoral beauty of the scene, the almost inaudible murmur of the distant river, the tide was flowing swiftly and surely. it was leaping with the roar of a torrent. a clatter of horse's hoofs broke up the quiet, and came rattling over the river trail. the noise reached jake's ears and set him alert. he recognized the eager haste, the terrific speed, of the animal approaching. he rose from his bunk and stood ready, and a look of deep interest was in his bold black eyes. suddenly a horseman came into view. he was leaning well over his horse's neck, urging to a race with whip and spur. jake saw him sweep by and breast the rise to the rancher's house. at the verandah the man flung off his horse, and left the drooping beast standing while he hammered at the door. there was some delay, and he repeated his summons still more forcibly, adding his voice to his demand. "hello there!" he called. "any one in?" "archie orr," jake muttered to himself, as he stepped out of his hut. the next moment the man at the verandah was caught up in the full blast of the foreman's half-savage and wholly hectoring protest. "what blazin' racket are you raisin' ther'?" he roared, charging up the hill with heavy, hurried strides. "this ain't skitter reach, you dog-gone coyote, nor that ain't your pap's shanty. what's itchin' you, blast you?" archie swung round at the first shout. there was a wild expression on his somewhat weak face. it was the face of a weak nature suddenly worked up into the last pitch of frenzy. but even so the approach of jake was not without its effect. his very presence was full of threat to the weaker man. archie was no physical coward, but, in that first moment of meeting, he felt as if he had been suddenly taken by the collar, lifted up and shaken, and forcibly set down on his feet again. and his reply came in a tone that voiced the mental process he had passed through. "i've come for help. i was in forks last night, and only got home this afternoon," he answered, with unnatural calmness. then the check gave way before his hysterical condition, and jake's momentary influence was lost upon him. "i tell you it's red mask! it's him and his gang! they've shot my father down; they've burned us out, and driven off our stock! god's curse on the man! but i'll have him. i'll hunt him down. ha! ha!" the young man's blue eyes flashed and his face worked as his hysteria rose and threatened to overwhelm him. "you hear?" he shouted on--"what does it say? blood for blood. i'll have it! give me some help. give me horses, and i'll have it! i'll----" his voice had risen to a shriek. "you'll shut off that damned noise, or"--jake's ferocious face was thrust forward, and his fierce eyes glared furiously into the other's--"or git." archie shrank back silenced at once. the effect suited the foreman, and he went on with a sardonic leer-- "an' you'll have 'blood for blood' o' red mask? you? you who was away boozin' in forks when you'd a right to ha' been around lookin' to see that old skinflint of a father o' yours didn't git no hurt. you're goin' to round up red mask; you who ain't got guts enough but to crawl round here fer help to do it. you!" a hot reply sprang to the youngster's lips in spite of his fear of this man, but it died suddenly as a voice from within the doorway broke in upon them. "and a right purpose too, archie." diane stepped out on to the verandah and ranged herself at his side, while her scornful brown eyes sought the foreman's face. there was a moment's pause, then she looked up into the boy's troubled face. "you want to see my father?" archie was only eighteen, and though well grown and muscular, he was still only a boy. "yes, miss diane; i do want to see him. i want to borrow a couple of horses from him, and to ask his advice." archie's recent heat and hysteria had soothed under the influence of the girl's presence. he now stood bowed and dejected; he appeared to have suddenly grown old. jake watched the scene with a sneer on his brutal face, but remained silent now that diane was present. "i will rouse him myself," she said quietly, moving toward the door. "yes, you shall see him, archie. i heard what you said just now, and i'll tell him. but----" she broke off, hesitating. then she came back to him. "is--is your father dead, or--only wounded?" the boy's head dropped forward, and two great tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. diane turned away, and a far-off look came into her steady brown eyes. there was a silence for a moment, then a deep, heart-broken sob came from the lad at her side. she flashed one hard glance in jake's direction and turned to her companion, gently gripping his arm in a manner that expressed a world of womanly sympathy. her touch, her quiet, strong helpfulness, did more for him than any formal words of condolence could have done. he lifted his head and dashed the tears from his face; and the girl smiled encouragement upon him. "wait here," she said; "i will go and fetch father." she slipped away, leaving the two men alone. and when she had gone, the foreman's raucous voice sounded harshly on the still air. "say, you ain't smart, neither. we got one of your kidney around here now. kind o' reckons to fix the old man through the girl. most weak-kneed fellers gamble a pile on petticoats. wal, i guess you're right out. marbolt ain't easy that way. you'll be sorry you fetched him from his bed, or i don't know him." archie made no reply. nor was any more talk possible, for at that moment there came the steady tap, tap, of the blind man's stick down the passage, and the two men faced the door expectantly. the rancher shuffled out on to the verandah. diane was at his side, and led him straight over to young orr. the old man's head was poised alertly for a second; then he turned swiftly in the foreman's direction. "hah! that you, jake?" he nodded as he spoke, and then turned back to the other. the blind man's instinct seemed something more than human. "eh? your father murdered, boy?" marbolt questioned, without the least softening of tone. "murdered?" archie gulped down his rising emotion. but there was no life in his answer--his words came in a tone of utter hopelessness. "yes, sir; shot down, i gather, in defense of our homestead." the steady stare of the rancher's red eyes was hard to support. archie felt himself weaken before the personality of this man he had come to see. "gather?" the hardness of his greeting had now changed to the gentleness of tone in which the blind man usually spoke. but the boy drew no confidence from it while confronted by those unseeing eyes. it was diane who understood and replied for him. "yes; archie was in forks last night, on business, father. he only learned what had happened on returning home this afternoon. he--he wants some help." "yes, sir," archie went on quickly; "only a little help. i came home to find our homestead burned clean out. not a roof left to shelter my mother and sister, and not one living beast left upon the place, except the dogs. oh, my god, it is awful! mother and alice were sitting beside the corral gate weeping fit to break their hearts over the dead body of father when i found them. and the story, as i learned it, sir, was simple--horribly, terribly simple. they were roused at about two in the morning by the dogs barking. father, thinking timber wolves were around, went out with a gun. he saw nothing till he got to the corrals. then mother, watching from her window, saw the flash of several guns, and heard the rattle of their reports. father dropped. then the gang of murderers roused out the stock, and some drove it off, while others wantonly fired the buildings. it was red mask, sir, for he came up to the house and ordered mother out before the place was fired. she is sure it was him because of his mask. she begged him not to burn her home, but the devil had no remorse; he vouchsafed only one reply. maybe she forced him to an answer with her appeal; maybe he only spoke to intimidate others who might hear of his words from her. anyway, he said, 'your man and you open your mouths too wide around this place. manson orr wrote in to the police, and asked for protection. you won't need it now, neither will he.'" he paused, while the horror of his story sank deeply into the heart of at least one of his hearers. then he went on with that eager, nervous fire he had at first displayed: "mr. marbolt, i look to you to help me. i've got nothing to keep me now from following this devil of a man. i want to borrow horses, and i'll hunt him down. i'll hunt him down while i've a breath left in my body, sir," he went on, with rising passion. "i'll pay him if it takes me my lifetime! only lend me the horses, sir. it is as much to your interest as mine, for he has robbed you before now; your property is no more safe than any other man's. let us combine to fight him, to bring him down, to measure him his full measure, to send him to hell, where he belongs. i'll do this----" "yes, while your mother and sister starve," put in the blind man, drily. then, as the fire of archie's passion suddenly sank at the cold, incisive words, and he remained silent and abashed, he went on, in quiet, even tones, while his red eyes were focussed upon his visitor's face with disconcerting directness, "no, no; go you--i won't say 'home,' but go you to your mother and sister: look after them, care for them, work for them. you owe that to them before any act of vengeance be made. when you have achieved their comfort, you are at liberty to plunge into any rashness you choose. i am no youngster, archie orr, i am a man of years, who has seen, all my life, only through a brain rendered doubly acute by lack of sight, and my advice is worthy of your consideration. you have nothing more to fear from red mask at present, but if you continue your headlong course you will have; and, as far as i can make out, his hand is heavy and swift in falling. go back to your women-folk, i say. you can get no horses from me for such a foolhardy purpose as you meditate." diane had watched her father closely, and as he finished speaking, she moved toward the bereaved man and laid a hand upon his arm in gentle appeal. "father is right, archie. go back to them, those two lonely, broken-hearted women. you can do all for them if you will. they need all that your kind, honest heart can bestow. it is now that you must show the stuff you are made of." archie had turned away; but he looked round and mechanically glanced down at the brown hand still resting upon his arm. the sight of it held him for some moments, and when he raised his head a new look was in his eyes. the sympathy in her tones, the gentle encouragement of the few words she had spoken, had completed that which the sound but unsympathetic advice of her father had begun. his purpose had been the wild impulse of unstable youth; there was no strength to it, no real resolution. besides, he was a gentle-hearted lad, to whom diane's appeal for his mother and sister was irresistible. "thank you, miss diane," he said, with a profound sigh. "your kind heart has seen where my anger has been blind. yes, i will return and help my mother. and i thank you, sir," he went on, turning reluctantly to face the stare of the rancher's eyes again. "you, too, have plainly shown me my duty, and i shall follow it, but--if ever----" "and you'll do well," broke in jake, with a rough laugh that jarred terribly. "your father's paid his pound. if his son's wise, he'll hunt his hole." archie's eyes flashed ominously. diane saw the look, and, in an instant, drew his attention to his horse, which was moving off toward the barn. "see, archie," she said, with a gentle smile, "your horse is weary, and is looking for rest." the boy read her meaning. he held out his hand impulsively, and the girl placed hers into it. in a moment his other had closed over it, and he shook it tenderly. then, without a word, he made off after his horse. the blind man's face was turned in his direction as he went, and when the sound of his footsteps had died away, he turned abruptly and tapped his way back to the door. at the threshold he turned upon the foreman. "two days in succession i have been disturbed," he gritted out. "you are getting past your work, jake harnach." "father----" diane started forward in alarm, but he cut her short. "and as for you, miss, remember your place in my house. go, look to your duties. sweep, wash, cook, sew. those are the things your sex is made for. what interest have you, dare you have, in that brainless boy? let him fight his own battles. it may make a man of him; though i doubt it. he is nothing to you." diane shrank before the scathing blast of that sightless fury. but she rallied to protest. "it is the women-folk, father." "women-folk? bah!" he threw up his hands in ineffable scorn, and shuffled away into the house. jake, still smarting under the attack, stood leaning against the verandah post. he was looking away down at the bunkhouse, where a group of the men were gathered about archie orr, who, seated on his horse, was evidently telling his tale afresh. diane approached him. he did not even turn to meet her. "jake, i want bess at once. hitch her to the buckboard, and have her sent round to the kitchen door." "what are you goin' to do, my girl?" he asked, without shifting his gaze. "maybe i shall drive over to see those poor women." "maybe?" "yes." "you can't have her." jake turned, and looked down at her from his great height. archie orr had just ridden off. diane returned his look fearlessly, and there was something in the directness of her gaze that made the giant look away. "i think i can," she said quietly. "go and see to it now." the man started. it seemed as if he were about to bluster. his bold, black eyes flashed ominously, and it was plain from his attitude that a flat and harsh refusal was on his lips. but somehow he didn't say it. the brutality of his expression slowly changed as he looked at her. a gentle light stole slowly, and it seemed with difficulty, into his eyes, where it looked as out of place as the love-light in the eyes of a tiger. but there was no mistaking it. however incongruous it was there, and the lips that had been framing a cruel retort merely gave utterance to a quiet acquiescence. "all right. i'll send her round in five minutes." and diane went into the house at once. meanwhile, a great discussion of young orr's affairs was going on at the bunkhouse. arizona had vacated his favorite seat, and was now holding the floor. his pale face was flushed with a hectic glow of excitement. he was taxing his little stock of strength to the uttermost, and, at least, some of those looking on listening to him knew it. "i tell you ther' ain't nothin' fer it but to roll up to old blind hulks an' ast him to send us out. ef this dog-gone skunk's let be, ther' ain't no stock safe. guess i've had my med'cine from 'em, and i'm jest crazy fer more. i've had to do wi' fellers o' their kidney 'fore, i guess. we strung six of 'em up in a day on the same tree down arizona way, as that gray-headed possum, joe nelson, well remembers. say, we jest cleaned our part o' that country right quick. guess ther' wa'n't a 'bad man' wuth two plugs o' nickel chawin' around when we'd finished gettin' 'em. say, this feller's played it long enough, an' i'm goin' right now to see the boss. he's around. who's comin'?" "yes, an' archie orr's a pore sort o' crittur to git left wi' two women-folk," said raw harris, rising from his upturned bucket and putting forth his argument, regardless of its irrelevance. "not a stick to shelter him--which i mean 'them.' an' not a dog-gone cent among 'em. by g----, arizona's right." "that's it," put in joe nelson; "you've hit it. not a dog-gone cent among 'em, an', what's more, owin' blind hulks a whole heap o' bills on mortgage. say, that was mostly a weak move him askin' the boss fer help. why, i guess old marbolt hates hisself on'y one shade wuss'n he hated manson orr. say, boys, ef we're askin' to lynch red mask, we ain't askin' in any fancy name like 'orr.' savee?" there was silence for a moment while they digested the wisdom of the suggestion. then jacob smith nodded, and lew cawley murmured-- "dead gut every time, is joe." this loosened their tongues again until tresler spoke. "see here, boys, you're talking of lynching, and haven't a notion of how you're going to get your man. don't even know where to lay hands on him. do you think marbolt's going to turn us all loose on the war-path? not he. and how are two or three of us going to get a gang of ten or twelve? besides, i believe it'll be easier to get him without a lynching party. remember he's no ordinary cattle-rustler. i say lie low, he'll come our way, and then----" "that's it, lie low," broke in joe nelson, shaking his gray head over a pannikin of tea, and softly blowing a clearing among the dead flies floating on its surface. "maybe y' ain't heard as the sheriff's come around forks. guess he's fixed a station ther'." "he's already done so?" asked tresler. "yup." "by jove! the very thing, boys. don't roll up. don't do any lynching. the sheriff's the boy for red mask." but arizona, backed by raw harris, would have none of it. they were of the old-time stock who understood only old-time methods, and cordially resented any peaceful solution to the difficulty. they wanted a lynching, and no argument would dissuade them. and after much discussion it was arizona's final word that carried the day. "now, you see, tresler," he said huskily, for his voice was tired with sustained effort. "you're the remarkablest smart 'tenderfoot' that ever i see. say, you're a right smart daddy--an' i ain't given to latherin' soap-suds neither. but ther's suthin's i calc'late that no 'tenderfoot,' smart as he may be, is goin' to locate right. hoss thieves is hoss thieves, an' needs stringin'. ther' ain't nuthin' for it but a rawhide rope fer them fellers. guess i've seen more'n you've heerd tell of. say, boys, who's goin' to see the boss? guess he's right ther' on the verandah." though there was no verbal reply as the wild american turned to move off, there was a general movement to follow him. raw harris started it. pannikins were set down upon the ground, and, to a man, the rest followed in their leader's wake. tresler went too, but he went only because he knew it would be useless--even dangerous--to hold back. the general inclination was to follow the lead of this volcanic man. besides, he had only voiced that which appealed to them all. the gospel of restraint was not in their natures. only joe nelson really endorsed tresler's opinion. but then joe was a man who had lived his youth out, and had acquired that level-headedness from experience which tresler possessed instinctively. besides, he was in touch with diane. he had lived more than ten years on that ranch, during which time he had stood by watching with keenly observant eyes the doings of the cattle world about him. but he, too, in spite of his own good reason, moved on to the verandah with the rest. and jake saw the movement and understood, and he reached the verandah first and warned the blind man of their coming. and tresler's prophecy was more than fulfilled. as they came they saw the rancher rise from his seat. he faced them, a tall, awesome figure in his long, full dressing-gown. his large, clean-cut head, his gray, clipped beard, the long aquiline nose, and, overshadowing all, his staring, red eyes; even on arizona he had a damping effect. "well?" he questioned, as the men halted before him. then, as no answer was forthcoming, he repeated his inquiry. "well?" and arizona stepped to the front. "wal, boss, it's this a-ways," he began. "these rustlers, i guess----" but the blind man cut him short. the frowning brows drew closer over the sightless eyes, which were focussed upon the cowpuncher with a concentration more overpowering than if their vision had been unimpaired. "eh? so you've been listening to young orr," he said, with a quietness in marked contrast to the expression of his face. "and you want to get after them?" then he shook his head, and the curious depression of his brows relaxed, and a smile hovered round his mouth. "no, no, boys; it's useless coming to me. worse than useless. you, arizona, should know better. there are not enough ranches round here to form a lynching party, if one were advisable. and i can't spare men from here. why, to send enough men from here to deal with this gang would leave my place at their mercy. tut, tut, it is impossible. you must see it yourselves." "but you've been robbed before, sir," arizona broke out in protest. "yes, yes." there was a grating of impatience in the blind man's voice, and the smile had vanished. "and i prefer to be robbed of a few beeves again rather than run the chance of being burned out by those scoundrels. i'll have no argument about the matter. i can spare no hand among you. i'll not police this district for anybody. you understand--for anybody. i will not stop you--any of you"--his words came with a subtle fierceness now, and were directed at arizona--"but of this i assure you, any man who leaves this ranch to set out on any wild-goose chase after these rustlers leaves it for good. that's all i have to say." arizona was about to retort hotly, but tresler, who was standing close up to him, plucked at his shirt-sleeve, and, strangely enough, his interference had its effect. the man glared round, but when he saw who it was that had interrupted him, he made no further effort to speak. the wild man of the prairie was feeling the influence of a stronger, or, at least, a steadier nature than his own. and jake's lynx eyes watching saw the movement, and he understood. the men moved reluctantly away. their moody looks and slouching gait loudly voiced their feelings. no words passed between them until they were well out of ear-shot. and tresler realized now the wonderful power of brain behind the sightless eyes of the rancher. now, he understood something of the strength which had fought the battle, sightless though he was, of those early days; now he comprehended the man who could employ a man of jake's character, and have strength enough to control him. that afternoon's exhibition made a profound impression on him. their supper was finished before they set out for the house, and now the men, murmuring, discontented, and filled with resentment against the rancher, loafed idly around the bunkhouse. they smoked and chewed and discussed the matter as angry men who are thwarted in their plans will ever do. tresler and joe alone remained quiet. tresler, for the reason that a definite plan was gradually forming in his brain out of the chaos of events, and joe because he was watching the other for his own obscure reasons. the sun had set when tresler separated himself from his companions. making his way down past the lower corrals he took himself to the ford. joe thoughtfully watched him go. seated on a fallen tree-trunk tresler pondered long and deeply. he was thinking of joe's information that the sheriff had at last set up a station at forks. why should he not carry his story to him? why should he not take this man into his confidence, and so work out the trapping of the gang? and, if jake were---- he had no time to proceed further. his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wheels, followed, a moment later, by the splash of a horse crossing the ford. he turned in the direction whence the sound came, and beheld bessie hauling a buckboard up the bank of the river; at the same instant he recognized the only occupant of the vehicle. it was diane returning from her errand of mercy. tresler sprang to his feet. he doffed his prairie hat as the buckboard drew abreast of him. nor was he unmindful of the sudden flush that surged to the girl's cheeks as she recognized him. without any intention diane checked the mare, and, a moment later, realizing what she had done, she urged her on with unnecessary energy. but tresler had no desire that she should pass him in that casual fashion, and, with a disarming smile, hailed her. "don't change a good mind, miss marbolt," he cried. whereat the blush returned to the girl's cheek intensified, for she knew that he had seen her intention. this time, however, she pulled up decidedly, and turned a smiling face to him. "this is better than i bargained for," he went on. "i came here to think the afternoon's events out, and--i meet you. i had no idea you were out." "i felt that bess wanted exercise," the girl answered evasively. without asking herself why, diane felt pleased at meeting this man. their first encounter had been no ordinary one. from the beginning he seemed to link himself with her life. for her their hours of acquaintance might have been years; years of mutual help and confidence. however, she gathered her reins up as though to drive on. tresler promptly stayed her. "no, don't go yet, miss marbolt, please. pleasures that come unexpectedly are pleasures indeed. i feel sure you will not cast me back upon my gloomy thoughts." diane let the reins fall into her lap. "so your thoughts were gloomy; well, i don't wonder at it. there are gloomy things happening. i was out driving, and thought i would look in at mosquito reach. it has been razed to the ground." "you have been to see--and help--young orr's mother and sister? i know it. it was like you, miss marbolt," tresler said, with a genuine look of admiration at the dark little face so overshadowed by the sun-hat. "don't be so ready to credit me with virtues i do not possess. we women are curious. curiosity is one of our most pronounced features. poor souls--their home is gone. utterly--utterly gone. oh, mr. tresler, what are we to do? we cannot remain silent, and yet--we don't know. we can prove nothing." "and what has become of them--i mean mrs. orr and her daughter?" tresler asked, for the moment ignoring the girl's question. "they have gone into forks." "and food and money?" "i have seen to that." diane shrugged her shoulders to make light of what she had done, but tresler would not be put off. "bless you for that," he said, with simple earnestness. "i knew i was right." then he reverted abruptly to her question. "but we can do something; the sheriff has come to forks." "yes, i know." diane's tone suddenly became eager, almost hopeful. "and father knows, and he is going to send in a letter to fyles--sheriff fyles is the great prairie detective, and is in charge of forks--welcoming him, and inviting him out here. he is going to tell him all he knows of these rustlers, and so endeavor to set him on their track. father laughs at the idea of the sheriff catching these men. he says that they--the rustlers--are no ordinary gang, but clever men, and well organized. but he thinks that if he gets fyles around it will save his property." "and your father is wise. yes, it will certainly have that effect; but i, too, have a little idea that i have been working at, and--miss marbolt, forgive the seeming impertinence, but i want to discuss jake again; this time from a personal point of view. you dislike jake; more, you have shown me that you fear him." the girl hesitated before replying. this man's almost brusque manner of driving straight to his point was somewhat alarming. he gave her no loophole. if she discussed the matter with him at all it must be fully, or she must refuse to answer him. "i suppose i do fear him," she said at last with a sigh. then her face suddenly lit up with an angry glow. "i fear him as any girl would fear the man who, in defiance of her expressed hatred, thrusts his attentions upon her. i fear him because of father's blindness. i fear him because he hopes in his secret heart some day to own this ranch, these lands, all these splendid cattle, our fortune. father will be gone then. how? i don't know. and i--i shall be jake's slave. these are the reasons why i fear jake, mr. tresler, since you insist on knowing." "i thank you, miss marbolt." the gentle tone at once dispelled the girl's resentment. "you have suspicions which may prove to be right. it was for this reason i asked you to discuss jake. one thing more and i'll have done. this joe nelson, he is very shrewd, he is in close contact with you. how far is he to be trusted?" "to any length; with your life, mr. tresler," the girl said with enthusiasm. "joe is nobody's enemy but his own, poor fellow. i am ashamed to admit it, but i have long since realized that when things bother me so that i cannot bear them all alone, it is joe that i look to for help. he is so kind. oh, mr. tresler, you cannot understand the gentleness, the sympathy of his honest old heart. i am very, very fond of joe." the man abruptly moved from his stand at the side of the buckboard, and looked along the trail in the direction of the ranch. his action was partly to check an impulse which the girl's manner had roused in him, and partly because his quick ears had caught the sound of some one approaching. he was master of himself in a moment, however, and, returning, smiled up into the serious eyes before him. "well, joe shall help me," he said. "he shall help me as he has helped you. if----" he broke off, listening. then with great deliberation he came close up to the buckboard. "miss--diane," he said, and the girl's lids lowered before the earnestness of his gaze, "you shall never--while i live--be the slave of jake harnach." nor had tresler time to move away before a tall figure rounded the bend of the trail. in the dusk he mistook the newcomer for jake, then, as he saw how slim he was, he realized his mistake. the man came right up to the buckboard with swift, almost stealthy strides. the dark olive of his complexion, the high cheek-bones, the delicately chiseled, aquiline nose, the perfectly penciled eyebrows surmounting the quick, keen, handsome black eyes; these things combined with the lithe, sinuous grace of an admirably poised body made him a figure of much attraction. the man ignored tresler, and addressed the girl in the buckboard in a tone that made the former's blood boil. "the boss, him raise hell. him say, 'i mak' her wish she not been born any more.' him say, 'go you, anton, an' find her, an' you not leave her but bring her back.' ho, the boss, your father, he mad. hah?" the half-breed grinned, and displayed a flashing set of teeth. "so i go," he went on, still smiling in his impudent manner. "i look out. i see the buckboard come down to the river. i know you come. i see from there back"--he pointed away to the bush--"you talk with this man, an' i wait. so!" diane was furious. her gentle brown eyes flashed, and two bright patches of color burned on her cheeks. the half-breed watched her carelessly. turning to tresler she held out her hand abruptly. "good-night, mr. tresler," she said quietly. then she chirruped to her light-hearted mare and drove off. anton looked after her. "sacre!" he cried, with a light shrug. "she is so mad--so mad. voilà!" and he leisurely followed in the wake of the buckboard. and tresler looked after him. then it was that his thoughts reverted to the scene in the saloon at forks. so this was anton--"black" anton--the man who had slid into the country without any one knowing it. he remembered slum ranks's words and description. this was the man who had the great jake's measure. chapter vii which deals with the matter of drink although the murder of manson orr caused a wide-spread outcry, it ended at that in so far as the inhabitants of the district were concerned. there were one or two individuals who pondered deeply on the matter, and went quietly about a careful investigation, and of these tresler was the most prominent. he found excuse to visit the scene of the outrage; he took interest in the half-breed settlement six miles out from mosquito bend. he hunted among the foot-hills, even into the obscurer confines of the mountains; and these doings of his were the result of much thought, and the work of much time and ingenuity; for everything had to be done without raising the suspicion of anybody on the ranch, or for that matter, off it. being a "green" hand helped him. it was really astonishing how easily an intelligent man like tresler could get lost; and yet such was the deplorable fact. even arizona's opinion of him sank to zero, while jake found a wide scope for his sneering brutality. as the days lengthened out into a week, and then a fortnight passed and nothing more was heard of red mask, the whole matter began to pass out of mind, and gradually became relegated to the lore of the country. it was added to the already long list of barroom stories, to be narrated, with embellishments, by such men as slum or the worthy forks carpenter. the only thing that stuck in people's minds, and that only because it added fuel to an already deep, abiding, personal hatred, was the story of julian marbolt's treatment of young archie orr, and his refusal to inaugurate a vigilance party. the blind man's name, always one to rouse the roughest side of men's tongues, was now cursed more bitterly than ever. and during these days the bunkhouse at mosquito bend seethed with revolt. but though this was so, underneath all their most bitter reflections the men were not without a faint hope of seeing the career of these desperadoes cut short; and this hope sprang from the knowledge of the coming of the sheriff to forks. the faith of arizona and the older hands in the official capacity for dealing with these people was a frail thing, but the younger set were less sceptical. and at last julian marbolt's tardy invitation to fyles was despatched. tresler had watched and waited for the sending of that letter; he had hoped to be the bearer of it himself. it would have given him the opportunity of making this fyles's acquaintance, which was a matter he desired to accomplish as soon as possible, without drawing public attention to the fact. but in this he was disappointed, for jake sent nelson. nor did he know of the little man's going until he saw him astride of his buckskin "shag-an-appy," with the letter safely bestowed in his wallet. this was not the only disappointment he experienced during that fortnight. he saw little or nothing of diane. to tresler, at least, their meeting at the ford was something more than a recollection. every tone of the girl's voice, every look, every word she had spoken remained with him, as these things will at the dawn of love. many times he tried to see her, but failed. then he learned the meaning of their separation. one day joe brought him a note from diane, in which she told him how black anton had returned to her father and poured into his only too willing ears a wilfully garbled story of their meeting at the ford. she told him of her father's anger, and how he had forbidden her to leave the house unattended by at least one of his two police--anton and jake. this letter made its recipient furious, but it also started a secret correspondence between them, joe nelson proving himself perfectly willing to act as go-between. and this correspondence was infinitely pleasant to tresler. he treasured diane's letters with a jealous care, making no attempt to disguise the truth from himself. he knew that he was falling hopelessly in love--had fallen hopelessly in love. this was the position when the evening of the day came on which the rancher's invitation to fyles had been despatched. the supper hash had been devoured by healthy men with healthy appetites. work was practically over, there was nothing more to be done but feed, water, and bed down the horses. and joe nelson had not yet returned from forks; he was at least five hours overdue. arizona, practically recovered from his wound, was carefully soaping his saddle, and generally preparing his accoutrements for return to full work on the morrow. he had grown particularly sour and irritable with being kept so long out of the saddle. his volcanic temper had become even more than usually uncertain. his convalescence threw him a good deal into tresler's company, and a sort of uncertain friendship had sprung up between them. arizona at first tolerated him, protested scathingly at his failures in the craft, and ended by liking him; while the other cordially appreciated the open, boisterous honesty of the cowpuncher. he was equally ready to do a kindly action, or smite the man hip and thigh who chanced to run foul of him. tresler often told him that his nationality was a mistake, that instead of being an american he should have been born in ireland. just now the prospect of once more getting to work had put arizona in high good temper, and he took his comrades' rough chaff good-naturedly, giving as good as he got, and often a little better. jacob smith had been watching him for some time, and a thoughtful grin had quietly taken possession of his features. "soapin' yer saddle," he observed at last, as the lean man happened to look up and see the grinning face in the doorway of the bunkhouse. "guess saddles do git kind o' slippery when you ain't slung a leg over one fer a whiles. say, best soap the knees o' yer pants too, arizona. mebbe y'll sit tighter." "wal," retorted arizona, bending to his work again, "i do allow ther's more savee in that tip than most gener'ly slobbers off'n your tongue. i'll kind o' turn it over some." jacob's grin broadened. "guess i should. your plug ain't been saddled sence you wus sent sick. soft soap ain't gener'ly in your line; makes me laff to see you handlin' it." "that's so," observed the other, imperturbably. "i 'lows it has its uses. 'tain't bad fer washin'. guess you ain't tried it any?" at that moment raw harris came across from the barn. he lounged over to an upturned box and sat down. "any o' you fellers seen joe nelson along yet?" he asked as he leisurely filled his pipe. "five hours overdue," said tresler, who was cleaning out the chambers of his revolver. "joe ain't likely to git back this night," observed arizona. "he's a terror when he gits alongside a saloon. guess he's drank out one ranch of his own down texas way. he's the all-firedest bag o' tricks i've ever see. soft as a babby is joe. honest? wal, i'd smile. joe's that honest he'd give up his socks ef the old sheep came along an' claimed the wool. him an' me's worked together 'fore. he's gittin' kind o' old, an' ain't as handy as he used to be. say, he never told you 'bout that temperator feller, tresler, did he?" tresler shook his head, and paused in his work to relight his pipe. "it kind o' minds me to tell you sence we're talkin' o' joe. it likely shows my meanin' when i sez he's that soft an' honest, an' yet crazy fer drink. you see, it wus this a-ways. i wus kind o' foreman o' the 'u bar u's' in canada, an' joe wus punchin' cows then. the boys wus sheer grit; good hands, mind you, but sudden-like." arizona ceased plastering the soap on his saddle and stood erect. his gaunt figure looked leaner than ever, but his face was alight with interest in the story he was about to narrate, and his great wild eyes were shining with a look that suggested a sort of fierce amusement. teddy jinks lounged into view and stood propped against an angle of the building. "git on," said lew, between the puffs at his pipe. arizona shot a quick, disdainful glance at the powerful figure of the parson's progeny, and went on in his own peculiar fashion fashion-- "wal, it so happened that the records o' the 'u bar u's' kind o' got noised abroad some, as they say in the gospel. them coyotes as reckoned they wus smart 'lowed as even the cattle found a shortage o' liquid by reason of an onnatural thirst on that ranch. howsum, mebbe ther' wus reason. old joe, he wus the daddy o' the lot. jim marlin used to say as joe most gener'ly used a black lead when he writ his letters; didn't fancy wastin' ink. mebbe that's kind o' zaggerated, but i guess he wus the next thing to a fact'ry o' blottin' paper, sure. "wal, i reckon some bald-faced galoot got yappin', leastways there wus a temperance outfit come right along an' lay hold o' the boss. say, flannel-mouthed orators! i guess that feller could roll out more juicy notions on the subject o' drink in five minutes than a high-pressure locomotive could blow off steam through a five-inch leak in ha'f a year. he wus an eddication in langwidge, sir, sech as 'ud per-suade a wall-eyed mule to do what he didn't want, and wa'n't goin' to do anyways. "i corralled the boys up in the yard, an' the feller got good an' goin'. he spotted joe right off; fixed him wi' his eye an' focussed him dead centre, an' talked right at him. an' joe wus iled--that iled he couldn't keep a straight trail fer slippin'. say, speakin' metaphoric, that feller got the drop on pore joe. he give him a dose o' syllables in the pit o' the stummick that made him curl, then he follered it right up wi' a couple o' slugs o' his choicest, 'fore he could straighten up. then he sort o' picked him up an' shook him with a power o' langwidge, an' sot him down like a spanked kid. then he clouted him over both lugs with a shower o' words wi' capitals, clumped him over the head wi' a bunch o' texts, an' thrashed him wi' a fact'ry o' trac' papers. say, i guess pore joe wouldn't 'a' rec'nized the flavor o' whisky from blue pizen when that feller had done; an' we jest looked on, feelin' 'bout as happy as a lot o' old hens worritin' to hatch out a batch o' easter eggs. say, pore joe wus weepin' over his sins, an' i guess we wus all 'most ready to cry. then the feller up an' sez, 'fetch out the pernicious sperrit, the nectar o' the devil, the waters o' the styx, the vile filth as robs homes o' their support, an' drives whole races to perdition!' an' a lot o' other big talk. an', say, we fetched! yes, sir, we fetched like a lot o' silly, skippin' lambs. we brought out six bottles o' the worstest rotgut ever faked in a settlement saloon, an' handed it over. after that i guess we wus feelin' better. sez we, feelin' kind o' mumsy over the whole racket, it ain't right, we sez, to harbor no sperrit-soaked, liver-pickled tag of a decent citizen's life around this layout; an' so we took joe nelson to the river and diluted him. after that i 'lows we lay low. i did hear as some o' the boys said their prayers that night, which goes to show as they wus feelin' kind o' thin an' mean. ther' wa'n't a feller ther' but wus dead swore off fer a week. "guess it wus most the middle o' the night when jim yard comes to my shack an' fetched me out. he told me there wus a racket goin' on in the settlement. that temperator wus down ther' blazin' drunk an' shootin' up the town. say, i felt kind o' hot at that. yup, pretty sulphury an' hot, an' i went right out, quiet like, and fetched the boys. them as had said their prayers wus the first to join me. wal, we went along an' did things with that.--ah, guess jake's comin' this way; likely he wants somethin'." arizona turned abruptly to his saddle again, while all eyes looked over at the approaching foreman. jake strode up. arizona took no notice of him. it was his way of showing his dislike for the man. jake permitted one glance--nor was it a friendly one--in his direction, then he went straight over to where tresler was sitting. "get that mare of yours saddled, tresler," he said, "and ride into forks. you'll fetch out that skulkin' coyote, joe nelson. you'll fetch him out, savee? maybe he's at the saloon--sure he's drunk, anyway. an' if he ain't handed over that letter to the sheriff, you'll see to it. say, you'd best shake him up some; don't be too easy." "i'll bring him out," replied tresler, quietly. "hah, kind o' squeamish," sneered jake. "no. i'm not knocking drunken men about. that's all." "wal, go and bring him out," snarled the giant. "i'll see to the rest." tresler went off to the barn without another word. his going was almost precipitate, but not from any fear of jake. it was himself he feared. this merciless brute drove him to distraction every time he came into contact with him, and the only way he found it possible to keep the peace with him at all was by avoiding him, by getting out of his way, by shutting him out of mind, whenever it was possible. in a few minutes he had set out. his uneasy mare was still only half tamed, and very fresh. she left the yards peaceably enough, but jibbed at the river ford. the inevitable thrashing followed, tresler knowing far too much by now to spare her. just for one moment she seemed inclined to submit and behave herself, and take to the water kindly. then her native cussedness asserted itself; she shook her head angrily, and caught the bar of the spade-bit in her great, strong teeth, swung round, and, stretching her long ewe neck, headed south across country as hard as she could lay heels to the ground. tresler fought her every foot of the way, but it was useless. the devil possessed her, and she worked her will on him. by the time he should have reached forks he was ten miles in the opposite direction. however, he was not the man to take such a display too kindly, and, having at length regained control, he turned her back and pressed her to make up time. and it made him smile, as he rode, to feel the swing of the creature's powerful strides under him. he could not punish her by asking for pace, and he knew it. she seemed to revel in a rapid journey, and the extra run taken on her own account only seemed to have warmed her up to even greater efforts. it was nearly ten o'clock when he drew near forks; and the moon had only just risen. the mare was docile enough now, and raced along with her ears pricked and her whole fiery disposition alert. the trail approached forks from the west. that is to say, it took a big bend and entered on the western side. already tresler could see the houses beyond the trees silhouetted in the moonlight, but the nearer approach was bathed in shadow. the trail came down from a rising ground, cutting its way through the bush, and, passing the lights of the saloon, went on to the market-place. he checked the mare's impetuosity as he came down the slope. she was too valuable for him to risk her legs. with all her vices, he knew there was not a horse on the ranch that could stand beside the lady jezebel on the trail. she propped jerkily as she descended the hill. every little rustle of the lank grass startled her, and gave her excuse for frivolity. her rider was forced to keep a watchful eye and a close seat. a shadowy kit fox worried her with its stealthy movements. it kept pace with her in its silent, ghostly way, now invisible in the long grass, now in full view beside the trail; but always abreast. half-way down the trail both horse and rider were startled seriously. a riderless horse, saddled and bridled, dashed out of the darkness and galloped across them. of her own accord lady jezebel swung round, and, before tresler could check her, had set off in hot pursuit. for once horse and rider were of the same mind, and tresler bent low in the saddle, ready to grab at the bridle when his mare should overhaul the stranger. in less than a minute they were abreast of their quarry. the stranger's reins were hanging broken from the bit, and tresler grabbed at them. nor could he help a quiet laugh, when, on pulling up, he recognized the buckskin pony and quaint old stock saddle of joe nelson. and he at once became alive to the necessity of his journey. what, he wondered, had happened to the little choreman? leading the captive, he rode back to the trail and pushed on toward the village. but his adventures were not over yet. at the bottom of the hill the mare, brought up to a stand, reared and shied violently. then she stood trembling like an aspen, seizing every opportunity to edge from the trail, and all the while staring with wild, dilated eyes away out toward the bush on the right front. her rider followed the direction of her gaze to ascertain the cause of the trouble. for some minutes he could distinguish nothing unusual in the darkness. the moon had not as yet attained much power, and gave him very little assistance; but, realizing the wonderful acuteness of a horse's vision, he decided that there nevertheless was something to be investigated. so he dismounted, and adopting the common prairie method of scanning the sky-line, he dropped to the ground. for some time his search was quite vain, and only the mare's nervous state encouraged him. then at length, low down in the deep shadow of the bush, something caught and held his attention. something was moving down there. he lay quite still, watching intently. something of the mare's nervous excitement gripped him. the movement was ghostly. it was only a movement. there was nothing distinct to be seen, nothing tangible; just a weird, nameless something. a dozen times he asked himself what it was. but the darkness always baffled him, and he could find no answer. he had an impression of great flapping wings--such wings as might belong to a giant bat. the movement was sufficiently regular to suggest this, but the idea carried no conviction. there, however, his conjectures ended. at last he sprang up with a sharp ejaculation, and his hand went to his revolver. the thing, or creature, whatever it was, was coming slowly but steadily toward him. had he not been sure of this, the attitude of the horses would have settled the question for him. lady jezebel pulled back in the throes of a wild fear, and the buckskin plunged madly to get free. he had hardly persuaded them to a temporary calmness, when a mournful cry, rising in a wailing crescendo, split the air and died away abruptly. and he knew that it came from the advancing "movement." and now it left the shadow and drew out into the moonlight. and the man watching beheld a dark heap distinctly outlined midway toward the bush. the wings seemed to have folded themselves, or, at least, to have lowered, and were trailing on the ground in the creature's wake. presently the whole thing ceased to move, and sat still like a great loathsome toad--a silent, uncanny heap amidst the lank prairie grass. and somehow he felt glad that it was no longer approaching. the moments crept by, and the position remained unchanged. then slowly, with an air of settled purpose, the creature raised itself on its hind legs, and, swaying and shuffling, continued its advance. in an instant tresler's revolver leapt from its holster, and he was ready to defend himself. the attitude was familiar to him. he had read stories of the bears in the rockies, and they came home to him now as he saw his adversary rear itself to its full height. his puzzlement was over; he understood now. he was dealing with a large specimen of the rocky mountain grizzly. yes, there could be no mistaking the swaying gait, the curious, snorting breathing, the sadly lolling head and slow movements. he remembered each detail with an exactness which astonished him, and was thrilled with the bristling sensation which assails every hunter when face to face with big game for the first time in his life. he raised his gun, and took a long, steady aim, measuring the distance with deliberation, and selecting the animal's breast for his shot. then, just as he was about to fire, the brute's head turned and caught the cold, sharp moonlight full upon its face. there was a momentary flash of white, and tresler's gun was lowered as though it had been struck down. chapter viii joe nelson indulges in a little match-making the moonlight had revealed the grotesque features of joe nelson! tresler returned his gun to its holster precipitately, and his action had in it all the chagrin of a man who has been "had" by a practical joker. his discomfiture, however, quickly gave way before the humor of the situation, and he burst into a roar of laughter. he laughed while he watched his bear drop again to his hands and knees, and continue to crawl toward him, till the tears rolled down his cheeks. on came the little fellow, enveloped in the full embracing folds of a large brown blanket, and his silent dogged progress warned tresler that, as yet, his own presence was either unrealized or ignored in the earnestness of his unswerving purpose. and the nature of that purpose--for tresler had fully realized it--was the most laughable thing of all. joe was stalking his buckskin pony with the senseless cunning of a drunken man. at last the absurdity of the position became too much, and he hailed the little choreman in the midst of his laughter. "ho! you, joe!" he called. "what the blazes d'you think you're doing?" there was no reply. for all heed the man under the blanket gave, he might have been deaf, dumb and blind. he just came steadily on. tresler shouted again, and more sharply. this time his summons had its effect. it brought an answer--an answer that set him off into a fresh burst of laughter. "gorl darn it, boys," came a peevish voice, from amidst the blanket, "'tain't smart, neither, playin' around when a feller's kind o' roundin' up his plug. how'm i goin' to cut that all-fired buckskin out o' the bunch wi' you gawkin' around like a reg'ment o' hoboes? ef you don't reckon to fool any, why, some o' you git around an' head him off from the rest of 'em. i'd do it myself on'y my cussed legs has given out." "boys, eh?" tresler was still laughing, but he checked his mirth sufficiently to answer, "why, man, it's the whisky that's fooling you. there are no 'boys,' and no 'bunch' of horses here. just your horse and mine; and i've got them both safe enough. you're drunk, joe--beastly drunk." joe suddenly struggled to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly, but trying hard to steady himself. he focussed his eyes with much effort upon the tall figure before him, and then suddenly moved forward like a man crossing a brook on a single, narrow, and dangerously swaying plank. he all but pitched headlong into the waiting man as he reached him, and would undoubtedly have fallen to the ground but for the aid of a friendly hand thrust out to catch him. and while tresler turned to pacify the two thoroughly frightened horses, the little man's angry tones snapped out at him in what was intended for a dignified protest. in spite of his drunken condition, his words were distinct enough, though his voice was thick. after all, as he said, it was his legs that had given way. "guess you're that blazin' 'tenderfoot' tresler," he said, with all the sarcasm he was capable of at the moment. "wal, say, mr. a'mighty tresler, ef it wa'n't as you wus a 'tenderfoot,' i'd shoot you fer sayin' i wus drunk. savee? you bein' a 'tenderfoot,' i'll jest mention you're side-tracked, you're most on the scrap heap, you've left the sheer trail an' you're ditched. you've hit a gait you can't travel, an' don't amount to a decent, full-sized jackass. savee? i ain't drunk. it's drink; see? carney's rotgut. i tell you right here i'm sober, but my legs ain't. mebbe you're that fool-headed you don't savee the difference." tresler restrained a further inclination to laugh. he had wasted too much time already, and was anxious to get back to the ranch. he quite realized that joe knew what he was about, if his legs were _hors-de-combat_, for, after delivering himself of this, his unvarnished opinion, he wisely sought the safer vantage-ground of a sitting posture. tresler grabbed at the blanket and pulled it off his shoulders. "what's this?" he asked sharply. joe looked up, his little eyes sparkling with resentment. "'tain't yours, anyway," he said. then he added with less anger, and some uncertainty, "guess i slept some down at the bushes. durned plug got busy 'stead o' waitin' around. the fool hoss ain't got no manners anyways." "manners? don't blither." tresler seized him by the coat collar and yanked him suddenly upon his feet. "now, hand over that letter to sheriff fyles. i've orders to deliver it myself." joe's twisted face turned upward with a comical expression of perplexity. the moonlight caught his eyes, and he blinked. then he looked over at the horses, and, shaking his head solemnly, began to fumble at his pockets. "s-sheriff f-fyles," he answered doubtfully. he seemed to have forgotten the very name. "f-fyles?" he repeated again. "letter? say, now, i wus kind o' wonderin' what i cum to forks fer. y' see i mostly git around forks fer carney's rotgut. course, ther' wus a letter. jest wher' did i put that now?" he became quite cheerful as he probed his pockets. tresler waited until, swaying and even stumbling in the process, he had turned out two pockets; then his impatience getting the better of him, he proceeded to conduct the search himself. "now see here," he said firmly, "i'll go through your pockets. if you've lost it, there'll be trouble for you when you get back. if you'd only kept clear of that saloon you would have been all right." "that's so," said joe humbly, as he submitted to the other's search. tresler proceeded systematically. there was nothing but tobacco and pipe in the outside pockets of his coat. his trousers revealed a ten-cent piece and a dollar bill, which the choreman thanked him profusely for finding, assuring him, regretfully, that he wouldn't have left the saloon if he had known he had it. the inside pocket of the coat was drawn blank of all but a piece of newspaper, and tresler pronounced his verdict in no measured terms. "you drunken little fool, you've lost it," he said, as he held out the unfolded newspaper. joe seemed past resentment with his fresh trouble. he squinted hard to get the newspaper into proper focus. "say," he observed meekly, "i guess it wus in that, sure. sure, yes," he nodded emphatically, "i planted it that a-ways to kep it from the dirt. i 'member readin' the headin' o' that paper. et wus 'bout some high-soundin' female in new yo----" "confound it!" tresler was more distressed for the little man than angry with him. he knew jake would be furious, and cast about in his mind for excuses that might save him. the only one he could think of was feeble enough, but he suggested it. "well, there's only one thing to do; we must ride back, and you can say you lost the letter on the way out, and have spent the day looking for it." joe seemed utterly dejected. "sure, yes. there's on'y one thing to do," he murmured disconsolately. "we must ride back. say, you're sure, plumb sure it ain't in one of my pockets? dead sure i must 'a' lost it?" "no doubt of it. damn it, joe, i'm sorry. you'll be in a deuce of a scrape with jake. it's all that cursed drink." "that's so," murmured the culprit mournfully. his face was turned away. now it suddenly brightened as though a fresh and more hopeful view of the matter had presented itself, and his twisted features slowly wreathed themselves into a smile. his deep-set eyes twinkled with an odd sort of mischievous humor as he raised them abruptly to the troubled face of his companion. "guess i kind o' forgot to tell you. i gave the sheriff that letter this mornin' 'fore i called on carney. mebbe, ef i'd told you 'fore i'd 'a' saved you----" "you little----" tresler could find no words to express his exasperation. he made a grab at the now grinning man's coat collar, seized him, and, lifting him bodily, literally threw him on to the back of his buckskin pony. "you little old devil!" he at last burst out; "you stay there, and back you go to the ranch. i'll shake the liquor out of you before we get home." tresler sprang into his saddle, and, turning his mare's head homeward, led the buckskin and its drunken freight at a rattling pace. and joe kept silence for a while. he felt it was best so. but, in the end, he was the first to speak, and when he did so there was a quiet dryness in his tone that pointed all he said. "say, tresler, i'm kind o' sorry you wus put to all that figgerin' an' argyment," he said, shaking up his old pony to bring him alongside the speedy mare. "y' see ye never ast me 'bout that letter. kind o' jumped me fer a fool-head at oncet. which is most gener'ly the nature o' boys o' your years. conclusions is mostly hasty, but i 'lows they're reas'nable in their places--which is last. an' i sez it wi'out offense, ther' ain't a blazin' thing born in this world that don't reckon to con-clude fer itself 'fore it's rightly begun. everything needs teachin', from a 'tenderfoot' to a new york babby." joe's homily banished the last shadow of tresler's ill-humor. the little man had had the best of him in his quiet, half-drunken manner; a manner which, though rough, was still irresistible. "that's all right, joe. i'm no match for you," he said with a laugh. "but, setting jokes on one side, i think you're in for trouble with jake. i saw it in his eye before i started out." "i don't think. guess i'm plumb sure," joe replied quietly. "then why on earth did you do it?" joe humped his back with a movement expressive of unconcern. "it don't matter why. jake's nigh killed me ha'f a dozen times. one o' these days he'll fix me sure. he'll lace hell out o' me to-morrow, i'm guessin', an' when it's done it won't alter nothin' anyways. i've jest two things in this world, i notion, an'--one of 'em's drink. 'tain't no use in sayin' it ain't, 'cos i guess my legs is most unnateral truthful 'bout drink. say, i don't worrit no folk when i'm drunk; guess i don't interfere wi' no one's consarns when i'm drunk; i'm jest kind o' happy when i'm drunk. which bein' so, makes it no one's bizness but my own. i do it 'cos i gits a heap o' pleasure out o' it. i know i ain't worth hell room. but i got my notions, an' i ain't goin' ter budge fer no one." joe's slantwise mouth was set obstinately; his little eyes flashed angrily in the moonlight, and his whole attitude was one of a man combating an argument which his soul is set against. as tresler had no idea of arguing the question and remained silent, the choreman went on in a modified tone of morbid self-sympathy sympathy-- "when the time comes around i'll hand over my checks wi'out no fuss nor botheration; guess i'll cash in wi' as much grit as george washington. i don't calc'late as life is wuth worritin' over anyways. we don't ast to be born, an', comin' into the world wi'out no by-your-leave, i don't figger as folks has a right to say we've got to take a hand in any bluff we don't notion." "perhaps you've a certain amount of right on your side." tresler felt that this hopeless pessimism was rather the result of drink than natural to him. "but you said you had two things that you considered worth living for?" "that's so. i ain't goin' back on what i said. it's jest that other what set me yarnin'. say, guess you're mostly a pretty decent feller, tresler, though i 'lows you has failin's. you're kind o' young. now i guess you ain't never pumped lead into the other feller, which the same he's doin' satisfact'ry by you? you kind o' like most fellers?" tresler nodded. "jest so. but i've noticed you don't fancy folks as gits gay wi' you. you kind o' make things uneasy. wal, that's a fault you'll git over. mebbe, later on, when a feller gits rilin' you you'll work your gun, instead of trying to thump savee into his head. heads is mighty cur'us out west here. they're so chock full o' savee, ther' ain't no use in thumpin' more into 'em. et's a heap easier to let it out. but that's on the side. i most gener'ly see things, an' kind o' notice fellers, an' that's how i sized you up. y' see i've done a heap o' settin' around m'skeeter bend fer nigh on ten years, mostly watchin'. now, mebbe, y' ain't never sot no plant, an' bedded it gentle wi' sifted mould, an' watered it careful, an' sot right ther' on a box, an' watched it grow in a spot wher' ther' wa'n't no bizness fer anythin' but weeds?" tresler shook his head, wonderingly. "no; guess not," joe went on. "say," he added, turning and looking earnestly into his companion's face, "i'm settin' on that box right now. yes, sir, i've watched that plant grow. i've picked the stones out so the young shoots could git through nice an' easy-like. i've watered it. i've washened the leaves when the blights come along. i've sticked it against the winds. i've done most everythin' i could, usin' soap-suds and soot waters, an' all them tasty liquids to coax it on. i've sot ther' a-smilin' to see the lovesome buds come along an' open out, an' make the air sweet wi' perfumes an' color an' things. i've sot right ther' an' tho't an' tho't a heap o' tho'ts around that flower, an' felt all crinkly up the back wi' pleasure. an' i ain't never wanted ter leave that box. no, sir, an' the days wus bright, an' nothin' seemed amiss wi' life nor nothin'. but i tell you it ain't no good. no, sir, 'tain't no good, 'cos i ain't got the guts to git up an' dig hard. i've reached out an' pulled a weed or two, but them weeds had got a holt on that bed 'fore i sot the seedlin', an' they've growed till my pore flower is nigh to be choked. 'tain't no use watchin' when weeds is growin'. it wants a feller as can dig; an' i guess i ain't that feller. say, ther's mighty hard diggin' to be done right now, an' the feller as does it has got to do it standin' right up to the job. savee? i'm sayin' right now to you, tresler, them weeds is chokin' the life out o' her. she's mazed up wi' 'em. ther' ain't no escape. none. her life's bound to be hell anyways." "her? whom?" tresler asked the question, but he knew that joe was referring to diane; diane's welfare was his other interest in life. the little man turned with a start "eh? miss dianny--o' course." "and the weeds?" "jake--an' her father." and the two men became silent, while their horses ambled leisurely on toward home. it was tresler who broke the silence at last. "and this is the reason you've stayed so long on the ranch?" he asked. "mebbe. i don't reckon as i could 'a' done much," joe answered hopelessly. "what could a drunken choreman do anyways? leastways the pore kid hadn't got no mother, an' i guess ther' wa'n't a blazin' soul around as she could yarn her troubles to. when she got fixed, i guess ther' wa'n't no one to put her right. and when things was hatchin', ther' wa'n't no one to give her warnin' but me. 'what is the trouble?' you ast," the little man went on gloomily. "trouble? wal, i'd smile. ther' ain't nothin' but trouble around m'skeeter bend, sure. trouble for her--trouble all round. her trouble's her father, an' jake. jake's set on marryin' her. jake," in a tone of withering scorn, "who's only fit to mate wi' a bitch wolf. an' her father--say, he hates her. hates her like a neche hates a rattler. an' fer why? gawd only knows; i ain't never found out. say, that gal is his slave, sure. ef she raises her voice, she gits it. not, i guess, as jake handles me, but wi' the sneakin' way of a devil. say, the things he does makes me most ready to cry like a kid. an' all the time he threatens her wi' jake fer a husband. an' she don't never complain. not she; no sir. you don't know the blind hulks, tresler; but ther', it ain't no use in gassin'. he don't never mean her fer jake, an' i guess she knows it. but she's plumb scared, anyways." tresler contemplated the speaker earnestly in the moonlight. he marveled at the quaint outward form of the chivalrous spirit within. he was trying to reconcile the antagonistic natures of which this strange little bundle of humanity was made up. for ten years joe had put up with the bullying and physical brutality of jake harnach, so that, in however small a way, he might help to make easy the rough life-path of a lonely girl. and his motives were all unselfish. a latent chivalry held him which no depths of drunkenness could drown. he leant over and held out his hand. "joe," he said, "i want to shake hands with you and call you my friend." the choreman held back for a moment in some confusion. then, as though moved by sudden impulse, he gripped the hand so cordially offered. "but i ain't done yet," he said a moment later. he had no wish to advertise his own good deeds. he was pleading for another. some one who could not plead for herself. his tone had assumed a roughness hardly in keeping with the gentle, reflective manner in which he had talked of his "flower." "tresler," he went on, "y're good stuff, but y' ain't good 'nough to dust that gal's boots, no--not by a sight. meanin' no offense. but she needs the help o' some one as'll dig at them weeds standin'. see? which means you. i can't tell you all i know, i can't tell you all i've seed. one o' them things--i guess on'y one--is that jake's goin' to best blind hulks an' force him into givin' him his daughter in marriage, and gawd help that pore gal. but i swar to gawd ef i'm pollutin' this airth on the day as sees jake worritin' miss dianny, i'll perf'rate him till y' can't tell his dog-gone carkis from a parlor cinder-sifter." "tell me how i can help, and count me in to the limit," said tresler, catching, in his eagerness, something of the other's manner of expression. it was evident by the way the choreman's face lit up at his friend's words that he had hoped for such support, but feared that he should not get it. joe nelson was distinctly worldly wise, but with a heart of gold deep down beneath his wisdom. he had made no mistake in this man whose sympathies he had succeeded in enlisting. he fully understood that he was dealing with just a plain, honest man, otherwise he would have kept silence. "wal, i guess ther' ain't a deal to tell." the little man looked straight ahead toward the dark streak which marked the drop from the prairie land to the bed of the mosquito river. "still, it's li'ble to come along right smart." the man's suggestion puzzled tresler, but he waited. his own mind was clear as to what he personally intended, but it seemed to him that joe was troubled with other thoughts besides the main object of his discourse. and it was these very side issues that he was keen to learn. however, whatever joe thought, whatever confusion or perplexity he might have been in, he suddenly returned to his main theme with great warmth of feeling. "but when it comes, tresler, you'll stand by? you'll plug hard fer her, jest as ef it was you he was tryin' to do up? you'll stop him? say, you'll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an' set your own brand on her quick, eh? that's what i'm askin'." "i see. marry her, eh?" "an' why not?" asked joe quickly. "she's a heap too good fer you. ther' ain't a feller breathin' amounts to a row o' beans aside o' her. but it's the on'y way to save her from jake. you'll do it. yes, sure, you'll do it. i ken see it in your face." the little fellow was leaning over, peering up into tresler's face with anxious, almost fierce eyes. his emotion was intense, and at that moment a refusal would have driven him to despair. "you are too swift for me, joe," tresler said quietly. but his tone seemed to satisfy his companion, for the latter sat back in his saddle with a sigh of relief. "it takes the consent of two people to make a marriage. however," he went on, with deep earnestness, "i'll promise you this, miss marbolt shall never marry jake unless it is her own wish to do so. and, furthermore, she shall never lack a friend, ready to act on her behalf, while i am in the country." "you've said it." and the finality of joe's tone brought silence. in spite of the punishment he knew to be awaiting him, joe was utterly happy. it was as though a weight, which had been oppressing him for years, had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. he would cheerfully have ridden on to any terror ever conceived by the ruthless jake. diane's welfare--diane's happiness; it was the key-note of his life. he had watched. he knew. tresler was willing enough to marry her, and she--he chuckled joyfully to himself. "jake ain't a dorg's chance--a yaller dorg's chance. when the 'tenderfoot' gits good an' goin' he'll choke the life out o' master jake. gee!" and tresler, too, was busy with his thoughts. joe's suggestion had brought him face to face with hard fact, and, moreover, in a measure, he had pledged himself. now he realized, after having listened to the little man's story, how much he had fallen in love with diane. joe, he knew, loved her as a father might love his child, or a gardener his flowers; but his was the old, old story that brought him a delight such as he felt no one else had ever experienced. yes, he knew now he loved diane with all the strength of his powerful nature; and he knew, too, that there could be little doubt but that he had fallen a victim to the beautiful dark, sad face he had seen peering up at him from beneath the straw sun-hat, at the moment of their first meeting. would he marry diane? ay--a thousand times ay--if she would have him. but there it was that he had more doubts than joe. would she marry him? he asked himself, and a chill damped the ardor of his thoughts. and so, as they rode on, he argued out the old arguments of the lover; so he wrestled with all the old doubts and fears. so he became absorbed in an ardent train of thought which shut out all the serious issues which he felt, that, for his very love's sake, he should have probed deeply. so he rode on impervious to the keen, studious, sidelong glances wise old, drunken old joe favored him with; impervious to all, save the flame of love this wild old ranchman had fanned from a smouldering ember to a living fire; impervious to time and distance, until the man at his side, now thoroughly sobered, called his attention to their arrival at the ranch. "say, boy," he observed, "that's the barn yonder. 'fore we git ther' ther's jest one thing more. jake's goin' to play his hand by force. savee? mebbe we've a notion o' that force--miss dianny an' me----" "yes, and we must think this thing thoroughly out, joe. developments must be our cue. we can do nothing but wait and be ready. there's the sheriff----" "eh? sheriff?" joe swung round, and was peering up into tresler's face. "ah, i forgot." tresler's expression was very thoughtful. they had arrived at the barn, and were dismounting. "i was following out my own train of thought. i agree with you, joe, red mask and his doings are at the bottom of this business." his voice had dropped now to a low whisper lest any one should chance to be around. without a word joe led his horse into the barn, and, off-saddling him, fixed him up for the night. tresler did the same for his mare. then they came out together. at the door joe paused. "say," he remarked simply, "i jest didn't know you wus that smart." "don't credit me with smartness. it's--poor little girl." "ah!" joe's face twisted into his apish grin. "say, you'll stick to what you said?" "every word of it." "good; the rest's doin' itself, sure." and they went their several ways; joe to the kitchen of the house, and tresler to his dusty mattress in the bunkhouse. chapter ix tresler involves himself further; the lady jezebel in a freakish mood enthusiasm is the mainspring of a cowboy's life. without enthusiasm a cowboy inevitably falls to the inglorious level of a "hired man"; a nice distinction in the social conditions of frontier life. the cowboy is sometimes a good man--not meaning a man of religion--and often a bad man. he is rarely indifferent. there are no half measures with him. his pride is in his craft. he will lavish the tenderness of a mother for her child upon his horse; he will play poker till he has had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing his last cent pass into somebody else's pocket; he will drink on the most generous scale, and is ever ready to quarrel. even in this last he believes in thoroughness. but he has many good points which often outweigh his baser instincts. they can be left to the imagination; for it is best to know the worst of him at the outset to get a proper, and not a glorified estimate of his true character. the object of this story is to give a veracious, and not a highly gilded picture of the hardy prairie man of days gone by. before all things the cowboy is a horseman. his pride in this almost amounts to a craze. his fastidiousness in horse-flesh, in his accoutrements, his boots, his chapps, his jaunty silk handkerchief about his neck, even to the gauntlets he so often wears upon his hands, is an education in dandyism. he is a thorough dandy in his outfit. and the greater the dandy, the more surely is he a capable horseman. he is not a horse-breaker by trade, but he loves "broncho-busting" as a boy loves his recreation. it comes to him as a relief from the tedium of branding, feeding, rounding up, cutting out, mending fences, and all the utility work of the ranch. every unbroken colt is like a ticket in a lottery; it may be easy, or it may be a tartar. and the tartar is the prize that every cowpuncher wants to draw so that he may demonstrate his horsemanship. broncho-busting was the order of the next day at mosquito bend, and all hands were agog, and an element of general cheeriness pervaded the bunkhouse whilst breakfast was in preparation. marbolt had obtained a contract to supply the troops with a large band of remounts, and the terms demanded that each animal must be saddle-broken. tresler, with the rest, was up betimes. he, too, was going to take his part in the horse-breaking. while breakfast was in the course of preparation he went out to overhaul his saddle. there must be no doubtful straps in his gear. each saddle would have a heavy part to play, and his own, being one he had bought second-hand from one of his comrades, needed looking to. he was very thoughtful as he went about his work. his overnight talk with joe nelson had made him realize that he was no longer a looker-on, a pupil, simply one of the hands on the ranch. hitherto he had felt, in a measure, free in his actions. he could do as it pleased him to do. he could have severed himself from the ranch, and washed his hands of all that was doing there. now it was different. whether he would or no he must play out his part. he had taken a certain stand, and that stand involved him with responsibilities which he had no wish to shirk. his saddle was in order, his mare had been rubbed down and fed, and he was leisurely strolling over to the bunkhouse for breakfast. and as he passed the foreman's hut he heard jake's voice from within hailing him with unwonted cheeriness. "mornin', tresler," he called out. "late gettin' in last night." tresler moved over and stood in the doorway. he was wary of the tone, and answered coolly-- "yes; the mare bolted this side of the ford, and took me ten miles south. when i got on the forks trail i met nelson on his way home." "ah, that mare's the very devil. how are you doin' with her now?" "oh, so, so. she leads me a dance, but i'd rather have her than any plug you've got on the ranch. she's the finest thing i've ever put a leg over." "yes, guess that's so. the boss was always struck on her. i kind of remember when she came. she wasn't bred hereabouts. the old man bought her from some half-breed outfit goin' through the country three years ago--that's how he told me. then we tried to break her. say, you've done well with her, boy." jake had been lacing up a pair of high field boots; they were massive things with heavy, clumped soles, iron tips and heels. now he straightened up. "did nelson say why he was late?" he went on abruptly. "no. and i didn't ask him." "ah, knew it, i s'pose. drunk?" "no." tresler felt that the lie was a justifiable one. "then what the devil kept the little swine?" jake's brows suddenly lowered, and the savage tone was no less than the coarse brutality of his words. the other's coolness grew more marked. "that was none of my concern. he'd delivered the letter, and it was only left for me to hurry him home." "i'll swear he was loafin' around the saloon all day. say, i guess i'll see him later." tresler shrugged and turned away. he wanted to tell this man what he thought of him. he felt positively murderous toward him. he had never met anybody who could so rouse him. sooner or later a crisis would come, in spite of his reassurances to diane, and then--jake watched him go. then he turned again to the contemplation of his great boots, and muttered to himself. "it won't be for long--no, not for long. but not yet. ther's too much hangin' to it----" he broke off, and his fierce eyes looked after the retreating man. the unconscious object of these attentions meanwhile reached the bunkhouse. breakfast was well on, and he had to take his pannikin and plate round to teddy's cookhouse to get his food. "slushy," as the cook was familiarly called, dipped him out a liberal measure of pork and beans, and handed him half a loaf of new-made bread. jinks was no niggard, and tresler was always welcome to all he needed. "goin' to ride?" the youth demanded, as he filled the pannikin with tea. "why, of course." tresler had almost forgotten the change of work that had been set out for the day. his face brightened now as the cook reminded him of it. "wouldn't miss it for a lot. that mare of mine has given me a taste for that sort of thing." "taste!" teddy exclaimed, with a scornful wave of his dipper. "belly full, i tho't, mebbe." he turned to his stove and shook the ashes down. "say," he went on, over his shoulder, "guess i'm bakin' hash in mine. ther' ain't so much glory, but ther's a heap more comfort to it." tresler passed out smiling at the youth's ample philosophy. but the smile died out almost on the instant. a half-smothered cry reached him from somewhere in the direction of the barn. he stood for an instant with his brows knitted. the next, and his movements became almost electrical. now the man's deliberate character flatly contradicted itself. there was no pause for consideration, no thought for what was best to do. he had heard that cry, and had recognized the voice. it was a cry that summoned him, and wrung the depths of his heart. his breakfast was pitched to the ground. and, as though fate had ordained it, he beheld a heavy rawhide quirt lying on the ground where he had halted. he grabbed the cruel weapon up, and set off at a run in the direction whence the cry had come. his feet were still encased in the soft moccasin slippers he usually wore in exchange for his riding boots, and, as he ran, they gave out no sound. it was a matter of fifty yards to the foreman's hut, and he sprinted this in even time, keeping the building between himself and a direct view of the barn, in the region of which lay his destination. and as he ran the set expression of his face boded ill for some one. jaws and mouth were clenched to a fierce rigidity that said far more than any words could have done. he paused for one breathless instant at the hither side of the foreman's hut. it was because he heard jake's voice cursing on the other side of it. then he heard that which made his blood leap to his brain. it was a stifled cry in nelson's now almost unrecognizable voice. and its piteous appeal aroused in him a blind fury. he charged round the building in half a dozen strides. one glance at the scene was sufficient. poor old joe nelson was lying on the ground, his arms thrown out to protect his head, while jake, his face ablaze, stood over him, kicking him with his cruel field boots, with a force and brutishness that promised to break every bone in the old man's body. it all came to him in a flash. then he leapt with a rush at the author of the unnatural scene. the butt of his quirt was uplifted. it swung above his head a full half-circle, then it descended with that whistling split of the air that told of the rage and force that impelled it. it took the giant square across the face, laying the flesh open and sending the blood spurting with its vicious impact. it sent him reeling backward with a howl of pain, like a child at the slash of an admonishing cane. and jake's hands went up to his wounds at once; but, even so, his movements were not swift enough to protect him from a second slash of the vengeful thong. and tresler's aim was so swift and sure that the bully fell to the ground like a pole-axed steer. and with jake's fall the tension of tresler's rage relaxed. he could have carried the chastisement further with a certain wild delight, but he was no savage, only a real, human man, outraged and infuriated by the savagery of another. his one thought was for his poor old friend, and he dropped on his knees, and bent over the still, shrunken form in a painful anxiety. he called to him, and put one hand under the gray old head and raised it up. and as he did so the poor fellow's eyes opened. joe murmured something unintelligible, and tresler was about to speak again, when a movement behind him changed his purpose and brought him to his feet with a leap. nor was he any too soon. and his rage lit anew as he saw jake struggling to rise. in an instant he was standing over him threateningly. "move, and i'll paralyze you!" he cried hoarsely. and jake made no further effort. he lay back with a growl of impotent rage, while his hands moved uneasily, mopping his blood-stained features. now it was, for the first time, tresler became aware that the men from the bunkhouse had come upon the scene. the sight of all those faces gazing in wide-eyed astonishment at the fallen jake brought home to him something of the enormity of his offense, and it behooved him to get joe out of further harm's way. he stooped, and gathering the little choreman tenderly into his powerful arms, lifted him on to his shoulders and strode away to the bunkhouse, followed by his silent, wondering comrades. he deposited joe upon his own bed, and the men crowded round. and questions and answers came in a wild volley about him. it was arizona who spoke least and rendered most assistance. together he and tresler undressed the patient and treated him to a rough surgical examination. they soon found that no limbs were broken, but of his ribs they were less certain. he was severely bruised about the head, and this latter no doubt accounted for his unconsciousness. cold water, harshly applied, though with kind intent, was the necessary restorative, and after a while the twisted face took on a hue of life and the eyes opened. then tresler turned to the men about him. "boys," he said gravely, "i want you all to remember that this is purely my affair. joe's and mine--and jake's. i shall settle it in my own way. for the present we have our work to do." there was a low murmur, and arizona raised a pair of fierce eyes to his face. he was going to speak--to voice a common thought; but tresler understood and cut him short. "go easy, arizona. we're good friends all. you wouldn't like me to interfere in a quarrel of yours." "that's so--but----" "never mind the 'buts.'" and tresler's keen, honest eyes looked squarely into the seared face of the wild cowpuncher. for a moment the men stood around looking on with lowering faces, eyeing the prostrate man furtively. but tresler's attitude gave them no encouragement, and even arizona felt the influence of his strong personality. suddenly, as though with a struggle, the cowboy swung round on his fellows and his high-pitched tones filled the silent room. "come right on, boys. guess he's right. we'll git." and he moved toward the door. and the men, after the slightest possible hesitation, passed out in his wake. tresler waited until the door had closed behind the last of them, then he turned to the injured man. "feeling better, joe?" "feelin' better? why, yes, i guess." joe's answer came readily, but in a weak voice. "no bones broken?" "bones? don't seem." tresler seated himself on the bunk and looked into the gray face. at last he rose and prepared to go, but joe detained him with a look. "say--they're gone?" he murmured. the other sat down again. "yes." "good." joe sighed and reclosed his eyes; but it was only for a second. he opened them again and went on. "say, you won't tell her--miss dianny. don't you tell her. pore little soul, she'll wep them pretty eyes o' hers out, sure. y' see, i know her. y' see, i did git drunk yesterday. i knew i'd git it. so it don't signify. don't tell her." "she'll be sure to hear of it." "say, tresler," joe went on, ignoring the other's objection. "go easy; jest say nothin'. kind o' fergit this thing fer the time. ther's other work fer you. i'd a heap sooner i'd bin killed than you git roped into this racket. it's miss dianny you're to look to, not me; an' now, mebbe, they'll run you off'n the ranch." tresler shook his head decidedly. "don't be afraid; they can't get rid of me, joe," he said. "ah! wal, i guess meanwhile you'd best git off to work. i'll pull round after a while. you see, you must go dead easy wi' jake, 'cos o' her. mind it's her--on'y her. you sed it last night. mebbe this thing's goin' to make trouble. trouble fer you; an' trouble fer you means trouble fer her." "i'm going." tresler saw the force of the other's argument. he must give them no further hold to turn on him. yes, he saw how bad his position would be in the future. he wondered what would come of that morning's work; and, in spite of his confident assurance to joe, he dreaded now lest there should be any means for them to get rid of him. he moved toward the door. "all right, joe. i'll keep a check on myself in the future," he said. "but don't you go and get drunk again or----" he broke off. flinging the door open to pass out, he found himself face to face with the object of their solicitude. diane had been about to knock, and now started back in confusion. she had not expected this. she thought tresler was with the "breaking" party. the man saw her distress, and the anxiety in her sweet brown eyes. he knew that at that moment all her thought was for joe. it was the basket on her arm, full of comforts, that told him. and he knew, too, that she must have been a witness to the disgraceful scene by the barn, for how else could she have learned so quickly what had happened? he put his finger on his lip to silence her, while he closed the bunkhouse door behind him. then he responded to the inquiry he saw in her eager, troubled face. "he is better, miss diane. he will soon be all right," he added, keeping his voice low lest it should reach the man inside. "can i give him anything for you? any message?" he glanced significantly from her face to the basket on her arm. the girl did not answer at once. her eyes looked seriously up into his face. "thank you," she said at last, a little vaguely. then she broke out eagerly, and tresler understood the feeling that prompted her. "i saw the finish of it all," she went on; "oh, the dreadful finish. thank god i did not see the rest. when you bore him off on your shoulders i thought he was dead. then i felt i could not stay away. while i was wondering how to get down here without attracting attention, sheriff fyles arrived, and father and he went at once into the office. i knew jake would be out of the way. i waited until anton had disappeared with the sheriff's horse, then i hurried down here. can i see him now? i have a few little luxuries here which i scrambled together for him." the girl's appeal was irresistible. nor was tresler the man to attempt the impossible. besides, she knew all, so there was nothing to hide from her. he glanced over at the barn. the men had already saddled. he saw arizona leading two horses, and recognized lady jezebel as one of them. the wild cowpuncher had saddled his mare for him, and the friendliness of the act pleased him. "yes, go in and see him," he said. "the place hasn't been cleaned up yet, but perhaps you won't mind that. you will come like an angel of comfort to poor joe. poor old fellow! he thinks only of you. you are his one care in life. it will be like a ray of sunshine in his clouded life to be waited on by you. i need hardly give you the caution, but--don't stay long." diane nodded, and tresler stepped aside. the girl's hand was on the door-latch; she hesitated a moment and finally faced about. "fyles is here now," she said significantly. "the raiders; do you think you ought----" "i am going to see him." "yes." the girl nodded. she would have said more, but her companion cut her short. "i must go," he said. then he pointed over at the mare. "you see?" he added. "she is in view of jake's window." the next moment they had parted. the lady jezebel was very fretful when tresler mounted her. she treated him to a mild display of bad temper, and then danced boisterously off down the trail, and her progress was as much made on her hind legs as on all fours. once round the bend her rider tried to bring her to a halt, but no persuasion could reduce her to the necessary docility. she fretted on until, exasperated, the man jabbed her sharply with the spurs. then the mischief started. her head went down and her back humped, and she settled to a battle royal. it was in the midst of this that another horseman rounded the bend and rode leisurely on to the field of battle. he drew up and watched the conflict with interest, his own great raw-boned bay taking quite as enthusiastic an interest in what was going forward as its rider. the mare fought like a demon; but tresler had learned too much for her, and sat on his saddle as though glued to it; and the newcomer's interest became blended with admiration for the exhibition of horsemanship he was witnessing. as suddenly as she had begun the lady desisted. it was in a pause for breath that she raised her infuriated head and espied the intruder. doubtless, realizing the futility of her efforts, and at the same time not wishing one of the opposite sex to witness her defeat, she preferred to disguise her anger and gave the impression of a quiet, frivolous gambol, for she whinnied softly and stared, with ears pricked and head erect, in a haughty look of inquiry at the more cumbersome figure of the bay. and her rider, too, had time to look around. his glance at once fell upon the stranger, and he knew that it was the man he wanted to talk to. the two men met with little formality. "sheriff fyles?" tresler said as he came up. there was something wonderfully picturesque yet businesslike about this prairie sleuth. this man was the first of his kind he had seen, and he studied him with interest. the thought of sheriff fyles had come so suddenly into his mind, and so recently, that he had no time to form any imaginative picture of him. had he done so he must inevitably have been disappointed with the reality, for fyles was neither becoming nor even imposing. he was rather short and decidedly burly, and his face had an innocent caste about it, a farmer-like mould of russet-tanned features that was extremely healthy-looking, but in no way remarkable for any appearance of great intelligence. but this was a case of the fallibility of appearances. fyles was remarkable both for great intelligence and extreme shrewdness. not only that, he was a man of cat-like activity. his bulk was the result of a superabundance of muscle, and not of superfluous tissue. his bucolic spread of features was useful to him in that it detracted from the cold, keen, compelling eyes which looked out from beneath his shaggy eyebrows; and, too, the full cheeks and fat neck, helping to hide the determined jaws, which had a knack of closing his rather full lips into a thin, straight line. nature never intended a man of his mould to occupy the position that fyles held in his country's peace regime. he was one of her happy mistakes. and in that first survey tresler realized something of the personality which form and features were so ludicrously struggling to conceal. "yes." the officer let his eyes move slowly over this stranger. then, without the least expression of cordiality he spoke the thought in his mind. "that's a good nag--remarkably good. you handle her tolerably. didn't get your name?" "tresler--john tresler." "yes. new hereabouts?" the broad-shouldered man had an aggravatingly official manner. tresler replied with a nod. "ah! remittance man?" at this the other laughed outright. he saw it was useless to display any anger. "wrong," he said. "learning the business of ranching. going to start on my own account later on." "ah! younger son?" "not even a younger son!" the two horses were now moving leisurely on toward the ford. "suppose we quit questions and answers that serve no particular purpose, sheriff. i have been waiting to see you." "so i figured," observed the other, imperturbably, "or you wouldn't have answered my questions so amiably. well?" the sheriff permitted himself a sort of wintry smile, while his watchful eyes wandered interestedly over the surrounding bush. "there are things doing about this country," tresler began a little lamely. "you've possibly heard?" "things are generally doing in a cattle country where brands are easily changed and there is no official to inquire who has changed them." fyles glanced admiringly down at lady jezebel's beautiful clean legs. "this red mask?" tresler asked. "exactly." "you've heard the story of his latest escapade? the murder of manson orr?" "from mr. marbolt--and others. in telling me, the blind man offered five thousand dollars' reward for the capture of the man." "that's better than i hoped for," replied tresler, musingly. "you see," he went on, "the blind man's something cantankerous. he's lost cattle himself, but when some of the boys offered to hunt red mask down, he treated them with scant courtesy--in fact, threatened to discharge any man who left the ranch on that quest." "i found him amiable." "you would." tresler paused. this man was difficult to talk to, and he wanted to say so much. suddenly he turned and faced him, and, to his chagrin, discovered that the other was still intent on the mare he was riding. his eyes were fixed on the lady's shoulder, where the indistinct marks of the brand were still visible. "you see, sergeant," he went on, ignoring the other's abstraction, "i have a story to tell you, which, in your official capacity, you may find interesting. in the light of recent events, i, at any rate, find it interesting. it has set me thinking a heap." "go ahead," said the officer, without even so much as raising his eyes. tresler followed the direction of his gaze, but could see nothing more interesting in his mare's fore-quarters than their perfect shape. however, there was no alternative but to proceed with his narrative. and he told the sheriff of the visit of the night-riders which he had witnessed on the night of his arrival at the ranch. in spite of the other's apparent abstraction, he told the story carefully and faithfully, and his closing remarks were well pointed and displayed a close analysis. he told him of the previous visits of these night-riders, and the results following upon the circulation of the story by each individual who chanced to witness them. he told of joe nelson's warning to him, and how his earnestness had, at length, persuaded him to keep quiet. he felt no scruples in thus changing the responsibility of diane's warning. nothing would have induced him to drag her name into the matter. "you see, sheriff," he said in conclusion, "i think i did right to keep this matter to myself until such time as i could tell it to you. it has all happened several times before, and, therefore, will no doubt happen again. what do you think?" "she's the finest thing i've ever set two eyes on. there's only one like her--eh?" tresler had given audible expression to his impatience, and the other abruptly withdrew his gaze from the mare. "it's interesting--decidedly." "did marbolt tell you of the previous visits of these raiders? he knows of them." "he told me more than i had time to listen to." "how?" "he told me of the revolutionary spirit pervading the ranch." "ah!" tresler saw the trap the wily police officer had laid for him and refused the bait. evidently the blind man had told his version of that morning's doings, and the sheriff wished to learn the men's side of it. probably his, tresler's. this calm, cold man seemed to depend in no way upon verbal answers for the information he desired, for he went on without any appearance of expecting a reply. "there's one thing you've made plain to me. you suspect collusion between these raiders and some one on the ranch." "yes. i meant you to understand that." "whom do you suspect? and your reasons?" the two questions rapped out one after the other like lightning. "my suspicions rest nowhere, because i can find no reason." they had drawn rein at the ford. fyles now looked keenly into tresler's face, and his glance was full of meaning. "i'm glad i've had this talk with you, tresler. you have a keen faculty for observation, and a wise caution. when you have reason to suspect any one, and wish to tell me of it, you can communicate with me at any hour of the day or night. i know this ranch well by repute. so well, in fact, that i came out here to find you. you see, you also were known to me--through mutual acquaintances in forks. now your excellent caution will tell you that it would be bad policy for you to communicate openly with me. good. your equally excellent observation will have called your attention to this river. i have a posse stationed further down stream, for certain reasons which i will keep to myself. it is a hidden posse, but it will always be there. now, to a man of your natural cleverness, i do not think you will have any difficulty in finding a means of floating a message down to me. but do not send an urgent message unless the urgency is positive. any message i receive in that way i shall act upon at once. i have learned a great deal to-day, tresler, so much indeed that i even think you may need to use this river before long. all i ask of you is to be circumspect--that's the word, circumspect." the sheriff edged his horse away so that he could obtain a good view of lady jezebel. and he gazed at her with so much intentness that tresler felt he must call attention to it. "she is a beauty," he suggested. and fyles answered with a sharp question. "is she yours?" "no. only to use." "belongs to the ranch?" "jake told me she is a mare the blind man bought from a half-breed outfit passing through the country. he sets great store by her, but they couldn't tame her into reliability. that's three years ago. by her mouth i should say she was rising seven." "that's so. she'd be rising seven. she's a dandy." "you seem to know her." but fyles made no answer. he swung his horse round, and, raising his hand in a half-military salute in token of "good-bye," called over his shoulder as his bay took to the water-- "don't forget the river." tresler looked after him for some moments, then his mare suddenly reared and plunged into the water to follow. he understood at once that fresh trouble was brewing in her ill-balanced equine mind, and took her sharply to task. she couldn't buck in the water; and, finally, after another prolonged battle, she dashed out of it and on to the bank again. but in the scrimmage she had managed to get the side-bar of the bit between her teeth, and, as she landed, she stretched out her lean neck, and with a snort of ill-temper, set off headlong down the trail. chapter x a wild ride the intractability of the lady jezebel was beyond all bounds. her vagaries were legion. after his experiences with her, tresler might have been forgiven the vanity of believing, in spite of her sex, that he had fathomed her every mood. but she was forever springing unpleasant surprises, and her present one was of a more alarming nature than anything that had gone before. one of her tricks, bolting, was not so very serious, but now she proved herself a "blind bolter." and among horsemen there is only one thing to do with a blind bolter--shoot it. a horse of this description seems to be imbued with but one idea--a furious desire to go, to run anywhere, to run into anything lying in its course, to run on until its strength is spent, or its career is suddenly terminated by a forcible full stop. at the bend of the trail the mare took blindly to the bush. chance guided her on to a cattle-path which cut through to the pinewoods beyond. it was but a matter of moments before her rider saw the dark shadow of the woodlands come at him with a rush, and he plunged headlong into the gray twilight of their virgin depths. he had just time to crouch down in the saddle, with his face buried in the tangle of the creature's flying mane, when the drooping boughs, laden with their sad foliage, swept his back. he knew there were only two courses open to him. either he must sit tight and chance his luck till the mad frolic was spent, or throw himself headlong from the saddle at the first likely spot. a more experienced horseman would, no doubt, have chosen the latter course without a second thought. but he preferred to stay with the mare. he was loth to admit defeat. she had never bested him yet, and a sort of petty vanity refused to allow him to acknowledge her triumph now. they might come to an opening, he told himself, a stretch of open country. the mare might tire of the forest gloom and turn prairieward. these things suggested themselves merely as an excuse for his foolhardiness in remaining in the saddle, not that he had any hope of their fulfilment. and so it was. nothing moved the animal out of her course, and it seemed almost as though a miracle were in operation. for, in all that labyrinth of tree-trunks, a sheer road constantly opened out before them. once, and once only, disaster was within an ace of him. she brushed a mighty black-barked giant with her shoulders. tresler's knee struck it with such painful force that his foot was wrenched from the stirrup and dragged back so that the rowel of his spur was plunged, with terrific force, into the creature's flank. she responded to the blow with a sideways leap, and it was only by sheer physical strength her rider retained his seat. time and again the reaching boughs swept him and tore at his clothes, frequently lacerating the flesh beneath with the force of their impact. these things, however, were only minor troubles as he raced down the grim forest aisles. his thoughts centred themselves on the main chance--the chance that embraced life and death. an ill-fate might, at any moment, plunge horse and rider headlong into one of those silent sentries. it would mean anything. broken limbs at the best. but providence ever watches over the reckless horseman, and, in spite of a certain native caution in most things, tresler certainly was that. he knew no fear of this jade of a mare, and deep down in his heart there was a wild feeling of joy, a whole-hearted delight in the very madness of the race. and the animal herself, untamed, unchecked, frothing at her bit, her sides a-lather with foam, her barrel tuckered like that of a finely trained race-horse, rushed blindly on. the forest echoed and reëchoed with the dull thud of her hoofs as they pounded the thick underlay of rotting cones. and her rider breathed hard as he lay with his head beside the reeking neck, and watched for the coming of the end. suddenly, in the midst of the gray, he saw a flash of sunlight. it was like a beacon light to a storm-driven mariner. it was only a gleam of sunshine and was gone almost at once, but it told him that he was fast coming on the river. the final shoals, maybe, where wreck alone awaited him. just for an instant his purpose wavered. there was still time to drop to the ground. he would have to chance the mare's flying heels. and it might save him. but the idea was driven from his head almost before he realized it; the mare swerved like a skidding vehicle. he clung desperately to her mane, one arm was even round her neck in a forcible embrace. the struggle lasted only a few seconds. then, as he recovered his equilibrium, he saw that she had turned into what was undoubtedly a well-defined, but long-disused, forest trail. the way was clear of obstruction. the trees had parted, opening up a wide avenue, and above him shone the perfect azure of the summer sky. he was amazed. where could such a trail lead? his answer came immediately. away ahead of him, towering above the abundant foliage, he saw the distant shimmer of snowy peaks, and nearer--so near as to make him marvel aloud--the forest-clad, broken lands of the foot-hills. immediate danger was past and he had time to think. at all cost he must endeavor to stop the racing beast under him. so he began a vicious sawing at her mouth. his efforts only drove her faster, and caused her to throw her head higher and higher, until her crown was within six inches of his face. the futility of his purpose was almost ludicrous. he desisted. and the lady jezebel lowered her head with an angry snort and rushed on harder than ever. and now the race continued without relaxing. once or twice tresler thought he detected other hoof-marks on the trail, but his impression of them was very uncertain. one thing surely struck him, however: since entering this relic of the old indian days, a decided change had come over the mare. she was no longer running blind; more, it seemed to him that she displayed that inexpressible familiarity with her surroundings which a true horseman can always detect, yet never describe. this knowledge led him to the hope of the passing of her temper. but his hope was an optimistic mistake. the sweat pouring from neck, shoulders, and flanks, she still lifted her mud-brown barrel to her mighty stride, with all the vim and lightness of the start. he felt that, jade that she was, she ran because she loved it; ran with a delight that acted as a safety-valve for her villainous temper. she would run herself into amiability and then stop, but not before. and he knew her temper so well that he saw many miles lying ahead of him. the rift was gradually widening, and the forest on either side thinned. the trees were wider and more scattered, and the broken hilltops, which but now had been well ahead, were frowning right over him, and he knew, by the steady, gradual rise of the country, that he would soon be well within the maze of forest, crag, and ravine, which composed the mountain foot-hills. at last the forest broke and the ragged land leapt into full view with magical abruptness. it was as though nature had grown her forest within the confines of a field embraced by an imaginary hedge. there were no outskirts, no dwindling away. it ended in one clean-cut line. and beyond lay the rampart hills, fringed and patched with disheveled bluff, split by rifts and yawning chasms. and ever they rose higher and higher as the distance gained, and, though summer was not yet at its height, it was gaunt-looking, torn, chaotic, a land of desolation. the mare held straight on. the change of scene had no effect on her; the trail still lay before her, and she seemed satisfied with it. tresler looked for the river. he knew it was somewhere near by. he gazed away to the right, and his conjecture was proved at once. there it lay, the mosquito river, narrowed and foaming, a torrent with high, clean-cut banks. he followed its course ahead and saw that the banks lost themselves in the shadow between towering, almost barren hills, which promised the narrow mouth of a valley beyond. and as he watched these things, a feeling of uneasiness came over him. the split between the hills looked so narrow. he looked for the trail. it seemed to make straight for the opening. as the ground flew under him, he turned once more to the river and followed its course with his eyes, and suddenly he was thrilled with his first real feeling of apprehension. the river on the right, and the hill on the left of him were converging. nor could he avoid that meeting-point. he was borne on by the bolting mare. there was not the smallest hope of restraining her. whatever lay before him, he must face it, and face it with every faculty alert and ready. his mouth parched, and he licked his lips. he was facing a danger now that was uncertain, and the uncertainty of it strung him with a nervous apprehension. bluff succeeded bluff in rapid succession. the hill on the left had become a sheer cliff, and the general aspect of the country, that of a tremendous gorge. the trail rose slightly and wound its tortuous way in such an aggravating manner that it was impossible for him to see what lay before him. at one point he came to a fork where another trail, less defined, branched away to the right. for a moment he dreaded lest the mare should adopt the new way. he knew what lay out there--the river. however, his fears were quickly allayed. the lady jezebel had no intention of leaving the road she was on. they passed the fork, and he sighed his relief. but his relief was short-lived. without a sign or warning the trail he was on died out, and his course lay over a narrow level flat sparsely dotted with small, stubbly bush. now he knew that the mare had been true to herself. she had passed the real trail by, and was running headlong to---- he dared think no more. he knew the crisis was at hand. he had reached the narrowest point of the opening between the two hills, and there stretched the river right across his path less than fifty yards ahead. it took no central course--as might have been expected--through the gorge. it met the left-hand cliff diagonally, and, further on, adopted its sheer side for its left bank. he saw the clearly defined cutting, sharp, precise, before it reached the cliff, and he was riding straight for it! in that first moment of realization he passed through every sensation of fear; but no time was given him for thought. fifty yards! what was that to the raking stride of his untamed mare? it would be gone in a few seconds. action was the only thing to serve him, and such action as instinct prompted him to was utterly unavailing. with a mighty heave of his body, and with all the strength of his sinewy arms, he tried to pull the creature on to her haunches. as well try to stem the tide ahead of him. she threw up her head until it nearly struck him in the face; she pawed the air with her great front legs; then, as he released her, she rushed forward again with a vicious snort. his case seemed utterly hopeless. he sat down tight in the saddle, leaning slightly forward. he held his reins low, keeping a steady strain upon them. there was a vague, wild thought in his mind. he knew the river had narrowed. was it a possible jump? he feared the very worst, but clung desperately to the hope. he would lift the creature to it when it came, anyhow. would she see it? would she, freakish brute that she was, realize her own danger, and, for once in her desperate life, do one sensible act? he did not expect it. he dared not hope for that. he only wondered. he could see the full extent of the chasm now. and he thrilled as he realized that it was broader than he had supposed. worse, the far bank was lower, and a fringe of bush hung at its very edge. his jaws tightened as he came up. he could hear the roar of the torrent below, and, to his strained fancy, it seemed to come up from the very bowels of the earth. a few more strides. he timed his effort with a judgment inspired by the knowledge that his life depended on it--it, and the mare. the chasm now came at him with a rush. suddenly he leaned over and let out a wild "halloo!" in the creature's ears. at the same time he lifted her and plunged his spurs hard into her flanks. the effect was instantaneous, electrical. just for an instant it seemed to him that some unseen power had suddenly shot her from under him. he had a sensation of being left behind, while yet he was rushing through the air with the saddle flying from under him. then all seemed still, and he was gliding, the lower part of his body struggling to outstrip the rest of him. he had an impression of some great depth below him, though he knew he saw nothing, heard nothing. there came a great jolt. he lurched on to the animal's neck, recovered himself, and, the next instant, the old desperate gallop was going on as before. he looked back and shivered as he saw the gaping rift behind him. the jump had been terrific, and, as he realized the marvel of the feat, he leaned over and patted the mare's reeking shoulder. she had performed an act after her own wild heart. and tresler laughed aloud at the thought. he could afford to laugh now, for he saw the end of his journey coming. he had landed on the trail he had lost, in all probability the continuation across the river of the branch road he had missed on the other side, and this was heading directly for the hill before him. more, he could see it winding its way up the hill. even the lady jezebel, he thought, would find that ascent more than to her liking. and he was right. she faced it and breasted it like the lion-hearted animal she was, but the loose sandy surface, and the abruptness of the incline, first brought her to a series of plunges, and finally to her knees and a dead halt. and tresler was out of the saddle in an instant, and drew the reins over her head, while she, now quite subdued, struggled to her feet. she was utterly blown, and her master was little better. they stood together on that hillside and rested. now the man had a full view of the river below, and he realized the jump that the mare had made. and, further down, he beheld an astonishing sight. at a point where the course of the river narrowed, a rough bridge of pine-logs had been thrown across it. he stood for some minutes contemplating the scene and busy with his thoughts, which at last culminated in a question uttered aloud-- "where on earth does it lead to?" and he turned and surveyed the point, where, higher up, the trail vanished round the hillside above him. the question voiced a natural curiosity which he promptly proceeded to satisfy. linking his arm through the reins, he led the mare up the hill. it was a laborious climb. even free of her burden the horse had difficulty in keeping her feet. the sandy surface was deep, and poured away at every step like the dry sand on the seashore. and as they labored up, tresler's wonder increased at every step. why had such a trail been made, and where--where could it lead to? at length the vanishing-point was reached, and horse and rider rounded the bend. and immediately the reason was made plain. but even the reason sank into insignificance before the splendor of the scene which presented itself. he was standing on a sort of shelf cut out of the hillside. it was not more than fifty yards long, and some twenty wide, but it stood high over a wide, far-reaching valley, scooped out amongst the great foot-hills which reared their crests about him on every side. far as the eye could see was spread out the bright, early summer green of the grass-land hollow. for the most part the surrounding hills were precipitate, and rose sheer from the bed of the valley, but here and there a friendly landslide had made the place accessible. just where he stood, and all along the shelf, the face of the hill formed a precipice, both above and below, and the only approach to it was the way he had come round from the other side of the hill. and the object, the reason, of that hidden road. a small hut crushed into the side of the sheer cliff. a dugout of logs, and thatch, and mud plaster. a hut with one fronting door, and a parchment window; a hut such as might have belonged to some old-time trapper, who had found it necessary to set his home somewhere secure from the attacks of marauding indians. and what a strategic position it was! one approach to be barred and barricaded; one laborious road which the besieged could sweep with his rifle-fire, and beat back almost any horde of indians in the country. he led his horse on toward the hut. the door was closed, and the parchment of the window hid the interior. the outside appearance showed good repair. he examined it critically. he walked round its three sides, and, as he came to the far side of it, and thoughtfully took in the method of its construction, he suddenly became aware of another example of the old trapper's cunning. the cliff that rose sheer up for another two or three hundred feet slightly sloped backward at the extremity of the shelf, and here had been cut a rude sort of staircase in the gray limestone of which it was composed. there were the steps, dangerous enough, and dizzying to look at, rising up, up, to the summit above. he ventured to the brink where they began, but instantly drew back. below was a sheer drop of perhaps five hundred feet. turning his eyes upward, his fancy conjured up a picture of the poor wretch, hunted and besieged by the howling indians, starving perhaps, creeping at dead of night from the little fort he had held so long and so valiantly against such overwhelming odds, and, in desperation, availing himself of his one and only possible escape. step by step, he followed him, in imagination, up the awful cliff, clinging for dear life with fingers worn and lacerated by the grinding stone. weary and exhausted, he seemed to see him draw near the top. then a slip, one slip of his tired feet, and no hold upon the limestone with his hands would have power to save him. down, down---- he turned back to the hut with a sick feeling in his stomach. securing his mare to an iron ring, which he found driven firmly into one of the logs, he proceeded to investigate further. the door was held by a common latch, and yielded at once when he raised it. it opened inward, and he waited after throwing it open. he had a strange feeling of trespass in thus intruding upon what might prove to be the home of some fur-hunter. no sound followed the opening of the door. he waited listening; then at last he stepped forward and announced himself with a sharp "hello!" his only answer was the echo of his greeting. without more ado he stepped in. for a moment the sharpness of the contrast of light made it impossible for him to see anything; but presently he became used to the twilight of the interior, and looked about him curiously. it was his first acquaintance with a dugout, nor was he impressed with the comfort it displayed. the place was dirty, unkempt, and his dream of the picturesque, old-time trapper died out entirely. he beheld walls bare of all decoration, simply a rough plastering of mud over the lateral logs; a frowsy cupboard, made out of a huge packing-case, containing odd articles for housekeeping purposes. there were the fragments of two chairs lying in a heap beside a dismembered table, which stood only by the aid of two legs and the centre post which supported the pitch of the roof. a rough trestle-bed occupied the far end of the hut, and in shape and make it reminded him of his own bed in the bunkhouse. but there the resemblance ended, for the palliasse was of brown sacking, and a pair of dull-red blankets were tumbled in a heap upon its foot. one more blanket of similar hue was lying upon the floor; but this was only a torn fragment that had possibly served as a carpet, or, to judge by other fragments lying about, had been used to patch shirts, or even the well-worn bedclothes. it was a squalid hovel, and reeked of the earth out of which it was dug. beyond the bedding, the red blankets, and the few plates and pots in the packing-case cupboard, there was not a sign of the owner, and tresler found himself wondering as to what manner of man it was who could have endured such meanness. it did not occur to him that probably the very trapper he had thought of had left his eyrie in peace and taken his belongings with him, leaving behind him only those things which were worthless. a few minutes satisfied his curiosity. probably his ride, and a natural desire to return to the ranch as quickly as possible, had dulled the keenness of his faculties of observation. certain it is that, squalid as the place was, there was an air of recent habitation about it that he missed. he took it for a deserted shack merely, and gave it no second thought. he passed out into the daylight with an air of relief; he had seen quite enough. the lady jezebel welcomed him with an agitated snort; she too seemed anxious to get away. he led her down the shelving trail again. the descent was as laborious as the ascent had been, and much more dangerous. but it was accomplished at last, and at the foot of the hill he mounted the now docile animal, who cantered off as amiably as though she had never done anything wrong in her life. and as he rode away his thoughts reverted to the incidents of that morning; he went again over the scenes in which he had taken part, the scenes he had witnessed. he thought of his brief battle with jake, of diane and joe, of his interview with fyles. all these things were of such vital import to him that he had no thought for anything else; even the log bridge spanning the river could not draw from him any kind of interest. had his mind been less occupied, he might have paused to ask himself a question about the things he had just seen. he might even have wondered how the logs of that dugout had been hauled to the shelf on which it stood. certain it was that they must have been carried there, for there was not a single tree upon the hillside, only a low bush. and the bridge; surely it was the work of many hands. and why was it there on a disused trail? but he had no thought for such questions just then. he bustled the mare and hurried on. chapter xi the trail of the night-riders a week passed before tresler was again brought into contact with jake. when he got back from his ride into the foot-hills, the "broncho-busting" carnival was in full swing; but he was fated to have no share in it. jacob smith was waiting for him with a message from julian marbolt; his orders were peremptory. he was to leave at once for whitewater, to make preparations for the reception of the young horses now being broken for the troops. the rancher made his meaning quite plain. and tresler was quick to understand that this was simply to get him out of the way until such time as jake's temper had cooled and the danger of a further rupture was averted. he received his instructions without comment. it was rough on his mare, but as the lady jezebel was fond of giving hard knocks, she must not mind if she received a similar treatment in return. and so he went, much to the disquiet of joe nelson, and with a characteristic admonition from arizona. that individual had just finished thrashing a bull-headed young broncho with a quirt, because he wouldn't move from the spot where he had been saddled, when tresler came up. the lean man was breathing hard as he rested, and he panted his farewell huskily. "kep y'r gun good an' handy," he said. "et's mighty good company, if et don't git gassin' wi'out you ast it a question." in this case, however, there was no need for the advice. the journey was a peaceful relief after the storms of mosquito bend. tresler transacted his business, the horses arrived, were delivered to the authorities, and he witnessed the military methods of dealing with their remounts, which was a wonderful example of patience and moderation. then he set out for the ranch again, in company with raw harris and lew cawley--the two men who had brought the band into the town. his return to mosquito bend was very different from his first coming. it seemed to him as if a lifetime had passed since he had been ridiculed about his riding-breeches by all who met him. so much had happened since then. now he was admittedly a full-blown prairie man, with much to learn, perhaps, but garbed like the other cowpunchers with him, in moleskin and buckskin, mexican spurs, and slouch hat; his gun-belt slantwise on his hips, and his leather chapps creaking as he rode. he was no longer "the guy with the pants" he had been when he first entered the land of cattle, and somehow he felt glad at the metamorphosis. it brought him nearer to the land, which, with all its roughness, he felt to be the true life for him. it was evening; the sun had not yet set, but it was dipping low over the western hills, casting long shadows from behind the gorgeous-colored heat clouds. its dying lustre shone like a fire of molten matter through the tree-tops, and lit the forest-crowned hills, until the densest foliage appeared like the most delicate fretwork of nature's own cutting. and in the shadow cast by the hilly background there nestled the ranch, overlooking its vast, wide-spreading pastures of succulent grass. yes, tresler was glad to be back to it all, no matter what the future might hold for him. he had missed his companions; he had missed arizona, with his fierce, untamed spirit; he had missed joe, with his quaint face and staunch heart; but more than all, he had longed to get back to diane, looking forward to the greeting she would extend him as only a lover can. but there was something more in his longing than that. every day he had been away he had fretted and chafed at the thought of what might be happening to her. joe was there to send him word, but even this was insufficient. there had been times when he felt that he could not stay to finish the work put upon him; there had been times when his patience utterly gave way before the nervous tension of his feelings, and he had been ready to saddle his mare and offer her a race against time back to the girl he loved. his feelings were stirred to their very depths as he came up the trail from the ford. he had no words for either of his companions, nor did they seem inclined for speech. they passed the corrals in silence and reached the bunkhouse, where several of their comrades greeted them with a nod or a casual "hello!" they might have just returned from a day's work on the range for all the interest displayed at their coming. but, then, effusiveness is no part of the cowboy's manner. there is rarely a "good-bye" on the prairie, unless it is when a comrade "hits the one-way trail." even then it is more often a quiet "s'long," without any demonstrativeness, but which may mean far more than a flood of tears. jake was at his door when tresler rode over to report. he was still bearing the marks of the quirt on his face, and the author of them beheld his handiwork with some qualms of regret. however, there was none of this in his manner as he made his report. and, much to his astonishment, jake displayed a cold civility. he surpassed himself. not a sneer or sarcasm passed his lips. the report done, he went on to the barn and stabled his mare for the night. then he passed on toward his quarters. before he reached his destination, however, he was joined by nelson. the little man had evidently been waiting for him. "well?" there was no greeting. tresler put his monosyllabic question at once. and the choreman responded without hesitation. "she's bin astin' fer you three times. when wus you gittin' around agin? i guessed i didn't know fer sure. she wus kind o' worrited, i reckon." he paused, and his twisted face turned in the direction of the foreman's hut. "she wus weepin' last night," he went on. then he paused again, and his shrewd eyes came back to tresler's face. "she's bin weepin' to-day," he said, with a peculiar look of expectation in his manner. "what's the trouble?" the question came short and sharp. "mebbe she's lonesome." "that's not it; you've got other reasons." joe looked away again. "jake's bin around some. but i guess she's lonesome too. she's ast fer you." the little man's tone was full of obstinacy. tresler understood his drift. if joe had his way he'd march diane and him off to the nearest parson with no more delay than was required to saddle two horses. "i'm going to see her to-night," tresler replied quietly. then, as he saw jake appear again in the doorway, he said, "you'd better pass on now. maybe i'll see you afterward." and joe moved off without another word. jake had seen them together, but he was unsuspicious. he was thinking of the scars on his face, and of something else that had nothing to do with their meeting. and his thoughts made him smile unpleasantly. if tresler's first greeting had been indifferent, his reception, as he came over to the bunkhouse now, was far from being so. talk flowed freely, inquiries hailed him on every side; jests passed, sometimes coarse, sometimes subtle, but always cordial. all the men on the ranch had a fair good-will for him. "tenderfoot" he might be, but they approved his grit, and with frontiersmen grit is all that matters. after supper he separated himself from his companions under pretext of cleaning his saddlery. he hauled a bucket of water, and went down to the lower corrals and disposed his accoutrements for the operation, but he did no work until he saw arizona approaching. that unkempt personage loafed up in a sort of manner that plainly said he didn't care if he came or not. but tresler knew this was only his manner. the cleaning of the saddle now proceeded with assiduity, and arizona sat himself down on a fallen log and spat tobacco-juice around him. at last he settled himself, nursing one knee in his clasped hands, and spoke with that air of absolute conviction which always characterized him. "say, jake's grittin' his teeth tight," he said. then, as an afterthought, "but he ain't showin' 'em." tresler looked up and studied the cadaverous face before him. "you mean--about----" "wal, i wus jest figgerin' on how you wus standin'. seems likely you're standin' lookin' east wi' a feller due west who's got the drop on yer; which, to my reckonin', ain't as safe as handin' trac's to a lodge o' cheyenne neches on the war-path." "you think that jake's quietly getting the drop on me?" "wal, i allow ef i wus jake i'd be gettin' a'mighty busy that way. an' i kind o' calc'late that's wot he's doin'." tresler smiled and returned to his work. "and what form do you think his 'drop' will take?" he asked, without looking up. "i ain't gifted wi' imagination. y' ain't never sure which way a blind mule's likely ter kick. jake's in the natur' of a blind mule. what i sez is, watch him. don't look east when he's west. say," he went on, in a tone of disgust, "you noo yorkers make me sick. ther' ain't nothin' ter hittin' a feller an' makin' him sore. it on'y gives him time to git mad. a gun's handy an' sudden. on'y you need a goodish bore ef you're goin' ter perf'rate the hide of a guy like jake. pshaw!" he finished up witheringly, "you fellers ain't got shut o' last century." "maybe we haven't," tresler retorted, with a good-humored laugh; "but your enterprise has carried you so far ahead of time that you've overlapped. i tell you, man, you're back in the savage times. you're groping in the prehistoric periods--jurassic, eocene, or some such." "guess i ain't familiar wi' jurassics an' eocenes," arizona replied gravely. "mebbe that was before my time; but ef you're speakin' o' them fellers as clumped each other over the head wi' stone clubs, i 'lows they had more savee than a noo yorker, ef they wus kind o' primitive in the'r habits." tresler accepted the argument in the spirit in which it was put forward. it was no use getting angry. arizona was peculiar, but he had reason to consider him, in his own parlance, "a decent citizen." he went on with his work steadily while the cowpuncher grunted out his impatience. then at last, as though it were forced from him, the latter jerked out a more modified opinion of the civilized american. it seemed as though tresler's very silence had drawn it from him. "wal," he said grumblingly, "mebbe you noo yorkers has points--mebbe, i sez." then he dismissed the subject with an impatient shrug of his drooping shoulders, and went off at a fresh angle. "say, i wus kind o' wonderin' some 'bout that flea-bitten shadder, joe nelson. he's amazin' queer stayin' 'round here. he's foxin' some, too. y' ain't never sure when you're like to strike them chewed-up features o' his after nightfall. y' see he's kind o' quit drinkin'--leastways, he's frekent sober. mebbe he can't sleep easy. ther's suthin' worritin' his head, sure. he 'pears ter me desp'rate restless--kind o' like an old hoss wi' the bush-ticks. et don't fit noways wi' the joe nelson i oncet knew. mebbe it's religion. ther' ain't nuthin' like religion fer makin' things oneasy in your head. joe allus had a strain o' religion in him." the southerner gazed gloomily at the saddle on the fence, while he munched his tobacco in thoughtful silence. "i don't think joe's got religion," said tresler, with a smile. "he's certainly worried, and with reason. jake's got his knife into him. no, i think joe's got a definite object in staying around here, and i shouldn't wonder if he's clever enough to attain it, whatever it is." "that sounds more like joe," assented the other, cheering up at the suggestion. "still, joe allus had a strain o' religion in him," he persisted. "i see him drop a man in his tracks oncet, an' cry like a noo-born babby 'cos ther' wa'n't a chu'ch book in lone brake settlement, an' he'd forgot his prayers, an' had ter let the feller lie around fer the coyotes, instead o' buryin' him decent. that's a whiles ago. guess lone brake's changed some. they do say ther's a bible ther' now. kind o' roped safe to the desk in the meetin'-house, so the boys can't git foolin' wi' it. yup," he went on, with an abstracted look in his expressive eyes, "religion's a mighty powerful thing when it gits around. most like the fever. i kind o' got touched wi' it down texas way on the mexican border. guess et wer' t' do wi' a lady i favored at the time; but that ain't here nor there. guess most o' the religion comes along o' the wimmin folk. 'longside o' wimmin men is muck." tresler nodded his appreciation of the sentiment. "gettin' religion's most like goin' on the bust. hits yer sudden, an' yer don't git off'n it easy. the signs is allus the same. you kind o' worry when folks gits blasphemin', an' you don't feel like takin' a hand to help 'em out. you hate winnin' at 'draw,' an' talks easy when a feller holds 'fours' too frekent. an' your liquor turns on your stummick. they're all signs," he added expansively. "when a feller gits like that he'd best git right off to the meetin'-house. that's how i tho't." "and you went?" "that's so. say, an' it ain't easy. i 'lows my nerve's pretty right fer most things, but when you git monkeyin' wi' religion it's kind o' different. 'sides, ther's allus fellers ter choke you off. nassy wilkes, the s'loon-keeper, he'd had religion bad oncet, tho' i 'lows he'd fergot most o't sence he'd been in the s'loon biz; he kind o' skeered me some. sed they used a deal o' water, an' mostly got ducking greenhorns in it. wal, i put ha'f a dozen slugs o' whisky down my neck--which he sed would prevent me gittin' cold, seein' water wa'n't in my line--an' hit the trail fer the meetin'." "what denomination?" asked tresler, curiously. "what religion?" he added, for the man's better understanding. "wal, i don't rightly knows," arizona went on gravely. "i kind o' fancy the boys called 'em 'dippers'; but i guess this yarn don't call fer no argyment," he added, with a suspicion of his volcanic temper rising at the frequent interruptions. then, as the other kept silence, he continued in his earnest way, "guess that meetin'-house wus mostly empty. ther' wus one feller ther' a'ready when i come. he wus playin' toons on a kind o' 'cordian he worked wi' his feet----" "harmonium," suggested tresler, diffidently. "that's it. i could 'a' wep' as i looked at that feller, he wus that noble. he'd long ha'r greased reg'lar, an' wore swaller-tails. guess he wus workin' that concertina-thing like mad; an' he jest looked right up at the ceilin' as if he wer' crazy fer some feller to come 'long an' stop him 'fore he bust up the whole shootin' match." "looked inspired," tresler suggested. "mebbe that's wot. still, i wus glad i come. then the folks come along, an' the deac'n; an' the feller quit. guess he wus plumb scart o' that deac'n, tho' i 'lows he wus a harmless-lookin' feller 'nough. i see him clear sheer out o' range on sight, which made me think he wus a mean-sperrited cuss anyway. "yes, i guess i wus glad i'd come; i felt that easy an' wholesome. say, the meetin's dead gut stuff. yes, sir--dead gut. i felt i'd never handle a gun again; i couldn't 'a' blasphemed 'longside a babby ef you'd give me ten dollars to try. an' i guess ther' wa'n't no dirty greaser as i couldn't ha' loved like a brother, i wus that soothed, an' peaceful, an' saft feelin'. i jest took a chaw o' plug, an' sat back an' watched them folks lookin' so noble as they come along in the'r funeral kids an' white chokers. then the deac'n got good an' goin', an' i got right on to the 'a-mens,' fetchin' 'em that easy i wished i'd never done nothin' else all my life. i set ther' feelin' real happy." arizona paused, and his wild eyes softened as his thoughts went back to those few happy moments of his chequered career. then he heaved a deep sigh of regret and went on-- "but it wa'n't to last. no, sir, religion ain't fer the likes o' me. ye can't play the devil an' mix wi' angels. they're bound to out you. et's on'y natteral. guess i'd bin chawin' some, an' ther' wa'n't no spit boxes. that's wher' the trouble come. ther' wus a raw-boned cuss wi' his missis settin' on the bench front o' me, an' i guess her silk fixin's got mussed up wi' t'bacca juice someways. i see her look down on the floor, then she kind o' gathered her skirts aroun' her an' got wipin' wi' her han'k'chief. then she looks aroun' at me, an', me feelin' friendly, i kind o' smiled at her, not knowin' she wus riled. then she got whisperin' to her wall-eyed galoot of a man, an' he turns aroun' smart, an' he sez, wi' a scowl, sez he, 'the meetin'-house ain't no place fer chawin' hunks o' plug, mister; wher' wus you dragged from?' ther' wus a nasty glint to his eye. but ef he wus goin' to fergit we wus in the meetin'-house i meant showin' him i wa'n't. so i answers him perlite. sez i, wi' a smile, 'sir,' sez i, 'i take it we ain't from the same hog trough.' i see he took it mean, but as a feller got up from behind an' shouts 'silence,' i guessed things would pass over. but that buzzard-headed mule wus cantankerous. he beckons the other feller over an' tells him i wus chawin', an' the other feller sez to me: 'you can't chaw here, mussin' up the lady's fixin's.' "wal, bein' on'y human, i got riled, but, not wishin' to raise a racket, i spat my chew out. i don't know how it come, but, i guess, bein' riled, i jest didn't take notice wher' i dumped it, till, kind o' sudden-like, i found i wus inspectin' the vitals o' that side-show-freak's gun. sez he, in a nasty tone, which kind o' interrupted the deac'n's best langwidge, an' made folks fergit to fetch the 'a-men' right, 'you dog-gone son of a hog----' but i didn't wait fer no more. i sees then what's amiss. my chaw had located itself on the lady's ankle--which i 'lows wus shapely--which she'd left showin' in gatherin' her fixin's aroun' her. i see that, an' i see his stovepipe hat under the seat. i jest grabbed that hat sudden, an' 'fore he'd had time to drop his hammer i'd mushed it down on his head so he couldn't see. then i ups, wi' the drop on him, an' i sez: 'come right along an' we'll settle like honest cit'zens.' an' wi' that i backed out o' the meetin'. wal, i guess he wus clear grit. we settled. i 'lows he wus a dandy at the bizness end o' a gun, an' i walked lame fer a month after. but ther' was a onattached widdy in that town when we'd done." "you killed him?" tresler asked. "wal, i didn't wait to ast no details. guess i got busy fergittin' religion right off. mebbe ther's a proper time fer ev'rything, an' i don't figger it's reas'nable argyfyin' even wi' a deac'n when his swaller-tail pocket's bustin' wi' shootin' materials. no, sir, guess religion ain't no use fer me." arizona heaved a deep sigh of regret. tresler gathered up his saddle and bridle. once or twice he had been ready to explode with laughter during his companion's story, but the man's evident sincerity and earnestness had held him quiet; had made him realize that the story was in the nature of a confidence, and was told in no spirit of levity. and, somehow, now, at the end of it, he felt sorry for this wandering outcast, with no future and only a disreputable past. he knew there was far more real good in him than bad, and yet there seemed no possible chance for him. he would go on as he was; he would "punch" cattle so long as he could find employment. and when chance, or some other matter, should plunge him on his beam ends, he would take to what most cowboys in those days took to when they fell upon evil days--cattle-stealing. and, probably, end his days dancing at the end of a lariat, suspended from the bough of some stout old tree. as he moved to go, arizona rose abruptly from his seat, and stayed him with a gesture. "guess i got side-tracked yarnin'. i wanted to tell you a few things that's bin doin' sence you've bin away." tresler stood. "say," the other went on at once, "ther's suthin' doin' thick 'tween jake an' blind hulks. savee? i heerd jake an' miss dianny gassin' at the barn one day. she wus ther' gittin' her bit of a shoe fixed by jacob--him allus fixin' her shoes for her when they needs it--an' jake come along and made her go right in an' look at the new driver he wus breakin' fer her. guess they didn't see me, i wus up in the loft puttin' hay down. when they come in i wus standin' takin' a chaw, an' jake's voice hit me squar' in the lug, an' i didn't try not to hear what he said. an' i soon felt good that i'd held still. sez he, 'you best come out wi' me an' learn to drive her. she's dead easy.' an' miss dianny sez, sez she, 'i'll drive her when she's thoroughly broken!' an' he sez, 'you mean you ain't goin' out wi' me?' an' she answers short-like, 'no.' then sez he, mighty riled, 'you shan't go out with that mare by yourself to meet no treslers,' sez he. 'i'll promise you that. see? your father's on to your racket, i've seen to that. he knows you an' him's bin sparkin', an' he's real mad. that's by the way,' he sez. 'what i want to tell you's this. you're goin' to marry me, sure. see? an' your father's goin' to make you.' an' miss dianny jest laffed right out at him. but her laff wa'n't easy. an' sez she, wi' mock 'nuff to make a man feel as mean as rank sow-belly, 'father will never let me marry, and you know it.' an' jake stands quiet a minnit. then i guess his voice jest rasped right up to me through that hay-hole. 'i'm goin' to make him,' sez he, vicious-like. 'a tidy ranch, this, eh? wal, i tell you his money an' his stock an' his land won't help him a cent's worth ef he don't give you to me. i ken make him lick my boots if i so choose. see?' ther' wa'n't another word spoke. an' i heerd 'em move clear. then i dropped, an' pushin' my head down through the hay-hole, i see that jake's goin' out by hisself. miss dianny had gone out clear ahead, an' wus talkin' to jacob." "what do you think it means?" asked tresler, quietly. and in a moment the other shot off into one of his volcanic surprises. "i ain't calc'latin' the'r meanin'. say, tresler." the man paused, and his great rolling eyes glanced furtively from right to left. then he came close up and spoke in a harsh whisper. "it's got to be. he ain't fit to live. this is wot i wus thinkin'. i'll git right up to his shack, an' i'll call him every son-of-a---- i ken think of. see? he'll git riled, an'--wal, i owe her a debt o' gratitood, an' i can't never pay it no other ways, so i'll jest see my slug finds his carkis right, 'fore he does me in." arizona stepped back with an air of triumph. he could see no flaw in his plan. it was splendid, subtle. it was the one and only way to settle all the problems centering round the foreman. thus he would pay off a whole shoal of debts, and rid diane of jake forever. and he felt positively injured when tresler shook his head. "you would pay her ill if you did that," he said gravely. "jake was probably only trying to frighten her. besides, he is her father's foreman. the man he trusts and relies on." "you ain't got no savee," arizona broke out in disgust. "say, he won't need no foreman when jake's out of the way. you'll marry the gal, an'----" but he got no further. tresler interrupted him coldly. "that's enough, arizona. we aren't going to discuss it further. in the meantime, believe me that i am wide awake to my position, and to miss marbolt's, and ready to do the best for her in emergency. i must get on now, for i have several things to do before i turn in." arizona had no more to say. he relapsed into moody silence, and, as they moved away together, tresler was thankful for the freakish chance that had made this man come to him with his plan before putting it into execution. it was dark now, and as they reached the bunkhouse they parted. tresler deposited his saddle at the barn, but he did not return to the bunkhouse. he meant to see diane before he turned in, by hook or by crook. he knew that the time had come when he must actively seek to help her. when jake openly threatened her, and she was found weeping, there was certainly need of that help. he was alarmed, seriously alarmed, and yet he hardly knew what it was he feared most. he quite realized the difficulties that confronted him. she had given him no right to interfere in her affairs. more, she would have every reason to resent such interference. but, in spite of this, he held to his resolve. it was his love that urged him on, his love that overbore his scruples, his gravest apprehensions. he told himself that he had the right which every man has. the right to woo and win for himself the love he covets. it was for diane to say "yea" or "nay," not her father. there was no comfort she had been accustomed to, or even luxury, that he could not give her. there was no earthly reason why he should not try to win her. he vividly called to mind what joe had suggested, and arizona's unfinished sentence rang in his ears, but both suggestions as a basis of hope he set aside with a lover's egotism. what could these men know or understand of such a matter? he had left the barn, and his way took him well out from the ranch yards in the direction of the pinewoods. he remembered his walk on his first night on the ranch, and meant to approach the back of the blind man's house by the same route. the calm of the prairie night had settled upon the ranch. the lowing of the cattle was hushed, the dogs were silent; and the voices of men and the tramp of horses' hoofs were gone. there was only the harsh croaking of the frogs in the mosquito river and the cry of the prowling coyote to disturb the peace of the summer night. and as he walked, he felt for the first time something of the grip which sooner or later the prairie fixes upon those who seriously seek life upon its bosom. its real fascination begins only when the first stages of apprenticeship to its methods and habits are passing. the vastness of its world, its silence, its profound suggestion of solitude, which ever remains even where townships and settlements exist, holds for man a fascination which appeals to the primitive senses and drags him back from the claims of civilization to the old, old life. and when that call comes, and the latent savage is roused from the depths of subjection, is it wonder that men yield to what, after all, is only the true human instinct--the right of the individual to defend itself from all attacks of foes? no; and so tresler argued as he thought of the men who were his comrades. under the influence of his new feelings it seemed to him that life was so small a thing, on which folks of civilization set much too high a value. the ready appeal to the gun, which seemed to be one of the first principles of the frontiersman's life, was already beginning to lose its repugnance for him. after all, where no arbitration could be enforced, men still had a right to defend self and property. his thoughts wandered on through a maze of argument which convinced him notwithstanding he told himself that it was all wrong. he told himself weakly that his thoughts were the result of the demoralizing influence of lawless associates, but, in spite of this, he felt that there was, in reality, something in them of a deeper, more abiding nature. he had made the woodland fringe, and was working his way back toward the house. the darkness was profound here. the dense, sad-foliaged pines dropped their ponderous boughs low about him as he passed, shielding him from all possible view from the ranch. and, even over the underlay of brittle cones, his moccasined feet bore him along in a silent, ghostly manner. it was the first time in his life he had been forced to steal upon anybody's house like a thief in the night; but he felt that his object was more than sufficient justification. now he looked keenly for any sign of lights among the ranch buildings. the bunkhouse was in darkness, but jake's house was still lit up. however, this did not bother him much. he knew that the foreman was in the habit of keeping his lamp burning, even after retiring. perhaps he read at night. the idea amused him, and he wondered what style of literature might appeal to a man of jake's condition of mind. but even as he watched, the light went out, and he felt more satisfied. he reached a point on the edge of the forest opposite the barn. then something brought him up with a start. some unusual sound had caught his ear. it was the murmur of voices in the distance. immediately his mind went back to his first night on the ranch, and he remembered red mask and his attendant horseman. now he listened, peering hard into the darkness in the direction of the house, at the point whence the sound was proceeding. whoever were talking they seemed to be standing still. the sound grew no louder, nor did it die away. his curiosity drew him on; and with cautious steps, he crept forward. he tried to estimate how far the speakers were from the house. it seemed to him that they were somewhere in the neighborhood of the rancher's private stable. but he could not be altogether sure. now, as he drew nearer, the voices became louder. he could distinctly hear the rise and fall of their tones, but still they were unrecognizable. again he paused, this time for caution's sake only. he estimated that he was within twenty-five yards of the stable. it would not be safe to go further. the steady murmur that reached him was tantalizing. under ordinary circumstances he would have risked discovery and gone on, but he could not jeopardize his present object. he stretched himself under the shelter of a low bush, and, strangely enough, recognized it as the one he had lain under on that memorable first night. this realization brought him a grim foreboding; he knew what he expected, he knew what was coming. and his foreboding was fulfilled within a few seconds of taking up his position. suddenly he heard a door close, and the voices ceased speaking. he waited almost breathlessly for the next move. it came. the crackling of pine cones under shod hoofs sounded sharply to his straining ears. it was a repetition of what had happened before. two horsemen were approaching from the direction of the house. it was inevitable that his hand should go to his gun, and, as he realized his own action, he understood how surely the prairie instincts had claimed him. but he withdrew it quickly and waited, for he had no intention of taking action. it might be red mask. it probably was. but he had no intention of upsetting his present plans by any blind, precipitate attack upon the desperado. besides, if red mask and jake were one, then the shooting of him, in cold blood, in the vicinity of the ranch, would, in the eyes of the police, be murder. no story of his would convince a jury that the foreman of mosquito bend was a cattle-rustler. a moment later the horses dimly outlined themselves. there were two of them, as before. but he could not see well, the woods seemed darker than before; and, besides, they did not pass so near to him. they went on like ghostly, silent shadows, only the scrunch of the cones underfoot told of their solidity. he waited until the sound died out, then he rose quietly and pursued his way. but what he had just witnessed plunged his thoughts into a moody channel. the night-riders were abroad again, riding unchecked upon their desperate way, over the trail of murder and robbery they cut for themselves wherever they went. he wondered with dread who was to be victim to-night. he remembered manson orr and shuddered. he had a bitter feeling that he had acted wrongly in letting them pass unchallenged in spite of what reason and a cool judgment told him. his duty had been to investigate, but he also thought of a sad-faced girl, friendless and alone, weeping her heart out in the midst of her own home. and somehow his duty faded out before the second picture. and, as though to further encourage him, the memory of joe nelson's words came to him suddenly, and continued to haunt him persistently. "you'll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an' set your own brand on her quick, eh?" chapter xii the rising of a summer storm when the horsemen had passed out of hearing, tresler still exerted the utmost caution. he had yet to pass the blind man's room, and he knew that that individual's hearing was something bordering on the marvelous, and, he argued, he must still be up, or, at least, awake. so he moved on with the lightest tread, with every sense alert; watchful alike for every unusual sound or movement. at the stable he paused and gently tried the door. it was fast. he put his ear to it and listened, and was forced to be content with the rattle of the collar chains, and the sound of the heavy-breathing animals within. he would have liked to investigate further, for the noise of the shutting door, he knew, had come from the stable, but it behooved him to refrain. it would be worse than useless to rouse the man, anton, who slept over the stable. and there was no other means of ascertaining what had been going on. he crept on; and now the shadowy outline of the house itself shut him off from the ranch. he cleared the danger zone of the rancher's bedroom and reached the kitchen, where he met with a first disappointment. he was relieved and delighted to find that a light was still burning there; but his joy was dashed almost immediately by finding that the linen blind was down, and not a crack showed by which he could get a view of the room. he dared not go to the door until he had ascertained who was within, so he stood for a moment uncertain what to do. then he suddenly remembered that the kitchen had another window on the far side of the lean-to. it would mean passing out into the open again; still, the darkness was such that the risk was reduced to a minimum. with no further hesitation he hurried round. his only care now was to tread quietly, and even this seemed unnecessary, for the blind man's room was at the other side of the house, and, if his suspicions were correct, jake was busy at his nocturnal trade. fortune favored him. the blind was down, but the lower sash of the window was raised, and he saw that, by pulling the linen on one side, he could obtain a full view of the room. he was about to carry out his purpose. his hand was raised and reaching toward the window, when the sound of weeping came to him and checked his action. he stood listening for a second. then, with a stifled ejaculation, he thrust his hand out further, and caught the edge of the blind. he paused for nothing now. he had no scruples. he knew without inquiry who it was that was weeping within; who else but diane could it be? and at the sound of each choking sob, his heart was wrung, and he longed to clasp her in his arms and comfort her. this love of his which had taken its place so suddenly in his life thrilled through his body like a fiery torrent roused to fever heat by the sound of the girl's sobs. drawing the edge of the blind sharply on one side, he peered into the room. his worst fears were realized. diane was at the far side of the kitchen sitting over the square cook-stove, rocking herself to and fro in an access of misery, and, in what seemed to him, an attitude of physical suffering. her pretty head was bowed low upon her hands, and her whole frame was shaken by the sobs she was struggling hard to, but could not, suppress. he took all this in at a glance, then his eyes rested upon her arms. the sleeves of her dress had been unfastened, and were thrown back from her wrists, leaving them bare to the elbow. and he saw, to his horror and indignation, that the soft, rounded flesh of her forearm was swollen and bruised. the sight made him clench his teeth, and his blue eyes suddenly hardened. he no longer permitted caution to govern his actions. "hist, diane!" he whispered hoarsely. and he shook the stiff blind to further draw her attention. "it is i, tresler," he went on urgently. and the girl sprang from her seat instantly and faced the window. she dashed her hand across her eyes and hastily sought to readjust her sleeves. but the pitiful attempt to thus hide her trouble only made the signs more marked. the tears still flowed, in spite of her bravest manner, and no effort of hers was able to keep the sweet lips from quivering. she took one step in the direction of the window, but drew up with such a violent start and expression of alarm in her tearful eyes, that tresler peered all round the room for the cause. he saw nothing more startling than a slumbering cat and the fragments of a broken lamp upon the floor, and his eyes went back to her again. then, as he marked her attitude of attention, he understood. she was listening for the familiar but ominous "tap, tap" of her father's stick. he too listened. then, as no sound came to his straining ears, he spoke again. "i must speak with you, miss diane," he whispered. "open the back door." it was only after making his demand that he realized how impossible it must have sounded to the distraught girl. it was the first time, since he had set out to see her, that it occurred to him how one-sided was the proposition. she had no knowledge of his resolve to thrust his aid upon her. he told himself that she could have no possible inkling of his feelings toward her; and he waited with no little anxiety for her response. nor was that response long in coming. she made another effort to dash the tears from her eyes. then, half defiantly and half eagerly, she stepped up to the window. "go round to the door, quick!" she whispered, and moved off again as though she stood in imminent peril as a consequence of her words. and tresler was round at the door and standing in the shadow of the water-barrel before the bolt was slipped back. now, as the girl raised the latch and silently opened the door, he slid within. he offered no explanation, but simply pointed to the window. "we must close that," he said in a low tone. and diane obeyed without demur. there was a quiet unobtrusive force about this man whenever his actions were directed into a definite channel. and diane found herself complying without the least resentment, or even doubt as to the necessity for his orders. now she came back to him, and raised a pair of trusting eyes to his face, and he, looking down into them, thought he had never gazed upon anything so sweetly pathetic; nor had he ever encountered anything quite so rousing as the implicit trust of her manner toward him. whatever he had felt for her before, it was as nothing to the delicious sense of protection, the indefinable wave of responsibility, almost parental, that now swept over him. he felt that, come what might, she was his to cherish, to guard, to pilot through whatever shoals her life might hold for her. it was the effect of her simple womanly trust appealing to his manhood, unconsciously for her part, but nevertheless surely. nor was that feeling only due to his love for her; it was largely the chivalrous instinct of a brave and strong man for a weak woman that filled his heart at that moment. "there is a lot for us to talk about," he said. "a lot that others mustn't hear," he added thoughtfully. "what others?" diane asked anxiously. tresler deemed it best to avoid half measures, and answered with prompt decision-- "your father, for one." "then," said diane, steadying at once, "we had better close the door into the passage." she suited the action to the word, and returned dry-eyed and calm. "my father?" her question was sharp; it was a demand. instead of answering her, tresler pointed to the broken lamp on the floor. "you have had an accident," he said, and his blue eyes compelled hers, and held them. "yes," she said, after the least possible hesitation. then, not without a slight touch of resentment: "but you have not answered my question." "i'll answer that later on. let me go on in my own way." the girl was impressed with the gravity of his manner. she felt uneasy too. she felt how impossible it would be to hide anything from this man, who, quiet yet kindly, could exercise so masterful an influence over her. and there was a good deal just now she would have liked to keep from him. while they were talking she drew the sleeves of her dress down over her bruised wrists. tresler saw the action and called her attention to the blackened flesh she was endeavoring to hide. "another accident?" he asked. and diane kept silence. "two accidents, and--tears," he went on, in so gentle a tone that fresh tears slowly welled up into her eyes. "that is quite unlike you, miss--diane. one moment. let me look." he reached out to take her hands, but she drew away from him. he shrugged his shoulders. "i wonder if it were an accident?" he said, his keen eyes searching her face. "it would be strange to bruise both wrists by--accident." the girl held silent for a while. it was evident that a struggle was going on in her mind. tresler watched. he saw the indecision. he knew how sorely he was pressing his advantage. yet he must do it, if he would carry out his purpose. he felt that he was acting the brute, but it was the only way. every barrier must be swept aside. at last she threw her head back with an impatient movement, and a slight flush of anger tinged her cheeks. "and what if it were no accident?" "the bruises or the lamp?" "both." "then"--and tresler's tone was keenly incisive--"it is the work of some cruelly disposed person. you would not wilfully bruise yourself, diane," he moved nearer to her, and his voice softened wonderfully; "is there any real reason why you cannot trust me with the truth? may i not share something of your troubles? see, i will save you the pain of the telling. if i am right, do not answer me, and i shall understand. your father has been here, and it was his doing--these things." the anger had passed out of the girl's face, and her eyes, troubled enough but yielding, looked up into his. "but how do you----?" "some one, we both know whom, has maliciously been talking to your father," tresler went on, without heeding the interruption; "has been lying to him to prejudice him against me--us. and your father has accepted his tales without testing their veracity. having done so, he has spoken to you. what has passed between you i do not know, nor shall i attempt to fathom. the result is more than sufficient for me. you are unhappy; you have been unusually unhappy for days. you have wept much, and now you bear signs of violence on your arms." diane averted her gaze, her head was bent, and her eyes were fixed upon the broken lamp. "shall i go on?" tresler continued. "shall i tell you the whole story? yes, i had better." diane nodded without looking at him. "you know most of it, but you may not have looked at it quite in the same way that i do." his tone was very low, there was a great depth of earnestness in it. "we are all in the midst of a foul conspiracy, and that conspiracy it is for us to break up. your father is threatened. you know it. and you are threatened with marriage to a rascal that should be wiped off the face of the earth. and this is the work of one man whom we believe to be the scourge of the countryside; whom we call red mask or jake harnach, according to when and where we meet him. now, is this all to go on without protest? will you submit? is your father to be victimized?" the girl shook her head. "no," she said. then with a sudden burst of passion she went on, only keeping her voice low by the greatest effort. "but what can we do? i have warned father. he has been told all that you have told me. he laughed. and i grew angry. then he grew angry, too. and--and these things are the result. oh, he hates you because he believes jake's stories. and he scorns all my accusations against jake, and treats me worse than some silly, tattling servant girl. how can we do anything?" it was that last question that set fire to the powder-train. she had coupled herself with him, and tresler, seeking only the faintest loophole, jumped at the opportunity it afforded him. his serious face softened. a slow, gentle smile crept into his eyes, and diane was held by their caressing gaze. "we can do something. we are going to do something," he said. "not singly, but together; you and i." there was that in his manner that made the girl droop her eyelids. there was a warmth, a light in his eyes he had never permitted her to see before, and her woman's instinct set her heart beating fast, so fast that she trembled and fidgeted nervously. "diane," he went on, reaching out and quietly taking possession of one of her hands, and raising it till the bared wrist displayed the cruel bruise encircling it, "no man has a right to lay a hand upon a woman to give her pain. a woman has a right to look to her men-folk to protect her, and when they fail her, she is indeed in sore straits. this," touching the bruises with his finger, "is the work of your father, the man of all who should protect you. you are sadly alone, so much alone that i cannot see what will be the end of it--if it is allowed to go on. diane, i love you, and i want you, henceforward, to let me be your protector. you will need some whole-hearted support in the future. i can see it. and you can see it too. say, tell me, little girl, fate has pitched us together in a stormy sea, surely it is for me to aid you with all the loving care and help i can bestow. believe me, i am no idle boaster. i do not even say that my protection will be worth as much as that of our faithful old joe, but, such as it is, it is yours, whether you take me with it or no, for as long as i live." diane had had time to recover from her first embarrassment. she knew that she loved this man; knew that she had done so almost from the very first. he was so different from the men she had known about the ranch. she understood, and acknowledged without shame, the feeling that had prompted her first warning to him. she knew that ever since his coming to the ranch he had hardly ever been out of her thoughts. she had never attempted to deceive herself about him. all she had feared was that she might, by some chance act, betray her feelings to him, and so earn his everlasting contempt. she was very simple and single-minded. she had known practically no association with her sex. her father, who had kept her a willing slave by his side all her life, had seen to that. and so she had been thrown upon her own resources, with the excellent result that she had grown up with a mind untainted by any worldly thought. and now, when this man came to her with his version of the old, old story, she knew no coquetry, knew how to exercise no coyness or other blandishment. she made no pretense of any sort. she loved him, so what else was there to do but to tell him so? "joe has been my faithful protector for years, mr. tresler," she replied, her sweet round face blushing and smiling as she raised it to him, "and i know his value and goodness. but--but i'd sooner have you--ever so much." and of her own accord she raised her other hand to his and placed it trustfully within his only too willing clasp. but this was not sufficient for tresler. he reached out and took her in his powerful arms and drew her to his breast. and when he released her there were tears again in her eyes, but they were tears of happiness. "and now, sweetheart, we must be practical again," he said. "if i am to be your protector, i must not allow my inclination to interfere with duty. some day, when you are my wife, we shall be able to look back on this time and be proud of our restraint. just now it is hard. it is a moment for kisses and happy dreams, and these things are denied us----" he broke off and started as the flutter of the linen blind behind him drew his attention. "i thought you shut the window," he said sharply. "i thought i did; perhaps i didn't quite close it." diane was about to move over to investigate, but tresler restrained her. "wait." he went instead. the window was open about six inches. he closed and bolted it, and came back with a smile on his face that in no way deceived the girl. "yes, you left it open," he said. and diane's reply was an unconvinced "ah!" "now let us be quick," he went on. "jake may threaten and bully, but he can do nothing to really hurt you. you are safe from him. for, before anything can possibly happen--i mean to you--i shall be on hand to help you. joe is our watch-dog, asking his pardon. you can take heart in the thought that you are no longer alone. but developments are imminent, and i want you to watch your father closely, and endeavor to ascertain jake's attitude toward him. this is my fear--that jake may put some nefarious scheme, as regards him, into operation; such schemes as we cannot anticipate. he may even try to silence me, or make me ineffective in some way before such time comes along. he may adopt some way of getting rid of me----" "what way?" there was a world of fear and anxiety in diane's question, and she drew up close to him as though she would protect him with her own frail body. tresler shrugged. "i don't know. but it doesn't matter; i have my plans arranged. the thing that is of more importance is the fact that the night-riders are abroad again. i saw them on my way here. at the same spot where i saw them before. this time i shall not conceal my knowledge of the fact." "you mean you will tell jake--to his face?" diane gave a little gasp, and her beautiful eyes fixed themselves apprehensively upon his. they had in their depths a soft look of admiration, in spite of her anxiety and fear. but tresler saw nothing of that. he took her question seriously. "certainly; it is my only means of getting into line of battle. by this means i shall make myself the centre of open attack--if all our surmises be true. it is getting late and i must go. i want to witness the return of the ruffians." a silence fell. the man had said it was time for him to go, but he found it hard to tear himself away. he wanted to say so much to her; he wanted to ask her so much. diane, half shyly, came a step nearer to him, and, though her face was smiling bravely, a pucker wrinkled her brows. "mr. tresler----" "i was christened 'john.'" "john, then." the girl blushed faintly as she pronounced the name, which, spoken by her, seemed to seal the bond between them. "is it absolutely necessary to tell jake? is it absolutely necessary to put yourself in such peril? couldn't you----" but she got no further. her lover's arms were about her in an instant. he caught her to him in a great embrace and kissed her pleading, upturned face. "yes, yes, yes, child. it is absolutely necessary. no, you can't go yet," as she struggled feebly to free herself. "i ought to leave you now, yet i can hardly tear myself away. i have heaps to ask you: about yourself, your life, your father. i want to learn all there is in your little head, in your heart, little girl. i want to make our bond of love one of perfect sympathy and understanding of each other; of trust and confidence. it is necessary. we come together here with storm-clouds gathering on our horizon; with the storm actually breaking. we come together under strange and unusual circumstances, and must fight for this love of ours. ours will be no flower-strewn path. this much i have fully realized; but it only makes me the more determined to see it through quickly. we have to fight--good. we will be early in the field. now good-night, sweetheart. god bless you. trust to me. whatever i do will be done after careful deliberation; with a view to our common goal. if i am wrong, so much the worse. i will do all that is given me to do. and, last, remember this. should anything happen to me, you have two friends who will never let jake marry you. they are joe and arizona. now, good-bye again." "but nothing will happen to you--jack?" every vestige of independence, every atom of the old self-reliance had gone from the girl's manner. she clung to him, timid, loving, a gentle, weak woman. her whole soul was in her appeal and the look she bestowed. "i hope not. courage, little woman. i remember the white dress, the sad, dark little face beneath the straw sun-hat of the girl who knew no fear when two men held thoughts of slaying each other, and were almost in the act of putting them into execution. you must remember her too." "you are right, jack. i will be brave and help you, if i can. good-bye." they kissed once more, and tresler hurried from the room with the precipitancy of a man who can only hold to his purpose by an ignominious flight from temptation. outside the door he paused, turned, and closed it carefully after him. and then he listened intently. he had in no way been deceived by the window business. he knew, as diane knew, that she had closed it. some hand from outside had opened it; and he wondered whose had been the hand, and what the purpose. when he passed out of the kitchen, the whole aspect of the night had changed. there was not a star visible, and the only light to guide him was that which shone through the window. he waited while diane bolted the door, then, as nothing appeared to cause him alarm, he moved off. he had to pass round the shed where joe slept. this was an addition to the kitchen, and quite shut off from the house. he groped his way along the wall of it till he came to the door, which stood open. he was half inclined to go in and rouse the little choreman. he felt that he would like to tell his old friend of his luck, his happiness. then it flashed through his mind that, seeing the door was open, joe might still be abroad. so he contented himself with listening for the sound of his breathing. all was still within; his conjecture was right. joe had not yet turned in. he was puzzled. where was joe, and what was he doing at this hour of the night? he moved on slowly now. his thoughts were fully occupied. he was not the man to let a single detail pass without careful analysis. and the matter was curious. especially in conjunction with the fact of the open window. he attributed no treachery to joe, but the thing wanted explanation. he rounded the building, and as he did so understood the change in the weather. a sharp gust of wind took him, and he felt several drops of rain splash upon his face. a moment later a flash of lightning preceded a distant rumble of thunder. he quickened his pace and drew out into the open, leaving the shadow of the woods behind him as he turned toward the ranch buildings. the light in the kitchen had been put out. evidently diane had already gone to bed. he stepped out briskly, and a moment later another flash of lightning revealed the window close beside him. he mechanically stretched out a hand and felt along the sill. it was tightly closed all right. a crash of thunder warned him of the quick-rising summer storm that was upon him, and the rain was coming down with that ominous solidity which portends a real, if brief, deluge. he started at a run. a drenching at that hour was unpleasant to contemplate. he had intended witnessing the return of the night-riders, but, under the circumstances, that was now out of the question. he had only gone a few paces when he brought up to a stand. even amidst the noisy splashing of the rain, he thought he heard the sound of running feet somewhere near by; so he stood listening with every nerve straining. then the promised deluge came and drowned every other sound. it was no use waiting longer, so he hurried on toward his quarters. a dozen strides further on and the sky was split from end to end with a fork of lightning, and he was brought to a dead halt by the scene it revealed. it was gone in an instant, and the thunder crashed right above him. he had distinctly seen the figures of two men running. one was running toward him, and, curiously enough, the other was running from his left rear. and yet he had seen them both. utterly heedless of the rain now, he waited for another flash. there was something strange doing, and he wished to fathom the mystery. the duration of the storm was only a matter of a few minutes. it seemed to have spent itself in one flash of lightning and one peal of thunder. the second flash was long in coming. but at last a hazy sheet of white light shone for a second over the western sky, revealing the ghostly shadow of a man coming at him, bearing in his upraised hand some heavy weapon of offense. he leapt to avoid the blow. but he was too late. the weapon descended, and, though he flung his arms to protect himself, the darkness foiled him, and a crushing blow on the head felled him to the ground. and as he fell some great noise roared in his ears, or so it seemed, and echoed and reëchoed through his head. then he knew no more. all sound was lost in the deluge of rain. the sky was unrelieved by any further flashes of light for many minutes. then, at last, one came. a weak, distant lighting up of the clouds, overhead, but it was sufficient to show the outstretched form of the stricken man lying with his white face staring up at the sky. also it revealed a shadowy figure bending over him. there was no face visible, no distinct outline of form. and this figure was moving, and appeared to be testing the lifeless condition of the fallen man. half an hour later the rain ceased, but the water was still racing down the hill in little trickling rivulets toward the ranch buildings. and as rapidly as the storm had come up so the sky cleared. again the stars shone out and a faint radiance dimly outlined the scene of the attack. within fifty yards of the rancher's house tresler was still stretched out upon the ground, but now a different figure was bending over him. it was a well-defined figure this time, a familiar figure. a little man with a gray head and a twisted face. it was joe nelson trying, by every rough art his prairie life had taught him, to restore animation and consciousness in his friend. for a long time his efforts were unavailing; the task seemed hopeless. then, when the little man had begun to fear the very worst, his patient suddenly moved and threw out his legs convulsively. once the springs of life had been set in motion, the hardy constitution asserted itself, and, without further warning, tresler sat bolt upright and stared about him wonderingly. for a few seconds he sat thus, then, with a movement of intense agony, one hand went up to his head. "my god! what's the matter with me? my head!" he slowly rocked himself for a brief spell; then, with another start, he recognized his friend, and, with an effort, sprang to his feet. "joe!" he cried. then he reeled and would have fallen but for the supporting arm about his waist. "you wer' nigh 'done up.' say, i wus kind o' rattled. i'd shaddered that feller fer an hour or more, an' then lost him. gee!" and there was an infinite expression of disgust in the exclamation. "him! who?" "ther's on'y one feller around here hatin' you fit to murder, i guess." "you mean--jake?" asked tresler, in a queer tone. "sure," was the emphatic reply. "but, joe, i saw the night-riders go out to-night. not more than half an hour before the storm came on." the little man made no answer, but quietly urged his patient forward in the direction of the bunkhouse. chapter xiii the bearding of jake that night was one that lived long in tresler's memory. weary in mind and body, he was yet unable to sleep when at last he sought his bunk. his head was racked with excruciating pain, which hammered through his brain with every pulsation of his throbbing temples. but it was not that alone which kept him awake. thought ran riot with him, and his mind flew from one scene to another without concentration, without continuity, until he felt that if sleep did not come he must go mad. he had talked late into the night with his shrewd counselor, joe; and the net result of their talk was that all their theories, suspicions, deductions, were wrong. jake and red mask were not one and the same. in all probability jake had nothing to do with the ruffianly raider. they were driven to this ultimate conclusion by the simple fact that while tresler had been witnessing the movements of the masked night-rider, joe had been zealously dogging the footsteps of the foreman in the general interests of his mistress. and that individual's footsteps had never once taken him to the rancher's private stable. jake had evidently been out on the spy himself. of this joe was certain, for the man had scoured the woods in the direction of the river; he had watched the trail from the rancher's stable for nearly half an hour; he had crept up to the verandah of the house under cover of the darkness, seeking joe knew not what, but always on the alert, always with the unmistakable patience of a man by no means new to such a task. once joe had missed him in the woods. somehow, like a gigantic shadow, jake had contrived to give him the slip. and this, on comparing notes, the two friends found coincided with the time of the episode of the unclosed window. doubtless he had been the author of that matter. they made up their minds that he had witnessed the scene in the kitchen, which, of course, accounted for his later dastardly attack. who had jake been out looking for? what was the object of his espionage? had he been looking for him, tresler, or some one else? and herein lay the mystery. herein, perhaps, lay the key to the greater problem they sought to solve. hour after hour tresler lay awake, lost in a confusion of thought which refused his best efforts to straighten out. the acuteness of the pain in his head set his mind almost wandering. and he found himself aimlessly reviewing the events since his coming to mosquito bend. he tossed wearily, drearily, on his unyielding palliasse, driven to a realization of his own utter impotence. what had he done in the cause he had espoused? nothing--simply nothing. worse; he had thrust himself like some clumsy, bull-headed elephant, into the girl's life, into the midst of her troubles, without even that animal's capacity for attaining his object by sheer might. and the result was only to aggravate her lot; to cause jake to hasten his plans, and add threats to his other persecutions. and as for the raiders, they were still at large and no nearer capture than when he had first arrived. yes, he told himself, he had nothing but failure to his account. and that failure, instead of being harmlessly negative, was an aggravation of the situation. but at last, miserable, overwrought, and suffering as he was, sleep came to him; a deep sleep that carried him far into the morning. he had been left undisturbed by his comrades when they turned out at daybreak. joe had seen to this. he had put them off with an invention of his fertile imagination which satisfied them. then, having hurried through his own immediate morning duties, he waited, with that philosophic patience which he applied now in his declining years to all the greater issues of his life, for his friend's awakening. and when tresler awoke he was wonderfully refreshed. his recuperative faculties were remarkable. the aching of his head had passed away, and with it the deplorable hopelessness of overnight. he sat up on his bunk, and the first object that his gaze fell upon was the patient figure of old joe. "well--scott! it's late. what's the time? where are the boys? what are you doing here?" he fired his questions rapidly. but joe was not to be hurried; neither was he going to waste precious time on unnecessary talk. so he shrugged his shoulders and indicated the departure of the men to work with a backward jerk of his head, and, while tresler performed his brief toilet, got to business in his own way. "feelin' good?" he asked. "fair." "goin' right up to see jake?" "yes. where is he?" "in his shack. say," the old man shifted uneasily, "i've tho't a crateful sence we wus yarnin' last night, i guess. don't git shuvin' jake too close agin the wall. give him your yarn easy. kind o' talk han'some by him. he's goin' to figger this thing out fer us. he'll git givin' us a lead, mebbe, when he ain't calc'latin' to. savee?" tresler didn't answer at once; in fact, he didn't quite see the old man's point. he completed his toilet by buckling on his belt and revolver. then he prepared to depart. "we'll see. i intend to be governed by circumstances," he said quietly. "jest so. an' circumstances has the way o' governin' most things, anyways. guess i'm jest astin' you to rub the corners off'n them circumstances so they'll run smooth." tresler smiled at the manner of the old man's advice, which was plain enough this time. "i see. well, so long." he hurried out and joe watched him go. then the little man rose from his seat and went out to teddy jinks's kitchen on the pretense of yarning. in reality he knew that the foreman's hut was in full view from the kitchen window. tresler walked briskly across to the hut. he never in his life felt more ready to meet jake than he did at this moment. he depended on the outcome of this interview for the whole of his future course. he did not attempt to calculate the possible result. he felt that to do so would be to cramp his procedure. he meant to work on his knowledge of his rival's character. herein lay his hopes of success. it was joe who had given him his cue. "it's the most dangerousest thing to hit a 'rattler' till you've got him good an' riled," the little man had once said. "then he lifts an' it's dead easy, i guess. hit him lyin', an' ef you don't kill him, ther's goin' to be trouble. them critters has a way of thinkin' hard an' quick or'nary." and tresler meant to deal with jake in a similar manner. the rest must be left to the circumstances they had discussed. it so happened that jake, too, was late abed that morning. tresler found him just finishing the breakfast jinks had brought him. jake's surly "come in," in response to his knock, brought him face to face with the last man he desired to see in his hut at that moment. and tresler almost laughed aloud as the great man sprang from the table, nearly overturning it in his angry haste. "it's all right, jake," he said with a smile, "i come in peace." and the other stood for a moment eyeing him fiercely, yet not knowing quite how to take him. without waiting for an invitation his visitor seated himself on the end of the bunk and stared back squarely into the angry face. it did him good, as he remembered the events of the night before, to thus beard this man who hated him to the point of murder. he waited for jake to reply; and while his gaze wandered over the cruel, intolerant, overbearing face he found himself speculating as to the caste of that which lay hidden beneath the black, coarse mat of beard. at last the reply came, and he had expected no better. "what in h---- are you doin' here?" jake asked brutally. then, as an afterthought, "why ain't you out on the range?" tresler permitted himself to lounge over on his elbow and cross his legs with an aggravating air of ease. "for much the same reason that you are only just finishing your grub. i overslept myself." and he watched jake choke back the furious retort that suddenly leapt to his lips. it was evident, even to the intolerant disposition of the foreman, that it was no time for abuse and anger. this man had come to him for some particular purpose, and it behooved him to keep guard on himself. the doings of the night before were in his mind, and he realized that it would be well to meet him coolly. therefore, instead of the outburst so natural to him, he contented himself with a cool survey of his antagonist, while he put a non-committing inquiry. "wal?" and tresler knew that his presence was accepted, and that he had scored the first point. at once he assumed a businesslike air. he sat up and generally displayed a briskness quite out of keeping with his former attitude. "i suppose i ought to apologize for my intrusion," he began, "but when you have heard my story, you will understand its necessity. i had a busy night last night." if he had expected any effect from this announcement he was disappointed. jake's face never for a moment relaxed its grim look of attention. "yes," he went on, as the foreman remained silent. "these raiders--this red mask, or whatever he is called--i saw him last night. i saw him here on this ranch." jake stirred. he eyed his companion as though he would read him through and through. "you saw--red mask--last night?" he said slowly. "yes. i saw him and one of his satellites." "go on." it was all the man vouchsafed, but it spoke volumes. and tresler at once proceeded with his story of the midnight visit of the masked rider and his companion. he told his story in as few words as possible, being careful to omit nothing, and laying a slight stress on his own rambling in the neighborhood of the house. he was very careful to confine himself to the matter of the apparition, avoiding all allusion to the further happenings of the night. when he had finished, which he did without any interruption from the other, jake spoke with quiet appreciation. "an' you've brought the yarn to me. for any partic'lar reason?" tresler raised his eyebrows. "certainly," he replied. "you are foreman of the ranch. mr. marbolt's interests are yours." "that being so, i'd like to know what you were doing around the house at that hour of the night?" was jake's prompt retort. tresler had looked for this. he knew perfectly well that jake did not expect his question to be answered. didn't particularly want it answered. it was simply to serve a purpose. he was trying to draw him. "that is my affair, jake. for the moment, at least, let us set personalities on one side. no doubt we have accounts to settle. i may as well say at once we are in each other's debt. but this matter i am speaking of is of personal interest to everybody around the district." all the time he was speaking, tresler was watching for the smallest change in jake's manner. and as he went on his appreciation of the fellow's capability rose. he realized that jake was, after all, something more than a mass of beef and muscle. as no comment was forthcoming he went on rapidly. "now, last night's apparition was not altogether new to me. i saw the same thing the first night i arrived on the ranch, but, being 'green' at the time, it lost its significance. now, it is different. it needs explaining. so i have come to you. but i have not come to you without having considered the matter as fully as it is possible for one in my position to do. mark me carefully. i have weighed all the details of red mask's raids; considered them from all points. time and place, distance, the apparitions around the ranch, for those ghostly visitors have, at times, been seen in the neighborhood by others. and all these things so tally that they have produced a conviction in my mind that there is a prime mover in the business to be found on this ranch." "an' the prime mover?" jake's interest had in no way relaxed. he seemed to be eager to hear everything tresler could tell him. the latter shrugged. "who is there on this ranch that cannot at all times be accounted for? only one man. anton--black anton." a pause ensued. tresler had played a high card. if jake refused to be drawn it would be awkward. the pause seemed endless and he was forced to provoke an answer. "well?" he questioned sharply. "well," echoed the foreman; and the other noted the quiet derision in his tone, "seems to me you've done a deal of figgering." tresler nodded. jake turned away with something very like a smile. evidently he had decided upon the course to be pursued. tresler, watching him, could not quite make up his mind whether he was playing the winning hand, or whether his opponent was finessing for the odd trick. jake suddenly became expansive. "i'd like to know how we're standin' before we go further," he said; "though, mind you, i ain't asking. i tell you candidly i ain't got no use for you, and i guess it would take a microscope to see your affection for me. this bein' so, i ask myself, what has this feller come around with his yarn to me for? i allow there's two possible reasons which strike me as bein' of any consequence. one is that, maybe, some'eres in the back of your head, you've a notion that i know a heap about this racket, and sort o' wink at it, seein' marbolt's blind, an' draw a bit out of the game. and the other is, you're honest, an' tryin' to play the game right. now, i'll ask you not to get plumb scared when i tell you i think you're dead honest about this thing. if i didn't--wal, maybe you'd be lit out of this shack by now." jake reached over to the table and picked up a plug of tobacco and tore off a chew with his great strong teeth. and tresler could not help marveling at the pincher-like power with which he bit through the plug. "now, tresler, there's that between us that can never let us be friends. i'm goin' to get level with you some day. but just now, as you said, we can let things bide. i say you're honest in this thing, and if you choose to be honest with me i'll be honest with you." one word flashed through tresler's brain: "finesse." "i'm glad you think that way, jake," he said seriously. "my object is to get to the bottom of this matter." it was a neat play in the game, the way in which these two smoothed each other down. they accepted each other's assurances with the suavity of practiced lawyers, each without an atom of credence or good faith. "just so," jake responded, with a ludicrous attempt at benignity. "an' it's due to the fact that you've been smart enough to light on the right trail, that i'm ready to tell you something i've been holding up from everybody, even marbolt himself. mind, i haven't got the dead-gut cinch on these folk yet, though i'm right on to 'em, sure. anton, that's the feller. i've tracked him from the other side of the line. his real name's 'tough' mcculloch, an' i guess i know as much as there is to be known of him an' his history, which is pretty rotten. he's wanted in alberta for murder. not one, but half a dozen. say, shall i tell you what he's doin'? he rides out of here at night, an' joins a gang of scallywag breeds, like himself, an' they are the crowd that have been raiding all around us. and anton--well, i'd like to gamble my last dollar he's the fellow wearing the red mask. say, i knew he was out last night. he was out with two of the horses. i was around. an' at daylight i went up to the stable while he was sleepin', an' the dog-gone fool hadn't cleaned the saddle marks from their backs. now, if you're feeling like bearin' a hand in lagging this black son-of-a---- i'm with you fair an' square. we won't shake hands, for good reasons, but your word'll go with me." "nothing would suit me better." tresler was struggling to fathom the man's object. "good. now we'll quietly go up to the stable. maybe you can tell if a horse has been recently saddled, even after grooming?" "yes." "then i'll show you. an' mind, marbolt hasn't ordered one of his private horses out. nor ain't miss diane. it's anton." he rose and prepared to depart, but tresler stayed him. "one moment, jake," he said. "i don't wish to give offense, but tell me why, if you have discovered so much about anton, have you let these things go on so long? think of the murder of manson orr, of arizona's wound, of the dozen and one outrages of which even i am aware." jake stood silently contemplating him for a while. nor was there any sign of his swift anger. he smiled faintly, and again tresler noted the nasty tone of derision in his voice when he answered. "i thought maybe you'd learnt a deal out here where you find everybody on their own. i thought you'd p'r'aps learned that it ain't wise to raise trouble till you've got the business end of your gun pointin' right. can't you see there's not a cent's worth of evidence against the man yet? have you ever heard where he runs his cattle? has anybody? has any one ever seen under that mask? has any one been found who could identify even his figure? no. red mask is a will-o'-the-wisp. he's a ghost; and it's our business to find the body o' that ghost. i'm not the fool to go around to anton and say, 'you are red mask.' he'd laugh in my face. an' later on i guess i'd be targettin' a shot for him. what if i rounded to the gove'nor an' got him fired? it would be the worst possible. keepin' him here, and lying low, we have a chance of puttin' him out of business. no, sir, we're dealin' with the smartest crook west of chicago. but i'll have him; we'll get him. i never was bested yet. an' i'll have him, same as i get any other guy that crosses me. let's get on." they moved out of the hut. "it's been taking you some time, already," tresler suggested with a smile, as they moved across the open. jake took no umbrage. his dark face responded with a sardonic grin, and his eyes were fiercely alight. "tchah!" he ejaculated impatiently. "say, you never heard tell of a feller gettin' his own good, an' gettin' it quick. cattle-thieves ain't easy handlin', an' i don't jump till i'm riled." tresler made no answer, and the two reached the stable without exchanging another word. inside they found anton at work, cleaning harness. he looked up as they came in, and tresler eyed him with a renewed interest. and the man's face was worth studying. there was no smile, no light in it, and even very little interest. his smooth, tawny skin and aquiline features, his black hair and blacker eyes, in their dark setting, had a devilish look to tresler's imagination. he even found himself wondering where the good looks he had observed when they met before had vanished to. jake nodded to him and passed into bessie's stall at once. "this is the mare, tresler, the dandiest thing ever bred on this ranch. look at her points. see the coat, its color. red roan, with legs as black as soot. say, she's a picture. now i guess she'd fetch a couple of hundred dollars away down east where you come from." he said all this for anton's benefit while he smoothed his hand over bessie's back. tresler followed suit, feeling for the impression of the saddle-cloth in the hair. it was there, and he went on inspecting the legs, with the air of a connoisseur. the other saddle-horse they treated in the same way, but the drivers were left alone. for some minutes they stood discussing the two animals and then passed out again. anton had displayed not the least interest in their doings, although nothing had escaped his keen, swift-moving eyes. once out of ear-shot jake turned to tresler. "wal?" "the horses have both been saddled." "good. now we've got the thing plumb located. you heard them gassin' at the stable. you heard 'em slam the door. you saw the two come along. an' one of 'em must have been anton. leastways he must have let 'em have the hosses. i guess that's an alternative. i say anton was up on one of them hosses, an' the other was some gorl durned breed mate of his. good. we're goin' right on to see the governor." "what to do?" asked tresler. "to give him your yarn," jake said shortly. they were half-way to the house when the foreman suddenly halted and stared out over the lower ranch buildings at the distant pastures. tresler was slightly behind him as he stood, and only had a sight of the man's profile. he did not seem to be looking at any particular object. his attitude was one of thoughtful introspection. tresler waited. things were turning out better than he had hoped, and he had no wish but to let the arbiter of the situation take his own way. he began to think that, whatever jake's ulterior object might be, he was in earnest about anton. at last his companion grunted and turned, and he saw at once that the artificial comradeship of his manner had lifted, and the "jake" he had already learned to understand was dominant again. he saw the vicious setting of the brows, the fiery eyes. he quite understood that self-control was the weakest side of this man's character, and could not long withstand the more powerful bullying nature that swayed him. "i asked you a question back there," he said, jerking his head in the direction of his hut, "an' you said it was your affair; an' we'd best let personalities stand for the moment. i'd like an answer before we go further. you reckon to be honest, i guess. wal, now's your chance. tell me to my face what i've learned for myself. what were you doin' round here last night? what were you doin' in marbolt's kitchen?" tresler understood the motive of the man's insistence now. jake was showing him a side of his character he had hardly suspected. it was the human nature in the man asking for a confirmation of his worst fears, in reality his worst knowledge. for he was well aware that jake had witnessed the scene in the kitchen. "as i said before, it is my affair," he responded, with an assumption of indifference. "still, since you insist, you may as well know first as last. i went to see miss diane. i saw her----" "an'?" there was a tense restraint in the monosyllable. tresler shrugged. "miss marbolt is my promised wife." there was a deathly silence after his announcement. tresler looked out over the ranch. he seemed to see everything about him at once; even jake was in the strained focus, although he was not looking at him. his nerves were strung, and seemed as though they were held in a vice. he thought he could even hear the sound of his own temples beating. he had no fear, but he was expectant. then jake broke the silence, and his voice, though harsh, was low; it was muffled with a throatiness caused by the passion that moved him. "you'll never marry that gal," he said. and tresler was round on him in an instant, and his face was alight with a cold smile. "i will," he said. and then jake moved on with something very like a rush. and tresler followed. his smile was still upon his face. but it was there of its own accord, a nervous mask which had nothing to do with the thoughts passing behind it. chapter xiv a portentous interview tresler was in no way blind to the quality of the armistice that had been arranged between himself and jake. he knew full well that that peaceful interim would be used by jake to raise earthworks of the earthiest kind, and to train his guns with deadly accuracy upon his enemy. well, so he wanted. his purpose was to draw his adversary's fire directly upon himself. as he had said, to do anything to help the girl he loved, he must himself be in the fighting line. and from the moment of his doubtful compact with jake he felt that he was not only in the fighting line, but that, if all he had heard on the subject of red mask was true, he would become the centre of attack. there was a pleasant feeling of excitement and uncertainty in his position, and he followed jake all the more eagerly to the presence of the rancher, only wondering in what manner the forthcoming interview was to affect matters. julian marbolt had not left his bedroom when they arrived at the house. diane, looking a little anxious when she saw these two together, showed them into her father's office. she was half disposed to refuse jake's request that she should summon the blind man, but a smiling nod from tresler decided her. "very well, jake," she replied coldly. "you won't best please father unless the matter is important." this was said merely to conceal her real knowledge of the object of the visit. if jake understood he gave no sign. but he had seen and resented the silent assurance tresler had given her. his angry eyes watched her as she went off; and as she disappeared he turned to his companion, who had seated himself by the window. "guess you ain't figgered on the 'old man' 'bout her?" he said. "that, i think, is strictly my affair," tresler replied coldly. jake laughed, and sat down near the door. the answer had no effect on him. "say, i guess you ain't never had a cyclone hit you?" he asked maliciously. "it'll be interestin' to see when you tell him. maybe----" whatever he was about to say was cut short by the approach of the rancher. and it was wonderful the change that came over the man as he sat listening to the tap-tap of the blind man's stick in the passage. he watched the door uneasily, and there was a short breathless attention about him. tresler, watching, could not help thinking of the approach of some eastern potentate, with his waiting courtiers and subjects rubbing their faces in the dust lest his wrath should be visited upon them. he admitted that jake's attitude just now was his true one. at the door julian marbolt stood for a moment, doing by means of his wonderful hearing what his eyes failed to do for him. and the marvel of it was that he faced accurately, first toward tresler, then toward jake. he stood like some tall, ascetic, gray-headed priest, garbed in a dressing-gown that needed but little imagination to convert into a cassock. and the picture of benevolence he made was only marred by the staring of his dreadful eyes. "well, jake?" he said, in subdued, gentle tones. "what trouble has brought you round here at this hour?" "trouble enough," jake responded, with a slight laugh. "tresler here brings it, though." the blind man turned toward the window and instinctively focussed the younger man, and somehow tresler shivered as with a cold draught when the sightless eyes fixed themselves upon him. "ah, you tresler. well, we'll hear all about it." marbolt moved slowly, though without the aid of his stick now, over to the table, and seated himself. "it's the old trouble," said jake, when his master had settled himself. "the cattle 'duffers.' they're gettin' busy--busy around this ranch again." "well?" marbolt turned to tresler; his action was a decided snub to jake. tresler took his cue and began his story. he told it almost exactly as he had told it to jake, but with one slight difference: he gave no undue emphasis to his presence in the vicinity of the house. and marbolt listened closely, the frowning brows bespeaking his concentration, and his unmoving eyes his fixed attention. he listened apparently unmoved to every detail, and displayed a wonderful patience while tresler went point for point over his arguments in favor of his suspicions of anton. once only he permitted his sightless glance to pass in jake's direction, and that was at the linking of the foreman's name with tresler's suspicions. as his story came to an end the blind man rested one elbow on the table, and propped his chin upon his hand. the other hand coming into contact with a ruler lying adjacent, he picked it up and thoughtfully tapped the table, while the two men waited for him to speak. at last he turned toward his foreman, and, with an impressive gesture, indicated tresler. "this story is nothing new to us, jake," he said. then for a moment his voice dropped, and took on a pained tone. "i only wish it were; then we could afford to laugh at it. no, there can be no laughing here. past experience has taught us that. it is a matter of the greatest seriousness--danger. so much for the main features. but there are side issues, suspicions you have formed," turning back to tresler, "which i cannot altogether accept. mind, i do not say flatly that you are wrong, but i cannot accept them without question. "jake here has had suspicions of anton. i know that, though he has never asserted them to me in so direct a fashion as apparently he has to you." he paused: then he went on in an introspective manner. "i am getting on in years. i have already had a good innings right here on this ranch. i have watched the country develop. i have seen the settlers come, sow the seeds of their homesteads and small ranches, and watched the crop grow. i have rented them grazing. i have sold them stock. i have made money, and they have made money, and the country has prospered. it is good to see these things; good for me, especially, for i was the first here. i have been lord of the land, and jake my lieutenant. the old indian days have gone, and i have looked for nothing but peace and prosperity. i wanted prosperity, for i admit i love it. i am a business man, and i do everything in connection with this ranch on a sound business basis. not like many of those about me. in short, i am here to make money. and why not? i own the land." the last was said as though in argument. tresler could not help being struck by the manner in which he alluded to the making of money. there was an air of the miser about him when he spoke of it, a hardness about the mouth which the close-trimmed beard made no pretense of concealing. and there was a world of arrogance in the way he said, "i own the land." however, he was given no time for further observation, for marbolt seemed to realize his own digression and came back abruptly to the object of his discourse. "then this spectre, red mask, comes along. he moves with the mystery of the wandering jew, and, like that imaginary person, scourges the country wherever he goes, only in a different manner. anton had been with me three years when this raider appeared. since then there have been no less than twenty-eight robberies, accompanied more or less by manslaughter." he became more animated and leaned forward in his chair, pointing the ruler he still held in his hand at tresler as he named the figures. his red eyes seemed to stare harder and his heavy brows to knit more closely across his forehead. "yes," he reiterated, "twenty-eight robberies. and i, with others, have estimated the number and value of stock that has been lost to this scoundrel. in round figures five thousand head of cattle, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, whisked away, spirited out of this district alone in the course of a few years. one hundred and fifty thousand dollars; one hundred and fifty thousand," he mouthed the words as though he delighted in the sound of so large a sum of money. then his whole manner changed. a fiend could not have looked more vicious. "and in all i have lost five hundred beeves to him. five hundred," he cried, his voice high-pitched in his anger, "fifteen thousand dollars, besides horses, and--and some of my men wounded, even killed." again he ceased speaking, and relapsed into a brooding attitude. and the two men watched him. his personality fascinated tresler. he even began to understand something of the general fear he inspired. he thought of jake who had been so many years with him, and he thought he understood something of the condition he must inspire in any one of no great moral strength who remained with him long. then he thought of diane, and moved uneasily. he remembered jake's allusion to a cyclone. at tresler's movement the blind man roused at once and proceeded with his story. "and he roams this country at large, unchecked, unopposed. working his will whithersoever he fancies, unseen, unknown but for his sobriquet. and you claim he and anton are one. this great man--for in his way he is great, head and shoulders above all other criminals, by reason of the extent of his exploits. pshaw!"--his tone was scoffing--"let me tell you, on three different nights when this monster was abroad, carrying destruction in his path, anton was driving me. or, at least, was with me, having driven me into forks on one occasion, and twice in the neighborhood of whitewater. no, i am aware that anton is a black-leg, or has been one, but he has served me well and truly since he has been my servant. as for the saddle-marks," he leaned back in his chair and his gentle smile returned slowly to his face. "no, no, tresler, that is insufficient. remember, anton is a breed, a young man, and, as breeds go, good-looking. there is a breed camp in the neighborhood where they indulge in all the puskies and orgies native to them. we must question him. i expect he has taken french leave with my horses." "but you forget the breed camp has gone," put in jake quickly. "since the comin' of the sheriff and his men to forks they've cleared out, and, as yet, we ain't located 'em. i expect it's the hills." "just so, jake," replied marbolt, turning to the foreman coldly. "i forgot that you told me of it before. but that makes little difference. i have no doubt anton knows where they are. now," he went on, turning again to tresler, "i hold no brief for anton in particular. if i thought for a moment it were so," a sudden storm of vindictiveness leapt into his tone, "i would hound him down, and be near while they hung him slowly to death on one of our own trees. i would willingly stand by while he was put to the worst possible tortures, and revel in his cries of agony. don't mistake me. if you could prove anton to be the rascal, he should die, whatever the consequences. we would wait for no law. but you are all on the wrong trail, i feel sure." he had dropped back into his old soft-spoken manner, and tresler felt like hating him for the vileness of the nature he displayed. "you plead well for anton, mr. marbolt," he could not help saying, "but after what i heard last night, i cannot believe he is not in league with these people." it was an unfortunate remark, and brought the biting answer that might have been expected. "i plead for no man, tresler. most certainly not for a breed. i show you where you are wrong. your inexperience is lamentable, but you cannot help it." he paused, but went on again almost at once. "since i cannot persuade you, go with your story to the sheriff. let him judge of your evidence, and if a man of fyles's undoubted skill and shrewdness acts upon it, i'll pay you one hundred dollars." tresler saw the force of the other's reply, but resented the tone, while he still remained utterly unconvinced of anton's innocence. perhaps the blind man realized his unnecessary harshness, for he quickly veered round again to his low-voiced benignity. and jake, interested but silent, sat watching his master with an inscrutable look in his bold eyes and a half smile on his hard face. "no, tresler," he said, "we can set all that part of it on one side. you did quite right to come to me, though," he added hastily; "i thank you heartily. from past experience we have learned that your apparition means mischief. it means that a raiding expedition is afoot. maybe it was committed last night. i suppose," turning to jake, "you have not heard?" "no." jake shook his head. "well, we are forewarned, thanks to you, tresler," the other went on gravely. "and it shan't be my fault if we are not forearmed. we must send a warning round to the nearest homesteads. i really don't know what will happen if this goes on much longer." "why not take concerted action? why not resort to what was recently suggested--a vigilance party?" tresler put in quickly. the other shook his head and turned to jake for support. but none was forthcoming. jake was watching that strong sightless face, gazing into it with a look of bitter hatred and sinister intentness. this change so astonished tresler that he paid no attention to the rancher's reply. and at once marbolt's peculiar instinct asserted itself. he faced from one to the other with a perplexed frown, and as his red eyes fell finally upon the foreman, that individual's whole expression was instantly transformed to one of confusion. and tresler could not help calling to mind the schoolboy detected in some misdemeanor. at first the confusion, then the attempt at bland innocence, followed by dogged sullenness. it was evident that jake's conscience blinded him to the fact of the other's sightless gaze. "what say you, jake? we can only leave it to the sheriff and be on our guard." the foreman fumbled out his reply almost too eagerly. "yes," he said, "sure; we must be on our guard. guess we'd better send out night guards to the different stations." he stretched himself with an assumption of ease. then suddenly he sat bolt upright and a peculiar expression came into his eyes. tresler detected the half smile and the side glance in his own direction. "yes," he went on, composedly enough now, "partic'larly willow bluff." "why willow bluff?" asked the rancher, with some perplexity. "why? why? because we're waitin' to ship them two hundred beeves to the coast. they're sold, you remember, an' ther's only them two breeds, jim an' lag henderson, in charge of 'em. why, it 'ud be pie, a dead soft snap fer red mask's gang. an' the station's that lonesome. all o' twenty mile from here." julian marbolt sat thinking for a moment. "yes, you're right," he agreed at last. "we'll send out extra night guards. and you'd best detail two good, reliable men for a few days at willow bluff. only thoroughly reliable men, mind. you see to it." jake turned to tresler at once, his face beaming with a malicious grin. and the latter understood. but he was not prepared for the skilful trap which his archenemy was baiting for him, and into which he was to promptly fall. "how'd it suit you, tresler?" he asked. then without waiting for a reply he went on, "but ther', i guess it wouldn't do sendin' you. you ain't the sort to get scrappin' hoss thieves. it wants grit. it's tough work an' needs tough men. pshaw!" tresler's blood was up in a moment. he forgot discretion and everything else under the taunt. "i don't know that it wouldn't do, jake," he retorted promptly. "it seems to me your remarks come badly from a man who has reason to know--to remember--that i am capable of holding my own with most men, even those big enough to eat me." he saw his blunder even while he was speaking. but he was red-hot with indignation and didn't care a jot for the consequences. and jake came at him. if the foreman's taunt had roused him, it was nothing to the effect of his reply. jake crossed the room in a couple of strides and his furious face was thrust close into tresler's, and, in a voice hoarse with passion, he fairly gasped at him-- "i ain't fergot. an' by g----" but he got no further. a movement on the part of the rancher interrupted him. before he realized what was happening the blind man was at his side with a grip on his arm that made him wince. "stop it!" he cried fiercely. "stop it, you fool! another word and, blind as i am, i'll----" jake struggled to release himself, but marbolt held him with almost superhuman strength and slowly backed him from his intended victim. "back! do you hear? i'll have no murder done in here--unless i do it myself. get back--back, blast you!" and jake was slowly, in spite of his continued struggles, thrust against the wall. and then, as he still resisted, marbolt pushed the muzzle of a revolver against his face. "i'll drop you like a hog, if you don't----" but the compelling weapon had instant effect, and the foreman's resistance died out weakly. the whole scene had occurred so swiftly that tresler simply stood aghast. the agility, the wonderful sureness and rapidity of movement on marbolt's part were staggering. the whole thing seemed impossible, and yet he had seen it; and the meaning of the stories of this man he had listened to came home to him. he was, indeed, something to fear. the great bullying jake was a child in his hands. now like a whipped child, he stood with his back to the wall, a picture of hate and fury. with jake silenced marbolt turned on him. his words were few but sufficient. "and as for you, tresler," he said coldly, "keep that tongue of yours easy. i am master here." there was a brief silence, then the rancher returned to the subject that had caused the struggle. "well, what about the men for willow bluff, jake?" it was tresler who answered the question, and without a moment's hesitation. "i should like to go out there, mr. marbolt. especially if there's likely to be trouble." it was the only position possible for him after what had gone before, and he knew it. he glanced at jake and saw that, for the moment at least, his hatred for his employer had been set aside. he was smiling a sort of tigerish smile. "very well, tresler," responded the rancher. "and you can choose your own companion. you can go and get ready. jake," turning to the other, "i want to talk to you." tresler went out, feeling that he had made a mess of things. he gave jake credit for his cleverness, quite appreciating the undying hate that prompted it. but the thing that was most prominent in his thoughts was the display the blind man had given him. he smiled when he thought of jake's boasted threats to diane; how impotent they seemed now. but the smile died out when he remembered he, himself, had yet to face the rancher on the delicate subject of his daughter. he remembered only too well jake's reference to a cyclone, and he made his way to the bunkhouse with no very enlivening thoughts. in the meantime the two men he had just left remained silent until the sound of his footsteps had quite died out. then marbolt spoke. "jake, you are a damned idiot!" he said abruptly. the foreman made no answer and the other went on. "why can't you leave the boy alone? he's harmless; besides he's useful to me--to us." "harmless--useful?" jake laughed bitterly. "pshaw, i guess your blindness is gettin' round your brains!" "what do you mean?" "i mean it 'ud have been better if you'd let me--wipe him out. better for us--for you." "i don't see; you forget his money." the blind man's tone was very low. "you forget he intends to buy a ranch and stock. you forget that he has twenty-five thousand dollars to expend. bah! i'll never make a business man of you." "and what about your girl?" jake asked, quite unmoved by the other's explanation. "my girl?" marbolt laughed softly. "you are always harping on that. he will leave my girl alone. she knows my wishes, and will--shall obey me. i don't care a curse about him or his affairs. but i want his money, and if you will only see to your diabolical temper, i'll--we'll have it. your share stands good in this as in all other deals." it was the foreman's turn to laugh. but there was no mirth in it. it stopped as suddenly as it began, cut off short. "he will leave your girl alone, will he?" he said, with a sneer. "say, d'you know what he was doin' around this house last night when he saw those hoss-thief guys, or shall i tell you?" "you'd better tell me," replied the rancher, coldly. "he was after your girl. say, an' what's more, he saw her. an' what's still more, she's promised to be his wife. he told me." "what's that? say it again." there was an ominous calmness in the blind man's manner. "i said he was after your girl, saw her, and she's--promised--to--be--his--wife." "ah!" then there was a silence for some minutes. the red eyes were frowning in the direction of the window. at last the man drew a deep breath, and jake, watching him, wondered what was coming. "i'll see her," he said slowly, "and i'll see him--after he comes back from willow bluff." that was all, but jake, accustomed to julian marbolt's every mood, read a deal more than the words expressed. he waited for what else might be coming, but only received a curt dismissal in tones so sharp that he hurried out of the room precipitately. once clear of the verandah he walked more slowly, and his eyes turned in the direction of the bunkhouse. all the old hatred was stirred within him as he saw tresler turn the angle of the building and disappear within its doorway. "guess no one's goin' to see you--after willow bluff," he muttered. "no one." chapter xv at willow bluff tresler would have liked to see diane before going out to willow bluff, but reflection showed him how impossible that would be; at least, how much unnecessary risk it would involve for her. after what he had just witnessed of her father, it behooved him to do nothing rashly as far as she was concerned, so he turned his whole attention to his preparations for departure. he had made up his mind as to his comrade without a second thought. arizona was his man, and he sent the diplomatic joe out to bring him in from pine creek sloughs, where he was cutting late hay for winter stores. in about half an hour the american came in, all curiosity and eagerness; nor would he be satisfied until he had been told the whole details of the matter that had led up to the appointment. tresler kept back nothing but his private affairs relating to diane. at the conclusion of the recital, arizona's rising temper culminated in an explosion. "say, that feller jake's a meaner pirate an' cus as 'ud thieve the supper from a blind dawg an' then lick hell out o' him 'cos he can't see." which outburst of feeling having satisfied the necessity of the moment, he became practical. "an' you're goin', you an' me?" he asked incredulously. "that's the idea, arizona; but of course you're quite free to please yourself. i chose you; marbolt gave me the privilege of selection." "wal, guess we'd best git goin'. willow bluff station's fair to decent, so we'll only need our blankets an' grub--an' a tidy bunch of ammunition. guess i'll go an' see teddy fer the rations." he went off in a hurry. tresler looked after him. it was good to be dealing with such a man after those others, jake and the rancher. arizona's manner of accepting his selection pleased him. there was no "yes" or "no" about it: no argument. a silent acceptance and ready thought for their needs. a thorough old campaigner. a man to be relied on in emergency--a man to be appreciated. in two hours everything was in readiness, tresler contenting himself with a reassuring message to diane through the medium of joe. they rode off. jezebel was on her good behavior, and arizona's mount kept up with her fast walk by means of his cowhorse amble. as they came to the ford, tresler drew up and dismounted, and the other watched him while he produced a wicker-covered glass flask from his pocket. "what's that?" he asked. "rye?" tresler shook his head, and tried the metal screw cap. "no," he replied shortly. then he leant over the water and carefully set the bottle floating, pushing it out as far as possible with his foot while he supported himself by the overhanging bough of a tree. then he stood watching it carried slowly amid-stream. presently the improvised craft darted out with a rush into the current, and swept onward with the main flow of the water. then he returned and remounted his impatient mare. "that," he said, as they rode on, "is a message. fyles's men are down the river spying out the land, and, incidentally, waiting to hear from me. the message i've sent them is a request for assistance at willow bluff. i have given them sound reason, which fyles will understand." arizona displayed considerable astonishment, which found expression in a deprecating avowal. "say, i guess i'm too much o' the old hand. i didn't jest think o' that." it was all he vouchsafed, but it said a great deal. and the thin face and wild eyes said more. now they rode on in silence, while they followed the wood-lined trail along the river. the shade was delightful, and the trail sufficiently sandy to muffle the sound of the horses' hoofs and so leave the silence unbroken. there was a faint hum from the insects that haunted the river, but it was drowsy, soft, and only emphasized the perfect sylvan solitude. after a while the trail left the river and gently inclined up to the prairie level. then the bush broke and became scattered into small bluffs, and a sniff of the bracing air of the plains brushed away the last odor of the redolent glades they were leaving. it was here that arizona roused himself. he was of the prairie, belonging to the prairie. the woodlands depressed him, but the prairie made him expansive. "seems to me, tresler, you're kind o' takin' a heap o' chances--mostly onnes'ary. meanin' ther' ain't no more reason to it than whistlin' methody hymns to a deaf mule. can't see why you're mussin' y'self up wi' these all-fired hoss thieves. you're askin' fer a sight more'n you ken eat." "and, like all men of such condition, i shall probably eat to repletion, i suppose you mean." arizona turned a doubtful eye on the speaker, and quietly spat over his horse's shoulder. "guess your langwidge ain't mine," he said thoughtfully; "but if you're meanin' you're goin' to git your belly full, i calc'late you're li'ble to git like a crop-bound rooster wi' the moult 'fore you're through. an' i sez, why?" tresler shrugged. "why does a man do anything?" he asked indifferently. "gener'ly fer one of two reasons. guess it's drink or wimmin." again he shot a speculating glance at his friend, and, as tresler displayed more interest in the distant view than in his remarks, he went on. "i ain't heerd tell as you wus death on the bottle." the object of his solicitude smiled round on him. "perhaps you think me a fool. but i just can't stand by seeing things going wrong in a way that threatens to swamp one poor, lonely girl, whose only protection is her blind father." "then it is wimmin?" "if you like." "but i don't jest see wher' them hoss thieves figger." "perhaps you don't, but believe me they do--indirectly." tresler paused. then he went on briskly. "there's no need to go into details about it, but--but i want to run into this gang. do you know why? because i want to find out who this red mask is. it is on his personality depends the possibility of my helping the one soul on this ranch who deserves nothing but tender kindness at the hands of those about her." "a-men," arizona added in the manner he had acquired in his "religion" days. "i must set her free of jake--somehow." arizona's eyes flashed round on him quickly. "jest so," he observed complainingly. "that's how i wanted to do last night." "and you'd have upset everything." "wrong--plumb wrong." "perhaps so," tresler smiled confidently. "we are all liable to mistakes." arizona's dissatisfied grunt was unmistakable. "thet's jest how that sassafras-colored, bull-beef joe nelson got argyfyin' when jake come around an' located him sleepin' off the night before in the hog-pen. but it don't go no more'n his did, i guess. howsum, it's wimmin. say, tresler," the lean figure leant over toward him, and the wild eyes looked earnestly into his--"it's right, then--dead right?" "when i've settled with her father--and jake." arizona held out his horny, claw-like hand. "shake," he said. "i'm glad, real glad." they gripped for a moment, then the cowpuncher turned away, and sat staring out over the prairie. tresler, watching him, wondered at that long abstraction. the man's face had a softened look. "we all fall victims to it sooner or later, arizona," he ventured presently. "it comes once in a man's lifetime, and it comes for good or ill." "twice--me." the hard fact nipped tresler's sentimental mood in the bud. "ah!" the other continued his study of the sky-line. "yup," he said at last. "one died, an' t'other didn't hatch out." "i see." it was no use attempting sympathy. when arizona spoke of himself, when he chose to confide his life's troubles to any one, he had a way of stating simple facts merely as facts; he spoke of them because it suited his pessimistic mood. "yup. the first was kind o' fady, anyways--sort o' limp in the backbone. guess i'd got fixed wi' her 'fore i knew a heap. must 'a' bin. yup, she wus fancy in her notions. hated sharin' a pannikin o' tea wi' a friend; guess i see her scrape out a fry-pan oncet. i 'lows she had cranks. guess she hadn't a pile o' brain, neither. she never could locate a hog from a sow, an' as fer stridin' a hoss, hell itself couldn't 'a' per-suaded her. she'd a notion fer settin' sideways, an' allus got muleish when you guessed she wus wrong. yup, she wus red-hot on the mission sociables an' eatin' off'n chiny, an' wa'n't satisfied wi' noospaper on the table; an' took the notion she'd got pimples, an' worried hell out o' her old man till he bo't a razor an' turned his features into a patch o' fall ploughin', an' kind o' bulldozed her mother into lashin' her stummick wi' some noofangled fixin' as wouldn't meet round her nowheres noways. an' she wus kind o' finnicky wi' her own feedin', too. guess some wall-eyed cuss had took her into sacramento an' give her a feed at one of them dago joints, wher' they disguise most everythin' wi' langwidge, an' ile, an' garlic, till you hate yourself. wal, she died. mebbe she's got all them things handy now. but i ain't sayin' nothin' mean about her; she jest had her notions. guess it come from her mother. i 'lows she wus kind o' struck on fool things an' fixin's. can't blame her noways. guess i wus mostly sudden them days. luv ut fust sight is a real good thing when it comes to savin' labor, but like all labor-savin' fixin's, it's liable to git rattled some, an' then ther' ain't no calc'latin' what's goin' to bust." arizona's manner was very hopeless, but presently he cheered up visibly and renewed his wad of chewing. "t'other wus kind o' slower in comin' along," he went on, in his reflective drawl. "but when it got around it wus good an' strong, sure. y' see, ther' wus a deal 'tween us like to make us friendly. she made hash fer the round-up, which i 'lows, when the lady's young, she's most gener'ly an objec' of 'fection fer the boys. guess she wus most every kind of a gal, wi' her ha'r the color of a field of wheat ready fer the binder, an' her figger as del'cate as one o' them crazy egg-bilers, an' her pretty face all sparklin' wi' smiles an' hoss-soap, an' her eye! gee! but she had an eye. guess she would 'a' made a prairie-rose hate itself. but that wus 'fore we hooked up in a team. i 'lows marryin's a mighty bad finish to courtin'." "you were married?" "am." a silence fell. the horses ambled on in the fresh noonday air. arizona's look was forbidding. suddenly he turned and gazed fiercely into his friend's face. "yes, sirree. an' it's my 'pinion, in spite of wot some folks sez, gettin' married's most like makin' butter. courtin's the cream, good an' thick an' juicy, an' you ken lay it on thick, an' you kind o' wonder how them buzzocky old cows got the savee to perduce sech a daisy liquid. but after the turnin'-point, which is marryin', it's diff'rent some. 'tain't cream no longer. it's butter, an' you need to use it sort o' mean. that's how i found, i guess." "i suppose you settled down, and things went all right, though?" suggested tresler. "wal, maybe that's so. guess if anythin' wus wrong it wus me. yer see, ther' ain't a heap o' fellers rightly understands females. i'm most gener'ly patient. knowin' their weakness, i sez, 'arizona, you're mud when wimmin gits around. you bein' married, it's your dooty to boost the gal along.' so i jest let her set around an' shovel orders as though i wus the hired man. say, guess you never had a gal shovelin' orders. it's real sweet to hear 'em, an' i figger they knows their bizness mostly. it makes you feel as though you'd ha'f a dozen hands an' they wus all gropin' to git to work. that's how i felt, anyways. every mornin' she'd per-suade me gentle out o' bed 'fore daylight, an' i'd feel like a hog fer sleepin' late. then she'd shovel the orders hansum, in a voice that 'ud shame molasses. it wus allus 'dear' or 'darlin'.' fust haul water, then buck wood, light the stove, feed the hogs an' chick'ns, dung out the ol' cow, fill the lamp, rub down the mare, pick up the kitchen, set the clothes bilin', cook the vittles, an' do a bit o' washin' while she turned over fer five minits. then she'd git around, mostly 'bout noon, wi' her shower o' ha'r trailin' like a rain o' gold-dust, an' a natty sort o' silk fixin' which she called a 'dressin'-gown,' an' she'd sot right down an' eat the vittles, tellin' me o' things she wanted done as she'd fergot. ther' wus the hen-roost wanted limin', she was sure the chick'ns had the bugs, an' the ol' mare's harness wanted fixin', so she could drive into town; an' the buckboard wanted washin', an' the wheels greasin'. an' the seat wus kind o' hard an' wanted packin' wi' a pillar. then ther' wus the p'tater patch wanted hoein', an' the cabb'ges. an' the hay-mower wus to be got ready fer hayin'. she mostly drove that herself, an' i 'lows i wus glad." arizona paused and took a fresh chew. then he went on. "guess you ain't never got hitched?" tresler denied the impeachment. "not yet," he said. "hah! guess it makes a heap o' diff'rence." "yes, i suppose so. sobers a fellow. makes him feel like settling down." "wal, maybe." "and where's your wife living now?" tresler asked, after another pause. "can't rightly say." there was a nasty sharpness in the manner arizona jerked his answer out. "y' see, it's this a-ways. i guess i didn't amount to a deal as a married man. leastways, that's how she got figgerin' after a whiles. guess i'd sp'iled her life some. i 'lows i wus allus a mean cuss. an' she wus real happy bakin' hash. guess i druv her to drinkin' at the s'loon, too, which made me hate myself wuss. wal, i jest did wot i could to smooth things an' kep goin'. i got punchin' cows agin, an' give her every cent o' my wages; but it wa'n't to be." the man's voice was husky, and he paused to recover himself. and then hurried on as though to get the story over as soon as possible. "guess i wus out on the 'round-up' some weeks, an' then i come back to find her gone--plumb gone. mebbe she'd got lonesome; i can't say. yup, the shack wus empty, an' the buckboard gone, an' the blankets, an' most o' the cookin' fixin's. it wus the neighbors put me wise. neighbors mostly puts you wise. they acted friendly. ther'd bin a feller come 'long from alberta, a pretty tough breed feller. he went by the name o' 'tough' mcculloch." tresler started. but arizona was still staring out at the distant prairie, and the movement escaped him. "guess he'd bin around the shack a heap," he went on, "an' the day 'fore i got back the two of 'em had drove out wi' the buckboard loaded, takin' the trail fer the hills. i put after 'em, but never found a trace. i 'lows the feller had guts. he left a message on the table. it wus one o' his guns--loaded. likely you won't understan', but i kep' that message. i ain't see her sence. i did hear tell she wus bakin' hash agin. i 'lows she could bake hash. say, tresler, i've lost hogs, an' i've lost cows, but i'm guessin' ther' ain't nothin' in the world meaner than losin' yer wife." tresler made no reply. what could he say? "tough" mcculloch! the name rang in his ears. it was the name anton had been known by in canada. he tried to think what he ought to do. should he tell arizona? no. he dared not. murder would promptly be done, if he knew anything of the american. no doubt the breed deserved anything, but there was enough savagery at mosquito bend without adding to it. suddenly another thought occurred to him. "did you know the man?" he asked. "never set eyes on him. but i guess i shall some day." and tresler's decision was irrevocably confirmed. "and the 'gun' message?" "wal, it's a way they have in texas," replied arizona. "a loaded gun is a mean sort o' challenge. it's a challenge which ain't fer the present zacly. guess it holds good fer life. et means 'on sight.'" "i understand." and the rest of the journey to willow bluff was made almost in silence. the wonderful extent of the blind man's domain now became apparent. they had traveled twenty miles almost as the crow flies, and yet they had not reached its confines. as arizona said, in response to a remark from his companion, "the sky-line ain't no limit fer the blind hulk's land." willow bluff was, as its name described, just a big bluff of woodland standing at the confluence of two rivers. to the south and west it was open prairie. the place consisted of a small shack, and a group of large pine-log corrals capable of housing a thousand head of stock. and as the men came up they saw, scattered over the adjacent prairie, the peacefully grazing beeves which were to be their charge. "a pretty bunch," observed arizona. "yes, and a pretty place for a raid." at that moment the doings of the raiders were uppermost in tresler's mind. then they proceeded to take possession. they found jim henderson, a mean looking breed boy, in the shack, and promptly set him to work to clean it out. it was not a bad place, but the boys had let it get into a filthy condition, in the customary manner of all half-breeds. however, this they quickly remedied, and tresler saw quite a decent prospect of comfort for their stay there. arizona said very little while there was work to be done. and his companion was astonished, even though he knew him so well, at his capacity and forethought. evening was the most important time, and here the cattleman stood out a master of his craft. the beeves had to be corralled every night. there must be no chance of straying, since they were sold, and liable for transport at any moment. this work, and the task of counting, demanded all the cattleman's skill. bands of fifty were rounded up, cut out from the rest, and quietly brought in. when each corral was filled, and the whole herd accommodated for the night, a supply of fresh young hay was thrown to them to keep them occupied during their few remaining hours of waking. arizona was a giant at the work; and to see his lithe, lean body swaying this way and that, as he swung his well-trained pony around the ambling herd, his arms and "rope" and voice at work, was to understand something of the wild life that claimed him, and the wild, untrained nature which was his. the last corral was fastened up, and then, but not until then, the two friends took leisure. "wal," said arizona, as they stood leaning against the bars of the biggest corral, "guess ther's goin' to be a night-guard?" "yes. these boys are smart enough lads, it seems. we'll let them take two hours about up to midnight you and i will do the rest." "an' the hull lot of us'll sleep round the corrals?" "that's it." "an' the hosses?" "we'll keep them saddled." "an' the sheriff's fellers?" "that i can't say. we're not likely to see them, anyway." and so the plans were arranged, simple, even hopeless in construction. two men, for they could not depend on the half-breeds, to face possibly any odds should the raider choose this spot for attack. but however inadequate the guard, there was something morally strong in the calm, natural manner of its arranging. these two knew that in case of trouble they had only themselves to depend on. yet neither hesitated, or balked at the undertaking. possibilities never entered into their calculations. the first and second night produced no alarm. nor did they receive any news of a disturbing nature. on the third day jacob smith rode into their camp. he was a patrol guard, on a visiting tour of the outlying stations. his news was peaceful enough. "i don't care a cuss how long the old man keeps the funks," he said, with a cheery laugh. "i give it you right here, this job's a snap. i ride around like a gen'l spyin' fer enemies. guess red mask has his uses." "so's most folk," responded arizona, "but 'tain't allus easy to locate." "wal, i guess i ken locate his jest about now. i'm sort o' lyin' fallow, which ain't usual on skitter bend." "guess not. he's servin' us diff'rent." "ah! doin' night-guard? say, i'd see blind hulk roastin' 'fore i'd hang on to them beasties. but it's like you, arizona. you hate him wuss'n hell, an' jake too, yet you'd--pshaw! so long. guess i'd best get on. i've got nigh forty miles to do 'fore i git back." and he rode away, careless, thoughtless, in the midst of a very real danger. and it was the life they all led. they asked for a wage, a bunk, and grub; nothing else mattered. tresler had developed a feeling that the whole thing was a matter of form rather than dead earnest, that he had been precipitate in sending his message to the sheriff. he wanted to get back to the ranch. he understood only too well how he had furthered jake's projects, and cursed himself bitterly for having been so easily duped. he was comfortably out of the way, and the foreman would take particularly good care that he should remain so as long as possible. arizona, too, had become anything but enlivening. he went about morosely and snapped villainously at the boys. there was no word in answer to the message to the sheriff. they daily searched the bluff for some sign, but without result, and tresler was rather glad than disappointed, while arizona seemed utterly without opinion on the matter. the third night produced a slight shock for tresler. it was midnight, and one of the boys roused him for his watch. he sat up, and, to his astonishment, found arizona sitting on a log beside him. he waited until the boy had gone to turn in, then he looked at his friend inquiringly. "what's up?" and arizona's reply fairly staggered him. "say, tresler," he said, in a tired voice, utterly unlike his usual forceful manner, "i jest wanted to ast you to change 'watches' wi' me. i've kind o' lost my grip on sleep. mebbe i'm weak'nin' some. i 'lows i'm li'ble to git sleepy later on, an' i tho't, mebbe, ef i wus to do the fust watch--wal, y' see, i guess that plug in my chest ain't done me a heap o' good." tresler was on his feet in an instant. it had suddenly dawned on him that this queer son of the prairie was ill. "rot, man!" he exclaimed. his tone in no way hid his alarm. they were at the gate of the big corral, hidden in the shadow cast by the high wall of lateral logs. "you go and turn in. i'm going to watch till daylight." "say, that's real friendly," observed the other, imperturbably. "but it ain't no use. guess i couldn't sleep yet." "well, please yourself. i'm going to watch till daylight." tresler's manner was quietly decided, and arizona seemed to accept it. "wal, ef it hits you that a-ways i'll jest set around till i git sleepy." tresler's alarm was very real, but he shrugged with a great assumption of indifference and moved off to make a round of the corrals, carefully hugging the shadow of the walls as he went. after a while he returned to his post. arizona was still sitting where he had left him. there was a silence for a few minutes. then the american quietly drew his revolver and spun the chambers round. tresler watched him, and the other, looking up, caught his eye. "guess these things is kind o' tricksy," he observed, in explanation, "i got it jammed oncet. it's a decent weapon but noo, an' i ain't fer noo fixin's. this hyar," he went on, drawing a second one from its holster, "is a 'six' an' 'ud drop an ox at fifty. ha'r trigger too. it's a dandy. guess it wus 'tough' mcculloch's. guess you ain't got yours on your hip?" tresler shook his head. "no, i use the belt for my breeches, and keep the guns loose in my pockets when i'm not riding." "wrong. say, fix 'em right. you take a sight too many chances." tresler laughingly complied "i'm not likely to need them, but still----" "nope." arizona returned his guns to their resting-place. then he looked up. "say, guess i kind o' fixed the hosses diff'rent. our hosses. bro't 'em up an' stood 'em in the angle wher' this corral joins the next one. seems better; more handy-like. it's sheltered, an' ther's a bit of a sharp breeze. one o' them early frosts." he looked up at the sky. "guess ther' didn't ought. ther' ain't no moon till nigh on daylight. howsum, ther' ain't no argyfyin' the weather." tresler was watching his comrade closely. there was something peculiar in his manner. he seemed almost fanciful, yet there was a wonderful alertness in the rapidity of his talk. he remained silent, and, presently, the other went on again, but he had switched off to a fresh topic. "say, i never ast you how you figgered to settle wi' jake," he said. "i guess it'll be all"--he broke off, and glanced out prairieward, but went on almost immediately,--"a settlin'. i've seen you kind o' riled. and i've seen jake." he stood up and peered into the darkness while he talked in his even monotone. "yup," he went on, "ther's ways o' dealin' wi' men--an' ways. guess, now, ef you wus dealin' wi' an honest citizen you'd jest talk him fair. mind, i figger to know you a heap." his eyes suddenly turned on the man he was addressing, but returned almost at once to their earnest contemplation of the black vista of grass-land. "you'd argyfy the point reas'nable, an' leave the gal to settle for you. but wi' jake it's diff'rent." his hand slowly went round to his right hip, and suddenly he turned on his friend with a look of desperate meaning. "d'you know what it'll be 'tween you two? this is what it means;" and he whipped out the heavy six that had once been "tough" mcculloch's, and leveled it at arm's length out prairieward. tresler thought it was coming at him, and sprang back, while arizona laughed. "this is what it'll be. you'll take a careful aim, an' if you've friends around they'll see fair play, sure. i guess they'll count 'three' for you, so. jest one, two, an' you'll both fire on the last, so. three!" there was a flash, and a sharp report, and then a cry split the still night air. tresler sprang at the man whom he now believed was mad, but the cry stayed him, and the next moment he felt the grip of arizona's sinewy hand on his arm, and was being dragged round the corral as the sound of horses' hoofs came thundering toward him. "it's them!" it was the only explanation arizona vouchsafed. they reached the horses and both sprang into the saddle, and the american's voice whispered hoarsely-- "bend low. guess these walls'll save us, an' we've got a sheer sight o' all the corral gates. savee? shoot careful, an' aim true. an' watch out on the bluff. the sheriff's around." and now the inexperienced tresler saw the whole scheme. the masterly generalship of his comrade filled him with admiration. and he had thought him ill, his brain turned! for some reason he believed the raiders were approaching, but not being absolutely sure, he had found an excuse for not turning in as usual, and cloaked all his suspicions for fear of giving a false alarm. and their present position was one of carefully considered strategy; the only possible one from which they could hope to achieve any advantage, for, sheltered, they yet had every gate of the corrals within gunshot. but there was little time for reflection or speculation. if the sheriff's men came, well and good. in the meantime a crowd of a dozen men had charged down upon the corrals, a silent, ghostly band; the only noise they made was the clatter of their horses' hoofs. both men, watching, were lying over their horses' necks. arizona was the first to shoot. again his gun belched a death-dealing shot. tresler saw one figure reel and fall with a groan. then his own gun was heard. his aim was less effective, and only brought a volley in reply from the raiders. that volley was the signal for the real battle to begin. the ambush of the two defenders was located, and the rustlers divided, and came sweeping round to the attack. but arizona was ready. both horses wheeled round and raced out of their improvised fort, and tresler, following the keen-witted man, appreciated his resource as he darted into another angle between two other corrals. the darkness favored them, and the rustlers swept by. arizona only waited long enough for them to get well clear, then his gun rang out again, and tresler's too. but the game was played out. a straggler sighted them and gave the alarm, and instantly the rest took up the chase. "round the corrals!" as he spoke arizona turned in his saddle and fired into the mob. a perfect hail of shots replied, and the bullets came singing all round them. he was as cool and deliberate as though he were hunting jack-rabbits. tresler joined him in a fresh fusillade, and two more saddles were emptied, but the next moment a gasp told arizona that his comrade was hit, and he turned only just in time to prevent him reeling out of the saddle. "hold up, boy!" he cried. "kep your saddle if hell's let loose. i'll kep 'em busy." and the wounded man, actuated by a similar spirit, sat bolt upright, while the two horses sped on. they were round at the front again. but though arizona was as good as his word, and his gun was emptied and reloaded and emptied again, it was a hopeless contest--hopeless from the beginning. tresler was bleeding seriously from a wound in his neck, and his aim was becoming more and more uncertain. but his will was fighting hard for mastery over his bodily weakness. just as they headed again toward the bluff, arizona gave a great yank at his reins and his pony was thrown upon its haunches. the lady jezebel, too, as though working in concert with her mate, suddenly stopped dead. the cause of the cowpuncher's action was a solitary horseman standing right ahead of them gazing out at the bluff. the plainsman's gun was up in an instant, in spite of the pursuers behind. death was in his eye as he took aim, but at that instant there was a shout from the bluff, and the cry was taken up behind him--"sheriff's posse!" that cry lost him his chance of fetching red mask down. before he could let the hammer of his gun fall, the horseman had wheeled about and vanished in the darkness. simultaneously the pursuers swung out, turned, and the next moment were in full retreat under a perfect hail of carbine-fire from the sheriff's men. and as the latter followed in hot pursuit, arizona hailed them-- "you've missed him; he's taken the river-bank for it. it's red mask! i see him." but now tresler needed all his friend's attention. arizona saw him fall forward and lie clinging to his saddle-horn. he sprang to his aid, and, dismounting, lifted him gently to the ground. then he turned his own horse loose, leading the lady jezebel while he supported the sick man up to the shack. here his patient fainted dead away, but he was equal to the emergency. he examined the wound, and found an ugly rent in the neck, whence the blood was pumping slowly. he saw at once that a small artery had been severed, and its adjacency to the jugular made it a matter of extreme danger. his medical skill was small, but he contrived to wash and bind the wound roughly. then he quietly reloaded his guns, and, with the aid of a stiff horn of whisky, roused some life in his patient. he knew it would only be a feeble flicker, but while it lasted he wanted to get him on to the lady jezebel's back. this he contrived after considerable difficulty. the mare resented the double burden, as was only to be expected. but the cowpuncher was desperate and knew how to handle her. none but arizona would have attempted such a feat with a horse of her description; but he must have speed if he was going to save his friend's life, and he knew she could give it. chapter xvi what love will do daylight was breaking when the jaded lady jezebel and her double freight raced into the ranch. the mare had done the journey in precisely two hours and a quarter. arizona galloped her up to the house and rounded the lean-to in which joe slept. then he pulled up and shouted. just then he had no thought for the rancher or jake. he had thought for no one but tresler. his third shout brought joe tumbling out of his bed. "say, i've got a mighty sick man here," he cried, directly he heard the choreman moving. "git around an' lend a hand; gentle, too." "that you, arizona?" joe, half awake, questioned, blinking up at the horseman in the faint light. "i guess; an' say, 'fore i git answerin' no fool questions, git a holt on this notion. red mask's bin around willow bluff, an' tresler's done up. savee?" "tresler, did you say?" asked a girl's voice from the kitchen doorway. "wounded?" there was a world of fear in the questions, which were scarcely above a whisper. arizona was lifting tresler down into joe's arms. "i 'lows i didn't know you wus ther', missie," he replied, without turning from his task. "careful, joe; easy--easy now. he's dreadful sick, i guess. yes, missie, it's him. they've kind o' scratched him some. 'tain't nothin' to gas about; jest barked his neck. kind o' needs a bit o' band'ge. gorl durn you, joe! git your arm under his shoulders an' kep his head steady; he'll git bleedin' to death ef y' ain't careful. quiet, you jade!" he cried fiercely, to the mare whom diane had frightened with her white robe as she came to help. "no, missie, not you," arizona exclaimed. "he's all blood an' mussed up." then he discovered that she had little on but a night-dress. "gee! but you ain't wropped up, missie. jest git right in. wal," as she deliberately proceeded to help the struggling joe, "ef you will; but joe ken do it, i guess. ther', that's it. i ken git off'n this crazy slut of a mare now." directly arizona had quit the saddle he relieved diane, and, with the utmost gentleness, started to take the sick man into the lean-to. but the girl protested at once. "not in there," she said sharply. "take him into the house. i'll go and fix a bed up-stairs. bring him through the kitchen." she spoke quite calmly. too calmly, joe thought. "to that house?" arizona protested. "yes, yes, of course." then the passion of grief let itself loose, and diane cried, "and why not? where else should he go? he belongs to me. why do you stand there like an imbecile? take him at once. oh, jack, jack, why don't you speak? oh, take him quickly! you said he would bleed to death. he isn't dead? no, tell me he isn't dead?" "dead? dead? ha, ha!" arizona threw all the scorn he was capable of into the words, and laughed with funereal gravity. "say, that's real good--real good. him dead? wal, i guess not. pshaw! say, missie, you ain't ast after my health, an' i'm guessin' i oughter be sicker'n him, wi' that mare o' his. say, jest git right ahead an' fix that bunk fer him, like the daisy gal you are. what about bl--your father, missie?" "never mind father. come along." the man's horse-like attempt at lightness had its effect. the girl pulled herself together. she realized the emergency. she knew that tresler needed her help. arizona's manner had only emphasized the gravity of his case. she ran on ahead, and the other, bearing the unconscious man, followed. "never mind father," arizona muttered doubtfully. "wal, here goes." then he called back to joe: "git around that mare an' sling the saddle on a fresh plug; guess i'll need it." he passed through the kitchen, and stepping into the hall he was startled by the apparition of the blind man standing in the doorway of his bedroom. he was clad in his customary dressing-gown, and his eyes glowed ruddily in the light of the kitchen lamp. "what's this?" he asked sharply. "tresler's bin done up," arizona replied at once. "guess the gang got around willow bluff--god's curse light on 'em!" "hah! and where are you taking him?" "up-sta'rs," was the brief reply. then the cowpuncher bethought him of his duty to his employer. "guess the cattle are safe, fer which you ken thank the sheriff's gang. miss dianny's hustlin' a bunk fer him," he added. in spite of his usual assurance, arizona never felt easy with this man. now the rancher's manner decidedly thawed. "yes, yes," he said gently. "take the poor boy up-stairs. you'd better go for the doctor. you can give me the details afterward." he turned back into his room, and the other passed up the stairs. he laid the sick man on the bed, and pointed out to the girl the bandage on his neck, advising, in his practical fashion, its readjustment. then he went swiftly from the house and rode into forks for doc. osler, the veterinary surgeon, the only available medical man in that part of the country. when diane found herself alone with the man she loved stretched out before her, inert, like one dead, her first inclination was to sit down and weep for him. she could face her own troubles with a certain fortitude, but to see this strong man laid low, perhaps dying, was a different thing, and her womanly weakness was near to overcoming her. but though the unshed tears filled her eyes, her love brought its courage to her aid, and she approached the task arizona had pointed out. with deft fingers she removed the sodden bandage, through which the blood was slowly oozing. the flow, which at once began again, alarmed her, and set her swiftly to work. now she understood as well as arizona did what was amiss. she hurried out to her own room, and returned quickly with materials for rebandaging, and her arms full of clothes. then, with the greatest care, she proceeded to bind up the neck, placing a cork on the artery below the severance. this she strapped down so tightly that, for the time at least, the bleeding was staunched. her object accomplished, she proceeded to dress herself ready for the doctor's coming. she had taken her place at the bedside, and was meditating on what further could be done for her patient, when an event happened on which she had in nowise reckoned. somebody was ascending the stair with the shuffling gait of one feeling his way. it was her father. the first time within her memory that he had visited the upper part of the house. a look of alarm leapt into her eyes as she gazed at the door, watching for his coming, and she realized only too well the possibilities of the situation. what would he say? what would he do? a moment later she was facing him with calm courage. her fears had been stifled by the knowledge of her lover's helplessness. one look at his dear, unconscious form had done for her what nothing else could have done. her filial duty went out like a candle snuffed with wet fingers. there was not even a spark left. julian marbolt stepped across the threshold, and his head slowly moved round as though to ascertain in what direction his daughter was sitting. the oil-lamp seemed to attract his blind attention, and his eyes fixed themselves upon it; but for a moment only. then they passed on until they settled on the girl. "where is he?" he asked coldly. "i can hear you breathing. is he dead?" diane sprang up and bent over her patient. "no," she said, half fearing that her father's inquiry was prophetic. "he is unconscious from loss of blood. arizona----" "tchah! arizona!--i want to talk to you. here, give me your hand and lead me to the bedside. i will sit here. this place is unfamiliar." diane did as she was bid. she was pale. a strained look was in her soft brown eyes, but there was determination in the set of her lips. "what is the matter with you, girl?" her father asked. the softness of his speech in no way disguised the iciness of his manner. "you're shaking." "there's nothing the matter with me," she replied pointedly. "ah, thinking of him." his hand reached out until it rested on one of tresler's legs. his remark seemed to require no answer, and a silence fell while diane watched the eyes so steadily directed upon the sick man. presently he went on. "these men have done well. they have saved the cattle. arizona mentioned the sheriff. i don't know much about it yet, but it seems to me this boy must have contrived their assistance. smart work, if he did so." "yes, father, and brave," added the girl in a low tone. his words had raised hope within her. but with his next he dashed it. "brave? it was his duty," he snapped, resentful immediately. the red eyes were turned upon his daughter, and she fancied she saw something utterly cruel in their painful depths. "you are uncommonly interested," he went on slowly. "i was warned before that he and you were too thick. i told you of it--cautioned you. isn't that sufficient, or have i to----" he left his threat unfinished. a color flushed slowly into diane's cheeks and her eyes sparkled. "no, it isn't sufficient, father. you have no right to stop me speaking to mr. tresler. i have bowed to your decision with regard to the other men on the ranch. there, perhaps, you had a right--a parent's right. but it is different with mr. tresler. he is a gentleman. as for character, you yourself admit it is unimpeachable. then what right have you to refuse to allow me even speech with him? it is absurd, tyrannical; and i refuse to obey you." the frowning brows drew sharply down over the man's eyes. and diane understood the sudden rising of storm behind the mask-like face. she waited with a desperate calmness. it was the moral bravery prompted by her new-born love. but the storm held off, controlled by that indomitable will which made julian marbolt an object of fear to all who came into contact with him. "you are an ungrateful girl, a foolish girl," he said quietly. "you are ungrateful that you refuse to obey me; and foolish, that you think to marry him." diane sprang to her feet. "i--how----" "tut! do not protest. i know you have promised to be his wife. if you denied it you would lie." he sat for a moment enjoying the girl's discomfort. then he went on, with a cruel smile about his lips as she returned to her seat with a movement that was almost a collapse. "that's better," he said, following her action by means of his wonderful instinct. "now let us be sensible--very sensible." his tone had become persuasive, such as might have been used to a child, and the girl wondered what further cruelty it masked. she had not long to wait. "you are going to give up this madness," he said coldly. "you will show yourself amenable to reason--my reason--or i shall enforce my demands in another way." the girl's exasperation was growing with each moment, but she kept silence, waiting for him to finish. "you will never marry this man," he went on, with quiet emphasis. "nor any other man while i live. there is no marriage for you, my girl. there can be no marriage for you. and the more 'unimpeachable' a man's character the less the possibility." "i don't pretend to understand you," diane replied, with a coldness equal to her father's own. "no; perhaps you don't." the man chuckled fiendishly. tears sprang into the girl's eyes. she could no longer check them. and with them came the protest that she was also powerless to withhold. "why may i not marry? why can i not marry? surely i can claim the right of every woman to marry the man of her choice. i know you have no good will for me, father. why, i cannot understand. i have always obeyed you; i have ever striven to do my duty. if there has never been any great affection displayed, it is not my fault. for, ever since i can remember, you have done your best to kill the love i would have given you. how have i been ungrateful? what have i to be grateful for? i cannot remember one single kindness you have ever shown me. you have set up a barrier between me and the world outside this ranch. i am a prisoner here. why? am i so hateful? have i no claims on your toleration? am i not your own flesh and blood?" "no!" the man's answer came with staggering force. it was the bursting of the storm of passion, which even his will could no longer restrain. but it was the whole storm, for he went no further. it was diane who spoke next. her cheeks had assumed an ashen hue, and her lips trembled so that she could scarcely frame her words. "what do you mean?" she gasped. "tut! your crazy obstinacy drives me to it," her father answered impatiently, but with perfect control. "oh, you need have no fear. there is no legal shame to you. but there is that which will hit you harder, i think." "father! what are you saying?" something of the man's meaning was growing upon her. old hints and innuendoes against her mother were recalled by his words. her throat parched while she watched the relentless face of this man who was still her father. "saying? you know the story of my blindness. you know i spent three years visiting nearly every eye-doctor in europe. but what you don't know, and shall know, is that i returned home to jamaica at the end of that time to find myself the father of a three-days'-old baby girl." the man's teeth were clenched, rage and pain distorted his face, rendering his sightless stare a hideous thing. "yes," he went on, but now more to himself, "i returned home to that, and in time to hear the last words your mother uttered in life; in time to feel--feel her death-struggles." he mouthed his words with unmistakable relish, and relapsed into silence. diane fell back with a bitter cry. the cry roused her father. "well?" he continued. "you'll give this man up--now?" for some minutes there was no answer. the girl sat like a statue carved in dead white stone; and the expression of her face was as stony as the mould of her features. her blood was chilled; her brain refused its office; and her heart--it was as though that fount of life lay crushed within her bosom. even the man lying sick on the bed beside her had no meaning for her. "well?" her father demanded impatiently. "you are going to give tresler up now?" she heard him this time. with a rush everything came to her, and a feeling of utter helplessness swept over her. oh, the shame of it! suddenly she flung forward on the bed and sobbed her heart out beside the man she must give up. he had been the one bright ray in the dull gray of her life. his love, come so quickly, so suddenly, to her had leavened the memory of her unloved years. their recollection had been thrust into the background to give place to the sunshine of a precious first love. and now it must all go. there was no other course open to her, she told herself; and in this decision was revealed her father's consummate devilishness. he understood her straightforward pride, if he had no appreciation of it. then, suddenly, there came a feeling of resentment and hatred for the author of her misfortune, and she sat up with the tears only half dry on her cheeks. her father's dead eyes were upon her, and their hateful depths seemed to be searching her. she knew she must submit to his will. he mastered her as he mastered everybody else. "it is not what i will," she said, in a low voice. "i understand; our lives must remain apart." then anger brought harshness into her tone. "i would have given him up of my own accord had i known. i could not have thrust the shame of my birth upon him. but you--you have kept this from me all these years, saving it, in your heartless way, for such a moment as this. why have you told me? why do you keep me at your side? oh, i hate you!" "yes, yes, of course you do," her father said, quite unmoved by her attack. "now you are tasting something--only something--of the bitterness of my life. and it is good that you should. the parent's sins--the children. yes, you certainly can feel----" "for heaven's sake leave me!" the girl broke in, unable to stand the taunting--the hideous enjoyment of the man. "not yet; i haven't done. this man----" the rancher leant over the bed, and one hand felt its way over tresler's body until it rested over his heart. "at one time i was glad he came here. i had reasons. his money was as good as in my pocket. he would have bought stock from me at a goodish profit. now i have changed my mind. i would sacrifice that. it would be better perhaps--perhaps. no, he is not dead yet. but he may die, eh, diane? it would be better were he to die; it would save your explanation to him. yes, let him die. you are not going to marry him. you would not care to see him marry another, as, of course, he will. let him die. love? love? why, it would be kindness to yourselves. yes, let him die." "you--you--wretch!" diane was on her feet, and her eyes blazed down upon the cruel, working face before her. the cry was literally wrung from her. "and that is the man who was ready to give his life for your interests. that is the man whose cleverness and bravery you even praised. you want me to refuse him the trifling aid i can give him. you are a monster! you have parted us, but it is not sufficient; you want his life." she suddenly bent over and seized her father's hand, where it rested upon tresler's heart, and dragged it away. "take your hand off him; don't touch him!" she cried in a frenzy. "you are not----" but she got no further. the lean, sinewy hand had closed over hers, and held them both as in a vice; and the pressure made her cry out. "listen!" he said fiercely. he, too, was standing now, and his tall figure dwarfed hers. "he is to be moved out of here. i will have jake to see to it in the morning. and you shall know what it is to thwart me if you dare to interfere." he abruptly released her hands and turned away; but he shot round again as he heard her reply. "i shall nurse him," she said. "you will not." the girl laughed hysterically. the scene had been too much for her, and she was on the verge of breaking down. "we shall see," she cried after him, as he passed out of the room. the whole ranch was astir when arizona returned with doc. osler. nor did they come alone. fyles had met them on the trail. he had just returned from a fruitless pursuit of the raiders. he had personally endeavored to track red mask, but the rustler had evaded him in the thick bush that lined the river; and his men had been equally unsuccessful with the rest of the band. the hills had been their goal, and they had made it through the excellence of their horses. although the pursuers were well mounted their horses were heavier, and lost ground hopelessly in the midst of the broken land of the foot-hills. jake was closeted with the rancher at the coming of the doctor and his companions; but their confabulation was brought to an abrupt termination at once. the doctor went to the wounded man, who still remained unconscious, while fyles joined the rancher and his foreman in a discussion of the night's doings. and while these things were going on arizona and joe shared the hospitality of the lean-to. the meeting in the rancher's den had not proceeded far when a summons from up-stairs cut it short. diane brought a message from the doctor asking her father and the sheriff to join him. marbolt displayed unusual alacrity, and fyles followed him as he tapped his way up to the sick-room. here the stick was abandoned, and he was led to his seat by his daughter. diane was pale, but alert and determined; while her father wore a gentle look of the utmost concern. the doctor was standing beside the window gazing out over the pastures, but he turned at once as they came in. "a nasty case, mr. marbolt," he said, the moment the rancher had taken up his position. "a very nasty case." he was a brusque little man with a pair of keen black eyes, which he turned on the blind man curiously. "an artery cut by bullet. small artery. your daughter most cleverly stopped bleeding. many thanks to her. patient lost gallons of blood. precarious position--very. no danger from wound now. exhaustion only. should he bleed again--death. but he won't; artery tied up securely. miss marbolt says you desire patient removed to usual quarters. i say no! remove him--artery break afresh--death. sheriff, i order distinctly this man remains where he is. am i right? have i right?" "undoubtedly." then fyles turned upon the blind man. "his orders are your law, mr. marbolt," he said. "and you, of course, will be held responsible for any violation of them." the blind man nodded in acquiescence. "good," said the doctor, rubbing his hands. "nothing more for me now. return to-morrow. miss marbolt, admirable nurse. wish i was patient. he will be about again in two weeks. artery small. health good--young. oh, yes, no fear. only exhaustion. hope you catch villains. good-morning. might have severed jugular--near shave." doc. osler bowed to the girl and passed out muttering, "capital nurse--beautiful." his departure brought the rancher to his feet, and he groped his way to the door. as he passed his daughter he paused and gently patted her on the back. "ah, child," he said, with a world of tolerant kindness in his voice, "i still think you are wrong. he would have been far better in his own quarters, his familiar surroundings, and amongst his friends. you are quite inexperienced, and these men understand bullet wounds as well as any doctor. however, have your way. i hope you won't have cause to regret it." "all right, father," diane replied, without turning her eyes from the contemplation of her sick lover. and fyles, standing at the foot of the bed watching the scene, speculated shrewdly as to the relations in which the girl and her patient stood, and the possible parental disapproval of the same. certainly he had no idea of the matters which had led up to the necessity for his official services to enforce the doctor's orders. chapter xvii the lighted lamp diane was by no means satisfied with her small victory. she had gained her point, it is true, but she had gained it by means which gave no promise of a happy outcome to her purpose. left alone with her patient she had little to do but reflect on her position, and her thoughts brought her many a sigh, much heart-racking and anxiety. for herself she allowed little thought. her mind was made up as to her future. her love was to be snatched away while yet the first sweet glamour of it was upon her. every hope, every little castle she had raised in her maiden thoughts, had been ruthlessly shattered, and the outlook of her future was one dull gray vista of hopelessness. it was the old order accentuated, and the pain of it gripped her heart with every moment she gave to its contemplation. happily the life she had lived had strengthened her; she was not the girl to weep at every ill that befell. the first shock had driven her to tears, but that had passed. she was of a nature that can suffer bravely, and face the world dry-eyed, gently, keeping the bitterness of her lot to herself, and hiding her own pain under an earnest attempt to help others. tresler was her all; and that all meant far more than mere earthly love. to her he was something that must be cherished as a priceless gem entrusted to her care, and his honor was more sacred to her than her own. therefore all personal considerations must be passed over, and she must give him up. but if his honor was safe in her keeping, his personal safety was another matter. in pitting herself against her father's will she fully realized the danger she was incurring. therefore she racked her sorely taxed brain for the best means of safeguarding her charge. she hardly knew what she feared. there was no real danger she could think of, but her instinct warned her to watchfulness, to be prepared for anything. she felt sure that her father would seek some means of circumventing the sheriff's mandate. what form would his attempt take? after half an hour's hard thinking she made up her mind to consult her wise old counselor, joe, and enlist his aid. with this object in view she went down-stairs and visited the lean-to. here she found both arizona and joe. arizona was waiting a summons from the rancher, who was still busy with jake and fyles. at first she thought of consulting her adviser privately, but finally decided to take both men into her confidence; and this the more readily since she knew her lover's liking for the hot-headed cowpuncher. both men stood up as she entered. arizona dragged his slouch hat off with clumsy haste. "boys," the girl said at once, "i've come to ask you for a little help." [illustration: left alone with her patient she had little to do but reflect] "makes me glad, missie," said the cowpuncher, with alacrity. joe contented himself with an upward glance of inquiry. diane nodded with an assumption of brightness. "well, it's this," she said. "jack mustn't be left for the next few days. now, i am his nurse, but i have household duties to perform and shall be forced to leave him at times. you, arizona, won't be able to do anything in the daytime, because you are occupied on the ranch. but i thought you, joe, could help me by being in the kitchen as much as possible. you see, in the kitchen you can hear the least sound coming from up-stairs. the room is directly overhead. in that way i shall be free to do my house." "guess you had trouble fixin' him up-stairs?" joe inquired slowly. "doc. osler wus sayin' somethin' 'fore he went." diane turned away. the shrewd old eyes were reading her like a book. "yes, father wanted him put in the bunkhouse." "ah." joe's twisted face took on a curious look. "yes, i guess i ken do that. what's to happen o' night time?" "oh, i can sit up with him. the night is all right," the girl returned easily. "guess we'd best take it turn about like," joe suggested. "no, it wouldn't do." "guess it wouldn't do. that's so," the other observed thoughtfully. "howsum, i ken set around the kitchen o' nights. i shan't need no lights. y' see, wi' the door open right into the hall ther' ain't no sound but what i'll hear." the man's meaning was plain enough, but the girl would not take it. "no," she said, "it's in the daytime i want you." "daytime? i guess that's fixed." joe looked up dissatisfied. at this juncture arizona broke in with a scheme for his own usefulness. "say, missie, any time o' night you jest tap hard on that windy i'll know you want the doc. fetchin'. an' i'll come right along up an' git orders. i'll be waitin' around." the girl looked him squarely in the eyes, seeking the meaning that lay behind his words. but the man's expression was sphinx-like. she felt that these rough creatures, instead of acting as advisers, had assumed the responsibilities she had only asked their assistance in. "you are good fellows both. i can't thank you; but you've taken a weight off my mind." "ther' ain't no thanks, missie. i figger as a doc. is an a'mighty ne'sary thing when a feller's sick," observed arizona, quietly. "spec'ally at night time," put in joe, seriously. "i'll get back to my patient," diane said abruptly. and as she flitted away to the house the men heard the heavy tread of jake coming round the lean-to, and understood the hastiness of her retreat. the next minute the foreman had summoned arizona to the rancher's presence. diane had done well to enlist the help of these men. without some aid it would have been impossible to look after tresler. she feared her father, as well she might. what would be easier than for him to get her out of the way, and then have jake deport her patient to the bunkhouse? doc. osler's threats of life or death had been exaggerated to help her carry her point, she knew, and, also, she fully realized that her father understood this was so. he was not the man to be scared of any bogey like that. besides, his parting words, so gentle, so kindly; she had grown to distrust him most in his gentler moods. all that day, assisted by joe, she watched at the sickbed. tresler was never left for long; and when it was absolutely necessary to leave him joe's sharp ears were straining for any alarming sound, and, unauthorized by diane, his eyes were on the hallway, watching the rancher's bedroom door. he had no compunction in admitting his fears to himself. he had wormed the whole story of the rancher's anger at tresler's presence in the house from his young mistress, and, also, he understood that diane's engagement to her patient was known to her father. therefore his lynx eyes never closed, his keen ears were ever strained, and he moved about with a gun in his hip-pocket. he didn't know what might happen, but his movements conveyed his opinion of the man with whom they had to deal. arizona had been despatched with fyles to willow bluff. there were wounded men there to be identified, and the officer wanted his aid in examining the battlefield. "but he'll git around to-night," joe had said, after bringing the news to diane. "sure--sure as pinewood breeds bugs." and the girl was satisfied. the day wore on, and night brought no fresh anxiety. diane was at her post, joe was alert, and though no one had heard of arizona's return, twice, in the small hours, the choreman heard a footfall outside his lean-to, and he made a shrewd guess as to whose it was. the second and third day passed satisfactorily, but still tresler displayed no sign of life. he lay on the bed just as he had been originally placed there. each day the brusque little doctor drove out from forks, and each day he went back leaving little encouragement behind him. before he went away, after his third visit, he shook his head gravely in response to the nurse's eager inquiries. "he's got to get busy soon," he said, as he returned his liniments and medical stores to his bag. "don't like it. bad--very bad. nature exhausting. he must rouse soon--or death. three days----tut, tut! still no sign. cheer up, nurse. give him three more. then drastic treatment. won't come till he wakes--no use. send for me. good girl. stick to it. sorry. good-bye." and patting diane on the back the man bustled out in his jerky fashion, leaving her weeping over the verdict he had left behind. it was the strain of watching that had unnerved her. she was bodily and mentally weary. her eyes and head ached with the seemingly endless vigil. three days and nights and barely six hours' sleep over all, and those only snatched at broken intervals. and now another night confronted her. so overwrought was she that she even thought of seeking the aid old joe had proffered. she thought quite seriously of it for some moments. could she not smuggle him up-stairs after her father had had his supper and retired to his bedroom? she had no idea that joe had, secretly, spent almost as much time on the watch as she had done. however, she came to no actual decision, and went wearily down and prepared the evening meal. she waited on the blind man in her usual patient, silent manner, and afterward went back to the kitchen and prepared to face the long dreary night. joe was finishing the washing-up. he was longer over it than usual, though he had acquired a wonderful proficiency in his culinary duties since he was first employed on the ranch. diane paid little heed to him, and as soon as her share of the work was finished, prepared to retire up-stairs. "there's just the sweeping up, joe," she said. "when you've finished that we are through. i must go up to him." joe glanced round from his washing-trough, but went on with his work. "he ain't showed no sign, miss dianny?" he asked eagerly. "no, joe." the girl spoke almost in a whisper, leaning against the table with a deep sigh of weariness. "say, miss dianny," the little man suggested softly, "that doc. feller said mebbe he'd give him three days. it's a real long spell. seems to me you'll need to be up an' around come that time." "oh, i shall be 'up and around,' joe." the grizzled old head shook doubtfully, and he moved away from his trough, drying his hands, and came over to where she was standing. "say, i jest can't sleep noways. i'm like that, i guess. i git spells. i wus kind o' thinkin' mebbe i'd set around like. a good night's slep 'ud fix you right. i've heerd tell as folks kind o' influences their patiences some. you bein' tired, an' sleppy, an' miser'ble, now mebbe that's jest wot's keppin' him back----" diane shook her head. she saw through his round-about subterfuge, and its kindliness touched her. "no, no, joe," she said almost tenderly. "not on your life. you would give me your last crust if you were starving. you are doing all, and more than any one else would do for me, and i will accept nothing further." "you're figgerin' wrong," he retorted quite harshly. "'tain't fer you. no, no, it's fer him. y' see we're kind o' dependin' on him, arizona an' me----" "what for?" the girl asked quietly. "wal, y' see--wal--it's like this. he's goin' to be a rancher. yes, don't y' see?" he asked, with a pitiful attempt at a knowing leer. "no, i don't." "say, mebbe arizona an' me'll git a nice little job--a nice little job. eh?" "you are talking nonsense, and you know it." "eh? what?" the little man stood abashed at the girl's tone. "you're only saying all this to get me to sleep to-night, instead of sitting up. well, i'm not going to. you thinking of mercenary things like that. oh, joe, it's almost funny." joe's face flushed as far as it was capable of flushing. "wal," he said, "i jest thought ther' wa'n't no use in two o' us settin' up." "nor is there. i'm going to do it. you've made me feel quite fresh with your silly talk." "ah, mebbe. guess i'll swep up." diane took the hint and went up-stairs, her eyes brimming with tears. in her present state of unhappiness joe's utter unselfishness was more than she could bear. she took her place at the bedside, determined to sit there as long as she could keep awake, afterward she would adopt a "sentry-go" in the passage. for an hour she battled with sleep. she kept her eyes open, but her senses were dull and she passed the time in a sort of dream, a nasty, fanciful dream, in which tresler was lying dead on the bed beside her, and she was going through the agony of realization. she was mourning him, living on in the dreary round of her life under her father's roof, listening to his daily sneers, and submitting to his studied cruelties. no doubt this waking dream would have continued until real sleep had stolen upon her unawares, but, after an hour, something occurred to fully arouse her. there was a distinct movement on the bed. tresler had suddenly drawn up one arm, which, almost immediately, fell again on the coverlet, as though the spasmodic movement had been uncontrolled by any power either mental or physical. she was on her feet in an instant, bending over him ready to administer the drugs doc. osler had left with her. and by the light of the shaded lamp she saw a distinct change in the pallor of his face. it was no longer death-like; there was a tinge of life, however faint, in the drawn features. and as she beheld it she could have cried aloud in her joy. she administered the restoratives and returned to her seat with a fast-beating heart. and suddenly she remembered with alarm how near sleep she had been. she rose abruptly and began to pace the room. the moment was a critical one. her lover might regain consciousness at any time. and with this thought came an access of caution. she went out on the landing and looked at the head of the stairs. then she crept back. an inspiration had come to her. she would barricade the approach, and though even to herself she did not admit the thought, it was the recollection of her father's blindness that prompted her. taking two chairs she propped them at the head of the stairs in such a position that the least accidental touch would topple them headlong. the scheme appealed to her. then, dreading sleep more than ever, she took up her "sentry-go" on the landing, glancing in at the sick-room at every turn in her walk. the hours dragged wearily on. tresler gave no further sign. it was after midnight, and the girl's eyes refused to keep open any longer; added to which she frequently stumbled as she paced to and fro. in desperation she fetched the lamp from the sick-room and passed into her own, and bathed her face in cold water. then she busied herself with tidying the place up. anything to keep herself awake. after a while, feeling better, she sat on the edge of her bed to rest. it was a fatal mistake. her eyes closed against all effort of will. she was helpless. nothing could have stopped her. exhausted nature claimed her--and she slept. and tresler was rousing. his constitution had asserted itself, and the restorative diane had administered was doing the rest. he moved several times, but as yet his strength was insufficient to rouse him to full consciousness. he lay there with his brain struggling against his overwhelming weakness. thought was hard at work with the mistiness of dreaming. he was half aware that he was stretched out upon a bed, yet it seemed to him that he was bound down with fetters of iron, which resisted his wildest efforts to break. it seemed to him that he was struggling fiercely, and that jake was looking on mocking him. at last, utterly weary and exhausted he gave up trying and called upon arizona. he shouted loudly, but he could not hear his own voice; he shouted again and again, raising his screams to a fearful pitch, but still no sound came. then he thought that jake went away, and he was left utterly alone. he lay quite still waiting, and presently he realized that he was stretched out on the prairie, staked down to the ground by shackles securing his hands and feet; and the moon was shining, and he could hear the distant sound of the coyotes and prairie dogs. this brought him to a full understanding. his enemies had done this thing so that he should be eaten alive by the starving scavengers of the prairie. he pondered long; wondering, as the cries of the coyotes drew nearer, how long it would be before the first of the loathsome creatures would attack him. now he could see their forms in the moonlight. they came slowly, slowly. one much bigger than the rest was leading; and as the creature drew near he saw that it had the face of the rancher, whose blind eyes shone out like two coals of fire in the moonlight. it reared itself on its hind legs, and to his utter astonishment, as this man-wolf stood gazing down upon him, he saw that it was wearing the dressing-gown in which the rancher always appeared. it was a weird apparition, and the shackled man felt the force of those savage, glowing eyes, gazing so cruelly into his. but there could be no resistance, he was utterly at the creature's mercy. he saw the gleaming teeth bared in anticipation of the meal awaiting it, but, with wolf-like cunning, it dissembled. it moved around, gazing in every direction to see that the coast was clear, it paused and stood listening; then it came on. now it was standing near him, and he could feel the warmth of its reeking breath blowing on his face. lower drooped its head, and its front feet, which he recognized as hands, were placed upon his neck. then a faint and distant voice reached him, and he knew that this man-wolf was speaking. "so you'd marry her," it said. "you! but we'll take no chances--no chances. i could tear your throat out, but i won't; no, i won't do that. a little blood--just a little." and then the dreaming man felt the fingers moving about his throat. they felt cold and clammy, and the night air chilled him. then came a change, one of those fantastic changes which dreamland loves, and which drives the dreamer, even in his sleeping thought, nearly distracted. the dark vista of the prairie suddenly lit. a great light shone over all, and the dreaming man could see nothing but the light--that, and the wolf-man. the ghoulish creature stood its ground. the fingers were still at his throat, but now they moved uncertainly, groping. there was no longer the deliberate movement of set purpose. it was as though the light had blinded the cruel scavenger, that its purpose was foiled through its power of vision being suddenly destroyed. it was a breathless moment in the dream. but the tension quickly relaxed. the hands were drawn abruptly away. the wolf-man stood erect again, and the dreamer heard it addressing the light. the words were gentle, in contrast with the manner in which it had spoken to him, and the softness of its tones held him fascinated. "he's better, eh? coming round," he said. and somehow the dreamer thought that he laughed, and the invisible coyotes laughed with him. a brief silence followed, which was ultimately broken by another voice. it was a voice from out of the light, and its tones were a gasp of astonishment and alarm. "what are you doing here, father?" the voice asked. there was a strange familiarity in the tones, and the dreamer struggled for recollection; but before it came to him the voice went on with a wild exclamation of horror. "father! the bandage!" the dreamer wondered; and something drew his attention to the wolf-man. he saw that the creature was eyeing the light with ferocious purpose in its expression. it was all so real that he felt a wild thrill of excitement as he watched for what was to happen. but the voice out of the light again spoke, and he found himself listening. "go!" it said in a tone of command, and thrilling with horror and indignation. "go! or--no, dare to lay a hand on me, and i'll dash the lamp in your face! go now! or i will summon help. it is at hand, below. and armed help." there was a pause. the wolf-man stared at the light with villainous eyes, but the contemplated attack was not forthcoming. the creature muttered something which the dreamer lost. then it moved away; not as it had come, but groping its way blindly. a moment later the light went out too, the cries of the coyotes were hushed, and the moon shone down on the scene as before. and the dreamer, still feeling himself imprisoned, watched the great yellow globe until it disappeared below the horizon. then, as the darkness closed over him, he seemed to sleep, for the scene died out and recollection faded away. chapter xviii the renunciation the early morning sun was streaming in through the window of the sick man's room when tresler at last awoke to consciousness. and, curiously enough, more than half an hour passed before diane became aware of the change in her patient. and yet she was wide awake too. sleep had never been further from her eyes, and her mind never more alert. but for the first time since tresler had been brought in wounded, his condition was no longer first in her thoughts. something occupied her at the moment of his waking to the exclusion of all else. the man lay like a log. his eyes were staring up at the ceiling; he made no movement, and though perfect consciousness had come to him there was no interest with it, no inquiry. he accepted his position like an infant waking from its healthy night-long slumber. truth to tell, his weakness held him prisoner, sapping all natural inclination from mind and body. all his awakening brought him was a hazy, indifferent recollection of a bad dream; that, and a background of the events at willow bluff. if the man were suffering from a bad dream, the girl's expression suggested the terrible reality of her thought. there was something worse than horror in her eyes, in the puckering of her brows, in the nervous compression of her lips. there was a blending of terror and bewilderment in the brown depths that contemplated the wall before her, and every now and then her pretty figure moved with a palpable shudder. her thoughts were reviewing feverishly scenes similar to those in her patient's dream, only with her they were terrible realities which she had witnessed only a few hours before in that very room. at that moment she would have given her life to have been able to call them dreams. her lover's life had been attempted by the inhuman process of reopening his wound. should she ever forget the dreadful scene? never! not once, but time and again her brain pictured each detail with a distinctness that was in the nature of physical pain. from the moment she awoke, which had been unaccountable to her, to find herself still propped against the foot-rail of her bed, to the finish of the dastardly scene in the sick-room was a living nightmare. she remembered the start with which she had opened her eyes. as far as she knew she had heard nothing; nothing had disturbed her. and yet she found herself sitting bolt upright, awake, listening, intent. then her rush to the lamp. her guilty feelings. the unconscious stealth of her tiptoeing to the landing outside. her horror at the discovery that her obstruction to the staircase had been removed, and the chairs, as though to mock the puerility of her scheming, set in orderly fashion, side by side against the wall to make way for the midnight intruder. the closed door of the sick-room, which yielded to her touch and revealed the apparition of her father bending over her lover, and, with no uncertainty of movement, removing the bandage from the wounded neck. the terror of it all remained. so long as she lived she could never forget one single detail of it. even now, though hours had passed since these things had happened, the nervousness with which she had finally approached the task of readjusting the bandage still possessed her. and even the thankfulness with which she discovered that the intended injury had been frustrated was inadequate to bring her more than a passing satisfaction. she shuddered, and nervously turned to her patient. then it was that she became aware of his return to life. "jack! oh, thank god!" she murmured softly. and the sound of the well-loved voice roused the patient's interest in the things about him. "where am i?" he asked, in a weak whisper, turning his eyes to the face so anxiously regarding him. but diane's troubles had been lifted from her shoulders for the moment and the nurse was uppermost once more. she signed to him to keep quiet while she administered the doses doc. osler had prepared for him. then she answered his question. "you are in the room adjoining mine," she said quietly. her woman's instinct warned her that no more reassuring information could be given him. and the result justified it. he smiled faintly, and, in a few moments, his eyes closed again and he slept. then the girl set about her work in earnest. she hurried down-stairs and communicated the good news to joe. she went in search of jake, to have a man despatched for the doctor. for the time at least all her troubles were forgotten in her thankfulness at her lover's return to life. somehow, as she passed out of the house, the very sunlight seemed to rejoice with her; the old familiar buildings had something friendly in their bald, unyielding aspect. even the hideous corrals looked less like the prisons they were, and the branding forges less cruel. but greatest wonder of all was the attitude of jake when she put her request before him. the giant smiled upon her and granted it without demur. and, in her gladness, the simple child smiled back her heartfelt thanks. but her smile was short-lived, and her thanks were premature. "i'm pretty nigh glad that feller's mendin'," jake said. "say, he's a man, that feller." he turned his eyes away and avoided her smiling gaze, and continued in a tone he tried to make regretful. "guess i was gettin' to feel mean about him. we haven't hit it exac'ly. i allow it's mostly temper between us. howsum, i guess it can't be helped now--now he's goin'." "going?" the girl inquired. but she knew he would be going, only she wondered what jake meant. "sure," the foreman said, with a sudden return to his usual manner. "say, your father's up against him good and hot. i've seen julian marbolt mad--madder'n hell; but i ain't never seen him jest as mad as he is against your beau. when tresler gits right he's got to quit--quick. i've been wonderin' what's fixed your father like that. guess you ain't been crazy enough to tell him that tresler's been sparkin' you?" the girl's smile died out, and her pretty eyes assumed a look of stony contempt as she answered with spirit. and jake listened to her reply with a smile on his bold face that in no wise concealed his desire to hurt her. "whatever happens mr. tresler doesn't leave our house until doc. osler gives the word. perhaps it will do you good to further understand that the doctor will not give that word until i choose." "you're a silly wench!" jake exclaimed angrily. then he became scornful. "i don't care that much for tresler, now." nevertheless he gave a vicious snap with his fingers as he flicked them in the air. "i wish him well enough. i have reason to. let him stay as long as you can keep him. yes, go right ahead an' dose him, an' physic him; an' when he's well he's goin', sure. an' when he's out of the way maybe you'll see the advantage o' marryin' me. how's that, heh? there, there," he went on tauntingly, as he saw the flushing face before him, and the angry eyes, "don't get huffed, though i don't know but what you're a daisy-lookin' wench when you're huffed. get right ahead, milady, an' fix the boy up. guess it's all you'll ever do for him." diane had fled before the last words came. she had to, or she would have struck the man. she knew, only too well, how right he was about tresler; but this cruelty was unbearable, and she went back to the sick-room utterly bereft of the last shadow of the happiness she had left it with. the doctor came, and brought with him a measure of comfort. he told her there was nothing to be considered now but the patient's weakness, and the cleansing of the wound. in his abrupt manner he suggested a diet, and ordered certain physic, and finally departed, telling her that as her room adjoined her patient's there would be no further need of sitting up at night. and so three weeks passed; three weeks of rapid convalescence for tresler, if they were spent very much otherwise by many of the settlers in the district. truth to tell, it was the stormiest time that the country had ever known. the check the night-riders had received at willow bluff had apparently sent them crazy for revenge, which they proceeded to take in a wholly characteristic manner. hitherto their depredations had been comparatively far apart, considerable intervals elapsing between them, but now four raids occurred one after the other. the police were utterly defied; cattle were driven off, and their defenders shot down without mercy. these monsters worked their will whithersoever they chose. the sheriff brought reinforcements up, but with no other effect than to rouse the discontent of the ranchers at their utter failure. it seemed as though the acts of these rustlers was a direct challenge to all authority. a reign of terror set in, and settlers, who had been in the country for years, declared their intention of getting out, and seeking a place where, if they had to pay more for their land, they would at least find protection for life and property. such was the position when tresler found himself allowed to move about his room, and sit in a comfortable armchair in the delightful sunlight at his open window. nor was he kept in ignorance of the doings of the raiders. diane and he discussed them ardently. but she was careful to keep him in ignorance of everything concerning herself and her father. he knew nothing of the latter's objection to his presence in the house, and he knew nothing of the blind man's threats, or that fearful attack he had perpetrated in one of his fits of mad passion. these days, so delightful to them both, so brimful of happiness for him, so fraught with such a blending of pain and sweetness for her, had stolen along almost uncounted, unheeded. but like all such overshadowed delights, their end came swiftly, ruthlessly. the signal was given at the midday meal. the rancher, who had never mentioned tresler's name since that memorable night, rose from the table to retire to his room. at the door he paused and turned. "that man, tresler," he said, in his smooth, even tones. "he's well enough to go to the bunkhouse. see to it." and he left the girl crushed and helpless. it had come at last. she knew that she could keep her lover no longer at her side. even doc. osler could not help her, and, besides, if she refused to obey, her father would not have the slightest compunction in attending to the matter in his own way. so it was with a heavy heart she took herself up-stairs for the afternoon. this _tête-à-tête_ had become their custom every day; she with her sewing, and the sick man luxuriating in a pipe. tresler was still bandaged, but it was only lightly, for the wound was almost healed. the girl took up her position as usual, and tresler moved his chair over beside the little table she laid her work on, and sat facing her. he loved to gaze upon the sad little face. he loved to say things to her that would rouse it from its serious caste, and show him the shadows dispelled, and the pretty smile wreathing itself in their stead. and he had found it so easy too. the simplicity, the honesty, the single-mindedness of this prairie flower made her more than susceptible to girlish happiness, even amidst her troublous surroundings. but he knew that these moments were all too passing, that to make them enduring he must somehow contrive to get her away from that world of brutality to a place where she could bask, surrounded by love and the sunshine of a happy home. and during the days of his convalescence he planned and plotted for the consummation of his hopes. but he found her more difficult to-day. the eyes were a shade more sad, and the smile would not come to banish the shadows. the sweet mouth, too, always drooping slightly at the corners, seemed to droop more than usual to-day. he tried, in vain, every topic that he thought would interest her, but at last himself began to experience the depression that seemed to weigh so desperately on her. and strangely enough this dispiriting influence conjured up in his mind a morbid memory, that until then had utterly escaped him. it was the dream he had the night before his awakening. and almost unconsciously he spoke of it. "you remember the day i woke to find myself here, danny?" he said. "it just occurs to me now that i wasn't unconscious all the time before. i distinctly remember dreaming. perhaps i was only asleep." the girl shook her head. "you were more than asleep," she said portentously. "anyhow, i distinctly remember a dream i had. i should say it was 'nightmare.' it was about your father. he'd got me by the throat, and--what's the matter?" diane started, and, to tresler's alarm, looked like fainting; but she recovered at once. "nothing," she said, "only--only i can't bear to think of that time, and then--then--father strangling you! don't think of your dream. let's talk of something else." tresler's alarm abated at once; he laughed softly and leant forward and kissed her. "our future--our little home. eh, dearest?" he suggested tenderly. she returned his embrace and made a pitiful attempt to smile back into the eyes which looked so eagerly into hers. and now, for the first time, her lover began to understand that there really was something amiss with her. it was that look, so wistful, so appealing, that roused his apprehension. he pressed her to tell him her trouble, until, for sheer misery, she could keep it from him no longer. "it's nothing," she faltered, with trembling lips. watching her face with a lover's jealousy he kept silence, for he knew that her first words were only her woman's preliminary to something she considered serious. "jack," she said presently, settling all her attention upon her work, "you've never asked me anything about myself. isn't that unusual? perhaps you are not interested, or perhaps"--her head bent lower over her work--"you, with your generous heart, are ready to take me on trust. however," she went on, before he could interrupt her, "i intend to tell you what you refuse to ask. no," as he leant forward and kissed her again, "now sit up and light your pipe. there are to be no interruptions like that." she smiled wistfully and gently pushed him back into his chair. "now," she began, as he settled himself to listen, "i must go back such a long, long way. before i was born. father was a sea captain then. first the captain of a whaler, afterward he bought a ship of his own and traded round the east indies. he often used to talk of those days, not because he had any desire to tell me of them, but it seemed to relieve him when he was in a bad temper. i don't know what his trade was, but i think it was of an exciting nature. he often spoke of the risks, which, he said, were amply compensated by the money he made." tresler smiled gravely. "and father must have made a lot of money at that time, for he married mother, bought himself a fine house and lands just outside kingston, in jamaica, and, i believe, he kept a whole army of black servants. yes, and he has told me, not once, but a hundred times, that he dates all his misfortunes from the day he married my mother, which always seems unfair to her anyway. somehow i can never think of father as ever having been a kind man, and i've no doubt that poor mother had anything but an easy time of it with him. however, it is not for me to criticize." she paused, but went on almost immediately. "let me see, it was directly after the honeymoon that he went away on his last trading trip. he was to call at java. jake was his mate, you know, and they were expecting to return in six months' time with a rich harvest of what he calls 'black ivory.' i think it was some native manufacture, because he had to call at the native villages. he told me so. but the trip was abandoned after three weeks at sea. father was stricken down with yellow fever. and from that day to this he has never seen the light of day." the girl pushed her work aside and went on drearily. "when he recovered from the fever he was brought home, as he said himself, 'a blind hulk.' mother nursed him back to health and strength, but she could not restore his sight. i am telling you these things just as i have gleaned them from him at such moments as he chose to be communicative. i imagine, too, from the little things he sometimes let fall when he was angry, that all this time he lived in a state of impotent fury against all the world, against god, but particularly against the one person to whom he should have been most grateful--mother. all his friends deserted him in consequence of his bitter temper--all, that is, except jake. at last in desperation, he conceived the idea of going to europe. at first mother was going with him, but though he was well able to afford the additional expense he begrudged it, and, changing his mind, decided to go alone. he sold his ship, settled his affairs, and went off, and for three years he traveled round europe, visiting every eye-doctor of note in all the big capitals. but it was all no good, and he returned even more soured than he went away. it was during his absence that i was born." again diane paused. this time it was some moments before she proceeded. "to add to his troubles," she at last resumed, in a low tone, "mother was seriously ill when he got back, and, the day of his return, died in his presence. after that, whatever his disposition was before, it seems to have become a thousand times worse. and when he is angry now he takes a painful delight in discussing the hatred and abhorrence all the people of kingston held him in, and the hatred and abhorrence he returns to mankind in general. by his own accounts he must have been terrible. however, this has nothing to do with our history. personally, i remember nothing but this ranch, but i understand that he tried to resume his old trade in the indies. for some reason this failed him; trouble occurred, and he gave it up for good, and came out to this country and settled here. again, to quote his words, 'away from men and things that drove him distracted.' that," she finished up, "is a brief sketch of our history." "and just such a story as i should imagine your father had behind him. a most unhappy one," tresler observed quietly. but he was marveling at the innocence of this child who failed to realize the meaning of "black ivory." for a little while there was a silence between them, and both sat staring out of the window. at last diane turned, and when she spoke again there was an ominous quivering of the lips. "jack," she said, "i have not told you this without a purpose." "no, i gathered that, dear," he returned. "and this profound purpose?" he questioned, smiling. her answer was a long time in coming. what she had to do was so hard. "father doesn't like you," she said at last in desperation. tresler put his pipe aside. "it doesn't seem to me he likes anybody very much, unless it's jake. and i wouldn't bet a pile on the affection between them." "he likes jake better than anybody else. at least he trusts him." "which is a fair equivalent in his case. but what makes you think he dislikes me more than most people?" "you remember that night in the kitchen, when you asked me to----" "marry? yes. could i ever forget it?" tresler had taken possession of one of the small hands lying in the girl's lap, but she gently withdrew it. "i was weeping, and--and you saw the bruises on my arms. father disapproved of my talking to you----" "ah! i understand." and he added, under his breath, "the brute!" "he says i must give you up." tresler was looking straight before him at the window. now he turned slowly and faced her. his expression conveyed nothing. "and you?" "oh, it is so hard!" diane burst out, in distress. "and you make it harder. yes," she went on miserably, "i have to give you up. i must not marry you--dare not----" "dare not?" the question came without the movement of a muscle. "yes, he says so. oh, don't you see? he is blind, and i--i am his only--oh, what am i saying?" tresler shook his head. "i'm afraid you are saying a lot of--nonsense, little woman. and what is more, it is a lot of nonsense i am not going to take seriously. do i understand that you are going to throw me over simply because he tells you to?" "not only because of that." "who told him about us?" "i don't know." "never mind. perhaps i can guess. you have grown tired of me already?" "you know i haven't, jack." diane put out a hand and gently laid it on one of his. but his remained unresponsive. this sudden awakening from his dream of love had more than startled him. it had left him feeling resentful against somebody or something; at present he was not sure who or what. but he meant to have it out, cost what it might. "that's all right, then," he said. "now, tell me this other reason." suddenly he leant forward and looked down into her eyes. his hands, now thin and delicate, held hers tightly in a passionate clasp, and his face was alight with the truth and sincerity of his love. "remember," he said, "this is no child's play, danny. i am not the man to give you up easily. i am weak, i know; but i've still got a fight in me, and so long as i am assured of your love, i swear nothing shall part us. i love you as i have never loved anybody in my life--and i just want only you. now tell me this other reason, dear." but diane still hesitated. her evident distress wrung her lover's heart. he realized now that there was something very serious behind it all. he had never beheld anything so pitiful as the look with which she turned toward him, and further tried to put him off. "father says you are to leave this house to-day. afterward you will be turned off the ranch. it is only through the sheriff backing the doctor's orders that you were not turned out of here before." tresler made no response for a moment. then he burst out into a hard, mirthless laugh. "so!" he exclaimed, his laugh dying abruptly. "listen to me. your father can turn me out of this house--though i'll save him that trouble--but he can't turn me off this ranch. my residence here is bought and paid for for three years. the agreement is signed and sealed. no, no, let him try another bluff." then his manner changed to one of gentle persuasion. "but you have not come to the real reason, little one. out with it. it is a bitter plum, i can tell. something which makes you dread not only its consequences, but--something else. tell it me, danny. whatever it is you may be sure of me. my love for you is unalterable. believe me, nothing shall come between us." his voice was infinitely tender, and its effect on diane was to set two great tears rolling down her cheeks as she listened. he had driven her to a corner, and there was no escape. but even so she made one more effort to avoid her shameful disclosure. "will--will you not take me at my word, jack?" she asked imploringly. "not in this, dearest," he replied. he spoke inexorably, but with such a world of love in his voice that the long-pent tears came with a rush. he let her weep. he felt it would do her good. and, after a while, when her sobs had ceased, he urged her again. "tell me," he whispered. "i----" the man waited with wonderful patience. "oh, don't--don't make me!" she cried. "yes, i must." and at last her answer came in the faintest of whispers. "i--i--father is--is only my legal father. he was away three years. i was born three days before he returned." "well, well." tresler sat quite still for a moment while the simple girl sat cowering under the weight of her mother's shame. then he suddenly reached out and caught her in his arms. "why, danny," he cried, pressing her to him, "i never felt so happy over anything in my life as the fact that julian marbolt is not your father." "but the shame of it!" cried the girl, imagining that her lover had not fully understood. "shame? shame?" he cried, holding her still tighter in his arms. "never let me hear that word on your lips again. you are the truest, sweetest, simplest child in the world. you are mine, danny. my very own. and i tell you right here that i've won you and will hold you to my last dying day." now she was kneeling beside him with her face pillowed on his breast, sobbing in the joy of her relief and happiness. and tresler kissed her softly, pressing his cheek many times against the silky curls that wreathed about her head. then, after a while, he sat looking out of the window with a hard, unyielding stare. weak as he was, he was ready to do battle with all his might for this child nestling so trustfully in his arms. chapter xix hot upon the trail the most welcome thing that had happened to the men on the ranch for many a long day was tresler's return to the bunkhouse. he was hailed with acclamation. though he had found it hard to part with diane under the doubtful circumstances, there was some compensation, certainly gratification, in the whole-hearted welcome of his rough comrades. it was not the effusion they displayed, but the deliberateness of their reception of him, that indexed their true feelings. teddy jinks refused to serve out the supper hash until tresler had all he required. lew cawley washed out a plate for him, as a special favor; and raw harris, pessimist as he was, and who had a way of displaying the fact in all the little every-day matters of life, cleaned and sharpened a knife for him by prodding it up to the hilt in the hard-beaten earth, and cleaned the prongs of a fork with the edge of his buckskin shirt. but he could not thus outrage his principles without excusing himself, which he did, to the effect that he guessed "invalid fellers need onusual feedin'." jacob smith, whose habit it was to take his evening meals seated at the foot of the upright log which served as part of the door casing, and which contact with his broad, buckskin-covered shoulders had polished till it shone resplendently, renounced his coveted position in the invalid's favor. tresler was a guest of honor, for whom, on this one occasion at least, nothing was too good. and in this position arizona supported him, cursing the flies that fell into his friend's pannikin of tea, and hooking them out with the point of his hash-besmeared knife as he sat on his log beside him. joe, too, had come down specially to share the meal, but he, being a member of the household, was very small fry at the bunkhouse. and tresler delighted in the kindness thus showered on him. the freedom from the sick-room did him good; the air was good to breathe, the plain, wholesome food was good; but most of all those bronzed, tough faces around him seemed to put new life and vigor into his enfeebled frame. he realized that it was high time that he was at work again. and there was lots for him to hear. every man among them had something to add to the general hash of events, and in their usual way proceeded to ladle it out without regard for audience, contradicting, interrupting, cursing, until the unfortunate man who was the butt of their remarks found himself almost overpowered by the babel. at length arizona drew them up with one of his sudden "yanks." "say," he cried, his eyes glaring fiercely and embracing the whole party with a great, comprehensive roll, "you fellers is like a crowd o' coyotes around a bone. i 'lows tresler ain't an a'mighty deal better'n a bone about now, but his lugs ain't deef. y're jest a gorl-darned lot o' oneddicated hoboes." which attack had the effect of reducing the pandemonium, but in no way suppressing the ardent spirits of the party. it acted as a challenge, which jacob smith promptly took up. "say, boys," he cried, "we're goin' to git eddication from arizona!" his remark was followed by a derisive roar of laughter at arizona's expense. but the moment it had subsided the derided one shot out his retort. "guess ther's things and critturs down our country we don't never figger to eddicate--them's hogs." "fer the reason which they knows more'n you," returned jacob, in no way worried by the personality. the boys considered the point achieved by jacob, and another laugh at arizona's expense went up. he had stumped the cowpuncher, who now entered the fight with wonderfully good-natured zest. "say," he observed, "i ain't had a heap to do wi' your folks, jacob, but i'm guessin' ef you're talkin' gospel, things don't run in your fam'ly." "call him a hog right out, arizona," put in raw, lazily. "i ain't callin' jacob no hog; et 'ud be a nasty trick--on the hog," observed the ready-tongued man. "hallo, jacob!" cried lew, as the laugh turned on the other man this time. but arizona resented the interference, and rounded on him promptly. "say, you passon feller, i ain't heerd tell as it's the ways o' your country to butt in an' boost folk on to a scrap. it's gener'ly sed you're mostly ready to do the scrappin'." "which means?" lew grinned in his large way. "wal, it mostly means--let's hear from you fust hand." "it's not much use hearing from me on the subject of hogs. they aren't great on 'em in my country. besides, you seem quite at home with 'em." arizona sprang to his feet, and, walking over to the hulking form of the parson's son, held his hand out. "shake," he said, with a grin that drew his parchment-like skin into fierce wrinkles; "we live in the same shack." lew laughed with the rest, and when it died down observed-- "look here, arizona, when you get talking 'hog' you stand alone. the whole northwest bows to you on that subject. now go and sit down like a peaceable citizen, and remember that a man who is such a master in the craft of hog-raising, who has lived with 'em, bred 'em, fed on 'em, and whose mental vision is bounded by 'em, has no right to down inoffensive, untutored souls like ourselves. it isn't generous." arizona stood. he looked at the man; then he glanced at each face around him and noted the smiles. one hand went up to his long, black hair and he scratched his head, while his wild eyes settled themselves on tresler's broadly grinning features. suddenly he walked back to his seat, took up his dish of hash and continued his supper, making a final remark as he ate. "langwidge? gee! i pass." and during the rest of the meal "hog" found no place. they discussed the topic of the day threadbare. the night-riders filled their thoughts to the exclusion of all else, and tresler learned the details of their recent exploits, and the opinion of each man on the outrages. even teddy jinks, youthful and only "slushy" as he was, was listened to, so absorbed were these men in their cattle world. "it's my belief," that reedy youth said, with profound finality, "they're working fer a bust up. i'd gamble one o' arizona's hogs to a junk o' sow-belly ther' ain't no more of them rustlers around come the fall. things is hot, an' they're goin' to hit the trail, takin' all they ken get right now." it was good to be listening to the rough talk of these fellows again. so good that tresler prolonged this, his first meal with them after such a long absence, to the last possible minute. then he reluctantly filled his pipe, put away his plate and pannikin, and strolled over to the barn in company with arizona. he went to inspect his mare; he was fond and justly proud of her. with all her vagaries of temper she was a wonderful beast. arizona had told him how she had brought both of them into the ranch from willow bluff on that memorable night. "guess it's a real pity that sheriff feller hadn't got her when he hit red mask's trail," observed arizona, while he watched tresler gently pass his hands over each leg in turn. "clean, eh?" he asked presently. "yes. the limbs of a race-horse. has she been ridden while i've been sick?" "nope; she's jest stood guzzlin' oats." "i shall have a time when i get into the saddle again." they moved out and stood at the door in full view of the house. the evening was drawing in. the sun was on the horizon, and the purple night shades were rising out over the eastern sky. "arizona," tresler said a little later, "i've got an unpleasant task before me. i've just seen marbolt pass the window of his den. i want a few words with him. i think i'll go now." "'bout the leddy?" inquired the cowpuncher. "you've struck it." "wal, git right along. i'd sooner it wus you than me, i guess. howsum, i'll set right hyar. mebbe i'll be handy ef you're wantin' me." tresler laughed. "oh, it's all right," he said. "i'm not dealing with jake." "nope," replied the other, settling himself on a saddle-tree. then, after a thoughtful pause, "which is regret'ble." tresler walked away in the direction of the house. he was weak, and did the journey slowly. nor did he feel comfortable. however, he was doing what he knew to be right, and, as he ruefully reminded himself, it was seldom pleasant to do one's duty. his object was simply a matter of form, but one which omitted would give marbolt reason for saying things. besides, in justice to danny and himself he must ask her father's consent to their engagement. and as he thought of the uselessness of it he laughed bitterly to himself. did not the rancher know? and had he not fully explained his views on the matter? arizona watched tresler wabbling unsteadily toward the house and applied many mental epithets of an uncomplimentary nature on his "foolheadedness." then he was joined by joe, who had also observed tresler's visit. the little man waved a hand in the direction of the retreating figure. "wher's he goin'?" he asked. "guess it's 'bout the leddy," replied arizona, shortly. "an' he wus boosted out 'cause of her," the other said significantly. "kind o' minds you of one o' them terriers." "yup. or a cow wi' a ca'f." "on'y he don't make no fuss. guess it's a terrier." and joe accompanied his final decision with an emphatic nod. meanwhile the object of their remarks had made his way to the house and stood before the blind arbiter of his fate in the latter's little office. the rancher was sitting at his table with his face directed toward the window, and his red eyes staring at the glowing sunset. and so he remained, in spite of tresler's blunt announcement of himself. "it is necessary for me to see you, mr. marbolt," he said. and he stood waiting for his answer. it came, after some moments, in a tone that offered no encouragement, but was more civil than he expected. "since you say so, i suppose it is." quite indifferent and certainly undaunted, tresler proceeded-- "you have already been informed how matters stand between your daughter and myself." "yes." "i am here, then, to formally ask your consent to our engagement." the red eyes moved from their contemplation of the sunset, and their dead, leech-like stare fixed itself upon the undisturbed face of the would-be son-in-law. "tresler," the man said, in a manner that left little to the imagination, "i have only one answer for you. you have become offensive to me on this ranch, and i shall be glad if you will remove yourself as quickly as possible. i shall refund you the money you have paid, and your agreement can be torn up." "then you will not consider my proposal?" "i have already answered you." tresler looked hard at the face before him. mask-like as it was, it yet conveyed something of the fierce temper behind it. he was glad he saw something of it, for he felt more justified in the heat of his own feelings. the man's words were a studied insult, and he was not one to submit to insults from anybody. "i emphatically refuse, then, to remove my offensive person," he replied, with a great assumption of calmness. "furthermore, i will not entertain the return of my premium. i am here for three years' instruction, already paid for. that instruction i demand. you will understand it is not in your power to have my offensive person removed either legally or forcibly. the latter especially, since it would cost you far more than you would find it pleasant to pay." he expected to witness one of those outbursts of fury such as the blind man had recently displayed toward jake in his presence. but nothing of the kind happened. his manner remained the same. "i am sorry," he said, with something almost like a smile. "you drive me to an alternative, which, if less convenient, is perhaps, on the whole, more satisfactory. my daughter will have to go. i was prepared for this, and have already made arrangements for her to visit certain friends this day fortnight, for an indefinite period. you quite understand, tresler, you will not see her again. she will remain away until you leave here. of course, in the meantime, should you take it into your head to follow her, you are clear-headed enough to see that your agreement with me would be broken. then she would return at once, and the question of force to keep you apart would be entirely in my hands. further, i must tell you that while she is away she will be living in an obscure settlement many miles from here, where all letters addressed to her will be opened before she receives them." the blind man turned away, indicating that the interview was ended, but tresler stood his ground, though he fully realized how thoroughly this man had outwitted him. "at least she will be happier away from here," he said significantly. "i don't know," retorted the other, with diabolical meaning. tresler's exasperation could no longer be restrained. "your conduct is inhuman to thus persecute a helpless girl, your daughter." "ah, my daughter. yes?" but the other gave no heed to the sneer. "you have no right to stand between us," he went on angrily. "you have no reasonable grounds. i tell you straight i will not submit. when your daughter is of age i will take her from this home, which is no home to her, from you who have never been a father to her." "true," assented the other, with an aggravating calmness. "you will have no power to interfere then. the law----" "enough of this nonsense," the rancher interrupted, with his first sign of impatience. "you'll never marry diane while i live. take it from me. now--get out!" and somehow, in spite of himself, tresler found himself outside the house and moving in the direction of the bunkhouse at the most rapid pace his weakness permitted. but before he reached his destination jake intercepted him, and he had little doubt in his mind that the man had seen him go to the house and had waited for his return. "wal?" he said, drawling out his inquiry, as though the contemplation of the answer he would receive gave him more than ordinary satisfaction. "guess blind hulks is a pretty hard man to deal with, eh? you're goin' to quit us?" tresler was in no mood for this man's sneers. "no," he said. "on the contrary, i stay till my time's out." jake could not conceal his surprise and chagrin. "you ain't quittin'?" "no." tresler really enjoyed his discomfiture. "an' you're goin'----" "no." a thought suddenly occurred to him. he could hand something on to this man. "miss marbolt is going to be sent away until such time as i leave this ranch. nearly three years, jake," he finished up maliciously. jake stood thoughtfully contemplating the other's shrunken figure. he displayed no feeling, but tresler knew he had hit him hard. "an' she's goin', when?" he asked at last. "this day fortnight." "ah. this day fortnight." after that jake eyed his rival as though weighing him up in his mind along with other things; then he said quietly-- "guess he'd best have sent her right now." and, with this enigmatical remark, he abruptly went back to his shack. a week saw tresler in the saddle again. his recuperative powers were wonderful. and his strength returned in a manner which filled his comrades with astonishment. fresh air and healthy work served as far better tonics than anything the horse-doctor had given him. and the week, at least to tresler, was full of portent. true, the rustlers had been quiet, but the effect of their recent doings was very apparent. the sheriff was now in constant communication with the ranch. fyles visited julian marbolt frequently, holding long consultations with him; and a significant fact was that his men made the place a calling station. he realized that the long arm of the law was seriously at work, and he wondered in what direction the real object lay, for he quite understood that these open movements, in all probability, cloaked the real suspicions. both he and joe were of opinion that the sheriff was acting on some secret information, and they puzzled their heads to fathom the depths of the wily officer's motives. then happened something that tresler had been expecting for some time. he had not seen fyles to speak to since the willow bluff incident, and this had caused him some wonder. therefore, one day while out on a distant pasture, rounding up a small bunch of yearlings, he was in no way surprised to see the farmer-like figure of the sheriff appear over the brow of a rising ground, and canter his raw-boned horse down toward him. and that meeting was in the nature of an eye-opener to tresler. he learned something of the machinery that was at work; of the system of espionage that was going on over the whole district, and the subtle means of its employment. he learned, amongst other things, something of what jake was doing. how he was in constant touch with a number of half-breeds of the most disreputable type, and that his doings were of the most underground nature. he also learned that his own personal efforts in conveying warning before willow bluff were more than appreciated, and, finally, that fyles wanted him to further act in concert with him. acceding to the officer's request he was then informed of certain other things for his future guidance. and when the man had gone, disappearing again over the rising ground, in the same ghostly fashion that he had appeared, he looked after him, and, in reviewing all he had heard, marveled how little he had been told, but what a lot had been suggested, and how devilish smart that farmer-like man, in spite of his recent failures, really was. and during those days tresler heard very little from diane; which little came from joe nelson. now and again she sent him a grief-stricken note alluding to her departure. she told him, although joe had done so already, that her father had brought anton into the house for the express purpose of preventing any communication with him, tresler, and to generally keep sentry over her. she told him much that made his heart bleed for her, and made him spend hours at night writing pages of cheering messages to her. there was no help for it. he was powerless to do more than try to console her, and he frequently found himself doubting if the course he had selected was the right one; if he were not aggravating her position by remaining on the ranch. his reason told him that it was surely best. if she had to go away, she would, at least, be free of jake, and, no matter what condition the people to whom she was to be sent, no worse associations than the combination of the blind man and his mate could possibly be found for her anywhere. it was a poor sort of consolation with which he bolstered himself, and he spent many miserable hours during those last few days. once he had said to joe, "if i could only see her for a few minutes it might be some measure of comfort to us both." but joe had shaken his gray head. "it ain't no use," he said. "you can't take no chances foolin' wi' anton around. 'sides, things might be wuss," he finished up, with a considerable emphasis. and so tresler had to be content; ill at ease, chafing, but quite powerless. in truth the rancher had outwitted him with a vengeance; moreover, what he had said he soon showed that he meant, for joe brought him the news, two days before the date fixed for departure, that diane was making her preparations, and had even begun to pack up. and all this time jake was very cheerful. the men on the ranch never remembered an easier time than the foreman was giving them now. he interfered very little with the work, and, except at the morning muster, they hardly saw anything of him. tresler he never came near. he seemed to have forgotten that he had ever discussed anton with him. it may have been that that discussion had only been inspired on the impulse of the moment, or it may have been--and tresler thought this far more likely--he had deeper plans. however, the man, in face of diane's departure, was unusually cheerful, and the wise old joe quickly observed the fact. for joe to observe anything of interest was the cue for him to inquire further, and thus he set himself to watch jake. and his watching quickly resulted in tresler's attention being called to jake's movements at night. joe found that night after night jake left the ranch, always on foot, but he left it for hours at a time. twice during the last week he did not return until daylight. all this was more than interesting, but nothing developed to satisfy their curiosity until the last day of diane's stay on the ranch. then jake visited her, and, taking her out of the kitchen, had a long confabulation with her in the open. joe watched them, but, much to his disgust, had no means of learning the man's object. however, there was only one thing for him to do, and he did it without delay: he hurried down to convey his news to tresler, who was having supper at the bunkhouse. taking him on one side he imparted his tidings hurriedly. and in conclusion spoke with evident alarm. "ther's suthin' doin'," he said, in, for him, quite a condition of excitement. "i can't locate it nohow. but jake, he's that queer. see, he's jest gone right into his shack. ther's suthin' doin', sure." "and didn't you ask her what it was all about?" asked tresler, catching something of the other's manner. "wal, no. that is, i guess i mentioned it like, but miss dianny wus that flustrated an' kind o' angry she jest went right up to her room, an' i thought best to git around hyar." tresler was thinking hard; and while he thought he stood watching the door where they had both seen jake disappear. it occurred to him to go and seek diane for himself. poor girl, she would surely tell him if there were anything wrong. after all, he had the right to know. then he thought of anton. "was anton----?" he had turned to joe, but his remark was cut short. jake's door suddenly opened and the foreman came hurriedly out. joe caught his companion by the arm, and they both looked after the giant as he strode away toward the barn. and they simultaneously became aware of something unsteady in his gait. joe was the first to draw attention to it. "say, he's bin drinkin'," he whispered, in an awed manner. tresler nodded. this was something quite new. jake, with all his faults, was not usually given to drink. on the contrary, he was a particularly sober man. tresler swiftly made up his mind. "i'm going to see what's up, joe," he said. "do you see? he's making for marbolt's stable." it was almost dusk. the men had settled down to their evening's occupations. tresler and joe were standing alone in the shadow of the bunkhouse wall. the lamp was lit within the building, and the glow from the window, which was quite near them, darkened the prospect still further. however, tresler still could see the foreman, an indistinct shadow in the growing darkness. leaving his companion without further remark he hurried after the disappearing man and took up his position near the barn, whence he could both see and hear what might be going forward. jake reached the door of the stable and knocked on it in a forceful and peremptory manner. chapter xx by the light of the lamp impelled by curiosity and nervous anticipation tresler did not long remain in the shelter of the barn. it was too dark to see distinctly all that way off, so he closed up on the object of his watch. he intended to miss nothing of what was happening, so he crept out into the open, quite careless of the chances of being discovered at his undignified occupation. and all the time he was a prey to unpleasant foreboding; that unaccountable foreboding so truly prophetic, which refuses to be shaken off. he knew that disaster was in the air as surely as if it had all happened, and there was nothing left for him but to gaze impotently upon the ruin. he had a certain amount of reason for his fears, of course, but that reason was largely speculative, and, had he been asked to state definitely what he anticipated, on whom disaster was to fall, he could not have answered with any real conviction. something prompted him that jake was to be the central figure, the prime mover. but beyond that his ideas were vague. the man's very summons at the door was a positive aggravation, and suggested possibilities. an answer came with the abrupt opening of the stable door, which revealed the lithe figure of the dusky half-breed, framed in a setting of dingy yellow light from the lantern within. he could see the insolent, upward stare of the man's eyes as he looked up into the great man's face; nor at that moment could he help thinking of all he had heard of "tough" mcculloch. and the recollection brought him a further feeling of uneasiness for the man who had thus come to beard him in his own den. but even while these thoughts passed swiftly through his brain the bullying, hectoring tones of jake's voice came to him. they were unnecessarily loud, and there was a thickness in them which corroborated the evidence of his uneven gait. jake had certainly been priming himself with spirit. "where was you last night, anton?" he heard him ask. "an' wher' should i be, mr. jake?" came the half-breed's sullen retort. "that ain't no answer," the other cried, in a vicious tone. the half-breed shrugged with apparent indifference, only there was no indifference in the resentful flash of his eyes. "i not answer to you," he said, in his broken way, throwing as much insolence as he could into his words. jake's fury needed no urging; the spirit had wound him up to the proper pitch. "you black son-of-a----," he cried, "you shall answer to me. for two pins i'd wring your blasted neck, only i'm savin' that fer the rope. i'll tell you wher' you was last night. you wer' out. out with the horses. d'you hear? and you weren't at the breed camp neither. i know wher' you was." "guess you shoot your mouth off," anton said, with dangerous calmness. "bah! i tell you i stay right hyar. i not out. you mad! voilà!" suddenly jake's hand went up as though to strike the man, but the blow did not fall. his arm dropped to his side again; for once caution saved him. tresler felt that had the blow fallen there might perhaps have been a sudden and desperate end to the scene. as it was he listened to jake's final words, with every nerve throbbing. "you lie, you black son-of-a----; you lie!" and then he saw him swing round on his heel and stride away to the rancher's house, as if he could no longer control himself and sought safety in flight. for the moment the watcher was so interested in the half-breed that he lost the significance of the foreman's going. anton was still standing in the doorway, and the expression of his face was plainly visible in the lamplight. there was a saturnine grin about the lower part of the features, but the black eyes were blazing with a deep fire of hatred. he looked after the departing man until he reached the verandah, then suddenly, as though an inspiration had moved him, he vanished at a run within the stable. now tresler became aware of jake's object. he had mounted the verandah and was making for the door of the house. and this sight moved him to immediate action. without a second thought he set off at a run to warn diane of the visit. why he wished to warn her he did not know. perhaps it was the result of premonition, for he knew quite well that it was jake's custom to wait on his chief at about this time in the evening. he skirted the house well out of range of the light of its windows, and came to the kitchen just in time to hear the blind man calling to his daughter for a light. and when diane returned from obeying the order she found him waiting for her. her first feeling was one of apprehension, then love overcame her fears and she ran to him. "jack!" she whispered softly. "you here?" he folded her in a bear-like embrace, and as she raised her face to him to speak he stopped her with a rain of kisses. the joy of the moment had driven the object of his coming from his head, and they stood heart to heart, lost in their mutual happiness, until jake's voice, raised in bitter imprecation, reached them from the office. then tresler abruptly put her from him. "i had forgotten, dear," he said, in a whisper. "no, don't close that door." diane had moved over to the door leading into the dining-room. "leave it open. it is on that account i am here." "on what account?" the girl asked, in some perplexity. "jake. there's something up, and--hark!" they stood listening. the foreman's voice was raised again. but now marbolt's broke in, sharp, incisive. and the words were plainly audible. "keep your voice down," he said. "d'you want the girl to hear everything? you were always a blunderer, jake." "blunderer be ----" but he nevertheless lowered his tone, for the listeners could distinguish nothing more. "he's up to some devil's work," tresler whispered, after making sure they could hear no more. "danny," he went on eagerly, "i must slip into the hall and try and hear what's going on. i must be ready to----listen! he's cursing again. wait here. not a sound; not a word! there's going to be trouble." and his assertion seemed to have reason enough, for the rancher's sharp tones were now mingling with the harsher note of the other, and both had raised their voices again. tresler waited for nothing now. he tiptoed to the door and stood listening. then he crept silently out into the hall and stole along toward the blind man's office. he paused as he drew near the open door, and glanced round for some hiding-place whence he could see within. the hall was unlit, and only the faintest light reached it from the office. there was a long, heavy overcoat hanging on the opposite wall, almost directly in front of the door, and he made for it, crossing the hall in the darkest part, and sidling along in the shadow until he reached it. here he drew it in front of him, so that he only elongated its outline and yet obtained a full view of the room. jake was not visible. and tresler concluded that he was sitting in the chair which he knew to be behind the door. but the blind man was almost directly in front of him. he was seated beside the small window table on which the lamp stood, a safety lamp, especially reserved for his use on account of his blindness. his ruddy eyes were staring in the direction in which tresler believed jake to be sitting, and such was the effect of that intent stare that the watching man drew well within his cover, as though he feared the sightless sockets would penetrate his hiding-place. but even from this vantage ground he found his purpose thwarted. jake was talking, but his voice was so low that it only reached him in a thick growl which blurred his words into a hazy murmur. therefore he fixed his attention on the man facing him, watching, and seeking information from his expression and general attitude. and what he beheld riveted his attention. whatever control the blind man had over himself--and tresler had reason to know what wonderful control he had--his expression was quite unguarded now. there was a devilish cruelty in every line in his hard, unyielding features. his sanguinary eyes were burning with a curiously real live light--probably the reflection of the lamp on the table--and his habitually knit brows were scowling to an extent that the eyes beneath them looked like sparks of living fire. and though he was lounging comfortably back in his chair, without energy, without alertness, and one arm was resting on the table at his side, and his outstretched fingers were indolently drumming out a tattoo on the bare wood, his breath was coming short and fast, in a manner that belied his attitude. had tresler only seen behind the door he would have been startled, even alarmed. the inflamed jake was oblivious to everything but his own purpose. his mind was set on the object of his talk, to the exclusion of all else. just then he had not the slightest fear of the blind man. there was nothing of the submission about him now that he had displayed once before in tresler's presence. it was the spirit he had imbibed that had fortified him for the time. it is probable that jake, at that moment, had no fear of either man or devil. and, though tresler could not distinguish a word, his talk was braggart, domineering, and there was a strong flavor of drink in its composition. but even so, there was a relentless purpose in it, too. "ther' ain't no option fer you, marbolt," jake was saying. "you've never given me an option, and i'm not goin' to be such a blazing fool as to give you one. god a'mighty, marbolt, ther' never was a man treated as i've been by you. we've been together fer donkey's years, i guess. 'way back in them old days, when we was mates, before you was blind, before you was cranked against 'most everybody, when we scrapped agin them black-backs in the indies side by side, when we quarreled an' made friends again, i liked you, marbolt, an' i worked honest by you. there wa'n't nothin' mean to you, then, 'cep' in handin' out dollars. i hadn't no kick comin' those days. i worked fer so much, an' i see i got it. i didn't ask no more, an' i guess i didn't want. that's all right. then you got blind an' you changed round. that's where the rub come. i was no better than the rest to you. you fergot everything that had gone. you fergot i was a square dealin' man by you, an' since that time i've been dirt under your feet. pshaw! it ain't no use in talkin'; you know these things just as well as i do. but you might have given me a show. you might have treated me 'white.' it was to your interest. i'd have stayed by you. i'd have done good by you. an' i'd have been real sorry when you died. but i ain't no use fer that sort o' thing now. what i want i'm goin' to have, an' you've got to give--see? it ain't a question of 'by-your-leave' now. i say right here i want your gal." the man paused. but marbolt remained undisturbed. he still beat an idle tattoo on the table, only his hand had drawn nearer to the lamp and the steady rapping of his fingers was a shade louder, as though more nervous force were unconsciously finding outlet in the movement. "so you want my girl," he said, his lips scarcely parting to let the tone of his voice pass. "ay," jake said emphatically, "i want that gal as i took out o' the water once. you remember. you said she'd fell overboard, after i'd hauled her back on to the ship out o' reach o' the sharks. that's what you said--after." he paused significantly. if he had expected any display from his hearer he must have been disappointed. the other remained quite still except for those moving fingers tapping their way nearer and nearer the lamp. "go on." "wal, i've told you how i stand, an' i've told you how you stand," jake proceeded, with his voice ever so little raised. he felt that the other was too easy. and, in his unimaginative way, he thought he had spoken too gently. "an' i say again i want that gal fer my wife. time was when you would have been glad to be quit of her, 'bout the time she fell overboard. being ready to part then, why not now? i'm goin' to get her,--an' what do i pay in return? you know. you'll go on ranchin' in peace. i'll even stay your foreman if you so want. i'll shut right down on the business we both know of, an' you won't have nothin' to fear. it's a fair an' square deal." "a fair and square deal; most generous." even jake detected the sarcasm, and his anger rose at once. but he gave no heed to those fingers which had now transferred their attention to the brass body of the lamp. "i'm waitin' fer your answer," he said sharply. tresler now heard his words for the first time. "go slow, jake, go slow," retorted the rancher. "i like to digest the position thoroughly. you put it so well." the sarcasm had grown more fierce by reason of the restraint the rancher was putting on himself. and this restraint was further evident in the movement of the hand which had now settled itself upon the body of the lamp, and clutched it nervously. jake no longer kept check on himself. and his answer came in a roar. "you shall take my price, or----" "keep calm, you blundering jackass!" the blind man rasped between his clenched teeth. "no, you don't, mr. blasted marbolt!" cried jake, springing to his feet and moving out to the middle of the room threateningly. "no, you don't!" he cried again; "i've had enough of that. god's curse on you for a low swine! i'll talk no more; it's 'yes' or 'no.' remember"--he bent over toward the sitting man and pointed in his face with fierce delight--"i am your master now, an' ef you don't do as i say, by g----! but i'll make you whine for mercy." and marbolt's answer came with a crash of brass and smashing of glass, a leap of flame, then darkness, as he hurled the lamp to the floor and extinguished it. it came in silence, but a silence ruffled by the sound of sudden movement. it came, as was only to be expected from a man like him, without warning, like the silent attack of a puma, and with as deadly intent. tresler could see nothing, but he knew that death was hovering over that room for some one. suddenly he heard the table dragged or pushed across the floor, and jake's voice, harsh with the effort of struggle, reached him. "you would, would you? right; it's you or me!" at that moment the onlooker was about to rush forward, for what purpose he had but the vaguest idea. but even as he took the first step he felt himself seized forcibly by the arm from behind. and diane's voice whispered in his ear. "not you, jack!" she said eagerly. "leave it to me; i--i can save him--jake." "jake?" "yes." she was gone, and in an instant returned with the lighted kitchen lamp, which she held aloft as she rushed into the room. tresler was taken utterly by surprise. the girl's movements were so sudden, so unexpected, and her words so strange. there she stood in the middle of the room with the light held above her head like some statue. and all the signs of a deadly struggle were about her. jake was sheltered behind the window table, and stood blinking in the sudden light, staring at her in blank astonishment. but the chief figure of interest was the blind man. he was groping about the opposite edge of the table, pitifully helpless, but snarling in impotent and thwarted fury. his right hand was still grasping the hilt of a vicious-looking, two-edged hunting-knife, whose point tresler saw was dripping blood. suddenly he turned fiercely on the girl. for the moment he had been held silent, confounded, but now his voice rang out in an access of fury. "you jade!" he cried, and moved as though to attack her. tresler was about to leap to her assistance, but at that instant the man's attention was suddenly diverted. jake saw his chance and made for the door. with a bitter imprecation the blind man lunged at him as he went, fell against the table, and stumbled almost to the ground. instantly the girl took advantage of his position and followed jake out, slamming the door behind her and swiftly turning the key as she went. diane had shown herself in a new light. her presence of mind was startling, and the whole thing was enacted so swiftly that tresler failed to grasp the full meaning of it all. jake had not seen him. in a blind rush he had made for the hall door and passed out. the only thing that seemed real to tresler was diane's safety, and he caught her by the arm to take her to the kitchen. but the girl's readiness would permit of no such waste of time. "no," she whispered quickly. "leave me and follow jake. joe is in the kitchen and will protect me if need be. quick!" she went on, stamping her foot in her excitement. "go! look to him. there must be no murder done here." and tresler was forced, much against his will, to leave her. for the moment diane had soared to a height of alertness and ready action which was irresistible. without a word he went, passing out of the front door. jake had left the verandah, and, in the moonlight, tresler could see him moving down the hill in the direction of his shack. he followed him swiftly. but he was too late. the whole thing happened before his very eyes, while he was yet too far off to stay the ruthless act, before his warning shout could serve. he saw a figure dart out from the rancher's stable. he saw it halt and stand. he saw one arm stretched out, and he realized and shouted to jake. the foreman stood, turned, a pistol-shot rang out, and he fell on his face. tresler ran forward, but before he could reach him two more shots rang out, and a third sent its bullet whistling past his own head. he ran for the man who had fired them. he knew him now; it was anton. but, fleet of foot, the half-breed had reached the stable, where a horse stood ready saddled. he saw him vault into the saddle, and he saw him vanish into the adjacent woods. then, at last, he gave up the chase and ran back to the fallen man. kneeling at his side he raised the great leonine head. the man was alive, and he shouted to the men at the bunkhouse for aid. but even as he called jake spoke. "it ain't no good," he said, in a hoarse tone. "i'm done. done up by that lyin' son-of-a----, 'tough' mcculloch. i might 'a' known. guess i flicked him sore." he paused as the sound of running feet came from the bunkhouse and arizona's voice was calling to know tresler's whereabouts. then the foreman's great frame gave a shiver. "quick, tresler," he said, in a voice that had suddenly grown faint; "ther' ain't much time. listen! get around widow dangley's place--to-night--two--mornin' all----" there came a rattle of flowing blood in his throat which blurred anything else he had to say. but he had said sufficient. tresler understood. when arizona came up jake, so long the bully of mosquito bend, had passed over the one-way trail. he died shot in three places, twice in the chest and once in the stomach. anton, or rather "tough" mcculloch, had done his work with all the consummate skill for which he had once been so notorious. and, as something of this flashed through tresler's brain, another thought came with it, prompted by the presence of arizona, who was now on his knees beside him. "it's anton, arizona," he said. "jake riled him. he shot him, and has bolted through the wood, back there, mounted on one of marbolt's horses. he's making for the hills. quick, here, listen! the others are coming. you know 'tough' mcculloch?" "wal?" there was an ominous ring in arizona's voice. "you'd like to find him?" "better'n heaven." "anton is 'tough' mcculloch." "who told you?" "jake, here. i didn't mention it before, because--because----" "did you say the hills?" arizona had risen to his feet. there was no emotion in his manner. they might have been discussing the most ordinary topic. now the rest of the men crowded round. and tresler heard the rancher's voice calling from the verandah to inquire into the meaning of the shots. however, heedless of the others, he replied to the cowpuncher's question. "yes," he said. "shake. s'long." the two men gripped and arizona faded away in the uncertain light, in the direction of the barn. and the dead jake was borne by rough but gentle hands into his own shack. and there was not one amongst those "boys" but would have been ready and eager to help him, if help had been possible. even on the prairie death atones for much that in life is voted intolerable. chapter xxi at widow dangley's inside the hut, where jake had so long been master, the boys were grouped round the bunk on which their old oppressor was laid out; the strong, rough fellows were awed with the magnitude of the outrage. jake, jake harnach, the terror of the ranch, "done up." the thought was amazing. tresler was quietly stripping clothes from the dead man's upper body to free the wounds for the doctor's inspection, and raw harris was close beside him. it was while in the midst of this operation that the former came upon another wound. raw harris also saw it, and at once drew his attention. "guess i heerd four shots," he said. "say, that feller anton was a daddy. four of 'em, an' all found their mark. i 'lows this one's on'y a graze. might 'a' bin done wi' a knife, et's so clean. yes, sirree, he was a daddy, sure." as no one seemed inclined to contradict the statement that anton was a "daddy," and as the question of four shots or three was of no vital interest to the onlookers, the matter passed unheeded. only tresler found food for reflection. that fourth wound he knew had not been inflicted by the half-breed. he remembered the rancher's knife and its dripping point, and he remembered jake's cry, "you would, would you!" he needed no other explanation. while the two men were still bending over their task there was a slight stir at the open door. the silent onlookers parted, leaving a sort of aisle to the bedside, and julian marbolt came shuffling his way through them, heralded by the regular tap, tap, of his guiding stick. it was with many conflicting emotions that tresler looked round when he heard the familiar sound. he stared at the man as he might stare at some horrid beast of prey, fascinated even against himself. it would have been hard to say what feeling was uppermost with him at the moment. astonishment, loathing, expectation, and even some dread, all struggled for place, and the combination held him silent, waiting for what that hateful presence was to bring forth. he could have found it in his heart to denounce him then and there, only it would have served no purpose, and would probably have done much harm. therefore he contented himself with gazing into the inflamed depths of the man's mysterious eyes with an intentness he had never yet bestowed upon them, and while he looked all the horror of the scene in the office stole over him again and made him shudder. "where is he--where is jake?" the blind man asked, halting accurately at the bedside. the question was directed at no one in particular, but tresler took it upon himself to answer. "lying on the bed before you," he said coldly. the man turned on him swiftly. "ah--tresler," he said. then he bent over the bed, and his hands groped over the dead man's body till they came into contact with the congealing blood round the wound in his stomach. with a movement of repulsion he drew back sharply. "he's not dead?" he questioned, with a queer eagerness, turning round to those about him. "yes, he is dead," replied tresler, with unintentional solemnity. "who--who did it?" the question came in a tense voice, sharper and more eagerly than the preceding one. "anton," chorused the men, as though finding relief from their long silence in the announcement. the crime was even secondary to the personality of the culprit with them. anton's name was uppermost in their minds, and so they spoke it readily. "anton? and where is he? have you got him?" the rancher had turned about, and addressed himself generally. "anton has made off with one of your horses," said tresler. "i tried to get him, but he had too much start for me. i was on foot." "well, why are you all here? have none of you sense enough to get after him?" "arizona is after him, and, until the sheriff comes, he is sufficient. he will never leave his trail." there was no mistaking the significance tresler conveyed in his last remark. the rancher took him up sharply. "what do you mean?" "arizona has no love for anton." "ah! and jake. who found him? who was there when he died?" marbolt's eyes had fixed themselves on tresler's face. and the latter had no hesitation in suiting his reply to his own purpose. "i found him--dead; quite dead. his death must have been instantaneous." "so." marbolt turned back to the bed. the rancher stood over the dead man in silence for some minutes. then, to tresler's horror, he broke out into a low-voiced lamentation, the hypocrisy of which made him want to seize him by the throat and choke the words ere they were uttered. "my poor old jake!" he said, with infinite pity. "poor old jake!" he repeated, addressing the dead man sorrowfully. "i wish now i'd taken your advice about that rascal and got rid of him. and to think that you should be the man on whom he was to wreak his treachery. i wonder how it came about. it must have been that rough temper of yours. tresler," he cried, pointing to the still form on the bed, "there lies the truest, the only friend i ever had. that man has stood by me when all others left me. yes, we've fought side by side in the indian days; ay, and further back still. i remember when he would have defended me with his life; poor jake! i suppose he had his faults, the same as most of us have. yes, and i wager his temper took him foul of anton. poor old jake! i suppose we shall never know the truth of this." he paused. then he cried fiercely, "damn it! men, every one of you, i'll give a thousand dollars to the one who brings anton back, dead or alive. dead from preference, then he won't escape us. a thousand dollars. now, who?" but tresler could stand it no longer. "don't trouble, mr. marbolt," he said icily. "it is no use your offering rewards. the man who has gone after anton will find him. and you can rest satisfied he'll take nothing from you on that score. you may not know arizona; i do." "you are confident," the other retorted, resentful at once. "i have reason to be," came the decided answer. marbolt shook his close-cropped head. his resentment had gone from his manner again. he had few moods which he was unable to control at will. that was how it seemed to tresler. "i hope truly it may be as you say. but i must still doubt. however," he went on, in a lighter tone, "in the meantime there is work to be done. the doctor must be summoned. send some one for doctor and sheriff first thing to-morrow morning, tresler. it is no use worrying them to-night. the sheriff has his night work to do, and wouldn't thank us for routing him out now. besides, nothing can be done until daylight! and the doctor is only needed to certify. poor old jake!" he turned away with something very like a sigh. half-way to the door he paused. "tresler, you take charge of things to-night. have this door locked. and," he added, with redoubled earnestness, "are you sure arizona will hunt that man down?" "perfectly." tresler smiled grimly. he fancied he understood the persistence. there was a moment's silence. then the stick tapped, and the rancher passed out under the curious gaze of his men. tresler, too, looked after him. nor was there any doubt of his feelings now. he knew that his presence in the house during marbolt's murderous assault on jake was unsuspected. and marbolt, villainous hypocrite that he was, was covering his tracks. he loathed the blind villain as he never thought to have loathed anybody. and all through his thoughts there was a cold, hard vein of triumph which was utterly foreign to his nature, but which was quite in keeping with his feelings toward the man with whom he was dealing. as julian marbolt passed out the men kept silence, and even when the distant tapping of his stick had died away. tresler looked round him at these hardy comrades of his with something like delight in his eyes. joe was not there, which matter gave him satisfaction. the faithful little fellow was at his post to care for diane. now he turned to harris. "raw," he said, "will you ride in for the doctor?" "he said t'-morrer," the man objected. "i know. but if you'd care to do me a favor you'll ride in and warn the doctor to-night, and then--ride out to widow dangley's and meet us all there, _cachéd_ in the neighborhood." the man stared; every man in that room was instantly agog with interest. something in tresler's tone had brought a light to their eyes which he was glad to see. "what is 't?" asked jacob, eagerly. "ay," protested raw; "no bluffin'." "there's no bluffing about me," tresler said quickly. "i'm dead in earnest. here, listen, boys. i want you all to go out quietly, one by one. it's eight miles to widow dangley's. arrange to get there by half-past one in the morning--and don't forget your guns. there's a big bluff adjoining the house," he suggested significantly. "i shall be along, and so will the sheriff and all his men. i think there'll be a racket, and we may--there, i can tell you no more. i refrained from asking marbolt's permission; you remember what he said once before. we'll not risk saying anything to him." "i'm in to the limit," said raw, with decision. "guess we don't want no limit to this racket. we'll jest get right along," said jacob, quietly. and after that the men filed out one by one. and when the last had gone, tresler put the lamp out and locked the door. then he quietly stole up to the kitchen and peered in at the window. diane was there, so was joe, with two guns hanging to his belt. he had little difficulty in drawing their attention. there was no dalliance about his visit this time. he waived aside the eager questions with which the girl assailed him, and merely gave her a quiet warning. "stay up all night, dear," he said, "but do not let your father know it." to joe he said: "joe, if you sleep a wink this night i'll never forgive you." then he hurried away, satisfied that neither would fail him, and went to the barn. without a word, almost without a sound, he saddled the lady jezebel. his mare ready, he went and gazed long and earnestly up at the rancher's house. he was speculating in his mind as to the risk he was running. not the general risk, but the risk of success or failure in his enterprise. he waited until the last of the lights had gone out, and the house stood out a mere black outline in the moonlight, then he disappeared within the barn again, and presently reappeared leading his fractious mare. a few moments later he rode quietly off. and the manner of his going brought a grim smile to his lips, for he thought of the ghostly movements of the night-riders as he had witnessed them. his way lay in a different direction from that of his comrades. instead of taking the trail, as they had done, he skirted the upper corral and pastures, and plunged into the black pinewoods behind the house. * * * * * the widow dangley's homestead looked much more extensive in the moonlight than it really was. everything was shown up, endowed with a curious silvery burnish which dazzled the eyes till shadows became magnified into buildings, and the buildings themselves distorted out of all proportion. hers was simply a comfortable place and quite unpretentious. the ranch stood in a narrow valley, in the midst of which a small brook gurgled its way on to the mosquito river, about four miles distant. the valley was one of those sharp cuttings in which the prairie abounds, quite hidden and unmarked from the land above, lying unsuspected until one chances directly upon it. it was much like a furrow of nature's ploughing, cut out to serve as a drainage for the surrounding plains. it wound its irregular course away east and west, a maze of undergrowth, larger bluff, low red-sand cut-banks and crumbling gravel cliffs, all scattered by a prodigal hand, with a profusion that seemed wanton amidst the surrounding wastes of grass-land. the house stood on the northern slope, surrounded on three sides by a protecting bluff of pinewoods. then to the right of it came the outbuildings, and last, at least one hundred and fifty yards from the rest, came the corrals, well hidden in the bluff, instead, as is usual, of being overlooked by the house. certainly widow dangley was a confiding person. and so tresler, comparatively inexperienced as he was, thought, as he surveyed the prospect in the moonlight from the back of his mare. he was accompanied by sheriff fyles, and the two men were estimating the chances they were likely to have against possible invaders. "how goes the time?" asked the sheriff, after a few moments' silent contemplation of the scene. "you've half an hour in which to dispose your forces. ah! there's one of your fellows riding down the opposite bank." tresler pointed across the valley. "yes, and there's another lower down," fyles observed quietly. "and here's one dropping down to your right. all on time. what of your men?" "they should be in yonder bluff, backing the corrals." "how many?" "four, including the cook." "four, and sixteen of mine--twenty. our two selves--twenty-two. good; come on." the man led the way to the bluff. the cowboys were all there. they received instructions to hold the position at the corrals; to defend them, or to act as reinforcements if the struggle should take place elsewhere. then the two leaders passed on down into the valley. it was an awkward descent, steep, and of a loose surface that shelved under their horses' feet. for the moment a cloud had obscured the moon, and fyles looked up. a southwesterly breeze had sprung up, and there was a watery look about the sky. "good," he said again, in his abrupt manner. "there won't be too much moon. moonlight is not altogether an advantage in a matter of this sort. we must depend chiefly on a surprise. we don't want too many empty saddles." at the bottom of the valley they found the rest of the men gathered together in the shelter of the scattered undergrowth. it was fyles's whole command. he proceeded at once to divide them up into two parties. one he stationed east of the ranch, split into a sort of skirmishing order, to act under tresler's charge. the other party he took for his own command, selecting an advantageous position to the west. he had also established a code of signals to be used on the approach of the enemy; these took the form of the cry of the screech-owl. thus, within a quarter of an hour after their arrival, all was in readiness for the raiders, and the valley once more returned to its native quiet. and how quiet and still it all was! the time crept on toward the appointed hour. the moon was still high in the heavens, but its light had grown more and more uncertain. the clouds had become dense to a stormy extent. now and then the rippling waters of the brook caught and reflected for a moment a passing shaft of light, like a silvery rift in the midst of the valley, but otherwise all was shadow. and in the occasional moonlight every tree and bush and boulder was magnified into some weird, spectral shape, distorting it from plain truth into some grotesque fiction, turning the humblest growth into anything from a grazing steer to a moving vehicle; from a prowling coyote to a log hut. the music of the waking night-world droned on the scented air, emphasizing the calm, the delicious peace. it was like some fairy kingdom swept by strains of undefined music which haunted the ear without monotony, and peopled with shadows which the imagination could mould at its pleasure. but in the eagerness of the moment all this was lost to the waiting men. to them it was a possible battleground; with a view to cover, it was a strategic position, and they were satisfied with it. the cattle, turned loose from the corrals, must pass up or down the valley; similarly, any number of men must approach from one of these two directions, which meant that the ambush could not be avoided. at last the warning signal came. an owl hooted from somewhere up the valley, the cry rising in weird cadence and dying away lingeringly. and, at the same time, there came the sound of a distant rumble, like the steady drone of machinery at some far-off point. tresler at once gave up his watch on the east and centred all attention upon the west. one of his own men had answered the owl's cry, and a third screech came from the guard at the corrals. the rumble grew louder. there were no moving objects visible yet, but the growing sound was less of a murmur; it was more detached, and the straining ears distinctly made out the clatter of hoofs evidently traveling fast down the valley trail. on they came, steadily hammering out their measure with crisp precision. it was a moment of tense excitement for those awaiting the approach. but only a moment, although the sensation lasted longer. the moon suddenly brought the whole thing into reality. suspense was banished with its revealing light, and each man, steady at his post, gripped his carbine or revolver, ready to pour in a deadly fire the moment the word should be given. a troop of about eighteen horsemen dashed round a bend of the valley and plunged into the ambush. instantly fyles's voice rang out. "halt, or we fire!" he cried. the horsemen drew rein at once, but the reply was a pistol-shot in the direction whence his voice had sounded. the defiance was tresler's signal. he passed the word to his men, and a volley of carbine-fire rang out at once, and confusion in the ranks of the horsemen followed immediately. then the battle began in deadly earnest. the sheriff's men leapt into their saddles, and advanced both in front and in rear of the trapped raiders. and the cowpunchers came racing down from the corrals to hurl themselves into the _mêlée_ whooping and yelling, as only men of their craft can. the fight waxed furious, but the odds were in favor of the ambush. the clouded sky lent neither side much assistance. now and again the peeping moon looked down upon the scene as though half afraid to show itself, and it was by those fleeting rays that the sheriff's men leveled their carbines and poured in their deadly fire. but the raiders were no mean foe. they fought desperately, and were masters in the use of their weapons. their confusion of the first moment passed instantly, and they rode straight at tresler's line of defense with a determination that threatened to overwhelm it and force a passage. but the coming of the cowpunchers stemmed the tide and hurled them back on fyles's force in their rear. several riderless horses escaped in the _mêlée_; nor were they only belonging to the raiders. one of the "deputies" had dropped from his saddle right beside tresler, and there was no telling, in the darkness, how many others had met with a similar fate. red mask's gang had been fairly trapped, and both sides meant to fight to a finish. all this time both tresler and fyles were looking out for the leader, the man of all whom they desired to capture. but the darkness, which had favored the ambuscade, now defeated their object. in the mob of struggling humanity it was difficult enough to distinguish friend from foe, let alone to discover any one person. the ranks of the "deputies" had closed right in and a desperate hand-to-hand struggle was going on. tresler was caught in the midst of the tide, his crazy mare had carried him there whether he would or no; but if she had carried him thus into deadly peril, she was also ready to fight for him. she laid about her royally, swept on, and reared plunging at every obstruction to her progress, her master thus escaping many a shot, if it left him able to do little better than fire at random himself. in this frantic fashion the maddened creature tore her way through the thick of the fight, and her rider was borne clear to the further outskirts. then she tried to get away with him, but in the nick of time, before her strong teeth had fixed themselves on the bit, he managed to head her once again for the struggling mass. with furious recklessness she charged forward, and, as bad luck would have it, her wild career brought about the worst thing possible. she cannoned violently into the sheriff's charger, while its rider was in the act of leveling his revolver at the head of a man wearing a red mask. the impact was within an ace of bringing both horses and riders to the ground. the mare was flung on her haunches, while fyles, cursing bitterly, clung desperately to his saddle to retain his seat. but his aim was lost, and his shot narrowly missed his horse's head; and, before either he or tresler had recovered himself, the red masked man had vanished into the darkness, heading for the perilous ascent of the valley side. terrified out of her life the lady jezebel turned swinging round on her haunches, and charged down the valley; and as she went tresler had the questionable satisfaction of seeing the sheriff detach himself from the mob and gallop in pursuit of the raider. his own blood was up now, and though the mare had got the bit in her teeth he fought her with a fury equal to her own. he knew she was mistress of the situation, but he simply would not give in. he would kill her rather than she should get away with him this time. and so, as nothing else had any effect on her, he snatched a pistol from its holster and leant over and pounded the side of her head with the butt of it in a wild attempt to turn her. at first she gave not the smallest heed to his blows; such was her madness. but presently she flinched under them and turned her head away, and her body responded to the movement. in another moment he had her round, and as she faced the side of the valley where the raider had disappeared, he slashed her cruelly with his spurs. in a moment the noise of the battle was left behind him, and the mare, with cat-like leaps, was breasting the ascent. and tresler only thought of the man he was in pursuit of. his own neck or the neck of his mare mattered nothing to him then. through him, or through the mare, they had lost red mask. he must rectify the fault. he had no idea how. his brain was capable of only one thought--pursuit; and he thanked his stars for the sure-footed beast under him. nothing stopped her; she lifted to every obstruction. a cut-bank had no terrors for her, she simply charged it with her great, strong hoofs till the gravel and sand poured away under them and left her a foothold. bushes were trampled down or plunged through. blindly she raced for the top, at an angle that made her rider cling to the horn of his saddle to keep himself from sliding off over the cantle. they passed fyles struggling laboriously to reach the top. the lady jezebel seemed to shoot past him and leave him standing. and as he went tresler called out-- "how much start has he?" "he's topping it now," the sheriff replied. and the answer fired tresler's excitement so that he again rammed both spurs into the mare's flanks. the top of the hill loomed up against the sky. a thick fringe of bush confronted them. head down, nose almost touching the ground, the mad animal plunged into it. her rider barely had time to lie down in his saddle and cling to her neck. his thoughts were in a sort of mental whirlpool and he hardly realized what had happened, when, the next moment, the frenzied demon under him plunged out on to the open prairie. she made no pause or hesitation, but like a shot from a gun swept on straight as the crow flies, her nose alone guiding her. she still held the bit in her jaws; her frolic had only just begun. tresler looked ahead and scanned the sky-line, but the darkness obscured all signs of his quarry. he had just made up his mind to trust to chance and the captious mood of his mare when the moon, crossing a rift in the clouds, gave him a sort of flashlight view of the horizon. it only lasted a few seconds, but it lasted long enough for him to detect a horseman heading for the mosquito river, away to the right, with a start that looked like something over a mile. his heart sank at the prospect. but the next instant hope bounded within him, for the mare swung round of her own accord and stretched herself for the race. he understood. she had recognized the possibility of company; and few horses, whatever their temper, can resist that. he leaned over and patted her shoulder, easing her of his weight like a jockey. "now, you she-devil," he murmured affectionately, "behave yourself for once, and go--go like the fiend you are!" chapter xxii the pursuit of red mask a mile start; it would seem an impossible advantage. even with a far better horse in pursuit, how many miles must be covered before that distance could be made up? could the lost ground be regained in eight miles? it looked to be out of the question even to tresler, hopeful of his mare as he was, and knowing her remarkable turn of speed. yet such proved to be the case. eight miles saw him so close on the heels of the raider that there was nothing left for the fugitive but to keep on. he felt no surprise that they were traversing the river trail. he even thought he knew how he could head his man off by a short cut. but this would not serve his purpose. he wanted to get him red-handed, and to leave him now would be to give him a chance that he was confident would be taken advantage of at once. the river trail led to the ranch. and the only branches anywhere along its route were those running north and south at the ford. steadily he closed up, foot by foot, yard by yard. sometimes he saw his quarry, sometimes he was only guided by the beat of the speeding hoofs. now that he was urging her, the lady jezebel had relinquished the bit, not only willing, but bursting to do better than her best. no rider could resist such an appeal. and as they went tresler found himself talking to her with an affection that would have sounded ridiculous to any but a horseman. it made him smile to see her ears laid back, not in the manner of a horse putting forth its last efforts, but with that vicious air she always had, as though she were running open-mouthed at jacob smith, as he had seen her do in the corral on his introduction to her. when they came to the river ford he was a bare hundred yards in the wake of his man. here the road turned off for the ranch, and the trees met overhead and shut out the light of the moon. it was pitch black, and he was only guided by the sound of the other horse in front. abreast of the ford he became aware that this sound had abruptly died out, and at the bend of the trail he pulled up and listened acutely. they stood thus, the mare's great body heaving under him, until her rider caught the faint sound of breaking bush somewhere directly ahead of them. instantly recollection came to his help, and he laughed as he turned the mare off the trail and plunged into the scrub. it was the spot where, once before, he had taken, unwillingly, to the bush. there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. they raced through the tangle, and threaded their way on to the disused trail they had both traveled before. the fugitive had gained considerably now, and tresler, for the first time since the race had begun, asked his mare for more pace. she simply shook her head, snorted, and swished her tail, as though protesting that the blow was unnecessary. she could not do the impossible, and that he was asking of her. but his forcible request was the nervous result of his knowledge that the last lap of the race had been entered upon and the home stretch was not far off. it must be now or never. he soon realized that the remaining distance was all too short. as he came to the place where the forest abruptly terminated, he saw that day had broken. the gray light showed him to be still thirty yards or so behind. they had reached the broken lands he remembered so well. before him stretched the plateau leading to the convergence of the river and the cliff. it was the sight of this which gave him an inspiration. he remembered the branching trail to the bridge, also the wide sweep it took, as compared with the way he had first come. to leap the river would gain him fifty yards. but in that light it was a risk--a grave risk. he hesitated. annoyed at his own indecision, he determined to risk everything on one throw. the other horse was distinctly lagging. he reached down and patted his mare's neck. and that simple action restored his confidence; he felt that she was still on top of her work. the river would have no terrors for her. he saw the masked man turn off for the bridge, but he held straight on. he gave another anxious look at the sky. the dull gray was still unbroken by any flush of sunrise, but it was lighter, certainly. the mask of clouds was breaking, though it still contrived to keep daylight in abeyance. he had no option but to settle himself in the saddle for the great effort. light or no light, he could not turn back now. and for the while he forgot the fugitive. his mind centred on the river ahead, and the moment when his hand must lend the mare that aid, without which he could not hope, after her great journey, to win the far bank. his nerve was steady, and his eyes never more alert. everything was distinct enough about him. the bushes flying by were clearly outlined now, and he fancied he could already see the river's line of demarkation. on they raced, he leaning well forward, she with her ears pricked, attentive to the murmurs of the water already so near. unconsciously his knees gripped the leggaderos of his saddle with all the power he could put into the pressure, and his body was bent crouching, as though he were about to make the spring himself. and the moment came. he spurred and lifted; and the game beast shot forward like a rocket. a moment, and she landed. but the half lights must have deceived her. she had jumped further than before, and, crashing into a boulder with her two fore feet, she turned a complete somersault, and fell headlong to the ground, hurling her rider yards out of the saddle into the soft loose sand of the trail beyond. quite unhurt, tresler was on his feet in an instant. but the mare lay still where she had fallen. a hopeless feeling of regret swept over the man as he turned and beheld her. he saw the masked rider dash at the hillside on his weary horse, not twenty yards from him, but he gave him no heed. it needed no look into the mare's glazing eyes to tell him what he had done. he had killed her. the first really honest act of her life had led to the unfortunate creature's own undoing. her lean ewe neck was broken, as were both her forelegs. the moment he had ascertained the truth he left her, and, looking up at the hill, saw that it was high time. the rider had vanished, but his jaded horse was standing half-way up the hillside in the mire of loose sand. it was either too frightened or too weary to move, and stood there knee-deep, a picture of dejection. the task of mounting to the ledge was no light one, but tresler faced it without a second thought. the other had only something less than a minute's start of him, and as there was only one other exit to the place--and that, he remembered, of a very unpromising nature--he had few fears of the man's ultimate escape. no, there was no escape for him; and besides--a smile lit up the hard set of his features at the thought--daylight had really come. the clouds had at last given way before the rosy herald of sunrise. the last of the ascent was accomplished, and, breathing hard, tresler stepped on to the gravel-strewn plateau, gun in hand. he felt glad of his five-chambered companion. those rough friends of his on the ranch were right. there was nothing so compelling, nothing so arbitrary, nor so reassuring to the possessor and confounding to his enemies, as a gun well handled. the ledge was empty. he looked at the towering cliff, but there was no sign of his man in that direction. he moved toward the hut, but at the first step the door of the dugout was flung wide, and julian marbolt, gun in hand, dashed out. he came with a rush, without hesitation, confidently; but as the door was thrown open, and the flood of daylight shone down upon him, he fell back with a bitter cry of despair, and tresler knew that he had not reckoned on the change from comparative darkness to daylight. he needed no further proof of what he had come to suspect. the rancher was only blind in the presence of strong light! for a second only he stood cowering back, then, feeling his way, he darted with miraculous rapidity round the side of the building, and scrambled toward the dizzy staircase in the rock. tresler challenged him at once, but he paid no heed. he had reached the foot of the stairway, and was climbing for life and liberty. the other knew that he ought to have opened fire on him, but the old desire to trust to his hands and bodily strength overcame his better judgment, and he ran at him. his impulse was humane but futile, for the man was ascending with marvelous rapidity, and by the time he had reached the foot of the ladder, was beyond his reach. there was nothing left now but to use his gun or to follow. one look at the terrific ascent, however, left him no choice. "go on, and i'll drop you, julian marbolt!" he shouted. "i've five chambers loaded in each gun." for response, the blind man increased his exertions. on he went, up, up, till it made the man below dizzy to watch him. tresler raised his gun and fired wide, letting the bullet strike the rock close to the man's right hand to convince him of his intentions. he saw the limestone splinter as the bullet hit it, while the clutching, groping hand slid higher for a fresh hold; but it had no other effect. he was at a loss. if the man reached the top, he knew that somewhere over the brink lay a road to safety. and he was nearing it; nearing it foot by foot with his crawling, clinging clutch upon the face of rock. he shuddered as he watched, fascinated even against himself. deprived of sight, the man's whole body seemed alert with an instinct that served him in its stead. his movements were like those of some cuttlefish, reaching out blindly with its long feelers and drawing itself up by the power of its tentacles. he shouted a last warning. "your last chance!" he cried; and now his aim was true, and his purpose inflexible. the only answer was a hurried movement on the part of the climbing man. tresler's finger was on the trigger, while his eyes were fixed on his mark. but the hammer did not fall; the final compression of the hand was stayed, while horror leapt into the eyes so keenly looking over the sight. something had happened up there on the face of the cliff. the man had slipped! one foot shot out helplessly, as the frantic climber struggled for those last few steps before the shot came. he wildly sought to recover himself, but the fatal jolt carried the weight of his body with it, and wrenched the other foot from its hold. for the fraction of a second the man below became aware of the clinging hands, as they desperately held to the rock, and then he dropped his gun and clapped his hands over his ears as a piercing shriek rang out. he could not witness any more. he only heard, in spite of his stopped ears, the lumping of a soft body falling; he saw, though his eyes were closed almost on the instant, a huddled figure pitch dully upon the edge of the plateau and disappear below. it all passed in a flash. then silence reigned. and when he opened his eyes there was no horrible sight, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. it had gone; no trace was left, not a tatter of cloth, not a spot of blood, nothing. he knew. his imaginary vision of the old-time trapper had been enacted before his very eyes. all that remained of julian marbolt was lying--down there. * * * * * fyles and tresler were standing in the valley below. they were gazing on the mangled remains of the rancher. fyles had removed the piece of red blanket from the dead man's face, and held it up for inspection. "um!" he grunted. "the game's played out." "there's more of that up there in the hut," said tresler. "breed blanket," commented fyles, folding it up and carefully bestowing it in his pocket. then he turned and gazed down the yawning valley. it was a wonderful place, a mighty rift extending for miles into the heart of the mountains. "a nice game, too," he went on presently. "ever seen this place before?" "once," tresler replied. then he told the officer of his runaway ride. fyles listened with interest. at the conclusion he said, "pity you didn't tell me of this before. however, you missed the chief interest. look away down there in the shelter of the cliff. see--about a mile down. corrals enough to shepherd ten thousand head. and they are cunningly disposed." tresler now became aware of a scattered array of corrals, stretching away out into the distance, but so arranged at the foot of the towering walls of the valley that they needed looking for closely. then he looked up at the ledge which had been the scene of the disaster, and the ladder of hewn steps above, and he pointed at them. "i wonder what's on the other side?" "that's an easy one," replied his companion promptly. "half-breeds." "a settlement?" "that's about it. you remember the breeds cleared away from their old settlement lately. we've never found them. once they take to the hills, it's like a needle in a haystack. maybe friend anton is in hiding there." "i doubt it. 'tough' mcculloch didn't belong to them, as i told you. he comes from over the border. no; he's getting away as fast as his horse can carry him. and arizona isn't far off his trail, if i'm any judge." fyles's great round face was turned contemplatively on his companion. "well, that's for the future, anyhow," he observed, and moved to a bush some yards away. "let's take it easy. money, one of my deputies, has gone in for a wagon. i don't expect him for a couple of hours or so. we must keep it company," he added, nodding his head in the direction of the dead man. they sat down and silently lit their pipes. fyles was the first to speak. "guess i've got to thank you," he said, as though that sort of thing was quite out of his province. tresler shook his head. "not me," he said. "thank my poor mare." then he added, with a bitter laugh, "why, but for the accident of his fall, i'm not sure he wouldn't have escaped. i'm pretty weak-kneed when it comes to dropping a man in cold blood." the other shook his head. "no; he wouldn't have escaped. you underestimate yourself. but even if you had missed i had him covered with my carbine. i was watching the whole thing down here. you see, money and i came on behind. i don't suppose we were more than a few minutes after you. that mare you were riding was a dandy. i see she's done." "yes," tresler said sorrowfully. "and i'm not ashamed to say it's hit me hard. she did us a good turn." "and she owed it to us." "you mean when she upset everything during the fight?" "yes." "well, she's more than made amends. in spite of her temper, that mare of mine was the finest thing on the ranch." "yours?" fyles raised his eyebrows. "well--marbolt's." but the officer shook his head. "nor marbolt's. she belonged to me. three years ago i turned her out to graze at whitewater with a bunch of others, as an incorrigible rogue and vagabond. the whole lot were stolen and one of the guard shot. her name was 'strike 'em.'" "strike 'em?" "yes. ever have her come at you with both front feet, and her mouth open?" tresler nodded. "that's it. 'strike 'em.' fine mare--half blood." "but marbolt told jake he bought her from a half-breed outfit." "dare say he did." fyles relit his pipe for about the twentieth time, which caused tresler to hand him his pouch. "try tobacco," he said, with a smile. the sheriff accepted the invitation with unruffled composure. the gentle sarcasm passed quite unheeded. probably the man was too intent on the business of the moment, for he went on as though no interruption had occurred. "after seeing you on that mare i found the ranch interesting. but the man's blindness fooled me right along. i had no trouble in ascertaining that jake had nothing to do with things. also i was assured that none of the 'hands' were playing the game. anton was the man for me. but soon i discovered that he was not the actual leader. so far, good. there was only marbolt left; but he was blind. last night, when you came for me, and told me what had happened at the ranch, and about the lighted lamp, i tumbled. but even so i still failed to understand all. the man was blind in daylight, and could see in darkness or half-light. now, what the deuce sort of blind disease is that? and he seems to have kept the secret, acting the blind man at all times. it was clever--devilish clever." tresler nodded. "yes; he fooled us all, even his daughter." the other shot a quick glance from out of the corners of his eyes. "i suppose so," he observed, and waited. they smoked in silence. "what are you going to do next?" asked tresler, as the other showed no disposition to speak. the man shrugged. "take possession of the ranch. just keep the hands to run it. the lady had better go into forks if she has any friends there. you might see to that. i understand that you are--gossip, you know." "yes." "there'll be inquiries and formalities. the property i don't know about. that will be settled by the government." tresler became thoughtful. suddenly he turned to his companion. "sheriff," he said earnestly, "i hope you'll spare miss marbolt all you can. she has lived a terribly unhappy life with him. i can assure you she has known nothing of this--nothing of the strange blindness. i would swear it with my last breath." "i don't doubt you, my boy," the other said heartily. "we owe you too much to doubt you. she shall not be bothered more than can be helped. but she had some knowledge of that blindness, or she would not have acted as she did with that lamp. i tell you candidly she will have to make a statement." "have no doubt; she will explain." "sure--ah! i think i hear the wheels of the wagon." fyles looked round. then he settled himself down again. "jake," he went on, "was smartest of us all. i can't believe he was ever told of his patron's curious blindness. he must have discovered it. he was playing a big game. and all for a woman! well, well." "no doubt he thought she was worth it," said tresler, with some asperity. the officer smiled at the tone. "no doubt, no doubt. still, he wasn't young. he fooled you when he concurred with your suspicions of anton--that is, he knew you were off the true scent, and meant keeping you off it. i can understand, too, why you were sent to willow bluff. you knew too much, you were too inquiring. besides, from your own showing to jake--which he carried on to the blind man for his own ends--you wanted too much. you had to be got rid of, as others have been got rid of before. yes, it was all very clever. and he never spared his own stock. robbed himself by transferring a bunch of steers to these corrals, and, later on, i suppose, letting them drift back to his own pastures. i only wonder why, with a ranch like his, he ran the risk." "perhaps it was old-time associations. he was a slave-trader once, and no doubt he stocked his ranch originally by raiding the indians' cattle. then, when white people came around, and the indians disappeared, he continued his depredations on less open lines." "ah! slave-trader, was he? who said?" "miss marbolt innocently told me he once traded in the indies in 'black ivory.' she did not understand." "just so--ah, here is the wagon." fyles rose leisurely to his feet. and money drove up. "the best of news, sheriff," the latter cried at once. "captured the lot. some of the boys are badly damaged, but we've got 'em all." "well, we'll get back with this," the officer replied quietly. the dead man was lifted into the wagon, and, in a few minutes, the little party was on its way back to the ranch. chapter xxiii a return to the land of the philistines the affairs of the ranch were taken in hand by fyles. everything was temporarily under his control, and an admirable administrator he proved. nor could tresler help thinking how much better he seemed suited by such pastoral surroundings than by the atmosphere of his proper calling. but this appointment only lasted a week. then the authorities drafted a man to relieve him for the more urgent business of the investigation into the death of the rancher and his foreman, and the trial of the half-breed raiders captured at widow dangley's. diane, acting on tresler's advice, had taken up her abode with mrs. doc. osler in forks, which good, comfortable, kind, gossipy old woman insisted on treating her as a bereaved and ailing child, who must be comforted and ministered to, and incidentally dosed with tonics. as a matter of fact, diane, though greatly shocked at the manner and conditions of her father's death, and the discovery that he was so terrible an outlaw, was suffering in no sense the bereavement of the death of a parent. she was heartily glad to get away from her old home, that had held so much unhappiness and misery for her. later on, when tresler sent her word that it was imperative for him to go into whitewater with fyles, that he had been summoned there as a witness, she was still more glad that she had left it. thanks to the influence and consideration of fyles, she had been spared the ordeal of the trial in whitewater. she had given her sworn testimony at the preliminary inquiry on the ranch, and this had been put in as evidence at the higher court. and so it was nearly a month before tresler was free to return to forks. and during that time he had been kept very busy. what with the ranch affairs, and matters of his own concerns, he had no time for anything but brief and infrequent little notes of loving encouragement to the waiting girl. but these messages tended otherwise than might have been expected. the sadness that had so long been almost second nature to the girl steadily deepened, and mrs. osler, ever kind and watchful of her charge, noticed the depression settling on her, and with motherly solicitude--she had no children of her own--insisted on the only remedy she understood--physic. and the girl submitted to the kindly treatment, knowing well enough that there was no physic to help her complaint. she knew that, in spite of his tender messages and assurances of affection, tresler could never be anything more in her life than he was at present. even in death her father had carried out his threat. she could never marry. it would be a cruel outrage on any man. she told herself that no self-respecting man would ever marry a girl with such a past, such parentage. and so she waited for her lover's return to tell him. once she thought of writing it, but she knew jack too well. he would only come down to forks post haste, and that might upset his plans; and she had no desire to cause him further trouble. she would tell him her decision when he had leisure to come to her. then she would wait for the government orders about the ranch, and, if she were allowed to keep it, she would sell the land as soon as possible and leave the country forever. she felt that this course was the right one to pursue; but it was very, very hard, and no measure of tonics could dispel the deepening shadows which the cruelty of her lot had brought to her young face. it was wonderful the kindness and sympathy extended to her in that rough settlement. there was not a man or woman, especially the men, who did not do all in his or her power to make her forget her troubles. no one ever alluded to mosquito bend in her presence, and, instead, assumed a rough, cheerful jocularity, which sat as awkwardly on the majority as it well could. for most of them were illiterate, hard-living folk, rendered desperately serious in the struggle for existence. and back to this place tresler came one day. he was a very different man now from what he had been on his first visit. he looked about him as he crossed the market-place. quickly locating doc. osler's little house, he smiled to himself as he thought of the girl waiting for him there. but he kept to his course and rode straight on to carney's saloon. here, as before, he dismounted. but he needed no help or guide. he straightway hooked his horse's reins over the tie-post and walked into the bar. the first man to greet him was his old acquaintance slum ranks. the little man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyes at him in a way he remembered so well. there was no change in the rascal's appearance. in fact, he was wearing the same clothes tresler had first seen him in. they were no cleaner and no dirtier. the man seemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just as everything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. there were the same men there--one or two more besides--the same reeking atmosphere, the same dingy hue over the whole interior. nothing seemed changed. slum's greeting was characteristic. "wal, blind-hulks has passed--eh? i figgered you was comin' out on top. guess the government'll treat you han'some." the butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. tresler saw that he was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since the first time he had seen him. shaky, the carpenter, looked up from the little side table at which he was playing "solitaire" with a greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment before. those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as they heard slum's greeting, and carney paused in the act of wiping a glass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might be. tresler felt that something was due to those who could display so much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for drinks. then he turned to slum. "well," he said, "i'm going to take up my abode here for a week or two." "i'm real glad," said ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the prospect. he remembered how profitable this man had proved before. "the missis'll be glad, too," he added. "i 'lows she's a far-seein' wummin. we kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. a bran' noo iron bed, wi' green an' red stripes, an' a washbowl goin' with it. say, it's a real dandy layout, an' on'y three dollars a week wi'out board. guess i'll git right over an' tell her to fix--eh?" tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. "don't bother. carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren't you, carney?" "that's how," replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the plausible slum. "wal, now. you plumb rattle me. to think o' your goin' over from a pal like that," said slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed and stretched his arms further along the bar. "guess he's had some," observed the carpenter, shuffling his cards anew. "i 'lows that bed has bugs, an' the wash-bowl's mostly used dippin' out swill," he finished up scornfully. ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. "guess i never knew you but what you was insultin', shaky," he observed, in a tone of pity. "some folks is like that. guess you git figgerin' them cards too close. you never was bustin' wi' brains. say, carney," turning back to the bar complainingly, "wher's them durned brandy 'cocks' mr. tresler ordered a whiles back? you're gettin' most like a fun'ral on an up-hill trail. slow--eh? guess if we're to be pizened i sez do it quick." "comin' along, slum," replied carney, winking knowingly to let tresler understand that the man's impatience was only a covering for his discomfiture at shaky's hands. "i've done my best to pizen you this ten year. guess shaky's still pinin' fer the job o' nailin' a few planks around you. here you are. more comin'." "who's needin' me?" asked shaky, looking up from his cards. "slum ranks?" he questioned, pausing. "guess i've got a plank or two fit fer him. red pine. burns better." he lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. slum lowered his cocktail and turned a disgusted look on him. "say, go easy wi' that lucifer. don't breathe on it, or ther' won't be no need fer red pine fer you." "gentlemen, gentlemen," cried carney, jocosely, "the present--kep to the present. because slum, here, runs a--well, a boardin' establishment, ther' ain't no need to discuss his future so coarsely." "not so much slack, carney," said slum, a little angrily. "guess my boardin' emporium's rilin' you some. you're feelin' a hur'cane; that's wot you're feelin', i guess. makes you sick to see folks gittin' value fer their dollars, don't it?" "good fer you, good fer you," cried the butcher, and subsided with a loud guffaw. the unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. the entire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face. "sail in, slum," said a lean man tresler had heard addressed as "sawny" martin. "i allus sez as you've got a dead eye fer the tack-head ev'ry time. but go easy, or the boss'll bar you on the slate." "don't owe him nuthin'," growled slum. "which ain't or'nary in this company," observed the smiling carney; he loved to get slum angry. "say, shaky," he went on, "how do slum fix you in his--hotel? you don't seem bustin' wi' vittals." "might do wuss," responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. "but, y' see, i stan' in wi' doc. osler, an' he physics me reg'lar." everybody laughed with the butcher this time. "say, you gorl-durned 'fun'ral boards,' you're gittin' kind o' fresh, but i'd bet a greenback to a last year's corn-shuck you don't quit ther' an' come grazin' around carney's pastures, long as my missis does the cookin'." "i 'lows your missis ken cook," said shaky, with enthusiasm. "the feller as sez she can't lies. but wi' her, my respec' fer your hog-pen ends. i guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. who's fer 'draw'?" slum turned back to the bar. "here, carney," he said, planking out a ten-dollar bill, "hand over chips to that. we're losin' blessed hours gassin'. i'm goin' fer a hand at 'draw.' an' say, give us a new deck o' cards. guess them o' shaky's needs curry-combin' some. mr. tresler," he went on, turning to his old boarder, "mebbe i owe you some. have you a notion?" "no thanks, slum," replied tresler, decidedly. "i'm getting an old hand now." "ah!" and the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted, mahogany features. tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. their recent bickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling passion for "draw." and what a game it was! each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was a past master at poker--an artist. the baser instincts of the game appealed to the uppermost sides of their natures. they were there to best each other by any manner of trickery. each man understood that his neighbor was doing all he knew, nor did he resent it. only would he resent it should the delinquent be found out. then there would be real trouble. but they were all such old-time sinners. they had been doing that sort of thing for years, and would continue to do it for years more. it was the method of their lives, and tresler had no opinion on the right or wrong of it. he had no right to judge them, and, besides, he had every sympathy for them as struggling units in life's great battle. but presently he left the table, for fyles came in, and he had been waiting for him. but the sheriff came by himself, and tresler asked him the reason. "well, you see, nelson is outside, tresler," the burly man said, with something like a smile. "he wouldn't come in. shall we go out to him?" the other assented, and they passed out. joe was sitting on his buckskin pony, gazing at the saloon with an infinite longing in his old eyes. "why are you sitting there?" tresler asked at once. then he regretted his question. "wal," joe drawled, without the least hesitation, "i'm figgerin' you oughter know by this time. ther's things born to live on liquid, an' they've mostly growed tails. guess i ain't growed that--yet. mebbe i'll git down at doc. osler's. an' i'll git on agin right ther'," he added, as an afterthought. joe smiled as much as his twisted face would permit, but tresler was annoyed with himself for having forced such a confession from him. "well, i'm sorry i suggested it, joe," he said quickly; "as you say, i ought to have known better. never mind, i want you to do me a favor." "name it, an' i'll do it if i bust." the little man brightened at the thought of this man asking a favor of him. tresler didn't respond at once. he didn't want to put the matter too bluntly. he didn't want to let joe feel that he regarded him as a subordinate. "well, you see, i'm looking for some one of good experience to give me some friendly help. you see, i've bought a nice place, and--well, in fact, i'm setting up ranching on my own, and i want you to come and help me with it. that's all." joe looked out over the market-place, he looked away at the distant hills, his eyes turned on doc. osler's house; he cleared his throat and screwed his face into the most weird shape. his eyes sought the door of the saloon and finally came back to tresler. he swallowed two or three times, then suddenly thrust out his hand as though he were going to strike his benefactor. "shake," he muttered hoarsely. and tresler gripped the proffered hand. "and perhaps you'll have that flower-garden, joe," he said, "without the weeds." "mr. tresler, sir, shake agin." "never mind the 'mister' or the 'sir,'" said tresler. "we are old friends. now, fyles," he went on, turning to the officer, who had been looking on as an interested spectator, "have you any news for miss marbolt?" "yes, the decision's made. i've got the document here in my pocket." "good. but don't tell it me. give me an hour's start of you. i'm going to see the lady myself. and, joe," tresler looked up into the old man's beaming face. "will you come with the sheriff when he interviews--er--our client?" "all right, mis----" "no." "tresler, si----" "no." "all right, tresler," said the old man, in a strangely husky voice. * * * * * diane was confronting her lover for the last interview. mrs. osler had discreetly left them, and now they were sitting in the diminutive parlor, the man, at the girl's expressed wish, sitting as far from her as the size of the room would permit. all his cheeriness had deserted him and a decided frown marred the open frankness of his face. diane, herself, looked a little older than when we saw her last at the ranch. the dark shadows round her pretty eyes were darker, and her face looked thinner and paler, while her eyes shone with a feverish brightness. "you overruled my decision once, jack," she was saying in a low tone that she had difficulty in keeping steady, "but this time it must not be." "well, look here, danny, i can give you just an hour in which to ease your mind, but i tell you candidly, after that you'll have to say 'yes,' in spite of all your objections. so fire away. here's the watch. i'm going to time you." tresler spoke lightly and finished up with a laugh. but he didn't feel like laughter. this objection came as a shock to him. he had pictured such a different meeting. diane shook her head. "i can say all i have to say in less time than that, jack. promise me that you will not misunderstand me. you know my heart, dear. it is all yours, but, but--jack, i did not tell all i knew at the inquest." she paused, but tresler made no offer to help her out. "i knew father could see at night. he was what mr. osler calls a--nyc--nyctalops. that's it. it's some strange disease and not real blindness at all, as far as i can make out. he simply couldn't see in daylight because there was something about his eyes which let in so much light, that all sense of vision was paralyzed, and at such time he suffered intense pain. but when evening came, in the moonlight, or late twilight; in fact at any time when there was no glare of light, just a soft radiance, he could not only see but was possessed of peculiarly acute vision. how he kept his secret for so many years i don't know. i understand why he did, but, even now, i cannot understand what drove him to commit the dreadful deeds he did, so wealthy and all as he was." tresler thought he could guess pretty closely. but he waited for her to go on. "jack, i discovered that he could see at night when you were ill, just before you recovered consciousness," she went on, in a solemn, awestruck tone. "ah!" "yes, while you were lying there insensible you narrowly escaped being murdered." again she paused, and shuddered visibly. "i was afraid of something. his conduct when you were brought in warned me. he seemed to resent your existence; he certainly resented your being in the house, but most of all my attendance on you. i was very watchful, but the strain was too much, and, one night, feeling that the danger of sleep for me was very real, i barricaded the stairs. i did my utmost to keep awake, but foolishly sat down on my own bed and fell asleep. then i awoke with a start; i can't say what woke me. anyway, realizing i had slept, i became alarmed for you. i picked up the light and went out into the hall, where i found my barricade removed----" "yes, and your father at my bedside, with his hands at my throat." "loosening the bandage." "to?" "to open the wound and let you bleed to death." "i see. yes, i remember. i dreamt the whole scene, except the bandage business. but you----" "i had the lighted lamp, and the moment its light flashed on him he was as--as blind as a bat. his hands moved about your bandage fumbling and uncertain. yes, he was blind enough then. i believe he would have attacked me, only i threatened him with the lamp, and with calling for help." "brave little woman--yes, i remember your words. they were in my dream. and that's how you knew what to do later on when jake and he----" the girl nodded. "so fyles was right," tresler went on musingly. "you did know." "was i wrong, jack, in not telling them at the inquest? you see he is dead, and----" "on the contrary, you were right. it would have done no manner of good. you might have told me, though." "well, i didn't know what to do," the girl said, a little helplessly. "you see i never thought of cattle-stealing. it never entered my head that he was, or could be, red mask. i only looked upon it as a villainous attempt on your life, which would not be likely to occur again, and which it would serve no purpose to tell you of. besides, the horror----" "yes, i see. perhaps you were right. it would have put us on the right track though, as, later on, the fight with jake and your action with regard to it did. never mind; that's over. julian marbolt was an utter villain from the start. you may as well know that his trading in 'black ivory' was another name for slave-trading. his blindness had nothing to do with driving him to crime, nor had your mother's doings. he was a rogue before. his blindness only enabled him to play a deeper game, which was a matter likely to appeal to his nature. however, nothing can be altered by discussing him. i have bought a ranch adjoining mosquito bend, and secured joe's assistance as foreman. i have given out contracts for rebuilding the house; also, i've sent orders east for furnishings. i am going to buy my stock at the fall round-up. all i want now is for you to say when you will marry me, sweetheart." "but, jack, you don't seem to understand. i can't marry you. father was a--a murderer." "i don't care what he was, danny. it doesn't make the least difference to me. i'm not marrying your father." diane was distressed. the lightness of his treatment of the subject bothered her. but she was in deadly earnest. "but, jack, think of the disgrace! your people! all the folk about here!" "now don't let us be silly, danny," tresler said, coming over to the girl's side and taking possession of her forcibly. in spite of protest his arm slipped round her waist, and he drew her to him and kissed her tenderly. "my people are not marrying you. nor are the folk--who, by the way, can't, and have no desire to throw stones--doing so either. now, you saved my life twice; once through your gentle nursing, once through your bravery. and i tell you no one has the right to save life and then proceed to do all in their power to make that life a burden to the miserable wretch on whom they've lavished such care. that would be a vile and unwomanly action, and quite foreign to your gentle heart. sweetheart," he went on, kissing her again, "you must complete the good work. i am anything but well yet. in fact i am so weak that any shock might cause a relapse. in short, there is only one thing, as far as i can see, to save me from a horrid death--consumption or colic, or some fell disease--and that's marriage. i know you must be bored to death by----no," as the girl tried to stop him, "don't interrupt, you must know all the fearsome truth--a sort of chronic invalid, but if you don't marry me, well, i'll get joe to bury me somewhere at the crossroads. look at all the money i've spent in getting our home together. think of it, danny; our home! and old joe to help us. and----" "oh, stop, stop, or you'll make me----" "marry me. just exactly what i intend, darling. now, seriously, let's forget the old past; jake, your father, anton, all of them--except arizona." diane nestled closer to him in spite of her protests. there was something so strong, reliant, masterful about her jack that made him irresistible to her. she knew she was wrong in allowing herself to think like this at such a moment, but, after all, she was a weak, loving woman, fighting in what she conceived to be the cause of right. if she found that her heart, so long starved of affection, overcame her sense of duty, was there much blame? tresler felt the gentle clinging movement, and pressed her for her answer at once. "time's nearly up, dearest. see through that window, fyles and joe are coming over to you. is it marry, or am i to go to the arctic regions fishing for polar bears without an overcoat? i don't care which it is--i mean--no. yes, quick! they're on the verandah." the girl nodded. "yes," she said, so low that his face came in contact with hers in his effort to hear, and stayed there until the burly sheriff knocked at the door. he entered, followed by joe. tresler and diane were standing side by side. he was still holding her hand. "fyles," tresler said at once, beaming upon both men, "let me present you to the future mrs. john tresler. joe," he added, turning on the little man who was twisting his slouch hat up unmercifully in his nervous hand, and grinning ferociously, "are the corrals prepared, and have you got my branding-irons ready? you see i've rounded her up." the little man grinned worse than ever, and appeared to be in imminent peril of extending his torn mouth into the region of his ear. diane listened to the horrible suggestion without misgiving, merely remarking in true wifely fashion-- "don't be absurd, jack!" at which fyles smiled with appreciation. then he coughed to bring them to seriousness, and produced an official envelope from his tunic pocket. "i've just brought you the verdict on your property, miss marbolt," he said deliberately. "shall i read it to you, or would you----?" "never mind the reading," said diane impulsively. "tell me the contents." "well, i confess it's better so. the legal terms are confusing," said the officer emphatically. "you can read them later. i don't guess the government could have acted better by you than they've done. the property,"--he was careful to avoid the rancher's name--"the property is to remain yours, with this proviso. an inquiry has been arranged for, into all claims for property lost during the last ten years in the district. and all approved claims will have to be settled out of the estate. five years is the time allowed for all such claims to be put forward. after that everything reverts to you." diane turned to her lover the moment the officer had finished speaking. "and, jack, when that time comes we'll sell it all and give the money to charity, and just live on in our own little home." "done!" exclaimed tresler. and seizing her in his arms he picked her up and gave her a resounding kiss. the action caused the sheriff to cough loudly, while joe flung his hat fiercely to the ground, and in a voice of wildest excitement, shouted-- "gee, but i want to holler!" chapter xxiv arizona when winter comes in canada it shuts down with no uncertainty. the snow settles and remains. the sun shines, but without warmth. the still air bites through any clothing but furs, moccasins, or felt-lined overshoes. the farmers hug the shelter of their houses, and only that work which is known as "doing the chores" receives attention when once winter sets its seal upon the land. little traffic passes over the drifted trails now; a horseman upon a social visit bent, a bobsleigh loaded with cord-wood for the wood-stoves at home, a cutter, drawn by a rattling team of young bronchos, as rancher and wife seek the alluring stores of some distant city to make their household purchases, even an occasional "jumper," one of those low-built, red-painted, one-horsed sleighs, which resemble nothing so much as a packing-case with a pair of shafts attached. but these are all; for work has practically ceased in the agricultural regions, and a period of hibernation has begun, when, like the dormouse, rancher and farmer alike pass their slack time in repose from the arduous labors of the open season. even the most brilliant sunlight cannot cheer the mournful outlook to any great extent. out on the edmonton trail, hundreds of miles to the north of forks, at the crossroads where the battule trail branches to the east, the cheerless prospect is intensified by the skeleton arms of a snow-crowned bluff. the shelter of trees is no longer a shelter against the wind, which now comes shrieking through the leafless branches and drives out any benighted creature foolish enough to seek its protection against the winter storm. but in winter the crossroads are usually deserted. contrary to custom, however, it is evident that a horseman has recently visited the bluff. for there are hoof-prints on one of the crossing trails; on the trail which comes from somewhere in the south. the marks are sharp indentations and look fresh, but they terminate as the crossing is reached. here they have turned off into the bush and are lost to view. the matter is somewhat incomprehensible. but there is something still more incomprehensible about the desolate place. just beyond where the hoof-prints turn off a lightning-stricken pine tree stands alone, bare and blackened by the fiery ordeal through which it has passed, and, resting in the fork of one of its shriveled branches, about the height of a horseman's head, is a board--a black board, black as is the tree-trunk which supports it. as we draw nearer to ascertain the object of so strange a phenomenon on a prairie trail we learn that some one has inscribed a message to those who may arrive at the crossing. a message of strange meaning and obscure. the characters are laboriously executed in chalk, and have been emphasized with repeated markings and an attempt at block capitals. also there is a hand sketched roughly upon the board, with an outstretched finger pointing vaguely somewhere in the direction of the trail which leads to battule. "_this is the one-way trail_" we read this and glance at the pointing finger which is so shaky of outline, and our first inclination is to laugh. but somehow before the laugh has well matured it dies away, leaving behind it a look of wonder not unmixed with awe. for there is something sinister in the message, which, though we do not understand it, still has power to move us. if we are prairie folk we shall have no inclination to laugh at all. rather shall we frown and edge away from the ominous black board; and it is more than probable we shall avoid the trail indicated, and prefer to make a detour if our destination should chance to be battule. why is that board there? who has set it up? and "the one-way trail" is the trail over which there is no returning. the message is no jest. the coldly gleaming sun has set, and at last a horse and rider enter the bluff. they turn off into the bush and are seen no more. the long night passes. dawn comes again, and, as the daylight broadens, the horseman reappears and rides off down the trail. at evening he returns again; disappears into the bush again; and, with daylight, rides off again. day after day this curious coming and going continues without any apparent object, unless it be that the man has no place but the skeleton bush in which to rest. and with each coming and going the man rides slower, he lounges wearily in his saddle, and before the end of a week looks a mere spectre of the man who first rode into the bluff. starvation is in the emaciated features, the brilliant feverish eyes. his horse, too, appears little better. at length one evening he enters the bush, and the following dawn fails to witness his departure. all that day there is the faint sound of a horse moving about amongst the trees with that limping gait which denotes the application of a knee-halter. but the man makes no sound. as night comes on a solitary figure may be seen seated on a horse at a point which is sheltered from the trail by a screen of bushes. the man sits still, silent, but drooping. his tall gaunt frame is bent almost double over the horn of his saddle in his weakness. the horse's head is hanging heavy with sleep, but the man's great, wild eyes are wide open and alight with burning eagerness. the horse sleeps and frequently has to be awakened by its rider as it stumbles beneath its burden; but the man is as wakeful as the night-owl seeking its prey, and the grim set of his wasted face implies a purpose no less ruthless. at dawn the position is unchanged. the man still droops over his saddle-horn, a little lower perhaps, but his general attitude is the same. as the daylight shoots athwart the horizon and lightens the darkness of the bush to a gray twilight the horse raises his head and pricks up his ears. the man's eyes glance swiftly toward the south and his alertness is intensified. now the soft rustle of flurrying snow becomes audible, and the muffled pounding of a horse's hoofs can be heard upon the trail. the look that leaps into the waiting man's eyes tells plainly that this is what he has so patiently awaited, that here, at last, is the key to his lonely vigil. he draws his horse back further into the bushes and his hand moves swiftly to one of the holsters upon his hips. his thin, drawn features are sternly set, and the sunken eyes are lit with a deep, hard light. daylight broadens and reveals the barren surroundings; the sound draws nearer. the silent horseman grips his gun and lays it across his lap with his forefinger ready upon the trigger. his quick ears tell him that the traveler has entered the bush and that he is walking his horse. the time seems endless, while the horseman waits, but his patience is not exhausted by any means. for more than a week, subsisting on the barest rations which an empty pocket has driven him to beg in that bleak country, he has looked for this meeting. now, through the bushes, he sees the traveler as his horse ambles down the trail toward him. it is a slight fur-clad figure much like his own, but, to judge by the grim smile that passes across his gaunt features, one which gives the waiting man eminent satisfaction. he notes the stranger's alert movements, the quick, flashing black eyes, the dark features, as he peers from side to side in the bush, over the edge of the down-turned storm-collar; the legs which set so close to the saddle, the clumsily mitted hands. nor does he fail to observe the uneasy looks he casts about him, and he sees that, in spite of the solitude, the man is fearful of his surroundings. the stranger draws abreast of the black sign-board. his sidelong glances cannot miss the irregular, chalked characters. his horse comes to a dead stand opposite them, and the rider's eyes become fixed upon the strange message. he reads; and while he reads his lips move like one who spells out the words he sees. "this is the one-way trail," he reads. and then his eyes turn in the direction of the pointing finger. he looks down the trail which leads to battule, whither the finger is pointing, and, looking, a strange expression creeps over his dusky features. instinctively, he understands that the warning is meant for him. and, in his heart, he believes that death for him lies somewhere out there. and yet he does not turn and flee. he simply sits looking and thinking. again, as if fascinated, his eyes wander back to the legend upon the board and he reads and rereads the message it conveys. and all the time he is a prey to a curious, uncertain feeling. for his mind goes back over many scenes that do him little credit. even to his callous nature there is something strangely prophetic in that message, and its effect he cannot shake off. and while he stares his dark features change their hue, and he passes one mitted hand across his forehead. there is a sudden crackling of breaking brushwood within a few yards of him; his horse bounds to one side and it is with difficulty he retains his seat in the saddle; then he flashes a look in the direction whence the noise proceeds, only to reel back as though to ward off a blow. he is looking into the muzzle of a heavy "six" with arizona's blazing eyes running over the sight. the silence of the bush remained unbroken as the two men looked into each other's faces. the gun did not belch forth its death-dealing pellet. it was simply there, leveled, to enforce its owner's will. its compelling presence was a power not easily to be defied in a country where, in those days, the surest law was carried in the holster on the hip. the man recovered and submitted. his hands, encased in mitts, had placed him at a woeful disadvantage. arizona saw this and lowered his gun, but his eyes never lost sight of the fur-clad hands before him. he straightened himself up in the saddle, refusing to display any of his weakness to this man. "guess i've waited fer you, 'tough' mcculloch, fer nigh on a week," he said slowly, in a thin, strident voice. "i've coaxed you some too, i guess. you wus hidden mighty tight, but not jest tight 'nuff. i 'lows i located you, an' i wa'n't goin' to lose sight o' you. when you quit skitter bend, like the whipped cur you wus, i wus right hot on your trail. an' i ain't never left it. see? say, in all the hundreds o' miles you've traveled sence you quit the creek ther' ain't bin a move as you've took i ain't looked on at. i've trailed you, headed you, bin alongside you, an' located wher' you wus makin', an' come along an' waited on you. ther's a score 'tween you an' me as wants squarin'. i'm right here fer to squar' that score." arizona's sombre face was unrelieved by any change of expression while he was speaking. there was no anger in his tone; just cold, calm purpose, and some contempt. and whatever feelings the half-breed may have had he seemed incapable of showing them, except in the sickly hue of his face. the fascination of the message on the board still seemed to attract him, for, without heeding the other's words, he glanced over at the seared tree-trunk and nodded at it. "see. dat ting. it your work. hah?" "yes; an' i take it the meanin's clear to you. you've struck the trail we all stan' on some time, pardner, an' that trail is mostly called the 'one-way trail.' it's a slick, broad trail, an' one as is that smooth to the foot as you're like to find anywheres. it's so dead easy you can't help goin' on, an' you on'y larn its cussedness when you kind o' notion gittin' back. i 'lows as one o' them glacier things on top o' yonder mountains is li'ble to be easier climbin' nor turnin' back on that trail. the bed o' that trail is blood, blood that's mostly shed in crime, an' its surface is dusted wi' all manner o' wrong doin's sech as you an' me's bin up to. say, it ain't a long trail, i'm guessin', neither. it's dead short, in fac' the end comes sudden-like, an' vi'lent. but i 'lows the end ain't allus jest the same. sometimes y'll find a rope hangin' in the air. sometimes ther's a knife jabbin' around; sometimes ther's a gun wi' a light pull waitin' handy, same as mine. but i figger all them things mean jest 'bout the same. it's death, pardner; an' it ain't easy neither. say, you an' me's pretty nigh that end. you 'special. guess you're goin' to pass over fust. mebbe i'll pass over when i'm ready. it ain't jest ne'sary fer the likes o' us to yarn gospel wi' one another, but i'm goin' to tell you somethin' as mebbe you're worritin' over jest 'bout now. it's 'bout a feller's gal--his wife--which the same that feller never did you no harm. but fust y'll put up them mitts o' yours, i sees as they're gettin' oneasy, worritin' around as though they'd a notion to git a grip on suthin'." the half-breed made no attempt to obey, but stared coldly into the lean face before him. "hands up!" roared arizona, with such a dreadful change of tone that the man's hands were thrust above his head as though a shot had struck him. arizona moved over to him and removed a heavy pistol from the man's coat pocket, and then, having satisfied himself that he had no other weapons concealed about him, dropped back to his original position. "ah, i wus jest sayin', 'bout that feller's wife," he went on quietly. "say, you acted the skunk t'ward that feller. an' that feller wus me. i don't say i wus jest a daisy husband fer that gal, but that wa'n't your consarn. wot's troublin' wus your monkeyin' around, waitin' so he's out o' the way an' then vamoosin' wi' the wench an' all. guess i'm goin' to kill you fer that sure. but ther' ain't none o' the skunk to me. i'm goin' to treat you as you wouldn't treat me ef i wus settin' wher' you are, which i ain't. you're goin' to hit the one-way trail. but you ken hit it like what you ain't, an' that's a man." arizona's calm, judicial tone goaded his hearer. but "tough" mcculloch was not the man to shout. his was a deadlier composition such as the open american hated and despised, and hardly understood. he contented himself with a cynical remark which fired the other's volcanic temper so that he could scarcely hold his hand. "me good to her," he said, with a shrug. "you wus good to her, wus you? you who knew her man wus livin'! you, as mebbe has ha'f a dozen wives livin'. you wus good to her! wal, you're goin' to pay now. savee? you're goin' to pay fer your flutter wi' chips, chips as drip wi' blood--your blood." the half-breed shrugged again. he was outwardly unconcerned, but inwardly he was cursing the luck that he had been wearing mitts upon his hands when he entered the bluff. he watched arizona as he climbed out of his saddle. he beheld the signs of weakness which the other could no longer disguise, but they meant nothing to him, at least, nothing that could serve him. he knew he must wait the cowpuncher's pleasure; and why? the ring of white metal which marks the muzzle of a gun has the power to hold brave man and coward alike. he dared not move, and he was wise enough not to attempt it. arizona drove his horse off into the bush, and stepped over to his prisoner, who still remained mounted, halting abreast of the man's stirrup and a few yards to one side of it. his features now wore the shadow of a grim smile as he paused and looked into the face which displayed so much assumed unconcern. "see this gun," he said, drawing attention to the one he held in his right hand; "it's a forty-fi', an' i'm guessin' it's loaded in two chambers." then he scraped the snow off a small patch of the road with his foot. "that gun i lay right here," he went on, stooping to deposit it, but still keeping his eyes fixed upon the horseman. "then i step back, so," moving backward with long regular strides, "an' i reckon i count fifteen paces. then i clear another space," he added grimly, like some fiendish conjurer describing the process of his tricks, "and stand ready. now, 'tough' mcculloch, or anton, or wotever you notion best, skunk as you are, you're goin' to die decent. you're goin' to die as a gentleman in a square fought duel. you're goin' to die in a slap-up way as is a sight too good fer you, but don't go fer to make no mistake--you're goin' to die. yes, you're goin' to get off'n that plug o' yours an' stand on that patch, an' i'm goin' to count three, nice an' steady, one-two-three! just so. an' then we're goin' to grab up them guns an' let rip. i 'lows you'll fall first 'cause i'm goin' to kill you--sure. say, you'll 'blige me by gittin' off'n that plug." the half-breed made no move. his unconcern was leaving him under the deliberate purpose of this man. "git off o' that plug!" arizona roared out his command with all the force of his suppressed passion. the man obeyed instantly. and it was plain now that his courage was deserting him. but in proportion his cunning rose. he made a pitiful attempt at swagger as he walked up to his mark, and his fierce eyes watched every movement of his opponent. and arizona's evident condition of starvation struck him forcibly, and the realization of it suggested to his scheming brain a possible means of escape. "you mighty fine givin' chances, mister," he said, between his teeth. "maybe you sing different later. bah! you make me laff. say, i ready." "yes, git right ahead an' laff," arizona replied imperturbably. "an' meanwhiles while you're laffin', i'll trouble you to git out o' that sheep's hide. it ain't fit clothin' fer you noways. howsum, it helps to thicken your hide. take it off." the half-breed obeyed and the two men now stood motionless. arizona was an impressive figure in that world of snow. never before had his personality been so marked. it may have been the purpose that moved him that raised him to something superior to the lean, volcanic cowboy he had hitherto been. his old slouching gait, in spite of his evident weakness, was quite gone; his shaggy head was held erect, and he gazed upon his enemy with eyes which the other could not face. for the time, at least, the indelible stamp of his disastrous life was disguised by the fire of his eyes and the set of his features. and this moral strength he conveyed in every action in a manner which no violence, no extent of vocabulary could have done. this man before him had robbed him of the woman he had loved. he should die. his pistol was still in his hand. "when i say 'three,' you'll jest grab for your gun--an' fire," he said solemnly. he relapsed into silence, and, after a moment's pause, slowly stooped to deposit his weapon. his great roving eyes never relaxed their vigilance, and all the while he watched the man before him. lower he bent, and the pistol touched the ground. he straightened up swiftly and stood ready. "one!" the half-breed started as though a sharp spasm of pain had convulsed his body. then he stood as if about to spring. "two!" mcculloch moved again. he stooped with almost incredible swiftness and seized his gun, and the next moment two loud reports rang out, and he threw his smoking weapon upon the ground. arizona had not moved, though his face had gone a shade paler. he knew he was wounded. "three!" the american bent and seized his gun as the other made a dash for his horse. he stood up, and took deliberate aim. the half-breed was in the act of swinging himself into his saddle. a shot rang out, and the would-be fugitive's foot fell out of the stirrup, and his knees gave under him. another shot split the air, and, without so much as a groan, the man fell in a heap upon the ground, while a thick red stream flowed from a wound at his left temple. then silence reigned once more. after a while the sound of a slouching gait disturbed the grim peace of the lonely bluff. arizona shuffled slowly off the road. he reached the edge of the bush; but he went no further. for he reeled, and his hands clasped his body somewhere about his chest. his eyes were half closed, and his face looked ghastly in the wintry light. by a great effort he steadied himself and abruptly sat down in the snow. he was just off the track and his back was against a bush. leaning forward he drew his knees up and clasped his arms about them, and remained rocking himself slowly to and fro. and, as he sat, he felt something moist and warm saturating his clothes about his chest. several times he nodded and his lips moved, and his eyelids fell lower and lower until he saw nothing of what was about him. he knew it was over for him and he was satisfied. he remained for some time in this attitude. once he opened his eyes and looked round, but, somehow, he drew no satisfaction from what he beheld. the world about him seemed unsteady and strangely dark. the snow was no longer white, but had turned gray, and momentarily it grew darker. he thankfully reclosed his eyes and continued to nurse himself. now, too, his limbs began to grow cold, and to feel useless. he had difficulty in keeping his hands fast about his knees, but he felt easy, and even comfortable. there was something soothing to him in that warm tide which he felt to be flowing from somewhere about his chest. the minutes slipped away and the man's lips continued their silent movement. was he praying for the soul which he knew to be passing from his body? it may have been so. it may have been that he was praying for a girl and a man whom he had learned to love in the old days of mosquito bend, and whom he was leaving behind him. this latter was more than likely, for his was not a selfish nature. again his eyes opened, and now they were quite unseeing; but the brain behind them was still clear, for words, which were intelligible, came slowly from his ashen lips. "it's over, i guess," he muttered. "maybe life ain't wi'out gold for some. i 'lows i ain't jest struck color right. wal, i'm ready for the reckonin'." his hands unclasped and his legs straightened themselves out. like a weary man seeking repose he turned over and lay with his face buried in the snow. nor did he move again. for arizona had ended his journey over the one-way trail. transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. ridgway of montana (story of to-day, in which the hero is also the villain) by william macleod raine to jean and that kingdom "where you and i through this world's weather work, and give praise and thanks together." contents . two men and a woman . the freebooter . one to one . fort salvation . enter simon harley . on the snow-trail . back from arcadia . the honorable thomas b. pelton . an evening call . harley makes a proposition . virginia intervenes . aline makes a discovery . first blood . a conspiracy . laska opens a door . an explosion in the taurus . the election . further developments . one million dollars . a little lunch at alphonse's . harley scores . "not guilty"--"guilty" . aline turns a corner . a good samaritan . friendly enemies . breaks one and makes another engagement chapter . two men and a woman "mr. ridgway, ma'am." the young woman who was giving the last touches to the very effective picture framed in her long looking-glass nodded almost imperceptibly. she had come to the parting of the ways, and she knew it, with a shrewd suspicion as to which she would choose. she had asked for a week to decide, and her heart-searching had told her nothing new. it was characteristic of virginia balfour that she did not attempt to deceive herself. if she married waring ridgway it would be for what she considered good and sufficient reasons, but love would not be one of them. he was going to be a great man, for one thing, and probably a very rich one, which counted, though it would not be a determining factor. this she could find only in the man himself, in the masterful force that made him what he was. the sandstings of life did not disturb his confidence in his victorious star, nor did he let fine-spun moral obligations hamper his predatory career. he had a genius for success in whatever he undertook, pushing his way to his end with a shrewd, direct energy that never faltered. she sometimes wondered whether she, too, like the men he used as tools, was merely a pawn in his game, and her consent an empty formality conceded to convention. perhaps he would marry her even if she did not want to, she told herself, with the sudden illuminating smile that was one of her chief charms. but ridgway's wary eyes, appraising her mood as she came forward to meet him, read none of this doubt in her frank greeting. anything more sure and exquisite than the cultivation virginia balfour breathed he would have been hard put to it to conceive. that her gown and its accessories seemed to him merely the extension of a dainty personality was the highest compliment he could pay her charm, and an entirely unconscious one. "have i kept you waiting?" she smiled, giving him her hand. his answering smile, quite cool and unperturbed, gave the lie to his words. "for a year, though the almanac called it a week." "you must have suffered," she told him ironically, with a glance at the clear color in his good-looking face. "repressed emotion," he explained. "may i hope that my suffering has reached a period?" they had been sauntering toward a little conservatory at the end of the large room, but she deflected and brought up at a table on which lay some books. one of these she picked up and looked at incuriously for a moment before sweeping them aside. she rested her hands on the table behind her and leaned back against it, her eyes meeting his fairly. "you're still of the same mind, are you?" she demanded. "oh! very much." she lifted herself to the table, crossing her feet and dangling them irresponsibly. "we might as well be comfy while we talk;" and she indicated, by a nod, a chair. "thanks. if you don't mind, i think i'll take it standing." she did not seem in any hurry to begin, and ridgway gave evidence of no desire to hasten her. but presently he said, with a little laugh that seemed to offer her inclusion in the joke: "i'm on the anxious seat, you know--waiting to find out whether i'm to be the happiest man alive." "you know as much about it as i do." she echoed his laugh ruefully. "i'm still as much at sea as i was last week. i couldn't tell then, and i can't now." "no news is good news, they say." "i don't want to marry you a bit, but you're a great catch, as you are very well aware." "i suppose i am rather a catch," he agreed, the shadow of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "it isn't only your money; though, of course, that's a temptation," she admitted audaciously. "i'm glad it's not only my money." he could laugh with her about it because he was shrewd enough to understand that it was not at all his wealth. her cool frankness might have frightened away another man. it merely served to interest ridgway. for, with all his strength, he was a vain man, always ready to talk of himself. he spent a good deal of his spare time interpreting himself to attractive and attracted young women. her gaze fastened on the tip of her suede toe, apparently studying it attentively. "it would be a gratification to my vanity to parade you as the captive of my bow and spear. you're such a magnificent specimen, such a berserk in broadcloth. still. i shan't marry you if i can help it--but, then, i'm not sure that i can help it. of course, i disapprove of you entirely, but you're rather fascinating, you know." her eye traveled slowly up to his, appraising the masterful lines of his square figure, the dominant strength of his close-shut mouth and resolute eyes. "perhaps 'fascinating' isn't just the word, but i can't help being interested in you, whether i like you or not. i suppose you always get what you want very badly?" she flung out by way of question. "that's what i'm trying to discover"--he smiled. "there are things to be considered both ways," she said, taking him into her confidence. "you trample on others. how do i know you wouldn't tread on me?" "that would be one of the risks you would take," he agreed impersonally. "i shouldn't like that at all. if i married you it would be because as your wife i should have so many opportunities. i should expect to do exactly as i please. i shouldn't want you to interfere with me, though i should want to be able to influence you." "nothing could be fairer than that," was his amiably ironical comment. "you see, i don't know you--not really--and they say all sorts of things about you." "they don't say i am a quitter, do they?" she leaned forward, chin in hand and elbow on knee. it was a part of the accent of her distinction that as a rebel she was both demure and daring. "i wonder if i might ask you some questions--the intimate kind that people think but don't say--at least, they don't say them to you." "it would be a pleasure to me to be put on the witness-stand. i should probably pick up some interesting side-lights about myself." "very well." her eyes danced with excitement. "you're what they call a buccaneer of business, aren't you?" here were certainly diverting pastimes. "i believe i have been called that; but, then, i've had the hardest names in the dictionary thrown at me so often that i can't be sure." "i suppose you are perfectly unscrupulous in a business way--stop at nothing to gain your point?" he took her impudence smilingly. "'unscrupulous' isn't the word i use when i explain myself to myself, but as an unflattered description, such as one my enemies might use to describe me, i dare say it is fairly accurate." "i wonder why. do you dispense with a conscience entirely?" "well, you see, miss balfour, if i nursed a new england conscience i could stand up to the attacks of the consolidated about as long as a dove to a hawk. i meet fire with fire to avoid being wiped off the map of the mining world. i play the game. i can't afford to keep a button on my foil when my opponent doesn't." she nodded an admission of his point. "and yet there are rules of the game to be observed, aren't there? the consolidated people claim you steal their ore, i believe." her slanted eyes studied the effect of her daring. he laughed grimly. "do they? i claim they steal mine. it's rather difficult to have an exact regard for mine and thine before the courts decide which is which." "and meanwhile, in order to forestall an adverse decision, you are working extra shifts to get all the ore out of the disputed veins." "precisely, just as they are," he admitted dryly. "then the side that loses will not be so disappointed, since the value of the veins will be less. besides, stealing ore openly doesn't count. it is really a moral obligation in a fight like this," he explained. "a moral obligation?" "exactly. you can't hit a trust over the head with the decalogue. modern business is war. somebody is bound to get hurt. if i win out it will be because i put up a better fight than the consolidated, and cripple it enough to make it let me alone. i'm looking out for myself, and i don't pretend to be any better than my neighbors. when you get down to bed-rock honesty, i've never seen it in business. we're all of us as honest as we think we can afford to be. i haven't noticed that there is any premium on it in mesa. might makes right. i'll win if i'm strong enough; i'll fail if i'm not. that's the law of life. i didn't make this strenuous little world, and i'm not responsible for it. if i play i have to take the rules the way they are, not the way i should like them to be. i'm not squeamish, and i'm not a hypocrite. simon harley isn't squeamish, either, but he happens to be a hypocrite. so there you have the difference between us." the president of the mesa ore-producing company set forth his creed jauntily, without the least consciousness of need for apology for the fact that it happened to be divorced from morality. its frank disregard of ethical considerations startled miss balfour without shocking her. she liked his candor, even though it condemned him. it was really very nice of him to take her impudence so well. he certainly wasn't a prig, anyway. "and morality," she suggested tentatively. "--hasn't a thing to do with success, the parsons to the contrary notwithstanding. the battle is to the strong." "then the consolidated will beat you finally." he smiled. "they would if i'd let them; but brains and resource and finesse all count for power. granted that they have a hundred dollars to my one. still, i have elements of strength they can't even estimate. david beat goliath, you know, even though he didn't do it with a big stick." "so you think morality is for old women?" "and young women," he amended, smiling. "and every man is to be a law unto himself?" "not quite. some men aren't big enough to be. let them stick to the conventional code. for me, if i make my own laws i don't break them." "and you're sure that you're on the road to true success?" she asked lightly. "now, you have heaven in the back of your mind." "not exactly," she laughed. "but i didn't expect you to understand." "then i won't disappoint you," he said cheerfully. she came back to the concrete. "i should like to know whether it is true that you own the courts of yuba county and have the decisions of the judges written at your lawyer's offices in cases between you and the consolidated." "if i do," he answered easily, "i am doing just what the consolidated would do in case they had been so fortunate as to have won the last election and seated their judicial candidates. one expects a friendly leaning from the men one put in office." "isn't the judiciary supposed to be the final, incorruptible bulwark of the nation?" she pretended to want to know. "i believe it is supposed to be." "isn't it rather--loading the dice, to interfere with the courts?" "i find the dice already loaded. i merely substitute others of my own." "you don't seem a bit ashamed of yourself." "i'm ashamed of the consolidated"--he smiled. "that's a comfortable position to be able to take." she fixed him for a moment with her charming frown of interrogation. "you won't mind my asking these questions? i'm trying to decide whether you are too much of a pirate for me. perhaps when i've made up my mind you won't want me," she added. "oh, i'll want you!" then coolly: "shall we wait till you make up your mind before announcing the engagement?" "don't be too sure," she flashed at him. "i'm horribly unsure." "of course, you're laughing at me, just as you would"--she tilted a sudden sideways glance at him--"if i asked you why you wanted to marry me." "oh, if you take me that way----" she interrupted airily. "i'm trying to make up my mind whether to take you at all." "you certainly have a direct way of getting at things." he studied appreciatively her piquant, tilted face; the long, graceful lines of her slender, perfect figure. "i take it you don't want the sentimental reason for my wishing to marry you, though i find that amply justified. but if you want another, you must still look to yourself for it. my business leads me to appreciate values correctly. when i desire you to sit at the head of my table, to order my house, my judgment justifies itself. i have a fancy always for the best. when i can't gratify it i do without." "thank you." she made him a gay little mock curtsy "i had heard you were no carpet-knight, mr. ridgway. but rumor is a lying jade, for i am being told--am i not?--that in case i don't take pity on you, the lone future of a celibate stretches drear before you." "oh, certainly." having come to the end of that passage, she tried another. "a young man told me yesterday you were a fighter. he said he guessed you would stand the acid. what did he mean?" ridgway was an egoist from head to heel. he could voice his own praises by the hour when necessary, but now he side-stepped her little trap to make him praise himself at second-hand. "better ask him." "are you a fighter, then?" had he known her and her whimsies less well, he might have taken her audacity for innocence. "one couldn't lie down, you know." "of course, you always fight fair," she mocked. "when a fellow's attacked by a gang of thugs he doesn't pray for boxing-gloves. he lets fly with a coupling-pin if that's what comes handy." her eyes, glinting sparks of mischief, marveled at him with mock reverence, but she knew in her heart that her mockery was a fraud. she did admire him; admired him even while she disapproved the magnificent lawlessness of him. for waring ridgway looked every inch the indomitable fighter he was. he stood six feet to the line, straight and strong, carrying just sufficient bulk to temper his restless energy without impairing its power. nor did the face offer any shock of disappointment to the promise given by the splendid figure. salient-jawed and forceful, set with cool, flinty, blue-gray eyes, no place for weakness could be found there. one might have read a moral callousness, a colorblindness in points of rectitude, but when the last word had been said, its masterful capability, remained the outstanding impression. "am i out of the witness-box?" he presently asked, still leaning against the mantel from which he had been watching her impersonally as an intellectual entertainment. "i think so." "and the verdict?" "you know what it ought to be," she accused. "fortunately, kisses go by favor, not by, merit." "you don't even make a pretense of deserving." "give me credit for being an honest rogue, at least." "but a rogue?" she insisted lightly. "oh, a question of definitions. i could make a very good case for myself as an honest man." "if you thought it worth while?" "if i didn't happen to want to be square with you"--he smiled. "you're so fond of me, i suppose, that you couldn't bear to have me think too well of you." "you know how fond of you i am." "yes, it is a pity about you," she scoffed. "believe me, yes," he replied cheerfully. she drummed with her pink finger-tips on her chin, studying him meditatively. to do him justice, she had to admit that he did not even pretend much. he wanted her because she was a step up in the social ladder, and, in his opinion, the most attractive girl he knew. that he was not in love with her relieved the situation, as miss balfour admitted to herself in impersonal moods. but there were times when she could have wished he were. she felt it to be really due her attractions that his pulses should quicken for her, and in the interests of experience she would have liked to see how he would make love if he really meant it from the heart and not the will. "it's really an awful bother," she sighed. "referring to the little problem of your future?" "yes." "can't make up your mind whether i come in?" "no." she looked up brightly, with an effect of impulsiveness. "i don't suppose you want to give me another week?" "a reprieve! but why? you're going to marry me." "i suppose so." she laughed. "i wish i could have my cake, and eat it, too." "it would be a moral iniquity to encourage such a system of ethics." "so you won't give me a week?" she sighed. "all sorts of things might have happened in that week. i shall always believe that the fairy prince would have come for me." "believe that he has come," he claimed. "oh, i didn't mean a prince of pirates, though there is a triumph in having tamed a pirate chief to prosaic matrimony. in one way it will be a pity, too. you won't be half so picturesque. you remember how stevenson puts it: 'that marriage takes from a man the capacity for great things, whether good or bad.'" "i can stand a good deal of taming." "domesticating a pirate ought to be an interesting process," she conceded, her rare smile flashing. "it should prove a cure for ennui, but then i'm never a victim of that malady." "am i being told that i am to be the happiest pirate alive?" "i expect you are." his big hand gripped hers till it tingled. she caught his eye on a roving quest to the door. "we don't have to do that," she announced hurriedly, with an embarrassed flush. "i don't do it because i have to," he retorted, kissing her on the lips. she fell back, protesting. "under the circumstances--" the butler, with a card on a tray, interrupted silently. she glanced at the card, devoutly grateful his impassive majesty's entrance had not been a moment earlier. "show him in here." "the fairy prince, five minutes too late?" asked ridgway, when the man had gone. for answer she handed him the card, yet he thought the pink that flushed her cheek was something more pronounced than usual. but he was willing to admit there might be a choice of reasons for that. "lyndon hobart" was the name he read. "i think the consolidated is going to have its innings. i should like to stay, of course, but i fear i must plead a subsequent engagement and leave the field to the enemy." pronouncing "mr. hobart" without emphasis, the butler vanished. the newcomer came forward with the quiet assurance of the born aristocrat. he was a slender, well-knit man, dressed fastidiously, with clear-cut, classical features; cool, keen eyes, and a gentle, you-be-damned manner to his inferiors. beside him ridgway bulked too large, too florid. his ease seemed a little obvious, his prosperity overemphasized. even his voice, strong and reliant, lacked the tone of gentle blood that hobart had inherited with his nice taste. when miss balfour said: "i think you know each other," the manager of the consolidated bowed with stiff formality, but his rival laughed genially and said: "oh, yes, i know mr. hobart." the geniality was genuine enough, but through it ran a note of contempt. hobart read in it a veiled taunt. to him it seemed to say: "yes, i have met him, and beaten him at every turn of the road, though he has been backed by a power with resources a hundred times as great as mine." in his parting excuses to miss balfour, ridgway's audacity crystallized in words that hobart could only regard as a shameless challenge. "i regret that an appointment with judge purcell necessitates my leaving such good company," he said urbanely. purcell was the judge before whom was pending a suit between the consolidated and the mesa ore-producing company, to determine the ownership of the never say die mine; and it was current report that ridgway owned him as absolutely as he did the automobile waiting for him now at the door. if ridgway expected his opponent to pay his flippant gibe the honor of repartee, he was disappointed. to be sure, hobart, admirably erect in his slender grace, was moved to a slight, disdainful smile, but it evidenced scarcely the appreciation that anybody less impervious to criticism than ridgway would have cared to see. chapter . the freebooter when next virginia balfour saw waring ridgway she was driving her trap down one of the hit-or-miss streets of mesa, where derricks, shaft-houses, and gray slag-dumps shoulder ornate mansions conglomerate of many unharmonious details of architecture. to miss balfour these composites and their owners would have been joys unalloyed except for the microbe of society ambition that was infecting the latter, and transforming them from simple, robust, self-reliant westerners into a class of servile, nondescript newly rich, that resembled their unfettered selves as much as tame bears do the grizzlies of their own rockies. as she had once complained smilingly to hobart, she had not come to the west to study ragged edges of the social fringe. she might have done that in new york. virginia was still a block or two from the court-house on the hill, when it emptied into the street a concourse of excited men. that this was an occasion of some sort it was easy to guess, and of what sort she began to have an inkling, when ridgway came out, the center of a circle of congratulating admirers. she was obliged to admit that he accepted their applause without in the least losing his head. indeed, he took it as imperturbably as did hobart, against whom a wave of the enthusiasm seemed to be directed in the form of a jeer, when he passed down the steps with mott, one of the consolidated lawyers. miss balfour timed her approach to meet hobart at a right angle. "what is it all about?" she asked, after he had reached her side. "judge purcell has just decided the never say die case in favor of mr. ridgway and against the consolidated." "is that a great victory for him?" "yes, it's a victory, though, of course, we appeal," admitted hobart. "but we can't say we didn't expect it," he added cheerfully. "mayn't i give you a lift if you are going down-town?" she said quickly, for ridgway, having detached himself from the group, was working toward her, and she felt an instinctive sympathy for the man who had lost. furthermore, she had something she wanted to tell him before he heard it on the tongue of rumor. "since you are so kind;" and he climbed to the place beside her. "congratulate me, miss balfour," demanded ridgway, as he shook hands with her, nodding coolly at her companion. "i'm a million dollars richer than i was an hour ago. i have met the enemy and he is mine." virginia, resenting the bad taste of his jeer at the man who sat beside her, misunderstood him promptly. "did you say you had met the enemy and won his mine?" he laughed. "you're a good one!" "thank you very much for this unsolicited testimonial," she said gravely. "in the meantime, to avoid a congestion of traffic, we'll be moving, if you will kindly give me back my front left wheel." he did not lift his foot from the spoke on which it rested. "my congratulations," he reminded her. "i wish you all the joy in your victory that you deserve, and i hope the supreme court will reaffirm the decision of judge purcell, if it is a just one," was the form in which she acceded to his demand. she flicked her whip, and ridgway fell back, laughing. "you've been subsidized by the consolidated," he shouted after her. hobart watched silently the businesslike directness with which the girl handled the ribbons. she looked every inch the thoroughbred in her well-made covert coat and dainty driving gauntlets. the grace of the alert, slender figure, the perfect poise of the beautiful little tawny head, proclaimed her distinction no less certainly than the fine modeling of the mobile face. it was a distinction that stirred the pulse of his emotion and disarmed his keen, critical sense. ridgway could study her with an amused, detached interest, but hobart's admiration had traveled past that point. he found it as impossible to define her charm as to evade it. her inheritance of blood and her environment should have made her a finished product of civilization, but her salty breeziness, her nerve, vivid as a flame at times, disturbed delightfully the poise that held her when in repose. when virginia spoke, it was to ask abruptly: "is it really his mine?" "judge purcell says so." "but do you think so--down in the bottom of your heart?" "wouldn't i naturally be prejudiced?" "i suppose you would. everybody in mesa seems to have taken sides either with mr. ridgway or the consolidated. still, you have an option. is he what his friends proclaim him--the generous-hearted independent fighting against trust domination? or is he merely an audacious ore-thief, as his enemies say? the truth must be somewhere." "it seems to lie mostly in point of view here the angle of observation being determined by interest," he answered. "and from your angle of observation?" "he is the most unusual man i ever saw, the most resourceful and the most competent. he never knows when he is beaten. i suppose that's the reason he never is beaten finally. we have driven him to the wall a score of times. my experience with him is that he's most dangerous when one thinks he must be about hammered out. he always hits back then in the most daring and unexpected way." "with a coupling-pin," she suggested with a little reminiscent laugh. "metaphorically speaking. he reaches for the first effective weapon to his hand." "you haven't quite answered my question yet," she reminded him. "is he what his friends or what his enemies think him?" "if you ask me i can only say that i'm one of his enemies." "but a fair-minded man," she replied quickly. "thank you. then i'll say that perhaps he is neither just what his friends or his foes think him. one must make allowances for his training and temperament, and for that quality of bigness in him. 'mediocre men go soberly on the highroads, but saints and scoundrels meet in the jails,'" he smilingly quoted. "he would make a queer sort of saint," she laughed. "a typical twentieth century one of a money-mad age." she liked it in him that he would not use the opportunity she had made to sneer at his adversary, none the less because she knew that ridgway might not have been so scrupulous in his place. that lyndon hobart's fastidious instincts for fair play had stood in the way of his success in the fight to down ridgway she had repeatedly heard. of late, rumors had persisted in reporting dissatisfaction with his management of the consolidated at the great financial center on broadway which controlled the big copper company. simon harley, the dominating factor in the octopus whose tentacles reached out in every direction to monopolize the avenues of wealth, demanded of his subordinates results. methods were no concern of his, and failure could not be explained to him. he wanted ridgway crushed, and the pulse of the copper production regulated lay the consolidated. instead, he had seen ridgway rise steadily to power and wealth despite his efforts to wipe him off the slate. hobart was perfectly aware that his head was likely to fall when harley heard of purcell's decision in regard to the never say die. "he certainly is an amazing man," virginia mused, her fiancee in mind. "it would be interesting to discover what he can't do--along utilitarian lines, i mean. is he as good a miner underground as he is in the courts?" she flung out. "he is the shrewdest investor i know. time and again he has leased or bought apparently worthless claims, and made them pay inside of a few weeks. take the taurus as a case in point. he struck rich ore in a fortnight. other men had done development work for years and found nothing." "i'm naturally interested in knowing all about him, because i have just become engaged to him," explained miss virginia, as calmly as if her pulse were not fluttering a hundred to the minute. virginia was essentially a sportsman. she did not flinch from the guns when the firing was heavy. it had been remarked of her even as a child that she liked to get unpleasant things over with as soon as possible, rather than postpone them. once, _aetat_ eight, she had marched in to her mother like a stoic and announced: "i've come to be whipped, momsie, 'cause i broke that horrid little nellie vaile's doll. i did it on purpose, 'cause i was mad at her. i'm glad i broke it, so there!" hobart paled slightly beneath his outdoors western tan, but his eyes met hers very steadily and fairly. "i wish you happiness, miss balfour, from the bottom of my heart." she nodded a brisk "thank you," and directed her attention again to the horses. "take him by and large, mr. ridgway is the most capable, energetic, and far-sighted business man i have ever known. he has a bigger grasp of things than almost any financier in the country. i think you'll find he will go far," he said, choosing his words with care to say as much for waring ridgway as he honestly could. "i have always thought so," agreed virginia. she had reason for thinking so in that young man's remarkable career. when waring ridgway had first come to mesa he had been a draftsman for the consolidated at five dollars a day. he was just out of cornell, and his assets consisted mainly of a supreme confidence in himself and an imposing presence. he was a born leader, and he flung himself into the raw, turbid life of the mining town with a readiness that had not a little to do with his subsequent success. that success began to take tangible form almost from the first. a small, independent smelter that had for long been working at a loss was about to fall into the hands of the consolidated when ridgway bought it on promises to pay, made good by raising money on a flying trip he took to the east. his father died about this time and left him fifty thousand dollars, with which he bought the taurus, a mine in which several adventurous spirits had dropped small fortunes. he acquired other properties; a lease here, an interest there. it began to be observed that he bought always with judgment. he seemed to have the touch of midas. where other men had lost money he made it. when the officers of the consolidated woke up to the menace of his presence, one of their lawyers called on him. the agent of the consolidated smiled at his luxurious offices, which looked more like a woman's boudoir than the business place of a western miner. but that was merely part of ridgway's vanity, and did not in the least interfere with his predatory instincts. many people who walked into that parlor to do business played fly to his spider. the lawyer had been ready to patronize the upstart who had ventured so boldly into the territory of the great trust, but one glance at the clear-cut resolute face of the young man changed his mind. "i've come to make you an offer for your smelter, mr. ridgway," he began. "we'll take it off your hands at the price it cost you." "not for sale, mr. bartel." "very well. we'll give you ten thousand more than you paid for it." "you misunderstand me. it is not for sale." "oh, come! you bought it to sell to us. what can you do with it?" "run it," suggested ridgway. "without ore?" "you forget that i own a few properties, and have leases on others. when the taurus begins producing, i'll have enough to keep the smelter going." "when the taurus begins producing?"--bartel smiled skeptically. "didn't johnson and leroy drop fortunes on that expectation?" "i'll bet five thousand dollars we make a strike within two weeks." "chimerical!" pronounced the graybeard as he rose to go, with an air of finality. "better sell the smelter while you have the chance." "think not," disagreed ridgway. at the door the lawyer turned. "oh, there's another matter! it had slipped my mind." he spoke with rather elaborate carelessness. "it seems that there is a little triangle--about ten and four feet across--wedged in between the mary k, the diamond king, and the marcus daly. for some reason we accidentally omitted to file on it. our chief engineer finds that you have taken it up, mr. ridgway. it is really of no value, but it is in the heart of our properties, and so it ought to belong to us. of course, it is of no use to you. there isn't any possible room to sink a shaft. we'll take it from you if you like, and even pay you a nominal price. for what will you sell?" ridgway lit a cigar before he answered: "one million dollars." "what?" screamed bartel. "not a cent less. i call it the trust buster. before i'm through, you'll find it is worth that to me." the lawyer reported him demented to the consolidated officials, who declared war on him from that day. they found the young adventurer more than prepared for them. if he had a napoleonic sense of big vital factors, he had no less a genius for detail. he had already picked up an intimate knowledge of the hundreds of veins and crossveins that traverse the mesa copper-fields, and he had delved patiently into the tangled history of the litigation that the defective mining laws in pioneer days had made possible. when the consolidated attempted to harass him by legal process, he countered by instituting a score of suits against the company within the week. these had to do with wills, insanity cases, extra lateral rights, mine titles, and land and water rights. wherever ridgway saw room for an entering wedge to dispute the title of the consolidated, he drove a new suit home. to say the least, the trust found it annoying to be enjoined from working its mines, to be cited for contempt before judges employed in the interests of its opponent, to be served with restraining orders when clearly within its rights. but when these adverse legal decisions began to affect vital issues, the consolidated looked for reasons why ridgway should control the courts. it found them in politics. for ridgway was already dominating the politics of yuba county, displaying an amazing acumen and a surprising ability as a stumpspeaker. he posed as a friend of the people, an enemy of the trust. he declared an eight-hour day for his own miners, and called upon the consolidated to do the same. hobart refused, acting on orders from broadway, and fifteen thousand consolidated miners went to the polls and reelected ridgway's corrupt judges, in spite of the fight the consolidated was making against them. meanwhile, ridgway's colossal audacity made the consolidated's copper pay for the litigation with which he was harassing it. in following his ore-veins, or what he claimed to be his veins, he crossed boldly into the territory of the enemy. by the law of extra lateral rights, a man is entitled to mine within the lines of other property than his own, provided he is following the dip of a vein which has its apex in his claim. ridgway's experts were prepared to swear that all the best veins in the field apexed in his property. pending decisions of the courts, they assumed it, tunneling through granite till they tapped the veins of the consolidated mines, meanwhile enjoining that company from working the very ore of which ridgway was robbing it. many times the great trust back of the consolidated had him close to ruin, but ridgway's alert brain and supreme audacity carried him through. from their mines or from his own he always succeeded in extracting enough ore to meet his obligations when they fell due. his powerful enemy, as hobart had told miss balfour, found him most dangerous when it seemed to have him with his back to the wall. then unexpectedly would fall some crushing blow that put the financial kings of broadway on the defensive long enough for him to slip out of the corner into which they had driven him. greatly daring, he had the successful cavalryman's instinct of risking much to gain much. a gambler, his enemies characterized him fitly enough. but it was also true, as mesa phrased it, that he gambled "with the lid off," playing for large stakes, neither asking nor giving quarter. at the end of five years of desperate fighting, the freebooter was more strongly entrenched than he had been at any previous time. the railroads, pledged to give rebates to the consolidated, had been forced by ridgway, under menace of adverse legislation from the men he controlled at the state-house, to give him secretly a still better rate than the trust. he owned the county courts, he was supported by the people, and had become a political dictator, and the financial outlook for him grew brighter every day. such were the conditions when judge purcell handed down his never say die decision. within an hour hobart was reading a telegram in cipher from the broadway headquarters. it announced the immediate departure for mesa of the great leader of the octopus. simon harley, the napoleon of finance, was coming out to attend personally to the destruction of the buccaneer who had dared to fire on the trust flag. before night some one of his corps of spies in the employ of the enemy carried the news to waring ridgway. he smiled grimly, his bluegray eyes hardening to the temper of steel. here at last was a foeman worthy of his metal; one as lawless, unscrupulous, daring, and far-seeing as himself, with a hundred times his resources. chapter . one to one the solitary rider stood for a moment in silhouette against the somber sky-line, his keen eyes searching the lowering clouds. "getting its back up for a blizzard," he muttered to himself, as he touched his pony with the spur. dark, heavy billows banked in the west, piling over each other as they drove forward. already the advance-guard had swept the sunlight from the earth, except for a flutter of it that still protested near the horizon. scattering snowflakes were flying, and even in a few minutes the temperature had fallen many degrees. the rider knew the signs of old. he recognized the sudden stealthy approach that transformed a sun-drenched, friendly plain into an unknown arctic waste. not for nothing had he been last year one of a search-party to find the bodies of three miners frozen to death not fifty yards from their own cabin. he understood perfectly what it meant to be caught away from shelter when the driven white pall wiped out distance and direction; made long familiar landmarks strange, and numbed the will to a helpless surrender. the knowledge of it was spur enough to make him ride fast while he still retained the sense of direction. but silently, steadily, the storm increased, and he was forced to slacken his pace. as the blinding snow grew thick, the sound of the wind deadened, unable to penetrate the dense white wall through which he forced his way. the world narrowed to a space whose boundaries he could touch with his extended hands. in this white mystery that wrapped him, nothing was left but stinging snow, bitter cold, and the silence of the dead. so he thought one moment, and the next was almost flung by his swerving horse into a vehicle that blocked the road. its blurred outlines presently resolved themselves into an automobile, crouched in the bottom of which was an inert huddle of humanity. he shouted, forgetting that no voice could carry through the muffled scream of the storm. when he got no answer, he guided his horse close to the machine and reached down to snatch away the rug already heavy with snow. to his surprise, it was a girl's despairing face that looked up at him. she tried to rise, but fell back, her muscles too numb to serve. "don't leave me," she implored, stretching her, arms toward him. he reached out and lifted her to his horse. "are you alone?" "yes. he went for help when the machine broke down--before the storm," she sobbed. he had to put his ear to her mouth to catch the words. "come, keep up your heart." there was that in his voice pealed like a trumpet-call to her courage. "i'm freezing to death," she moaned. she was exhausted and benumbed, her lips blue, her flesh gray. it was plain to him that she had reached the limit of endurance, that she was ready to sink into the last torpor. he ripped open his overcoat and shook the snow from it, then gathered her close so that she might get the warmth of his body. the rugs from the automobile he wrapped round them both. "courage!" he cried. "there's a miner's cabin near. don't give up, child." but his own courage was of the heart and will, not of the head. he had small hope of reaching the hut at the entrance of dead man's gulch or, if he could struggle so far, of finding it in the white swirl that clutched at them. near and far are words not coined for a blizzard. he might stagger past with safety only a dozen feet from him. he might lie down and die at the very threshold of the door. or he might wander in an opposite direction and miss the cabin by a mile. yet it was not in the man to give up. he must stagger on till he could no longer stand. he must fight so long as life was in him. he must crawl forward, though his forlorn hope had vanished. and he did. when the worn-out horse slipped down and could not be coaxed to its feet again, he picked up the bundle of rugs and plowed forward blindly, soul and body racked, but teeth still set fast with the primal instinct never to give up. the intense cold of the air, thick with gray sifted ice, searched the warmth from his body and sapped his vitality. his numbed legs doubled under him like springs. he was down and up again a dozen times, but always the call of life drove him on, dragging his helpless burden with him. that he did find the safety of the cabin in the end was due to no wisdom on his part. he had followed unconsciously the dip of the ground that led him into the little draw where it had been built, and by sheer luck stumbled against it. his strength was gone, but the door gave to his weight, and he buckled across the threshold like a man helpless with drink. he dropped to the floor, ready to sink into a stupor, but he shook sleep from him and dragged himself to his feet. presently his numb fingers found a match, a newspaper, and some wood. as soon as he had control over his hands, he fell to chafing hers. he slipped off her dainty shoes, pathetically inadequate for such an experience, and rubbed her feet back to feeling. she had been torpid, but when the blood began to circulate, she cried out in agony at the pain. every inch of her bore the hall-mark of wealth. the ermine-lined motoring-cloak, the broadcloth cut on simple lines of elegance, the quality of her lingerie and of the hosiery which incased the wonderfully small feet, all told of a padded existence from which the cares of life had been excluded. the satin flesh he massaged, to renew the flow of the dammed blood, was soft and tender like a babe's. quite surely she was an exotic, the last woman in the world fitted for the hardships of this frontier country. she had none of the deep-breasted vitality of those of her sex who have fought with grim nature and won. his experience told him that a very little longer in the storm would have snuffed out the wick of her life. but he knew, too, that the danger was past. faint tints of pink were beginning to warm the cheeks that had been so deathly pallid. already crimson lips were offering a vivid contrast to the still, almost colorless face. for she was biting the little lips to try and keep back the cries of pain that returning life wrung from her. big tears coursed down her cheeks, and broken sobs caught her breath. she was helpless as an infant before the searching pain that wracked her. "i can't stand it--i can't stand it," she moaned, and in her distress stretched out her little hand for relief as a baby might to its mother. the childlike appeal of the flinching violet eyes in the tortured face moved him strangely. he was accounted a hard man, not without reason. his eyes were those of a gambler, cold and vigilant. it was said that he could follow an undeviating course without relenting at the ruin and misery wrought upon others by his operations. but the helpless loveliness of this exquisitely dainty child-woman, the sense of intimacy bred of a common peril endured, of the strangeness of their environment and of her utter dependence upon him, carried the man out of himself and away from conventions. he stooped and gathered her into his arms, walking the floor with her and cheering her as if she had indeed been the child they both for the moment conceived her. "you don't know how it hurts," she pleaded between sobs, looking up into the strong face so close to hers. "i know it must, dear. but soon it will be better. every twinge is one less, and shows that you are getting well. be brave for just a few minutes more now." she smiled wanly through her tears. "but i'm not brave. i'm a little coward--and it does pain so." "i know--i know. it is dreadful. but just a few minutes now." "you're good to me," she said presently, simply as a little girl might have said it. to neither of them did it seem strange that she should be there in his arms, her fair head against his shoulder, nor that she should cling convulsively to him when the fierce pain tingled unbearably. she had reached out for the nearest help, and he gave of his strength and courage abundantly. presently the prickling of the flowing blood grew less sharp. she began to grow drowsy with warmth after the fatigue and pain. the big eyes shut, fluttered open, smiled at him, and again closed. she had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. he looked down with an odd queer feeling at the small aristocratic face relaxed upon his ann. the long lashes had drooped to the cheeks and shuttered the eyes that had met his with such confident appeal, but they did not hide the dark rings underneath, born of the hardships she had endured. as he walked the floor with her, he lived once more the terrible struggle through which they had passed. he saw death stretching out icy hands for her, and as his arms unconsciously tightened about the soft rounded body, his square jaw set and the fighting spark leaped to his eyes. "no, by heaven," he gave back aloud his defiance. troubled dreams pursued her in her sleep. she clung close to him, her arm creeping round his neck for safety. he was a man not given to fine scruples, but all the best in him responded to her unconscious trust. it was so she found herself when she awakened, stiff from her cramped position. she slipped at once to the floor and sat there drying her lace skirts, the sweet piquancy of her childish face set out by the leaping fire-glow that lit and shadowed her delicate coloring. outside in the gray darkness raged the death from which he had snatched her by a miracle. beyond--a million miles away--the world whose claim had loosened on them was going through its routine of lies and love, of hypocrisies and heroisms. but here were just they two, flung back to the primordial type by the fierce battle for existence that had encompassed them--adam and eve in the garden, one to one, all else forgot, all other ties and obligations for the moment obliterated. had they not struggled, heart beating against heart, with the breath of death icing them, and come out alive? was their world not contracted to a space ten feet by twelve, shut in from every other planet by an illimitable stretch of storm? "where should i have been if you had not found me?" she murmured, her haunting eyes fixed on the flames. "but i should have found you--no matter where you had been, i should have found you." the words seemed to leap from him of themselves. he was sure he had not meant to speak them, to voice so soon the claim that seemed to him so natural and reasonable. she considered his words and found delight in acquiescing at once. the unconscious demand for life, for love, of her starved soul had never been gratified. but he had come to her through that fearful valley of death, because he must, because it had always been meant he should. her lustrous eyes, big with faith, looked up and met his. the far, wise voices of the world were storm-deadened. they cried no warning to these drifting hearts. how should they know in that moment when their souls reached toward each other that the wisdom of the ages had decreed their yearning futile? chapter . fort salvation she must have fallen asleep there, for when she opened her eyes it was day. underneath her was a lot of bedding he had found in the cabin, and tucked about her were the automobile rugs. for a moment her brain, still sodden with sleep, struggled helplessly with her surroundings. she looked at the smoky rafters without understanding, and her eyes searched the cabin wonderingly for her maid. when she remembered, her first thought was to look for the man. that he had gone, she saw with instinctive terror. but not without leaving a message. she found his penciled note, weighted for security by a dollar, at the edge of the hearth. "gone on a foraging expedition. back in an hour, little partner," was all it said. the other man also had promised to be back in an hour, and he had not come, but the strong chirography of the note, recalling the resolute strength of this man's face, brought content to her eyes. he had said he would come back. she rested secure in that pledge. she went to the window and looked out over the great white wastes that rose tier on tier to the dull sky-line. she shuddered at the arctic desolation of the vast snow-fields. the mountains were sheeted with silence and purity. it seemed to the untaught child-woman that she was face to face with the almighty. once during the night she had partially awakened to hear the roaring wind as it buffeted snow-clouds across the range. it had come tearing along the divide with the black storm in its vanguard, and she had heard fearfully the shrieks and screams of the battle as it raged up and down the gulches and sifted into them the deep drifts. half-asleep as she was, she had been afraid and had cried out with terror at this strange wakening; and he had been beside her in an instant. "it's all right, partner. there's nothing to be afraid of," he had said cheerfully, taking her little hand in his big warm one. her fears had slipped away at once. nestling down into her rug, she had smiled sleepily at him and fallen asleep with her cheek on her hand, her other hand still in his. while she had been asleep the snow-tides had filled the gulch, had risen level with the top of the lower pane of the window. nothing broke the smoothness of its flow save the one track he had made in breaking a way out. that he should have tried to find his way through such an untracked desolation amazed her. he could never do it. no puny human atom could fight successfully against the barriers nature had dropped so sullenly to fence them. they were set off from the world by a quarantine of god. there was something awful to her in the knowledge. it emphasized their impotence. yet, this man had set himself to fight the inevitable. with a little shudder she turned from the window to the cheerless room. the floor was dirty; unwashed dishes were piled upon the table. here and there were scattered muddy boots and overalls, just as their owner, the prospector, had left them before he had gone to the nearest town to restock his exhausted supply of provisions. disorder and dirt filled the rough cabin, or so it seemed to her fastidious eye. the inspiration of the housewife seized her. she would surprise him on his return by opening the door to him upon a house swept and garnished. she would show him that she could be of some use even in such a primitive topsy-turvy world as this into which fate had thrust her willy-nilly. first, she carried red live coals on a shovel from the fireplace to the cook-stove, and piled kindling upon them till it lighted. it was a new experience to her. she knew nothing of housework; had never lit a fire in her life, except once when she had been one of a camping party. the smoke choked her before she had the lids back in their places, but despite her awkwardness, the girl went about her unaccustomed tasks with a light heart. it was for her new-found hero that she played at housekeeping. for his commendation she filled the tea-kettle, enveloped herself in a cloud of dust as she wielded the stub of a broom she discovered, and washed the greasy dishes after the water was hot. a childish pleasure suffused her. all her life her least whims had been ministered to; she was reveling in a first attempt at service. as she moved to and fro with an improvised dust-rag, sunshine filled her being. from her lips the joy notes fell in song, shaken from her throat for sheer happiness. this surely was life, that life from which she had so carefully been hedged all the years of her young existence. as he came down the trail he had broken, with a pack on his back, the man heard her birdlike carol in the clear frosty air. he emptied his chest in a deep shout, and she was instantly at the window, waving him a welcome with her dust-rag. "i thought you were never coming," she cried from the open door as he came up the path. her eyes were starry in their eagerness. every sensitive feature was alert with interest, so that the man thought he had never seen so mobile and attractive a face. "did it seem long?" he asked. "oh, weeks and weeks! you must be frozen to an icicle. come in and get warm." "i'm as warm as toast," he assured her. he was glowing with exercise and the sting of the cold, for he had tramped two miles through drifts from three to five feet deep, battling with them every step of the way, and carrying with him on the return trip a box of provisions. "with all that snow on you and the pack on your back, it's like santa claus," she cried, clapping her hands. "before we're through with the adventure we may think that box a sure enough gift from santa," he replied. after he had put it down, he took off his overcoat on the threshold and shook the snow from it. then, with much feet stamping and scattering of snow, he came in. she fluttered about him, dragging a chair up to the fire for him, and taking his hat and gloves. it amused and pleased him that she should be so solicitous, and he surrendered himself to her ministrations. his quick eye noticed the swept floor and the evanishment of disorder. "hello! what's this clean through a fall house-cleaning? i'm not the only member of the firm that has been working. dishes washed, floor swept, bed made, kitchen fire lit. you've certainly been going some, unless the fairies helped you. aren't you afraid of blistering these little hands?" he asked gaily, taking one of them in his and touching the soft palm gently with the tip of his finger. "i should preserve those blisters in alcohol to show that i've really been of some use," she answered, happy in his approval. "sho! people are made for different uses. some are fit only to shovel and dig. others are here simply to decorate the world. hard world. hard work is for those who can't give society anything else, but beauty is its own excuse for being," he told her breezily. "now that's the first compliment you have given me," she pouted prettily. "i can get them in plenty back in the drawing-rooms where i am supposed to belong. we're to be real comrades here, and compliments are barred." "i wasn't complimenting you," he maintained. "i was merely stating a principle of art." "then you mustn't make your principles of art personal, sir. but since you have, i'm going to refute the application of your principle and show how useful i've been. now, sir, do you know what provisions we have outside of those you have just brought?" he knew exactly, since he had investigated during the night. that they might possibly have to endure a siege of some weeks, he was quite well aware, and his first thought, after she had gone to sleep before the fire, had been to make inventory of such provisions as the prospector had left in his cabin. a knuckle of ham, part of a sack of flour, some navy beans, and some tea siftings at the bottom of a tin can; these constituted the contents of the larder which the miner had gone to replenish. but though the man knew he assumed ignorance, for he saw that she was bubbling over with the desire to show her forethought. "tell me," he begged of her, and after she had done so, he marveled aloud over her wisdom in thinking of it. "now tell me about your trip," she commanded, setting herself tailor fashion on the rug to listen. "there isn't much to tell," he smiled "i should like to make an adventure of it, but i can't. i just went and came back." "oh, you just went and came back, did you?" she scoffed. "that won't do at all. i want to know all about it. did you find the machine all right?" "i found it where we left it, buried in four feet of snow. you needn't be afraid that anybody will run away with it for a day or two. the pantry was cached pretty deep itself, but i dug it out." her shy glance admired the sturdy lines of his powerful frame. "i am afraid it must have been a terrible task to get there through the blizzard." "oh, the blizzard is past. you never saw a finer, more bracing morning. it's a day for the gods," he laughed boyishly. she could have conceived no olympian more heroic than he, and certainly none with so compelling a vitality. "such a warm, kind light in them!" she thought of the eyes others had found hard and calculating. it was lucky that the lunch the automobilists had brought from avalanche was ample and as yet untouched. the hotel waiter, who had attended to the packing of it, had fortunately been used to reckon with outdoor montana appetites instead of cloyed new york ones. they unpacked the little hamper with much gaiety. everything was frozen solid, and the wine had cracked its bottle. "shipped right through on our private refrigerator-car. that cold-storage chicken looks the finest that ever happened. what's this rolled up in tissue-paper? deviled eggs and ham sandwiches and caviar, not to speak of claret frappe. i'm certainly grateful to the gentleman finished in ebony who helped to provision us for this siege. he'll never know what a tip he missed by not being here to collect." "here's jelly, too, and cake," she said, exploring with him. "not to mention peaches and pears. oh, this is luck of a special brand! i was expecting to put up at starvation camp. now we may name it point plenty." "or fort salvation," she suggested shyly. "because you brought me here to save my life." she was such a child, in spite of her charming grown-up airs, that he played make-believe with a zest that surprised himself when he came to think of it. she elected him captain of fort salvation, with full power of life and death over the garrison, and he appointed her second in command. his first general order was to put the garrison on two meals a day. she clapped her little hands, eyes sparkling with excitement. "are we really snow-bound? must we go on half-rations?" "it is the part of wisdom, lieutenant," he answered, smiling at her enthusiasm. "we don't know how long this siege is going to last. if it should set in to snow, we may be here several days before the relief-party reaches us." but, though he spoke cheerfully, he was aware of sinister possibilities in the situation. "several weeks" would have been nearer his real guess. they ate breakfast at the shelf-table nailed in place underneath the western window. they made a picnic of it, and her spirits skipped upon the hilltops. for the first time she ate from tin plates, drank from a tin cup, and used a tin spoon the worse for rust. what mattered it to her that the teapot was grimy and the fryingpan black with soot! it was all part of the wonderful new vista that had suddenly opened before her gaze. she had awakened into life and already she was dimly realizing that many and varied experiences lay waiting for her in that untrodden path beyond her cloistered world. a reconnaissance in the shed behind the house showed him no plethora of firewood. but here was ax, shovel, and saw, and he asked no more. first he shoveled out a path along the eaves of the house where she might walk in sentry fashion to take the deep breaths of clear sharp air he insisted upon. he made it wide enough so that her skirt would not sweep against the snow-bank, and trod down the trench till the footing was hard and solid. then with ax and saw he climbed the hillside back of the house and set himself to get as much fuel as he could. the sky was still heavy with unshed snow, and he knew that with the coming of night the storm would be renewed. came noon, mid-afternoon, the early dusk of a mountain winter, and found him still hewing and sawing, still piling load after load in the shed. now and again she came out and watched him, laughing at the figure he made as he would come plunging through the snow with his armful of fuel. she did not know, as he did, the vital necessity of filling the lean-to before winter fell upon them in earnest and buried them deep with his frozen blanket, and she was a little piqued that he should spend the whole day away from her in such unsocial fashion. "let me help," she begged so often that he trod down a path, made boots for her out of torn gunny-sacks which he tied round her legs, and let her drag wood to the house on a pine branch which served for a sled. she wore her gauntlets to protect her tender hands, and thereafter was happy until, detecting signs of fatigue, he made her go into the house and rest. as soon as she dared she was back again, making fun of him and the earnestness with which he worked. "robinson crusoe" was one name she fastened upon him, and she was not satisfied till she had made him call her "friday." twilight fell austere and sudden upon them with an immediate fall of temperature that found a thermometer in her blue face. he recommended the house, but she was of a contrary mood. "i don't want to," she announced debonairly. in a stiff military attitude he gave raucous mandate from his throat. "commanding officer's orders, lieutenant." "i think i'm going to mutiny," she informed him, with chin saucily in air. this would not do at all. the chill wind sweeping down the canon was searching her insufficient clothing already. he picked her up in his arms and ran with her toward the house, setting her down in the trench outside the door. she caught her startled breath and looked at him in shy, dubious amazement. "really you" she was beginning when he cut her short. "commanding officer's orders, lieutenant," came briskly from lips that showed just a hint of a smile. at once she clicked her heels together, saluted, and wheeled into the cabin. from the grimy window she watched his broad-shouldered vigor, waving her hand whenever his face was turned her way. he worked like a titan, reveling in the joy of physical labor, but it was long past dark before he finished and came striding to the hut. they made a delightful evening of it, living in the land of never was. for one source of her charm lay in the gay, childlike whimsicality of her imagination. she believed in fairies and heroes with all her heart, which with her was an organ not located in her brain. the delicious gurgle of gaiety in her laugh was a new find to him in feminine attractions. there had been many who thought the career of this pirate of industry beggared fiction, though, few had found his flinty personality a radiaton of romance. but this convent-nurtured child had made a discovery in men, one out of the rut of the tailor-made, convention-bound society youths to whom her experience for the most part had been limited. she delighted in his masterful strength, in the confidence of his careless dominance. she liked to see that look of power in his gray-blue eyes softened to the droll, half-tender, expression with which he played the game of make-believe. there were no to-morrows; to-day marked the limit of time for them. by tacit consent they lived only in the present, shutting out deliberately from their knowledge of each other, that past which was not common to both. even their names were unknown to each other, and both of them were glad that it was so. the long winter evening had fallen early, and they dined by candle-light, considering merrily how much they might with safety eat and yet leave enough for the to-morrows that lay before them. afterward they sat before the fire, in the shadow and shine of the flickering logs, happy and content in each other's presence. she dreamed, and he, watching her, dreamed, too. the wild, sweet wonder of life surged through them, touching their squalid surroundings to the high mystery of things unreal. the strangeness of it was that he was a man of large and not very creditable experience of women, yet her deep, limpid eyes, her sweet voice, the immature piquancy of her movements that was the expression of her, had stirred his imagination more potently than if he had been the veriest schoolboy nursing a downy lip. he could not keep his eyes from this slender, exquisite girl, so dainty and graceful in her mobile piquancy. fire and passion were in his heart and soul, restraint and repression in his speech and manner. for the fire and passion in him were pure and clean as the winds that sweep the hills. but for the girl--she was so little mistress of her heart that she had no prescience of the meaning of this sweet content that filled her. and the voices that should have warned her were silent, busy behind the purple hills with lies and love and laughter and tears. chapter . enter simon harley the prospector's house in which they had found refuge was perched on the mountainside just at one edge of the draw. rough as the girl had thought it, there was a more pretentious appearance to it than might have been expected. the cabin was of hewn logs mortared with mud, and care had been taken to make it warm. the fireplace was a huge affair that ate fuel voraciously. it was built of stone, which had been gathered from the immediate hillside. the prospect itself showed evidence of having been worked a good deal, and it was an easy guess for the man who now stood looking into the tunnel that it belonged to some one of the thousands of miners who spend half their time earning a grubstake, and the other half dissipating it upon some hole in the ground which they have duped themselves into believing is a mine. from the tunnel his eye traveled up the face of the white mountain to the great snow-comb that yawned over the edge of the rock-rim far above. it had snowed again heavily all night, and now showed symptoms of a thaw. not once nor twice, but a dozen times, the man's anxious gaze had swept up to that great overhanging bank. snowslides ran every year in this section with heavy loss to life and property. given a rising temperature and some wind, the comb above would gradually settle lower and lower, at last break off, plunge down the precipitous slope, bringing thousands of tons of rock and snow with it, and, perhaps, bury them in a titanic grave of ice. there had been a good deal of timber cut from the shoulder of the mountain during the past summer, and this very greatly increased the danger. that there was a real peril the man looking at it did not attempt to deny to himself. it would be enough to deny it to her in case she should ever suspect. he had hoped for cold weather, a freeze hard enough to crust the surface of the snow. upon this he might have made shift somehow to get her to yesler's ranch, eighteen miles away though it was, but he knew this would not be feasible with the snow in its present condition. it was not certain that he could make the ranch alone; encumbered with her, success would be a sheer impossibility. on the other hand, their provisions would not last long. the outlook was not a cheerful one, from whichever point of view he took it; yet there was one phase of it he could not regret. the factors which made the difficulties of the situation made also its delights. though they were prisoners in this solitary untrodden canyon, the sentence was upon both of them. she could look to none other than he for aid; and, at least, the drifts which kept them in held others out. her voice at his shoulder startled him. "wherefore this long communion with nature, my captain?" she gaily asked. "behold, my lord's hot cakes are ready for the pan and his servant to wait upon him." she gave him a demure smiling little curtsy of mock deference. never had her distracting charm been more in evidence. he had not seen her since they parted on the previous night. he had built for himself a cot in the woodshack, and had contrived a curtain that could be drawn in front of her bed in the living-room. thus he could enter in the morning, light the fires, and start breakfast without disturbing her. she had dressed her hair, now in a different way, so that it fell in low waves back from the forehead and was bunched at the nape of her neck. the light swiftness of her dainty grace, the almost exaggerated carnation of the slightly parted lips, the glad eagerness that sparked her eyes, brought out effectively the picturesqueness of her beauty. his grave eyes rested on her so long that a soft glow mantled her cheeks. perhaps her words had been too free, though she had not meant them so. for the first time some thought of the conventions distressed her. ought she to hold herself more in reserve toward him? must she restrain her natural impulses to friendliness? his eyes released her presently, but not before she read in them the feelings that had softened them as they gazed into hers. they mirrored his poignant pleasure at the delight of her sweet slenderness so close to him, his perilous joy at the intimacy fate had thrust upon them. shyly her lids fell to the flushed cheeks. "breakfast is ready," she added self-consciously, her girlish innocence startled like a fawn of the forest at the hunter's approach. for whereas she had been blind now she saw in part. some flash of clairvoyance had laid bare a glimpse of his heart and her own to her. without misunderstanding the perfect respect for her which he felt, she knew the turbid banked emotions which this dammed. her heart seemed to beat in her bosom like an imprisoned dove. it was his voice, calm and resonant with strength, that brought her to earth again. "and i am ready for it, lieutenant. right about face. forward--march!" after breakfast they went out and tramped together the little path of hard-trodden snow in front of the house. she broached the prospect of a rescue or the chances of escape. "we shall soon be out of food, and, anyhow, we can't stay here all winter," she suggested with a tremulous little laugh. "you are naturally very tired of it already," he hazarded. "it has been the experience of my life. i shall fence it off from all the days that have passed and all that are to come," she made answer vividly. their eyes met, but only for an instant. "i am glad," he said quietly. he began, then, to tell her what he must do, but at the first word of it she broke out in protest. "no--no--no! we shall stay together. if you go i am going, too." "i wish you could, but it is not possible. you could never get there. the snow is too soft and heavy for wading and not firm enough to bear your weight." "but you will have to wade." "i am stronger than you, lieutenant." "i know, but----" she broke down and confessed her terror. "would you leave me here--alone--with all this snow oh, i couldn't stay--i couldn't." "it's the only way," he said steadily. every fiber in him rebelled at leaving her here to face peril alone, but his reason overrode the desire and rebellion that were hot within him. he must think first of her ultimate safety, and this lay in getting her away from here at the first chance. tears splashed down from the big eyes. "i didn't think you would leave me here alone. with you i don't mind it, but-- oh, i should die if i stayed alone." "only for twenty-four hours. perhaps less. i shouldn't think of it if it weren't necessary." "take me with you. i am strong. you don't know how strong i am. i promise to keep up with you. please!" he shook his head. "i would take you with me if i could. you know that. but it's a man's fight. i shall have to stand up to it hour after hour till i reach yesler's ranch. i shall get through, but it would not be possible for you to make it." "and if you don't get through?" he refused to consider that contingency. "but i shall. you may look to see me back with help by this time to-morrow morning." "i'm not afraid with you. but if you go away oh, i can't stand it. you don't know--you don't know." she buried her face in her hands. he had to swallow down his sympathy before he went on. "yes, i know. but you must be brave. you must think of every minute as being one nearer to the time of my return." "you will think me a dreadful coward, and i am. but i can't help it. i am afraid to stay alone. there's nothing in the world but mountains of snow. they are horrible--like death--except when you are here." her child eyes coaxed him to stay. the mad longing was in him to kiss the rosy little mouth with the queer alluring droop to its corners. it was a strange thing how, with that arched twist to her eyebrows and with that smile which came and went like sunshine in her eyes, she toppled his lifelong creed. the cardinal tenet of his faith had been a belief in strength. he had first been drawn to virginia by reason of her pluck and her power. yet this child's very weakness was her fountain of strength. she cried out with pain, and he counted it an asset of virtue in her. she acknowledged herself a coward, and his heart went out to her because of it. the battle assignments of life were not for the soft curves and shy winsomeness of this dainty lamb. "you will be brave. i expect you to be brave, lieutenant." words of love and comfort were crowding to his brain, but he would not let them out. "how long will you be gone?" she sobbed. "i may possibly get back before midnight, but you mustn't begin to expect me until to-morrow morning, perhaps not till to-morrow afternoon." "oh, i couldn't--i couldn't stay here at night alone. don't go, please. i'll not get hungry, truly i won't, and to-morrow they will find us." he rose, his face working. "i must go, child. it's the thing to do. i wish to heaven it weren't. you must think of yourself as quite safe here. you are safe. don't make it hard for me to go, dear." "i am a coward. but i can't help it. there is so much snow--and the mountains are so big." she tried valiantly to crush down her sobs. "but go. i'll--i'll not be afraid." he buried her little hands in his two big ones and looked deep into her eyes. "every minute of the time i am away from you i shall be with you in spirit. you'll not be alone any minute of the day or night. whether you are awake or asleep i shall be with you." "i'll try to remember that," she answered, smiling up at him but with a trembling lip. she put him up some lunch while he made his simple preparations. to the end of the trench she walked with him, neither of them saying a word. the moment of parting had come. she looked up at him with a crooked wavering little smile. she wanted to be brave, but she could not trust herself to say a word. "remember, dear. i am not leaving you. my body has gone on an errand. that is all." just now she found small comfort in this sophistry, but she did not tell him so. "i--i'll remember." she gulped down a sob and still smiled through the mist that filmed her sight. in his face she could see how much he was moved at her distress. always a creature of impulse, one mastered her now, the need to let her weakness rest on his strength. her arms slipped quickly round his neck and her head lay buried on his shoulder. he held her tight, eyes shining, the desire of her held in leash behind set teeth, the while sobs shook her soft round body in gusts. "my lamb--my sweet precious lamb," she heard him murmur in anguish. from some deep sex trait it comforted her that he suffered. with the mother instinct she began to regain control of herself that she might help him. "it will not be for long," she assured him. "and every step of your way i shall pray for, your safety," she whispered. he held her at arm's length while his gaze devoured her, then silently he wheeled away and plunged waist deep into the drifts. as long as he was in sight he saw her standing there, waving her handkerchief to him in encouragement. her slight, dark figure, outlined against the snow, was the last thing his eyes fell upon before he turned a corner of the gulch and dropped downward toward the plains. but when he was surely gone, after one fearful look at the white sea which encompassed her, the girl fled to the cabin, slammed the door after her, and flung herself on the bed to weep out her lonely terror in an ecstasy of tears. she had spent the first violence of her grief, and was sitting crouched on the rug before the open fire when the sound of a footstep, crunching the snow, startled her. the door opened, to let in the man who had just left her. "you are back--already," she cried, her tear? stained face lifted toward him. "yes," he smiled' from the doorway. "come here, little partner." and when she had obediently joined him her eye followed his finger up the mountain-trail to a bend round which men and horses were coming. "it's a relief-party," he said, and caught up his field-glasses to look them over more certainly. two men on horseback, leading a third animal, were breaking a way down the trail, black spots against the background of white. "i guess fort salvation's about to be relieved," he added grimly, following the party through the glasses. she touched the back of his hand with a finger. "are you glad?" she asked softly. "no, by heaven!" he cried, lowering his glasses swiftly. as he looked into her eyes the blood rushed to his brain with a surge. her face turned to his unconsciously, and their lips met. "and i don't even know your name," she murmured. "waring ridgway; and yours?" "aline hope," she said absently. then a hot rush ran over the girlish face. "no, no, i had forgotten. i was married last week." the gates of paradise, open for two days, clanged to on ridgway. he stared out with unseeing eyes into the silent wastes of snow. the roaring in his ears and the mountainsides that churned before his eyes were reflections of the blizzard raging within him. "i'll never forget--never," he heard her falter, and her voice was a thousand miles away. from the storm within him he was aroused by a startled cry from the girl at his side. her fascinated gaze was fixed on the summit of the ridge above them. there was a warning crackle. the overhanging comb snapped, slid slowly down, and broke off. with gathering momentum it descended, sweeping into its heart rocks, trees, and debris. a terrific roar filled the air as the great white cloud came tearing down like an express-train. ridgway caught her round the waist and flung the girl against the wall of the cabin, protecting her with his body. the avalanche was upon them, splitting great trees to kindling-wood in the fury of its rush. the concussion of the wind shattered every window to fragments, almost tore the cabin from its foundations. only the extreme tail of the slide touched them, yet they were buried deep in flying snow. he found no great difficulty in digging a way out, and when he lifted her to the surface she was conscious. yet she was pale even to the lips and trembled like an aspen in the summer breeze, clinging to him for support helplessly. his cheerful voice rang like a bugle to her shocked brain. "it's all past. we're safe now, dear--quite safe." the first of the trail-breakers had dismounted and was plowing his way hurriedly to the cabin, but neither of them saw him as he came up the slope. "are you sure?" she shuddered, her hands still in his. "wasn't it awful? i thought--" her sentence trailed out unfinished. "are you unhurt, aline?" cried the newcomer. and when he saw she was, he added: "praise ye the lord. o give thanks unto the lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth forever. he saved them for his name's sake, that he might make his mighty power to be known." at sound of the voice they turned and saw the man hurrying toward them. he was tall, gray, and seventy, of massive frame and gaunt, still straight and vigorous, with the hooked nose and piercing eyes of a hawk. at first glance he looked always the bird of prey, but at the next as invariably the wolf, an effect produced by the salient reaching jaw and the glint of white teeth bared for a lip smile. just now he was touched to a rare emotion. his hands trembled and an expression of shaken thankfulness rested in his face. aline, still with ridgway's strong arms about her, slowly came back to the inexorable facts of life. "you--here?" "as soon as we could get through--and thank god in time." "i would have died, except for--" this brought her immediately to an introduction, and after she had quietly released herself the man who had saved her heard himself being formally presented: "mr. ridgway, i want you to meet my husband, mr. harley." ridgway turned to simon harley a face of hammered steel and bowed, putting his hands deliberately behind his back. "i've been expecting you at mesa, mr. harley," he said rigidly. "i'll be glad to have the pleasure of welcoming you there." the great financier was wondering where he had heard the man's name before, but he only said gravely: "you have a claim on me i can never forget, mr. ridgway." scornfully the other disdained this proffer. "not at all. you owe me nothing, mr. harley--absolutely nothing. what i have done i have done for her. it is between her and me." at this moment the mind of harley fitted the name ridgway to its niche in his brain. so this was the audacious filibuster who had dared to fire on the trust flag, the man he had come west to ruin and to humble. "i think you will have to include me, mr. ridgway," he said suavely. "what is done for my wife is done, also, for me." chapter . on the snow-trail aline had passed into the house, moved by an instinct which shrank from publicity in the inevitable personal meeting between her and her husband. now, harley, with the cavalier nod of dismissal, which only a multimillionaire can afford, followed her and closed the door. a passionate rush of blood swept ridgway's face. he saw red as he stood there with eyes burning into that door which had been shut in his face. the nails of his clenched fingers bit into his palms, and his muscles gathered themselves tensely. he had been cast aside, barred from the woman he loved by this septuagenarian, as carelessly as if he had no claim. and it came home to him that now he had no claim, none before the law and society. they had walked in arcadia where shepherds pipe. they had taken life for granted as do the creatures of the woods, forgetful of the edicts of a world that had seemed far and remote. but that world had obtruded itself and shattered their dream. in the person of simon harley it had shut the door which was to separate him and her. hitherto he had taken from life what he had wanted, but already he was grappling with the blind fear of a fate for once too strong for him. "well, i'm damned if it isn't waring ridgway," called a mellow voice from across the gulch. the man named turned, and gradually the set lines of his jaw relaxed. "i didn't notice it was you, sam. better bring the horses across this side of that fringe of aspens." the dismounted horseman followed directions and brought the floundering horses through, and after leaving them in the cleared place where ridgway had cut his firewood he strolled leisurely forward to meet the mine-owner. he was a youngish man, broad of shoulder and slender of waist, a trifle bowed in the legs from much riding, but with an elastic sufficiency that promised him the man for an emergency, a pledge which his steady steel-blue eyes, with the humorous lines about the corners, served to make more valuable. his apparel suggested the careless efficiency of the cow-man, from the high-heeled boots into which were thrust his corduroys to the broad-brimmed white stetson set on his sunreddened wavy hair. a man's man, one would vote him at first sight, and subsequent impressions would not contradict the first. "didn't know you were down in this neck of woods, waring," he said pleasantly, as they shook hands. an onlooker might have noticed that both of them gripped hands heartily and looked each other squarely in the eye. "i came down on business and got caught in the blizzard on my way back. came on her freezing in the machine and brought her here along with me. i had my eye on that slide. the snow up there didn't look good to me, and the grub was about out, anyhow, so i was heading for the c b ranch when i sighted you." "golden luck for her. i knew it was a chance in a million that she was still alive, but harley wanted to take it. say, that old fellow's made of steel wire. two of my boys are plugging along a mile or two behind us, but he stayed right with the game to a finish--and him seventy-three, mind you, and a new yorker at that. the old boy rides like he was born in a saddle," said sam yesler with enthusiasm. "i never said he was a quitter," conceded ridgway ungraciously. "you're right he ain't. and say, but he's fond of his wife. soon as he struck the ranch the old man butted out again into the blizzard to get her--slipped out before we knew it. the boys rounded him up wandering round the big pasture, and none too soon neither. all the time we had to keep herd on him to keep him from taking another whirl at it. he was like a crazy man to tackle it, though he must a-known it was suicide. funny how a man takes a shine to a woman and thinks the sun rises and sets by her. far, as i have been able to make out women are much of a sameness, though i ain't setting up for a judge. like as not this woman don't care a hand's turn for him." "why should she? he bought her with his millions, i suppose. what right has an old man like that with one foot in the grave to pick out a child and marry her? i tell you, sam, there's something ghastly about it." "oh, well, i reckon when she sold herself she knew what she was getting. it's about an even thing--six of one and half a dozen of the other. there must be something rotten about a woman who will do a thing of that sort." "wait till you've seen her before passing judgment. and after you have you'll apologize if you're a white man for thinking such a thing about her," the miner said hotly. yesler looked at his friend in amiable surprise. "i don't reckon we need to quarrel about simon harley's matrimonial affairs, do we?" he laughed. "not unless you want to say any harm of that lamb." a glitter of mischief gleamed from the cattleman's eyes. "meaning harley, waring?" "you know who i mean. i tell you she's an angel from heaven, pure as the driven snow." "and i tell you that i'll take your word for it without quarreling with you," was the goodhumored retort. "what's up, anyhow? i never saw you so touchy before. you're a regular pepper-box." the rescuers had brought food with them, and the party ate lunch before starting back. the cow-punchers of the c b had now joined them, both of them, as well as their horses, very tired with the heavy travel. "this here marathon race business through three-foot snow ain't for invalids like me and husky," one of them said cheerfully, with his mouth full of sandwich. "we're also rans, and don't even show for place." yet though two of them had, temporarily at least, been rescued from imminent danger, and success beyond their expectations had met the others, it was a silent party. a blanket of depression seemed to rest upon it, which the good stories of yesler and the genial nonsense of his man, chinn, were unable to lift. three of them, at least, were brooding over what the morning had brought forth, and trying to realize what it might mean for them. "we'd best be going, i expect," said yesler at last. "we've got a right heavy bit of work cut out for us, and the horses are through feeding. we can't get started any too soon for me." ridgway nodded silently. he knew that the stockman was dubious, as he himself was, about being able to make the return trip in safety. the horses were tired; so, too, were the men who had broken the heavy trail for so many miles, with the exception of sam himself, who seemed built of whipcord and elastic. they would be greatly encumbered by the woman, for she would certainly give out during the journey. the one point in their favor was that they could follow a trail which had already been trodden down. simon harley helped his wife into the boy's saddle on the back of the animal they had led, but his inexperience had to give way to yesler's skill in fitting the stirrups to the proper length for her feet. to ridgway, who had held himself aloof during this preparation, the stockman now turned with a wave of his hand toward his horse. "you ride, waring." "no, i'm fresh." "all right. we'll take turns." ridgway led the party across the gulch, following the trail that had been swept by the slide. the cowboys followed him, next came harley, his wife, and in the rear the cattleman. they descended the draw, and presently dipped over rolling ground to the plain beyond. the procession plowed steadily forward mile after mile, the pomes floundering through drifts after the man ahead. chinn, who had watched him breasting the soft heavy blanket that lay on the ground so deep and hemmed them in, turned to his companion. "on the way coming i told you, husky, we had the best man in montana at our head. we got that beat now to a fare-you-well. we got the two best in this party, by crickey." "he's got the guts, all right, but there ain't nothing on two legs can keep it up much longer," replied the other. "if you want to know, i'm about all in myself." "here, too," grunted the other. "and so's the bronc." it was not, however, until dusk was beginning to fall that the leader stopped. yesler's voice brought him up short in his tracks. "hold on, waring. the lady's down." ridgway strode back past the exhausted cowboys and harley, the latter so beaten with fatigue that he could scarce cling to the pommel of his saddle. "i saw it coming. she's been done for a long time, but she hung on like a thoroughbred," explained yesler from the snow-bank where aline had fallen. he had her in his arms and was trying to get at a flask of whisky in his hip-pocket. "all right. i'll take care of her, sam. you go ahead with your horse and break trail. i don't like the way this wind is rising. it's wiping out the path you made when you broke through. how far's the ranch now?" "close to five miles." both men had lowered their voices almost to a whisper. "it's going to be a near thing, sam. your men are played out. harley will never make it without help. from now on every mile will be worse than the last." yesler nodded quietly. "some one has got to go ahead for help. that's the only way." "it will have to be you, of course. you know the road best and can get back quickest. better take her pony. it's the fittest." the owner of the c b hesitated an instant before he answered. he was the last man in the world to desert a comrade that was down, but his common sense told him his friend had spoken wisely. the only chance for the party was to get help to it from the ranch. "all right. if anybody plays out beside her try to keep him going. if it comes to a showdown leave him for me to pick up. don't let him stop the whole outfit." "sure. better leave me that bottle of whisky. so-long." "you're going to ride, i reckon?" "yes. i'll have to." "get up on my horse and i'll give her to you. that's right well, i'll see you later." and with that the stockman was gone. for long they could see him, plunging slowly forward through the drifts, getting always smaller and smaller, till distance and the growing darkness swallowed him. presently the girl in ridgway's arms opened her eyes. "i heard what you and he said," she told him quietly. "about what?" he smiled down into the white face that looked up into his. "you know. about our danger. i'm not afraid, not the least little bit." "you needn't be. we're coming through, all right. sam will make it to the ranch. he's a man in a million." "i don't mean that. i'm not afraid, anyway, whether we do or not." "why?" he asked, his heart beating wildly. "i don't know, but i'm not," she murmured with drowsy content. but he knew if she did not. her fear had passed because he was there, holding her in his arms, fighting to the last ounce of power in him for her life. she felt he would never leave her, and that, if it came to the worst, she would pass from life with him close to her. again he knew that wild exultant beat of blood no woman before this one had ever stirred in him. harley was the first to give up. he lurched forward and slipped from the saddle to the snow, and could not be cursed into rising. the man behind dismounted, put down his burden, and dragged the old man to his feet. "here! this won't do. you've got to stick it out." "i can't. i've reached my limit." then testily: "'are not my days few? cease then, and let me alone,'" he added wearily, with his everready tag of scripture. the instant the other's hold on him relaxed the old man sank back. ridgway dragged him up and cuffed him like a troublesome child. he knew this was no time for reasoning. "are you going to lie down and quit, you old loafer? i tell you the ranch is only a mile or two. here, get into the saddle." by sheer strength the younger man hoisted him into the seat. he was very tired himself, but the vital sap of youth in him still ran strong in his blood. for a few yards farther they pushed on before harley slid down again and his horse stopped. ridgway passed him by, guiding his bronco in a half-circle through the snow. "i'll send back help for you," he promised. "it will be too late, but save her--save her," the old man begged. "i will," called back the other between set teeth. chinn was the next to drop out, and after him the one he called husky. both their horses had been abandoned a mile or two back, too exhausted to continue. each of them ridgway urged to stick to the trail and come on as fast as they could. he knew the horse he was riding could not much longer keep going with the double weight, and when at length its strength gave out completely he went on afoot, carrying her in his arms as on that eventful night when he had saved her from the blizzard. it was so the rescue-party found him, still staggering forward with her like a man in a sleep, flesh and blood and muscles all protestant against the cruelty of his indomitable will that urged them on in spite of themselves. in a dream he heard yesler's cheery voice, gave up his burden to one of the rescuers, and found himself being lifted to a fresh horse. from this dream he awakened to find himself before the great fire of the living-room of the ranch-house, wakened from it only long enough to know that somebody was undressing him and helping him into bed. nature, with her instinct for renewing life, saw to it that ridgway slept round the clock. he arose fit for anything. his body, hard as nails, suffered no reaction from the terrific strain he had put upon it, and he went down to his breakfast with an appetite ravenous for whatever good things yesler's chinese cook might have prepared for him. he found his host already at work on a juicy steak. "mornin'," nodded that gentleman. "hope you feel as good as you look." "i'm all right, barring a little stiffness in my muscles. i'll feel good as the wheat when i've got outside of the twin steak to that one you have." yesler touched a bell, whereupon a soft-footed oriental appeared, turned almond eyes on his proprietor, took orders and padded silently back to his kingdom--the kitchen. almost immediately he reappeared with a bowl of oatmeal and a pitcher of cream. "go to it, waring." his host waved him the freedom of the diningroom, and ridgway fell to. never before had food tasted so good. he had been too sleepy to eat last night, but now he made amends. the steak, the muffins, the coffee, were all beyond praise, and when he came to the buckwheat hot cakes, sandwiched with butter and drenched with real maple syrup, his satisfied soul rose up and called hop lee blessed. when he had finished, sam capped the climax by shoving toward him his case of havanas. ridgway's eyes glistened. "i haven't smoked for days," he explained, and after the smoke had begun to rise, he added: "ask what you will, even to the half of my kingdom, it's yours." "or half of the consolidated's," amended his friend with twinkling eyes. "even so, sam," returned the other equably. "and now, tell me how you managed to round us all up safely." "you've heard, then, that we got the whole party in time?" "yes, i've been talking with one of your enthusiastic riders that went out with you after us. he's been flimflammed into believing you the greatest man in the united states. tell me how you do it." "nick's a good boy, but i reckon he didn't tell you quite all that." "didn't he? you should have heard him reel off your praises by the yard. i got the whole story of how you headed the relief-party after you had reached the ranch more dead than alive." "then, if you've got it, i don't need to tell you. i was a bit worried about the old man. he was pretty far gone when we reached him, but he pulled through all right. he's still sleeping like a top." "is he?" his guest's hard gaze came round to meet his. "and the lady? do you know how she stood it?" "my sister says she was pretty badly played out, but all she needs is rest. nell put her in her own bed, and she, too, has been doing nothing but sleep." ridgway smoked out his cigar in silence then tossed it into the fireplace as he rose briskly. "i want to talk to mesa over the phone, sam." "can't do it. the wires are down. this storm played the deuce with them." "the devil! i'll have to get through myself then." "forget business for a day or two, waring, and take it easy up here," counseled his host. "can't do it. i have to make arrangements to welcome simon harley to mesa. the truth is, sam, that there are several things that won't wait. i've got to frame them up my way. can you get me through to the railroad in time to catch the limited?" "i think so. the road has been traveled for two or three days. if you really must go. i hate to have you streak off like this." "i'd like to stay, sam, but i can't. for one thing, there's that senatorial fight coming on. now that harley's on the ground in person, i'll have to look after my fences pretty close. he's a good fighter, and he'll be out to win." "after what you've done for him. don't you think that will make a difference, waring?" his friend laughed without mirth. "what have i done for him? i left him in the snow to die, and while a good many thousand other people would bless me for it, probably he has a different point of view." "i was thinking of what you did for his wife." "you've said it exactly. i did it for her, not for him. i'll accept nothing from harley on that account. he is outside of the friendship between her and me, and he can't jimmy his way in." yesler shrugged his shoulders. "all right. i'll order a rig hitched for you and drive you over myself. i want to talk over this senatorial fight anyhow. the way things look now it's going to be the rottenest session of the legislature we've ever had. sometimes i'm sick of being mixed up in the thing, but i got myself elected to help straighten out things, and i'm certainly going to try." "that's right, sam. with a few good fighters like you we can win out. anything to beat the consolidated." "anything to keep our politics decent," corrected the other. "i've got nothing against the consolidated, but i won't lie down and let it or any other private concern hog-tie this state--not if i can help it, anyhow." behind wary eyes ridgway studied him. he was wondering how far this man would go as his tool. sam yesler held a unique position in the state. his influence was commanding among the sturdy old-time population represented by the non-mining interests of the smaller towns and open plains. he must be won at all hazards to lend it in the impending fight against harley. the mine-owner knew that no thought of personal gain would move him. he must be made to feel that it was for the good of the state that the consolidated be routed. ridgway resolved to make him see it that way. chapter . back from arcadia the president of the mesa ore-producing company stepped from the parlor-car of the limited at the hour when all wise people are taking life easy after a good dinner. he did not, however, drive to his club, but took a cab straight for his rooms, where he had telegraphed eaton to meet him with the general superintendent of all his properties and his private secretary, smythe. for nearly a week his finger had been off the pulse of the situation, and he wanted to get in touch again as soon as possible. for in a struggle as tense as the one between him and the trust, a hundred vital things might have happened in that time. he might be coming back to catastrophe and ruin, brought about while he had been a prisoner to love in that snow-bound cabin. prisoner to love he had been and still was, but the business men who met him at his rooms, fellow adventurers in the forlorn hope he had hitherto led with such signal success, could have read nothing of this in the marble, chiseled face of their sagacious general, so indomitable of attack and insatiate of success. his steel-hard eyes gave no hint of the arcadia they had inhabited so eagerly a short twenty-four hours before. the intoxicating madness he had known was chained deep within him. once more he had a grip on himself; was sheathed in a cannonproof plate armor of selfishness. no more magic nights of starshine, breathing fire and dew; no more lifted moments of exaltation stinging him to a pulsating wonder at life's wild delight. he was again the inexorable driver of men, with no pity for their weaknesses any more than for his own. the men whom he found waiting for him at his rooms were all young westerners picked out by him because he thought them courageous, unscrupulous and loyal. like him, they were privateers in the seas of commerce, and sailed under no flag except the one of insurrection he had floated. but all of them, though they were associated with him and hoped to ride to fortune on the wave that carried him there, recognized themselves as subordinates in the enterprises he undertook. they were merely heads of departments, and they took orders like trusted clerks with whom the owner sometimes unbends and advises. now he heard their reports, asked an occasional searching question, and swiftly gave decisions of far-reaching import. it was past midnight before he had finished with them, and instead of retiring for the sleep he might have been expected to need, he spent the rest of the night inspecting the actual workings of the properties he had not seen for six days. hour after hour he passed examining the developments, sometimes in the breasts of the workings and again consulting with engineers and foremen in charge. light was breaking in the sky before he stepped from the cage of the jack pot and boarded a street-car for his rooms. cornishmen and hungarians and americans, going with their dinner-buckets to work, met him and received each a nod or a word of greeting from this splendidly built young hermes in miners' slops, who was to many of them, in their fancy, a deliverer from the slavery which the consolidated was ready to force upon them. once at his rooms, ridgway took a cold bath, dressed carefully, breakfasted, and was ready to plunge into the mass of work which had accumulated during his absence at the mining camp of alpine and the subsequent period while he was snowbound. these his keen, practical mind grasped and disposed of in crisp sentences. to his private secretary he rapped out order sharply and decisively. "phone ballard and dalton i want to see them at once. tell murphy i won't talk with him. what i said before i left was final. write cadwallader we can't do business on the terms he proposes, but add that i'm willing to continue his mary kinney lease. dictate a letter to riley's lawyer, telling him i can't afford to put a premium on incompetence and negligence; that if his client was injured in the jack pot explosion, he has nobody but himself to blame for it. otherwise, of course, i should be glad to pension him. let me see the letter before you send it. i don't want anything said that will offend the union. have two tons of good coal sent up to riley's house, and notify his grocer that all bills for the next three months may be charged to me. and, smythe, ask mr. eaton to step this way." stephen eaton, an alert, clear-eyed young fellow who served as fidus achates to ridgway, and was the secretary and treasurer of the mesa ore-producing company, took the seat smythe had vacated. he was good-looking, after a boyish, undistinguished fashion, but one disposed to be critical might have voted the chin not quite definite enough. he had been a clerk of the consolidated, working for one hundred dollars a month, when ridgway picked him out and set his feet in the way of fortune. he had done this out of personal liking, and, in return, the subordinate was frankly devoted to his chief. "steve, my opinion is that alpine is a false alarm. unless i guess wrong, it is merely a surface proposition and low-grade at that." "miller says--" "yes, i know what miller says. he's wrong. i don't care if he is the biggest copper expert in the country." "then you won't invest?" "i have invested--bought the whole outfit, lock, stock and barrel." "but why? what do you want with it if the property is no good?" asked eaton in surprise. ridgway laughed shortly. "i don't want it, but the consolidated does. two of their experts were up at alpine last week, and both of them reported favorably. i've let it leak out to their lawyer, o'malley, that miller thought well of it; in fact, i arranged to let one of their spies steal a copy of his report to us." "but when they know you have bought it?" "they won't know till too late. i bought through a dummy. it seemed a pity not to let then have the property since they wanted it so badly, so this morning he sold out for me to the consolidated at a profit of a hundred and fifty thousand." eaton grinned appreciatively. it was in startling finesse of this sort his chief excelled, and stephen was always ready with applause. "i notice that hobart slipped out of town last night. that is where he must have been going. he'll be sick when he learns how you did him." ridgway permitted himself an answering smile. "i suppose it will irritate him a trifle, but that can't be helped. i needed that money to get clear on that last payment for the sherman bell." "yes, i was worried about that. notes have been piling up against us that must be met. there's the ransom note, too. it's for a hundred thousand." "he'll extend it," said the chief confidently. "he told me he would have to have his money when it came due. i've noticed he has been pretty close to mott lately. i expect he has an arrangement with the consolidated to push us." "i'm watching him, steve. don't worry about that. he did arrange to sell the note to mott, but i stopped that little game." "how?" "for a year i've had all the evidence of that big government timber steal of his in a safety-deposit vault. before he sold, i had a few words with him. he changed his mind and decided he preferred to hold the notes. more, he is willing to let us have another hundred thousand if we have to have it." eaton's delight bubbled out of him in boyish laughter. "you're a wonder, waring. there's nobody like you. can't any of them touch you--not harley himself, by jove." "we'll have a chance to find that out soon, steve." "yes, they say he's coming out in person to run the fight against you. i hope not." "it isn't a matter of hoping any longer. he's here," calmly announced his leader. "here! on the ground?" "yes." "but--he can't be here without us knowing it." "i'm telling you that i do know it." "have you seen him yourself?" demanded the treasurer incredulously. "seen him, talked with him, cursed him and cuffed him," announced ridgway with a reminiscent gleam in his eye. "er--what's that you say?" gasped the astounded eaton. "merely that i have already met simon harley." "but you said--" "--that i had cursed and cuffed him. that's all right. i have." the president of the mesa ore-producing company leaned back with his thumbs in the armholes of his fancy waistcoat and smiled debonairly at his associate's perplexed amazement. "did you say--cuffed him?" "that's what i meant to say. i roughed him around quite a bit--manhandled him in general. but all for his good, you know." "for his good?" eaton's dazed brain tried to conceive the situation of a billionaire being mauled for his good, and gave it up in despair. if steve eaton worshipped anything, it was wealth. he was a born sycophant, and it was partly because his naive unstinted admiration had contributed to satisfy his chief's vanity that the latter had made of him a confidant. now he sat dumb before the lese-majeste of laying forcible hands upon the richest man in the world. "but, of course, you're only joking," he finally decided. "you haven't been back twelve hours. where could you have seen him?" "nevertheless i have met him and been properly introduced by his wife." "his wife?" "yes, i picked her out of a snow-drift." "is this a riddle?" "if it is, i don't know the answer, steve. but it is a true one, anyhow, not made to order merely to astonish you." "true that you picked simon harley's wife out of a snow-drift and kicked him around?" "i didn't say kicked, did i?" inquired the other, judicially. "but i rather think i did knee him some." "of course, i read all about his marriage two weeks ago to miss aline hope. did he bring her out here with him for the honeymoon?" "if he did, i euchred him out of it. she spent it with me alone in a miner's cabin," the other cried, malevolence riding triumph on his face. "whenever you're ready to explain," suggested eaton helplessly. "you've piled up too many miracles for me even to begin guessing them." "you know i was snow-bound, but you did not know my only companion was this aline hope you speak of. i found her in the blizzard, and took her to an empty cabin near. she and her husband were motoring from avalanche to mesa, and the machine had broken down. harley had gone for help and left her there alone when the blizzard came up. three days later sam yesler and the old man broke trail through from the c b ranch and rescued us." it was so strange a story that it came home to eaton piecemeal. "three days--alone with harley's wife--and he rescued you himself." "he didn't rescue me any. i could have broken through any time i wanted to leave her. on the way back his strength gave out, and that was when i roughed him. i tried to bullyrag him into keeping on, but it was no go. i left him there, and sam went back after him with a relief-party." "you left him! with his wife?" "no!" cried ridgway. "do i look like a man to desert a woman on a snow-trail? i took her with me." "oh!" there was a significant silence before eaton asked the question in his mind. "i've seen her pictures in the papers. does she look like them?" his chief knew what was behind the question, and he knew, too, that eaton might be taken to represent public opinion. the world would cast an eye of review over his varied and discreditable record with women. it would imagine the story of those three days of enforced confinement together, and it would look to the woman in the case for an answer to its suspicions. that she was young, lovely, and yet had sold herself to an old man for his millions, would go far in itself to condemn her; and he was aware that there were many who would accept her very childish innocence as the sophistication of an artist. waring ridgway put his arms akimbo on the table and leaned across with his steady eyes fastened on his friend. "steve, i'm going to answer that question. i haven't seen any pictures of her in the papers, but if they show a face as pure and true as the face of god himself then they are like her. you know me. i've got no apologies or explanations to make for the life i've led. that's my business. but you're my friend, and i tell you i would rather be hacked in pieces by apaches than soil that child's white soul by a single unclean breath. there mustn't be any talk. do you understand? keep the story out of the newspapers. don't let any of our people gossip about it. i have told you because i want you to know the truth. if any one should speak lightly about this thing stop him at once. this is the one point on which simon harley and i will pull together. any man who joins that child's name with mine loosely will have to leave this camp--and suddenly." "it won't be the men--it will be the women that will talk." "then garble the story. change that three days to three hours, steve. anything to stop their foul-clacking tongues!" "oh, well! i dare say the story won't get out at all, but if it does i'll see the gossips get the right version. i suppose sam yesler will back it up." "of course. he's a white man. and i don't need to tell you that i'll be a whole lot obliged to you, stevie." "that's all right. sometimes i'm a white man, too, waring," laughed steve. ridgway circled the table and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder affectionately. steve eaton was the one of all his associates for whom he had the closest personal feeling. "i don't need to be told that, old pal," he said quietly. chapter . the honorable thomas b. pelton it was next morning that steve came into ridgway's offices with a copy of the rocky mountain herald in his hands. as soon as the president of the mesa ore-producing company was through talking with dalton, the superintendent of the taurus, about the best means of getting to the cage a quantity of ore he was looting from the consolidated property adjoining, the treasurer plumped out with his news. "seen to-day's paper, waring? it smokes out pelton to a finish. they've moled out some facts we can't get away from." ridgway glanced rapidly over the paper. "we'll have to drop pelton and find another candidate for the senate. sorry, but it can't be helped. they've got his record down too fine. that affidavit from quinton puts an end to his chances." "he'll kick like a bay steer." "his own fault for not covering his tracks better. this exposure doesn't help us any at best. if we still tried to carry pelton, we should last about as long as a snowball in hell." "shall i send for him?" "no. he'll be here as quick as he can cover the ground. have him shown in as soon as he comes. and steve--did harley arrive on the eight-thirty this morning?" "yes. he is putting up at the mesa house. he reserved an entire floor by wire, so that he has bed-rooms, dining-rooms, parlors, reception-halls and private offices all together. the place is policed thoroughly, and nobody can get up without an order." "i haven't been thinking of going up and shooting him, even though it would be a blessing to the country," laughed his chief. "no, but it is possible somebody else might. this town is full of ignorant foreigners who would hardly think twice of it. if he had asked my advice, it would have been to stay away from mesa." "he wouldn't have taken it," returned ridgway carelessly. "whatever else is true about him, simon harley isn't a coward. he would have told you that not a sparrow falls to the ground without the permission of the distorted god he worships, and he would have come on the next train." "well, it isn't my funeral," contributed steve airily. "all the same i'm going to pass his police patrols and pay a visit to the third floor of the mesa house." "you are going to compromise with him?" cried eaton swiftly. "compromise nothing, i'm going to pay a formal social call on mrs. harley, and respectfully hope that she has suffered no ill effects from her exposure to the cold." eaton made no comment, unless to whistle gently were one. "you think it isn't wise?" "well, is it?" asked steve. "i think so. we'll scotch the lying tongue of rumor by a strict observance of the conventions. madam grundy is padlocked when we reduce the situation to the absurdity of the common place." "perhaps you are right, if it doesn't become too common commonplace." "i think we may trust simon harley to see to that," answered his chief with a grim smile "obviously our social relations aren't likely to be very intimate. now it's 'just before the battle mother,' but once the big guns begin to boor we'll neither of us be in the mood for functions social." "you've established a sort of claim on him. it wouldn't surprise me if he would meet you halfway in settling the trouble between you," said eaton thoughtfully. "i expect he would," agreed ridgway indifferently as he lit a cigar. "well, then?" "the trouble is that i won't meet him halfway. i can't afford to be reasonable, steve. just suppose for an instant that i had been reasonable five years ago when this fight began. they would have bought me out for a miserable pittance of a hundred and fifty thousand or so. that would have been a reasonable figure then. you might put it now at five or six millions, and that would be about right. i don't want their money. i want power, and i'd rather fight for it than not. besides, i mean to make what i have already wrung from them a lever for getting more. i'm going to show harley that he has met a man at last he can't either freeze out or bully out. i'm going to let him and his bunch know i'm on earth and here to stay; that i can beat them at their own game to a finish." "did it ever occur to you, waring, that it might pay to make this a limited round contest? you've won on points up to date by a mile, but in a finish fight endurance counts. money is the same as endurance here, and that's where they are long." eaton made this suggestion diffidently, for though he was a stockholder and official of the mesa ore-producing company, he was not used to offering its head unasked advice. the latter, however, took it without a trace of resentment. "glad of it, my boy. there's no credit in beating a cripple." to this jaunty retort eaton had found no answer when smythe opened the door to announce the arrival of the honorable thomas b. pelton, very anxious for an immediate interview with mr. ridgway. "show him in," nodded the president, adding in an aside: "you better stay, steve." pelton was a rotund oracular individual in silk hat and a prince albert coat of broadcloth. he regarded himself solemnly as a statesman because he had served two inconspicuous terms in the house at washington. he was fond of proclaiming himself a southern gentleman, part of which statement was unnecessary and part untrue. like many from his section, he had a decided penchant for politics. "have you seen the infamous libel in that scurrilous sheet of the gutters the herald?" he demanded immediately of ridgway. "which libel? they don't usually stop at one, colonel." "the one, seh, which slanders my honorable name; which has the scoundrelly audacity to charge me with introducing the mining extension bill for venal reasons, seh." "oh! yes, i've seen that. rather an unfortunate story to come out just now." "i shall force a retraction, seh, or i shall demand the satisfaction due a southern gentleman. "yes, i would, colonel," replied ridgway, secretly amused at the vain threats of this bag of wind which had been punctured. "it's a vile calumny, an audacious and villainous lie." "what part of it? i've just glanced over it, but the part i read seems to be true. that's the trouble with it. if it were a lie you could explode it." "i shall deny it over my signature." "of course. the trouble will be to get people to believe your denial with quinton's affidavit staring them in the face. it seems they have got hold of a letter, too, that you wrote. deny it, of course, then lie low and give the public time to forget it." "do you mean that i should withdraw from the senatorial race?" "that's entirely as you please, colonel, but i'm afraid you'll find your support will slip away from you." "do you mean that you won't support me, seh?" ridgway locked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "we've got to face facts, colonel. in the light of this exposure you can't be elected." "but i tell you, by gad, seh, that i mean to deny it." "certainly. i should in your place," agreed the mine-owner coolly. "the question is, how many people are going to believe you?" tiny sweat-beads stood on the forehead of the arkansan. his manner was becoming more and more threatening. "you pledged me your support. are you going to throw me down, seh?" "you have thrown yourself down, pelton. is it my fault you bungled the thing and left evidence against you? am i to blame because you wrote incriminating letters?" "whatever i did was done for you," retorted the cornered man desperately. "i beg your pardon. it was done for what was in it for you. the arrangement between us was purely a business one." the coolness of his even voice maddened the harassed pelton. "so i'm to get burnt drawing your chestnuts out of the fire, am i? you're going to stand back and let my career be sacrificed, are you? by gad, seh, i'll show you whether i'll be your catspaw," screamed the congressman. "use your common sense, pelton, and don't shriek like a fish-wife," ordered ridgway sharply. "no sane man floats a leaky ship. go to drydock and patch up your reputation, and in a few years you'll come out as good as new." all his unprincipled life pelton had compromised with honor to gain the coveted goal he now saw slipping from him. a kind of madness of despair surged up in him. he took a step threateningly toward the seated man, his hand slipping back under his coat-tails toward his hip pocket. acridly his high voice rang out. "as a southern gentleman, seh, i refuse to tolerate the imputations you cast upon me. i demand an apology here and now, seh." ridgway was on his feet and across the room like a flash. "don't try to bully me, you false alarm. call yourself a southern gentleman! you're a shallow scurvy impostor. no more like the real article than a buzzard is like an eagle. take your hand from under that coat or i'll break every bone in your flabby body." flabby was the word, morally no less than physically. pelton quailed under that gaze which bored into him like a gimlet. the ebbing color in his face showed he could summon no reserve of courage sufficient to meet it. slowly his empty hand came forth. "don't get excited, mr. ridgway. you have mistaken my purpose, seh. i had no intention of drawing," he stammered with a pitiable attempt at dignity. "liar," retorted his merciless foe, crowding him toward the door. "i don't care to have anything more to do with you. our relations are at an end, seh," quavered pelton as he vanished into the outer once and beat a hasty retreat to the elevator. ridgway returned to his chair, laughing ruefully. "i couldn't help it, steve. he would have it. i suppose i've made one more enemy." "a nasty one, too. he'll stick at nothing to get even." "we'll draw his fangs while there is still time. get a good story in the sun to the effect that i quarreled with him as soon as i discovered his connection with this mining extension bill graft. have it in this afternoon's edition, steve. better get brayton to write it." steve nodded. "that's a good idea. we may make capital out of it after all. i'll have an editorial in, too. 'we love him for the enemies he has made.' how would that do for a heading?" "good. and now we'll have to look around for a candidate to put against mott. i'm hanged if i know where we'll find one." eaton had an inspiration. "i do?" "one that will run well, popular enough to catch the public fancy?" "yes." "who, then?" "waring ridgway." the owner of the name stared at his lieutenant in astonishment, but slowly the fascination of the idea sank in. "by jove! why not?" chapter . an evening call "says you're to come right up, mr. ridgway," the bell-hop reported, and after he had pocketed his tip, went sliding off across the polished floor to answer another call. the president of the mesa ore-producing company turned with a good-humored smile to the chief clerk. "you overwork your boys, johnson. i wasn't through with that one. i'll have to ask you to send another up to show me the harley suite." they passed muster under the eye of the chief detective, and, after the bell-boy had rung, were admitted to the private parlor where simon harley lay stretched on a lounge with his wife beside him. she had been reading, evidently aloud and when her visitor was announced rose with her finger still keeping the place in the closed book. the gaze she turned on him was of surprise, almost of alarm, so that the man on the threshold knew he was not expected. "you received my card?" he asked quickly. "no. did you send one?" then, with a little gesture of half-laughing irritation: "it must have gone to mr. harvey again. he is mr. harley's private secretary, and ever since we arrived it has been a comedy of errors. the hotel force refuses to differentiate." "i must ask you to accept my regrets for an unintentional intrusion, mrs. harley. when i was told to come up, i could not guess that my card had gone amiss." the great financier had got to his feet and now came forward with extended hand. "nevertheless we are glad to see you, mr. ridgway, and to get the opportunity to express our thanks for all that you have done for us." the cool fingers of the younger man touched his lightly before they met those of his wife. "yes, we are very glad, indeed, to see you, mr. ridgway," she added to her husband's welcome. "i could not feel quite easy in my mind without hearing from your own lips that you are none the worse for the adventures you have suffered," their visitor explained after they had found seats. "thanks to you, my wife is quite herself again, mr. ridgway," harley announced from the davenport. "thanks also to god, who so mercifully shelters us beneath the shadow of his wing." but her caller preferred to force from aline's own lips this affidavit of health. even his audacity could not ignore his host entirely, but it gave him the least consideration possible. to the question which still rested in his eyes the girl-wife answered shyly. "indeed, i am perfectly well. i have done nothing but sleep to-day and yesterday. miss yesler was very good to me. i do not know how i can repay the great kindness of so many friends," she said with a swift descent of fluttering lashes to the soft cheeks upon which a faint color began to glow. "perhaps they find payment for the service in doing it for you," he suggested. "yet, i shall take care not to forget it," harley said pointedly. "indeed!" ridgway put it with polite insolence, the hostility in his face scarcely veiled. "it has pleased providence to multiply my portion so abundantly that i can reward those well who serve me." "at how much do you estimate mrs. harley's life?" his rival asked with quiet impudence. in the course of the past two days aline had made the discovery that her husband and her rescuer were at swords drawn in a business way. this had greatly distressed her, and in her innocence she had resolved to bring them together. how could her inexperience know that she might as well have tried to induce the lion and the lamb to lie down together peaceably? now she tried timidly to drift the conversation from the awkwardness into which harley's suggestion of a reward and his opponent's curt retort had blundered it. "i hope you did not find upon your return that your business was disarranged so much as you feared it might be by your absence." "i found my affairs in very good condition," ridgway smiled. "but i am glad to be back in time to welcome to mesa you--and mr. harley." "it seems so strange a place," the girl ventured, with a hesitation that showed her anxiety not to offend his local pride. "you see i never before was in a place where there was no grass and nothing green in sight. and to-night, when i looked out of the window and saw streams of red-hot fire running down hills, i thought of paradise lost and dante. i suppose it doesn't seem at all uncanny to you?" "at night sometimes i still get that feeling, but i have to cultivate it a bit," he confessed. "my sober second thought insists that those molten rivers are merely business, refuse disgorged as lava from the great smelters." "i looked for the sun to-day through the pall of sulphur smoke that hangs so heavy over the town, but instead i saw a london gas-lamp hanging in the heavens. is it always so bad?" "not when the drift of the wind is right. in fact, a day like this is quite unusual." "i'm glad of that. i feel more cheerful in the sunshine. i know that's a bit of the child still left in me. mr. harley takes all days alike." the wall street operator was in slippers and house-jacket. his wife, too, was dressed comfortably in some soft clinging stuff. their visitor saw that they had disposed themselves for a quiet uninterrupted evening by the fireside. the domesticity of it all stirred the envy in him. he did not want her to be contented and at peace with his enemy. something deeper than his vanity cried out in protest against it. she was still making talk against the gloom of the sulphur fog which seemed to have crept into the spirit of the room. "we were reading before you came in, mr. ridgway. i suppose you read a good deal. mr. harley likes to have me read aloud to him when he is tired." an impulse came upon ridgway to hear her, some such impulse as makes a man bite on sore tooth even though he knows he must pay later for it. "will you not go on with your reading? i should like to hear it. i really should." she was a little taken aback, but she looked inquiringly at her husband, who bowed silently. "i was just beginning the fifty-ninth psalm. we have been reading the book through. mr. harley finds great comfort in it," she explained. her eyes fell to the printed page and her clear, sweet voice took up the ancient tale of vengeance. "deliver me from mine enemies, o my god: defend me from them that rise up against me. deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from bloody men. "for, lo, they lie in wait for my soul: the mighty are gathered against me; not for my transgression, nor for my sin, o lord. they run and prepare themselves without my fault: awake to help me, and behold. "thou, therefore, o lord god of hosts, the god of israel, awake to visit all the heathen: be not merciful to any wicked transgressors. selah." ridgway glanced across in surprise at the strong old man lying on the lounge. his hands were locked in front of him, and his gaze rested peacefully on the fair face of the child reading. his foe's mind swept up the insatiable cruel years that lay behind this man, and he marveled that with such a past he could still hold fast to that simple faith of david. he wondered whether this ruthless spoiler went back to the old testament for the justification of his life, or whether his credo had given the impulse to his career. one thing he no longer doubted: simon harley believed his bible implicitly and literally, and not only the new testament. "for the sin of their mouth and the words of their lips even be taken in their pride: and for cursing and lying which they speak. "consume them in wrath, consume them, that they may not be: and let them know that god ruleth in jacob unto the ends of the earth." the fresh young girlish voice died away into silence. harley, apparently deep in meditation, gazed at the ceiling. his guest felt a surge of derision at this man who thought he had a compact with god to rule the world for his benefit. "i am sure mr. harley must enjoy the psalms a great deal," he said ironically, but it was in simple faith the young wife answered eagerly: "he does. he finds so much in them that is applicable to life." "i can see how he might," agreed the young man. "few people take their religion so closely into their every-day lives as he does," she replied in a low voice, seeing that her husband was lost in thought. "i am sure you are right." "he is very greatly misunderstood, mr. ridgway. i am sure if people knew how good he is-- but how can they know when the newspapers are so full of falsehoods about him? and the magazines are as bad, he says. it seems to be the fashion to rake up bitter things to say about prominent business men. you must have noticed it." "yes. i believe i have noticed that," he answered with a grim little laugh. "don't you think it could be explained to these writers? they can't want to distort the truth. it must be they don't know." "you must not take the muckrakers too seriously. they make a living roasting us. a good deal of what they say is true in a way. personally, i don't object to it much. it's a part of the penalty of being successful. that's how i look at it." "do they say bad things about you, too?" she asked in open-eyed surprise. "occasionally," he smiled. "when they think i'm important enough." "i don't see how they can," he heard her murmur to herself. "oh, most of what they say is true." "then i know it can't be very bad," she made haste to answer. "you had better read it and see." "i don't understand business at all," she said "but--sometimes it almost frightens me. business isn't really like war, is it?" "a good deal like it. but that need not frighten you. all life is a battle--sometimes, at least. success implies fighting." "and does that in turn imply tragedy--for the loser?" "not if one is a good loser. we lose and make another start." "but if success is a battle, it must be gained at the expense of another." "sometimes. but you must look at it in a big way." the secretary of the trust magnate had come in and was in low-toned conversation with him. the visitor led her to the nearest window and drew back the curtains so that they looked down on the lusty life of the turbid young city, at the lights in the distant smelters and mills, at the great hill opposite, with its slagdumps, gallows-frames and shaft-houses black against the dim light, which had yielded its millions and millions of tons of ore for the use of mankind. "all this had to be fought for. it didn't grow of itself. and because men fought for it, the place is what it is. sixty thousand people live here, fed by the results of the battle. the highest wages in the world are paid the miners here. they live in rough comfort and plenty, whereas in the countries they came from they were underpaid and underfed. is that not good?" "yes," she admitted. "life for you and for me must be different, thank god. you are in the world to make for the happiness of those you meet. that is good. but unless i am to run away from my work, what i do must make some unhappy. i can't help that if i am to do big things. when you hear people talking of the harm i do, you will remember what i have told you to-night, and you will think that a man and his work cannot be judged by isolated fragments." "yes," she breathed softly, for she knew that this man was saying good-by to her and was making his apologia. "and you will remember that no matter how bitter the fight may grow between me and mr. harley, it has nothing to do with you. we shall still be friends, though we may never meet again." "i shall remember that, too," he heard her murmur. "you have been hoping that mr. harley and i would be friends. that is impossible. he came out here to crush me. for years his subordinates have tried to do this and failed. i am the only man alive that has ever resisted him successfully. i don't underestimate his power, which is greater than any czar or emperor that ever lived, but i don't think he will succeed. i shall win because i understand the forces against me. he will lose because he scorns those against him." "i am sorry. oh, i am so sorry," she wailed, gently as a breath of summer wind. for she saw now that the cleavage between them was too wide for a girl's efforts to bridge. "that i am going to win?" he smiled gravely. "that you must be enemies; that he came here to ruin you, since you say he did." "you need not be too hard on him for that. by his code i am a freebooter and a highwayman. business offers legitimate ways of robbery, and i transgress them. his ways are not my ways, and mine are not his, but it is only fair to say that his are the accepted ones." "i don't understand it at all. you are both good men. i know you are. surely you need not be enemies." but she knew she could hope for no reassurance from the man beside her. presently she led him back across the big room to the fireplace near where her husband lay. his secretary had gone, and he was lying resting on the lounge. he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "has mr. ridgway been pointing out to you the places of interest?" he asked quietly. "yes, dear." the last word came hesitantly after the slightest of pauses. "he says he must be going now." the head of the greatest trust on earth got to his feet and smiled benignantly as he shook hands with the departing guest. "i shall hope to see you very soon and have a talk regarding business, mr. ridgway," he said. "whenever you like, mr. harley." to the girl he said merely, "good night," and was gone. the old man put an arm affectionately across his young wife's shoulder. "shall we read another psalm, my dear? or are you tired?" she repressed the little shiver that ran through her before she answered wearily. "i am a little tired. if you don't mind i would like to retire, please." he saw her as far as the door of her apartments and left her with her maid after he had kissed the cold cheek she dutifully turned toward him. chapter . harley makes a proposition apparently the head of the great trust intended to lose no time in having that business talk with ridgway, which he had graciously promised the latter. eaton and his chief were busy over some applications for leases when smythe came into the room with a letter. "messenger-boy brought it; said it was important," he explained. ridgway ripped open the envelope, read through the letter swiftly, and tossed it to eaton. his eyes had grown hard and narrow. "write to mr. hobart that i am sorry i haven't time to call on mr. harley at the consolidated offices, as he suggests. add that i expect to be in my offices all morning, and shall be glad to make an appointment to talk with mr. harley here, if he thinks he has any business with me that needs a personal interview." smythe's leathery face had as much expression as a blank wall, but eaton gasped. the unparalleled audacity of flinging the billionaire's overture back in his face left him for the moment speechless. he knew that ridgway had tempted providence a hundred times without coming to disaster, but surely this was going too far. any reasonable compromise with the great trust builder would be cause for felicitation. he had confidence in his chief to any point in reason, but he could not blind himself to the fact that the wonderful successes he had gained were provisional rather than final. he likened them to stonewall jackson's shenandoah raid, very successful in irritating, disorganizing and startling the enemy, but with no serious bearing on the final inevitable result. in the end harley would crush his foes if he set in motion the whole machinery of his limitless resources. that was eaton's private opinion, and he was very much of the feeling that this was an opportune time to get in out of the rain. "don't you think we had better consider that answer before we send it, waring?" he suggested in a low voice. his chief nodded a dismissal to the secretary before answering. "i have considered it." "but--surely it isn't wise to reject his advances before we know what they are." "i haven't rejected them. i've simply explained that we are doing business on equal terms. even if i meant to compromise, it would pay me to let him know he doesn't own me." "he may decide not to offer his proposition." "it wouldn't worry me if he did." eaton knew he must speak now if his protest were to be of any avail. "it would worry me a good deal. he has shown an inclination to be friendly. this answer is like a slap in the face." "is it?" "doesn't it look like that to you?" ridgway leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his friend. "want to sell out, steve?" "why--what do you mean?" asked the surprised treasurer. "if you do, i'll pay anything in reason for your stock." he got up and began to pace the floor with long deliberate strides. "i'm a born gambler, steve. it clears my head to take big chances. give me a good fight on my hands with the chances against me, and i'm happy. you've got to take the world by the throat and shake success out of it if you're going to score heavily. that's how harley made good years ago. read the story of his life. see the chances he took. he throttled combinations a dozen times as strong as his. some people say he was an accident. don't you believe it. accidents like him don't happen. he won because he was the biggest, brainiest, most daring and unscrupulous operator in the field. that's why i'm going to win--if i do win." "yes, if you win." "well, that's the chance i take," flung back the other as he swung buoyantly across the room. "but you don't need to take it. if you want, you can get out now at the top market price. i feel it in my bones i'm going to win; but if you don't feel it, you'd be a fool to take chances." eaton's mercurial temperament responded with a glow. "no, sir. i'll sit tight. i'm no quitter." "good for you, steve. i knew it. i'll tell you now that i would have hated like hell to see you leave me. you're the only man i can rely on down to the ground, twenty-four hours of every day." the answer was sent, and eaton's astonishment at his chief's temerity changed to amazement when the great harley, pocketing his pride, asked for an appointment, and appeared at the offices of the mesa ore-producing company at the time set. that ridgway, who was busy with one of his superintendents, should actually keep the most powerful man in the country waiting in an outer office while he finished his business with dalton seemed to him insolence florescent. "whom the gods would destroy," he murmured to himself as the only possible explanation, for the reaction of his enthusiasm was on him. nor did his chief's conference with dalton show any leaning toward compromise. ridgway had sent for his engineer to outline a program in regard to some ore-veins in the sherman bell, that had for months been in litigation between the two big interests at mesa. neither party to the suit had waited for the legal decision, but each of them had put a large force at work stoping out the ore. occasional conflicts had occurred when the men of the opposing factions came in touch, as they frequently did, since crews were at work below and above each other at every level. but none of these as yet had been serious. "dalton, i was down last night to see that lease of heyburn's on the twelfth level of the taurus. the consolidated will tap our workings about noon to-day, just below us. i want you to turn on them the air-drill pipe as soon as they break through. have a lot of loose rock there mixed with a barrel of lime. let loose the air pressure full on the pile, and give it to their men straight. follow them up to the end of their own tunnel when they retreat, and hold it against them. get control of the levels above and below, too. throw as many men as you can into their workings, and gut them till there is no ore left." dalton had the fighting edge. "you'll stand by me, no matter what happens?" "nothing will happen. they're not expecting trouble. but if anything does, i'll see you through. eaton is your witness that i ordered it." "then it's as good as done, mr. ridgway," said dalton, turning away. "there may be bloodshed," suggested eaton dubiously, in a low voice. ridgway's laugh had a touch of affectionate contempt. "don't cross bridges till you get to them, steve. haven't you discovered, man, that the bold course is always the safe one? it's the quitter that loses out every time. the strong man gets there; the weak one falls down. it's as invariable as the law of gravity." he got up and stretched his broad shoulders in a deep breath. "now for mr. harley. send him in, eaton." that morning simon harley had done two things for many years foreign to his experience: he had gone to meet another man instead of making the man come to him, and he had waited the other man's pleasure in an outer office. that he had done so implied a strong motive. ridgway waved harley to a chair without rising to meet him. the eyes of the two men fastened, wary and unwavering. they might have been jungle beasts of prey crouching for the attack, so tense was their attention. the man from broadway was the first to speak. "i have called, mr. ridgway, to arrange, if possible, a compromise. i need hardly say this is not my usual method, but the circumstances are extremely unusual. i rest under so great a personal obligation to you that i am willing to overlook a certain amount of youthful presumption." his teeth glittered behind a lip smile, intended to give the right accent to the paternal reproof. "my personal obligation--" "what obligation? i left you to die in the snow.', "you forget what you did for mrs. harley." "you may eliminate that," retorted the younger man curtly. "you are under no obligations whatever to me." "that is very generous of you, mr. ridgway, but--" ridgway met his eyes directly, cutting his sentence as with a knife. "'generous' is the last word to use. it is not a question of generosity at all. what i mean is that the thing i did was done with no reference whatever to you. it is between me and her alone. i refuse to consider it as a service to you, as having anything at all to do with you. i told you that before. i tell you again." harley's spirit winced. this bold claim to a bond with his wife that excluded him, the scornful thrust of his enemy--he was already beginning to consider him in that light rather than as a victim--had touched the one point of human weakness in this money-making juggernaut. he saw himself for the moment without illusions, an old man and an unlovable one, without near kith or kin. he was bitterly aware that the child he had married had been sold to him by her guardian, under fear of imminent ruin, before her ignorance of the world had given her experience to judge for herself. the money and the hidden hunger of sentiment he wasted on her brought him only timid thanks and wan obedience. but for this man, with his hateful, confident youth, he had seen the warm smile touch her lips and the delicate color rose her cheeks. nay, he had seen more her arms around his neck and her, warm breath on his cheek. they had lived romance, these two, in the days they had been alone together. they had shared danger and the joys of that bohemia of youth from which he was forever excluded. it was his resolve to wipe out by financial favors--he could ruin the fellow later if need be--any claims of ridgway upon her gratitude or her foolish imagination. he did not want the man's appeal upon her to carry the similitude of martyrdom as well as heroism. "yet, the fact remains that it was a service"--his thin lips smiled. "i must be the best judge of that, i think. i want to be perfectly frank, mr. ridgway. the consolidated is an auxiliary enterprise so far as i am concerned, but i have always made it a rule to look after details when it became necessary. i came to montana to crush you. i have always regarded you as a menace to our legitimate interests, and i had quite determined to make an end of it. you are a good fighter, and you've been on the ground in person, which counts for a great deal. but you must know that if i give myself to it in earnest, you are a ruined man." the westerner laughed hardily. "i hear you say it." "but you don't believe," added the other quietly. "many men have heard and not believed. they have known when it was too late. "if you don't mind, i'll buy my experience instead of borrowing it," ridgway flung back flippantly. "one moment, mr. ridgway. i have told you my purpose in coming to montana. that purpose no longer exists. circumstances have completely altered my intentions. the finger of god is in it. he has not brought us together thus strangely, except to serve some purpose of his own. i think i see that purpose. 'the stone which the builders refused is become the headstone of the corner. this is the lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes,'" he quoted unctiously. "i am convinced that it is a waste of good material to crush you; therefore i desire to effect a consolidation with you, buy all the other copper interests of any importance in the country, and put you at the head of the resulting combination." in spite of himself, ridgway's face betrayed him. it was a magnificent opportunity, the thing he had dreamed of as the culmination of a lifetime of fighting. nobody knew better than he on how precarious a footing he stood, on how slight a rock his fortunes might be wrecked. here was his chance to enter that charmed, impregnable inner circle of finance that in effect ruled the nation. that harley's suave friendliness would bear watching he did not doubt for a moment, but, once inside, so his vital youth told him proudly, he would see to it that the billionaire did not betray him. a week ago he could have asked nothing better than this chance to bloat himself into a some-day colossus. but now the thing stuck in his gorge. he understood the implied obligation. payment for his service to aline harley was to be given, and the ledger balanced. well, why not? had he not spent the night in a chaotic agony of renunciation? but to renounce voluntarily was one thing, to be bought off another. he looked up and met harley's thin smile, the smile that on wall street was a synonym for rapacity and heartlessness, in the memory of which men had committed murder and suicide. on the instant there jumped between him and his ambition the face that had worked magic on him. what a god's pity that such a lamb should be cast to this ravenous wolf! he felt again her arms creeping round his neck, the divine trust of her lovely eyes. he had saved her when this man who called himself her husband had left her to perish in the storm. he had made her happy, as she had never been in all her starved life. had she not promised never to forget, and was there not a deeper promise in her wistful eyes that the years could not wipe out? she was his by every right of natural law. by god! he would not sell his freedom of choice to this white haired robber! "i seldom make mistakes in my judgment of men, mr. ridgway," the oily voice ran on. "no small share of such success as it has been given me to attain has been due to this instinct for putting my finger on the right man. i am assured that in you i find one competent for the great work lying before you. the opportunity is waiting; i furnish it, and you the untiring energy of youth to make the most of the chance." his wolfish smile bared the tusks for a moment. "i find myself not so young as i was. the great work i have started is well under way. i must trust its completion to younger and stronger hands than mine. i intend to rest, to devote myself to my home, more directly to such philanthropic and educational work as god has committed to my hands." the westerner gave him look for look, his eyes burning to get over the impasse of the expressionless mask no man had ever penetrated. he began to see why nobody had ever understood harley. he knew there would be no rest for that consuming energy this side of the grave. yet the man talked as if he believed his own glib lies. "consolidated is the watchword of the age; it means elimination of ruinous competition, and consequent harmony and reduced expense in management. mr. ridgway, may i count you with us? together we should go far. do you say peace or war?" the younger man rose, leaning forward with his strong, sinewy hands gripping the table. his face was pale with the repression of a rage that had been growing intense. "i say war, and without quarter. i don't believe you can beat me. i defy you to the test. and if you should--even then i had rather go down fighting you than win at your side." simon harley had counted acceptance a foregone conclusion, but he never winked a lash at the ringing challenge of his opponent. he met his defiance with an eye cold and steady as jade. "as you please, mr. ridgway. i wash my hands of your ruin, and when you are nothing but a broken gambler, you will remember that i offered you the greatest chance that ever came to a man of your age. you are one of those men, i see, that would rather be first in hell than second in heaven. so be it." he rose and buttoned his overcoat. "say, rather, that i choose to go to hell my own master and not as the slave of simon harley," retorted the westerner bitterly. ridgway's eyes blazed, but those of the new yorker were cool and fishy. "there is no occasion for dramatics," he said, the cruel, passionless smile at his thin lips. "i make you a business proposition and you decline it. that is all. i wish you good day." the other strode past him and flung the door open. he had never before known such a passion of hatred as raged within him. throughout his life simon harley had left in his wake wreckage and despair. he was the best-hated man of his time, execrated by the working classes, despised by the country at large, and distrusted by his fellow exploiters. yet, as a business opponent, ridgway had always taken him impersonally, had counted him for a condition rather than an individual. but with the new influence that had come into his life, reason could not reckon, and when it was dominant with him, harley stood embodied as the wolf ready to devour his ewe lamb. for he couldn't get away from her. wherever he went he carried with him the picture of her sweet, shy smile, her sudden winsome moments, the deep light in her violet eyes; and in the background the sinister bared fangs of the wild beast dogging her patiently, and yet lovingly. chapter . virginia intervenes james k. mott, local chief attorney for the consolidated, was struggling with a white tie before the glass and crumpling it atrociously. "this dress-suit habit is the most pernicious i know. it's sapping the liberties of the american people," he grunted at last in humorous despair. "let me, dear." his wife tied it with neatness and dispatch, and returned to the inspection of how her skirt hung. "mr. harley asked me to thank you for calling on his wife. he says she gets lonesome during the day while he is away so much. i was wondering if you couldn't do something for her so that she could meet some of the ladies of mesa. a luncheon, or something of that sort, you know. have you seen my hat-brush anywhere?" "it's on that drawer beside your hat-box. she told me she would rather not. i suggested it. but i'll tell you what i could do: take virginia balfour round to see her. she's lively and good company, and knows some of the people mrs. harley knows." "that's a good idea. i want harley to know that we appreciate his suggestions, and are ready to do our part. he has shown a disposition to consult me on a good many things that ought to lie in hobart's sphere rather than mine. something's going to drop. now, i like hobart, but i want to show myself in a receptive mood for advancement when his head falls, as it certainly will soon." * * * * * virginia responded eagerly to mrs. mott's suggestion that they call together on mrs. harley at the hotel. "my dear, you have saved my life. i've been dying of curiosity, and i haven't been able to find vestige of an excuse to hang my call on. i couldn't ask mr. ridgway to introduce me, could i?" "no, i don't see that you could," smiled mrs. mott, a motherly little woman with pleasant brown eyes. "i suppose mr. ridgway isn't exactly on calling terms with mr. harley's wife, even if he did save her life." "oh, mr. ridgway isn't the man to let a little thing like a war a outrance stand in the way of his social duties, especially when those duties happen to be inclinations, too. i understand he did call the evening of their arrival here." "he didn't!" screamed mrs. mott, who happened to possess a voice of the normal national register. "and what did mr. harley say?" "ah, that's what one would like to know. my informant deponeth not beyond the fact unadorned. one may guess there must have been undercurrents of embarrassment almost as pronounced as if the president were to invite his ananias club to a pink tea. i can imagine mr. harley saying: 'try this cake, mr. ridgway; it isn't poisoned;' and mr. ridgway answering: 'thanks! after you, my dear gaston."' miss balfour's anxiety to meet the young woman her fiance had rescued from the blizzard was not unnatural. her curiosity was tinged with frank envy, though jealousy did not enter into it at all. virginia had come west explicitly to take the country as she found it, and she had found it, unfortunately, no more hazardous than little old new york, though certainly a good deal more diverting to a young woman with democratic proclivities that still survived the energetic weeding her training had subjected them to. she did not quite know what she had expected to find in mesa. certainly she knew that indians were no longer on the map, and cowboys were kicking up their last dust before vanishing, but she had supposed that they had left compensations in their wake. on the principle that adventures are to the adventurous, her life should have been a whirl of hairbreadth escapes. but what happened? she took all sorts of chances without anything coming of it. her pirate fiance was the nearest approach to an adventure she had flushed, and this pink-and-white chit of a married schoolgirl had borrowed him for the most splendid bit of excitement that would happen in a hundred years. she had been spinning around the country in motor-cars for months without the sign of a blizzard, but the chit had hit one the first time. it wasn't fair. that was her blizzard by rights. in spirit, at least, she had "spoken for it," as she and her brother used to say when they were children of some coveted treasure not yet available. virginia was quite sure that if she had seen waring ridgway at the inspired moment when he was plowing through the drifts with mrs. harley in his arms--only, of course, it would have been she instead of mrs. harley, and he would not have been carrying her so long as she could stand and take it--she would have fallen in love with him on the spot. and those two days in the cabin on half-ration they would have put an end forever to her doubts and to that vision of lyndon hobart that persisted in her mind. what luck glace' some people did have! but virginia discovered the chit to be rather a different personality than she had supposed. in truth, she lost her heart to her at once. she could have stood out against aline's mere good looks and been the stiffer for them. she was no man, to be moved by the dark hair's dusky glory, the charm of soft girlish lines, the effect of shy unsophistication that might be merely the highest art of social experience. but back of the sweet, trembling mouth that seemed to be asking to be kissed, of the pathetic appeal for friendliness from the big, deep violet eyes, was a quality of soul not to be counterfeited. miss balfour had furbished up the distant hauteur of the society manner she had at times used effectively, but she found herself instead taking the beautiful, forlorn little creature in her arms. "oh, my dear; my dear, how glad i am that dreadful blizzard did not hurt you!" aline clung to this gracious young queen as if she had known her a lifetime. "you are so good to me everybody is. you know how mr. ridgway saved me. if it had not been for him i should have died. i didn't care--i wanted to die in peace, i think--but he wouldn't let me." "i should think not." "if you only knew him--perhaps you do." "a little," confessed virginia, with a flash of merry eyes at mrs. mott. "he is the bravest man--and the strongest." "yes. he is both," agreed his betrothed, with pride. "his tenderness, his unselfishness, his consideration for others--did you ever know anybody like him for these things?" "never," agreed virginia, with the mental reservations that usually accompanied her skeptical smile. she was getting at her fiance from a novel point of view. "and so modest, with all his strength and courage.', "it's almost a fault in him," she murmured. "the woman that marries him will be blessed among women." "i count it a great privilege," said miss balfour absently, but she pulled up with a hurried addendum: "to have known him." "indeed, yes. if one met more men like him this would be a better world." "it would certainly be a different world." it was a relief to aline to talk, to put into words the external skeleton facts of the surging current that had engulfed her existence since she had turned a corner upon this unexpected consciousness of life running strong and deep. harley was not a confidant she could have chosen under the most favorable circumstances, and her instinct told her that in this matter he was particularly impossible. but to virginia balfour--mrs. mott had to leave early to preside over the mesa woman's club, and her friend allowed herself to be persuaded to stay longer--she did not find it at all hard to talk. indeed, she murmured into the sympathetic ear of this astute young searcher of hearts more than her words alone said, with the result that virginia guessed what she herself had not yet quite found out, though her heart was hovering tremblingly on the brink of discovery. but virginia's sympathy for the trouble fate had in store for this helpless innocent consisted with an alert appreciation of its obvious relation to herself. what she meant to discover was the attitude toward the situation of one neither particularly innocent nor helpless. was he, too, about to be "caught in the coil of a god's romances," or was he merely playing on the vibrating strings of an untaught heart? it was in part to satisfy this craving for knowledge that she wrote ridgway a note as soon as she reached home. it said: my dear recreant laggard: if you are not too busy playing sir lancelot to fair dames in distress, or splintering lances with the doughty husbands of these same ladies, i pray you deign to allow your servant to feast her eyes upon her lord's face. hopefully and gratefully yours, virginia. p. s.--have you forgotten, sir, that i have not seen you since that terrible blizzard and your dreadful imprisonment in fort salvation? p. p. s.--i have seen somebody else, though. she's a dear, and full of your praises. i hardly blame you. v. she thought that ought to bring him soon, and it did. "i've been busy night and day," he apologized when they met. virginia gave him a broadside demurely. "i suppose your social duties do take up a good deal of your time." "my social duties? oh, i see!" he laughed appreciation of her hit. evidently through her visit she knew a good deal more than he had expected. since he had nothing to hide from her except his feelings, this did not displease him. "my duties in that line have been confined to one formal call." she sympathized with him elaborately. "calls of that sort do bore men so. i'll not forget the first time you called on me." "nor i," he came back gallantly. "i marveled how you came through alive, but i learned then that a man can't be bored to death." "i came again nevertheless," he smiled. "and again--and again." "i am still wondering why." "'oh, wad some power the giffie gite us to see ourselves as others see us!"' he quoted with a bow. "is that a compliment?" she asked dubiously. "i have never heard it used so before. anyhow, it is a little hackneyed for anybody so original as you." "it was the best i could do offhand." she changed the subject abruptly. "has the new campaign of the war begun yet?" "well, we're maneuvering for position." "you've seen him. how does he impress you?" "the same as he does others. a hard, ruthless fighter. unless all signs fail, he is an implacable foe." "but you are not afraid?" he smiled. "do i look frightened?" "no, you remind me of something a burglar once told me--" "a what?" "a burglar--a reformed burglar!" she gave him a saucy flash of her dark eyes. "do you think i don't know any lawbreakers except those i have met in this state? i came across this one in a mission where i used to think i was doing good. he said it was not the remuneration of the profession that had attracted him, but the excitement. it was dreadfully frowned down upon and underpaid. he could earn more at his old trade of a locksmith, but it seemed to him that every impediment to success was a challenge to him. poor man, he relapsed again, and they put him in sing sing. i was so interested in him, too." "you've had some queer friends in your time," he laughed, but without a trace of disapproval. "i have some queer ones yet," she thrust back. "let's not talk of them," he cried, in pretended alarm. her inextinguishable gaiety brought back the smile he liked. "we'll talk of some one else--some one of interest to us both." "i am always ready to talk of miss virginia balfour," he said, misunderstanding promptly. she smiled her disdain of his obtuseness in an elaborately long survey of him. "well?" he wanted to know. "that's how you look--very well, indeed. i believe the storm was greatly exaggerated," she remarked. "isn't that rather a good definition for a blizzard--a greatly exaggerated storm?" "you don't look the worse for wear--not the wreck i expected to behold." "ah, you should have seen me before i saw you." "thank you. i have no doubt you find the sight of my dear face as refreshing as your favorite cocktail. i suppose that is why it has taken you three days after your return to reach me and then by special request." "a pleasure delayed is twice a pleasure anticipation and realization." miss balfour made a different application of his text, her eyes trained on him with apparent indifference. "i've been enjoying a delayed pleasure myself. i went to see her this afternoon." he did not ask whom, but his eyes brightened. "she's worth a good deal of seeing, don't you think?" "oh, i'm in love with her, but it doesn't follow you ought to be." "am i?"--he smiled. "you are either in love or else you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "an interesting thing about you is your point of view. now, anybody else would tell me i ought to be ashamed if i am in love." "i'm not worried about your morals," she scoffed. "it's that poor child i'm thinking of." "i think of her a good deal, too." "ah! and does she think of you a good deal that's what we must guard against." "is it?" "yes. you see i'm her confidante." she told it him with sparkling eyes, for the piquancy of it amused her. not every engaged young woman can hear her lover's praises sung by the woman whose life he has saved with the proper amount of romance. "really?" she nodded, laughing at him. "i didn't get a chance to tell her about me." "i suppose not." "i think i'll tell her about you, though--just what a ruthless barbarian you are." his eyes gleamed "i wish you would. i'd like to find out whether she would believe you. i have tried to tell her myself, but the honest truth is, i funk it." "you haven't any right to let her know you are interested in her." she interrupted him before he could speak. "don't trifle with her, waring. she's not like other girls." he met her look gravely. "i wouldn't trifle with her for any reason." her quick rejoinder overlapped his sentence. "then you love her!" "is that an alternative?" "with you--yes." "faith, my lady, you're frank!" "i'm not mealy-mouthed. you don't think yourself scrupulous, do you?" "i'm afraid i am not." "i don't mind so much your being in love with her, though it's not flattering to my vanity, but--" she stopped, letting him make the inference. "do you think that likely?" he asked, the color flushing his face. he wondered how much aline had told this confidante. certain specific things he knew she had not revealed, but had she let her guess the situation between them? she compromised with her conscience. "i don't know. she is romantic--and simon harley isn't a very fertile field for romance, i suppose." "you would imply?" "oh, you have points, and nobody knows them better than waring ridgway," she told him jauntily. "but you needn't play that role to the address of aline harley. try me. i'm immune to romance. besides, i'm engaged to you," she added, laughing at the inconsequence the fact seemed to have for both of them. "i'm afraid i can't help the situation, for if i've been playing a part, it has been an unconscious one." "that's the worst of it. when you star as waring ridgway you are most dangerous. what i want is total abstinence." "you'd rather i didn't see her at all?" virginia dimpled, a gleam of reminiscent laughter in her eyes. "when i was in denver last month a mrs. smythe--it was smith before her husband struck it rich last year--sent out cards for a bridge afternoon. a mrs. mahoney had just come to the metropolis from the wilds of cripple creek. her husband had struck a gold-mine, too, and mr. smythe was under obligations to him. anyhow, she was a stranger, and mrs. smythe took her in. it was mrs. mahoney's introduction to bridge, and she did not know she was playing for keeps. when the afternoon was over, mrs. smythe hovered about her with the sweetest sympathy. 'so sorry you had such a horrid run of cards, dear. better luck next time.' it took mrs. mahoney some time to understand that her social afternoon had cost one hundred and twenty dollars, but next day her husband sent a check for one hundred and twenty-two dollars to mrs. smythe. the extra two dollars were for the refreshments, he naively explained, adding that since his wife was so poor a gambler as hardly to be able to keep professionals interested, he would not feel offended if mrs. smythe omitted her in future from her social functions." ridgway took it with a smile. "simon harley brought his one hundred and twenty-two dollars in person." "he didn't! when?" "this morning. he proposed benevolent assimilation as a solution of our troubles." "just how?" "he offered to consolidate all the copper interests of the country and put me at the head of the resulting combine." "if you wouldn't play bridge with mrs. harley?" "exactly." "and you?" "declined to pledge myself." she clapped her hands softly. "well done, waring ridgway! there are times when you are magnificent, when i could put you on a pedestal, you great big, unafraid man. but you mustn't play with her, just the same." "why mustn't i?" "for her sake." he frowned past her into space, his tight-shut jaw standing out saliently. "you're right, virginia. i've been thinking so myself. i'll keep off the grass," he said, at last. "you're a good fellow," slipped out impulsively. "well, i know where there's another," he said. "i ought to think myself a lucky dog." virginia lifted quizzical eyebrows. "ought to! that tastes of duty. don't let it come to that. we'll take it off if you like." she touched the solitaire he had given her. "ah, but i don't like"--he smiled. chapter . aline makes a discovery aline pulled her horse to a walk. "you know mr. ridgway pretty well, don't you?" miss balfour gently flicked her divided skirt with a riding-whip, considering whether she might be said to know him well. "yes, i think i do," she ventured. "mrs. mott says you and he are great friends, that you seem very fond of each other." "goodness me! i hope i don't seem fond of him. i don't think 'fond' is exactly the word, anyway, though we are good friends." quickly, keenly, her covert glance swept aline; then, withdrawing her eyes, she flung her little bomb. "i suppose we may be said to appreciate each other. at any rate, we are engaged." mrs. harley's pony came to an abrupt halt. "i thought i had dropped my whip," she explained, in a low voice not quite true. virginia, though she executed an elaborate survey of the scenery, could not help noticing that the color had washed from her friend's face. "i love this western country--its big sweep of plains, of low, rolling hills, with a background of mountains. one can see how it gets into a man's blood so that the east seems insipid ever afterward," discoursed miss balfour. a question trembled on aline's blanched lips. "say it," permitted virginia. "do you mean that you are engaged to him--that you are going to marry mr. ridgway--without caring for him?" "i don't mean that at all. i like him immensely." "but--do you love him?" it was almost a cry--these low words wrung from the tortured heart. "no fair," warned her friend smilingly. aline rode in silence, her stricken face full of trouble. how could she, from her glass house, throw stones at a loveless marriage? but this was different from her own case! nobody was worthy to marry her hero without giving the best a woman had to give. if she were a girl--a sudden tide of color swept her face; a wild, delirious tingle of joy flooded her veins--oh, if she were a girl, what a wealth of love could she give him! clarity of vision had come to her in a blinding flash. untutored of life, the knowledge of its meaning had struck home of the suddenest. she knew her heart now that it was too late; knew that she could never be indifferent to what concerned waring ridgway. aline caught at the courage behind her childishness, and accomplished her congratulations "you will be happy, i am sure. he is good." "goodness does not impress me as his most outstanding quality," smiled miss balfour. "no, one never feels it emphasized. he is too free of selfishness to make much of his goodness. but one can't help feeling it in everything he does and says." "does mr. harley agree with you? does he feel it?" "i don't think mr. harley understands him. i can't help thinking that he is prejudiced." she was becoming mistress of her voice and color again. "and you are not?" "perhaps i am. in my thought of him he would still be good, even if he had done all the bad things his enemies accuse him of." virginia gave her up. this idealized interpretation of her betrothed was not the one she had, but for aline it might be the true one. at least, she could not disparage him very consistently under the circumstances. "isn't there a philosophy current that we find in people what we look for in them? perhaps that is why you and mr. harley read in mr. ridgway men so diverse as you do. it is not impossible you are both right and both wrong. heaven knows, i suppose. at least, we poor mortals fog around enough when we sit in judgment." and virginia shrugged the matter from her careless shoulders. but aline seemed to have a difficulty in getting away from the subject. "and you--what do you read?" she asked timidly. "sometimes one thing and sometimes another. to-day i see him as a living refutation of all the copy-book rules to success. he shatters the maxims with a touch-and-go manner that is fascinating in its immorality. a gambler, a plunger, an adventurer, he wins when a careful, honest business man would fail to a certainty." aline was amazed. "you misjudge him. i am sure you do. but if you think this of him why--" "why do i marry him? i have asked myself that a hundred times, my dear. i wish i knew. i have told you what i see in him to-day; but tomorrow--why, to-morrow i shall see him an altogether different man. he will be perhaps a radiating center of altruism, devoted to his friends, a level-headed protector of the working classes, a patron of the arts in his own clearminded, unlettered way. but whatever point of view one gets at him, he spares one dullness. will you explain to me, my dear, why picturesque rascality is so much more likable than humdrum virtue?" mrs. harley's eyes blazed. "and you can talk this way of the man you are going to marry, a man--" she broke off, her voice choked. miss balfour was cool as a custard. "i can, my dear, and without the least disloyalty. in point of fact, he asked me to tell you the kind of man i think him. i'm trying to oblige him, you see." "he asked you--to tell me this about him?" aline pulled in her pony in order to read with her astonished eyes the amused ones of her companion. "yes. he was afraid you were making too much of his saving you. he thinks he won't do to set on a pedestal." "then i think all the more of him for his modesty." "don't invest too heavily on his modesty, my dear. he wouldn't be the man he is if he owned much of that commodity." "the man he is?" "yes, the man born to win, the man certain of himself no matter what the odds against him. he knows he is a man of destiny; knows quite well that there is something big about him that dwarfs other men. i know it, too. wherefore i seize my opportunity. it would be a sin to let a man like that get away from one. i could never forgive myself," she concluded airily. "don't you see any human, lovable things in him?" aline's voice was an accusation. "he is the staunchest friend conceivable. no trouble is too great for him to take for one he likes, and where once he gives his trust he does not take it back. oh, for all his force, he is intensely human! take his vanity, my dear. it soars to heaven." "if i cared for him i couldn't dissect his qualities as you do." "that's because you are a triumph of the survival of nature and impulse over civilization, in spite of its attempts to sap your freshness. for me, i fear i'm a sophisticated daughter of a critical generation. if i weren't, i should not hold my judgment so safely in my own keeping, but would surrender it and my heart." "there is something about the way you look at him that shocks me. one ought not to let oneself believe all that seems easy to believe." "that is your faith, but mine is a different one. you see, i'm a unitarian," returned virginia blithely. "he will make you love him if you marry him," sighed aline, coming back to her obsession. virginia nodded eagerly. "in my secret heart that is what i am hoping for, my dear." "unless there is another man," added aline, as if alone with her thoughts. virginia was irritably aware of a flood of color beating into her cheeks. "there isn't any other man," she said impatiently. yet she thought of lyndon hobart. curiously enough, whenever she conceived herself as marrying ridgway, the reflex of her brain carried to her a picture of hobart, clean-handed, fine of instinct, with the inherited inflections of voice and unconscious pride of caste that come from breeding and not from cultivation. if he were not born to greatness, like his rival, at least he satisfied her critical judgment of what a gentleman should be; and she was quite sure that the potential capacity lay in her to care a good deal more for him than for anybody else she had met. since it was not on the cards, as miss virginia had shuffled the pack, that she should marry primarily for reasons sentimental, this annoyed her in her sophisticated hours. but in the hours when she was a mere girl when she was not so confidently the heir of all the feminine wisdom of the ages, her annoyance took another form. she had told lyndon hobart of her engagement because it was the honest thing to do; because she supposed she ought to discourage any hopes he might be entertaining. but it did not follow that he need have let these hopes be extinguished so summarily. she could have wished his scrupulous regard for the proper thing had not had the effect of taking him so completely out of her external life, while leaving him more insistently than ever the subject of her inner contemplation. virginia's conscience was of the twentieth century and american, though she was a good deal more honest with herself than most of her sex in the same social circle. also she was straightforward with her neighbors so far as she could reasonably be. but she was not a puritan in the least, though she held herself to a more rigid account than she did her friends. she judged her betrothed as little as she could, but this was not to be entirely avoided, since she expected her life to become merged so largely in his. there were hours when she felt she must escape the blighting influence of his lawlessness. there were others when it seemed to her magnificent. except for the occasional jangle of a bit or the ring of a horse's shoe on a stone, there was silence which lasted many minutes. each was busy with her thoughts, and the narrowness of the trail, which here made them go in single file, served as an excuse against talk. "perhaps we had better turn back," suggested virginia, after the path had descended to a gulch and merged itself in a wagon-road. "we shall have no more than time to get home and dress for dinner." aline turned her pony townward, and they rode at a walk side by side. "do you know much about the difficulty between mr. harley and mr. ridgway? i mean about the mines--the sherman bell, i think they called it?" "i know something about the trouble in a general way. both the consolidated and mr. ridgway's company claim certain veins. that is true of several mines, i have been told." "i don't know anything about business. mr. harley does not tell me anything about his. to day i was sitting in the open window, and two men stopped beneath it. they thought there would be trouble in this mine--that men would be hurt. i could not make it all out, but that was part of it. i sent for mr. harley and made him tell me what he knew. it would be dreadful if anything like that happened." "don't worry your head about it, my dear. things are always threatening and never happening. it seems to be a part of the game of business to bluff, as they call it." "i wish it weren't," sighed the girl-wife. virginia observed that she looked both sad and weary. she had started on her ride like a prisoner released from his dungeon, happy in the sunshine, the swift motion, the sting of the wind in her face. there had been a sparkle in her eye and a ring of gaiety in her laugh. into her cheeks a faint color had glowed, so that the contrast of their clear pallor with the vivid scarlet of the little lips had been less pronounced than usual. but now she was listless and distraite, the girlish abandon all stricken out of her. it needed no clairvoyant to see that her heart was heavy and that she was longing for the moment when she could be alone with her pain. her friend had learned what she wanted to know, and the knowledge of it troubled her. she would have given a good deal to have been able to lift this sorrow from the girl riding beside her. for she was aware that aline harley might as well have reached for the moon as that toward which her untutored heart yearned. she had come to life late and traveled in it but a little way. yet the tragedy of it was about to engulf her. no lifeboat was in sight. she must sink or swim alone. virginia's unspoiled heart went out to her with a rush of pity and sympathy. almost the very words that waring ridgway had used came to her lips. "you poor lamb! you poor, forsaken lamb!" but she spoke instead with laughter and lightness, seeing nothing of the girl's distress, at least, until after they separated at the door of the hotel. chapter . first blood after ridgway's cavalier refusal to negotiate a peace treaty, simon harley and his body-guard walked back to the offices of the consolidated, where they arrived at the same time as the news of the enemy's first blow since the declaration of renewed war. hobart was at his desk with his ear to the telephone receiver when the great financier came into the inner office of the manager. "yes. when? driven out, you say? yes--yes. anybody hurt? followed our men through into our tunnel? no, don't do anything till you hear from me. send rhys up at once. let me know any further developments that occur." hobart hung up the receiver and turned on his swivel-chair toward his chief. "another outrage, sir, at the hands of ridgway. it is in regard to those veins in the copper king that he claims. dalton, his superintendent of the taurus, drove a tunnel across our lateral lines and began working them, though their own judge has not yet rendered a decision in their favor. of course, i put a large force in them at once. to-day we tapped their workings at the twelfth level. our foreman, miles, has just telephoned me that dalton turned the air pressure on our men, blew out their candles, and flung a mixture of lime and rocks at them. several of the men are hurt, though none badly. it seems that dalton has thrown a force into our tunnels and is holding the entrances against us at the point where the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth levels touch the cage. it means that he will work those veins, and probably others that are acknowledged to be ours, unless we drive them out, which would probably be a difficult matter." harley listened patiently, eyes glittering and clean-shaven lips pressed tightly against his teeth. "what do you propose to do?" "i haven't decided yet. if we could get any justice from the courts, an injunction." "can't be got from purcell. don't waste time considering it. fight it out yourself. find his weakest spot, then strike hard and suddenly." harley's low metallic voice was crisp and commanding. "his weakest spot?" "exactly. has he no mines upon which we can retaliate?" "there is the taurus. it lies against the copper king end to end. he drove a tunnel into some of our workings last winter. that would give a passageway to send our men through, if we decide to do so. then there is his new york. its workings connect with those of the jim hill." "good! send as many men through as is necessary to capture and hold both mines. get control of the entire workings of them both, and begin taking ore out at once. station armed guards at every point where it is necessary, and as many as are necessary. use ten thousand men, if you need that many. but don't fail. we'll give ridgway a dose of his own medicine, and teach him that for every pound of our ore he steals we'll take ten." "he'll get an injunction from the courts." "let him get forty. i'll show him that his robber courts will not save him. anyhow, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." hobart, almost swept from his moorings by the fiery energy of his chief, braced himself to withstand the current. "i shall have to think about that. we can't fight lawlessness with lawlessness except for selfpreservation." "think! you do nothing but think, mr. hobart. you are here to act," came the scornful retort; "and what is this but self-preservation." "i am willing to recapture our workings in the copper king. i'll lead the attack in person, sir. but as to a retaliatory attack--the facts will not justify a capture of his property because he has seized ours." "wrong, sir. this is no time for half-way measures. i have resolved to crush this freebooter; since he has purchased your venal courts, then by the only means left us--force." hobart rose from his seat, very pale and erect. his eyes met those of the great man unflinchingly. "you realize that this may mean murder, mr. harley? that a clash cannot possibly be avoided if you pursue this course?" "i realize that it is self-preservation," came the cold retort. "there is no law here, none, at least, that gives us justice. we are back to savagery, dragged back by the madness of this ruffian. it is his choice, not mine. let him abide by it." "your intention to follow this course is irrevocable?" "absolutely." "in that case, i must regretfully offer my resignation as manager of the consolidated." "it is accepted, mr. hobart. i can't have men working under me that are not loyal, body and soul, to the hand that feeds them. no man can serve two masters, mr. hobart." "that is why i resign, mr. harley. you give me the devil's work to do. i have done enough of it. by heaven, i will be a free man hereafter." the disgust and dissatisfaction that had been pent within him for many a month broke forth hot from the lips of this self-repressed man. "it is all wrong on both sides. two wrongs do not make a right. the system of espionage we employ over everybody both on his side and ours, the tyrannical use we make of our power, the corruption we foster in politics, our secret bargains with railroads, our evasions of law as to taxes, and in every other way that suits us: it is all wrong--all wrong. i'll be a party to it no longer. you see to what it leads--murder and anarchy. i'll be a poor man if i must, but i'll be a free and honest one at least." "you are talking wickedly and wildly, mr. hobart. you are criticizing god when you criticize the business conditions he has put into the world. i did not know that you were a socialist, but what you have just said explains your course," the old man reproved sadly and sanctimonious. "i am not a socialist, mr. harley, but you and your methods have made thousands upon thousands of them in this country during the past ten years." "we shall not discuss that, mr. hobart, nor, indeed, is any discussion necessary. frankly, i am greatly disappointed in you. i have for some time been dissatisfied with your management, but i did not, of course, know you held these anarchistic views. i want, however, to be perfectly just. you are a very good business man indeed, careful and thorough. that you have not a bold enough grasp of mind for the place you hold is due, perhaps, to these dangerous ideas that have unsettled you. your salary will be continued for six months. is that satisfactory?" "no, sir. i could not be willing to accept it longer than to-day. and when you say bold enough, why not be plain and say unscrupulous enough?" amended the younger man. "as you like. i don't juggle with words. the point is, you don't succeed. this adventurer, ridgway, scores continually against you. he has beaten you clear down the line from start to finish. is that not true?" "because he does not hesitate to stoop to anything, because--" "precisely. you have given the very reason why he must be fought in the same spirit. business ethics would be as futile against him as chivalry in dealing with a jungle-tiger." "you would then have had me stoop to any petty meanness to win, no matter how contemptible?" the new yorker waved him aside with a patient, benignant gesture. "i don't care for excuses. i ask of my subordinates success. you do not get it for me. i must find a man who can." hobart bowed with fine dignity. the touch of disdain in his slight smile marked his sense of the difference between them. he was again his composed rigid self. "can you arrange to allow my resignation to take effect as soon as possible? i should prefer to have my connection with the company severed before any action is taken against these mines." "at once--to-day. your resignation may be published in the herald this afternoon, and you will then be acquitted of whatever may follow." "thank you." hobart hesitated an instant before he said: "there is a point that i have already mentioned to you which, with your permission, i must again advert to. the temper of the miners has been very bitter since you refused to agree to mr. ridgway's proposal for an eight-hour day. i would urge upon you to take greater precautions against a personal attack. you have many lawless men among your employees. they are foreigners for the most part, unused to self-restraint. it is only right you should know they execrate your name." the great man smiled blandly. "popularity is nothing to me. i have neither sought it nor desired it. given a great work to do, with the divine help i have done it, irrespective of public clamor. for many years i have lived in the midst of alarms, mr. hobart. i am not foolhardy. what precautions i can reasonably take i do. for the rest, my confidence is in an all-wise providence. it is written that not even a sparrow falls without his decree. in that promise i put my trust. if i am to be cut off it can only be by his will. 'the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the lord.' such, i pray, may be the humble and grateful spirit with which i submit myself to his will." the retiring manager urged the point no further. "if you have decided upon my successor and he is on the ground i shall be glad to give the afternoon to running over with him the affairs of the office. it would be well for him to retain for a time my private secretary and stenographer." "mr. mott will succeed you. he will no doubt be glad to have your assistance in helping him fall into the routine of the office, mr. hobart." harley sent for mott at once and told him of his promotion. the two men were closeted together for hours, while trusted messengers went and came incessantly to and from the mines. hobart knew, of course, that plans were in progress to arm such of the consolidated men as could be trusted, and that arrangements were being made to rush the taurus and the new york. everything was being done as secretly as possible, but hobart's experience of ridgway made it obvious to him that this excessive activity could not pass without notice. his spies, like those of the trust, swarmed everywhere. it was not till mid-afternoon of the next day that mott found time to join him and run over with him the details of such unfinished business as the office had taken up. the retiring manager was courtesy itself, nor did he feel any bitterness against his successor. nevertheless, he came to the end of office hours with great relief. the day had been a very hard one, and it left him with a longing for solitude and the wide silent spaces of the open hills. he struck out in the direction which promised him the quickest opportunity to leave the town behind him. a good walker, he covered the miles rapidly, and under the physical satisfaction of the tramp the brain knots unraveled and smoothed themselves out. it was better so--better to live his own life than the one into which he was being ground by the inexorable facts of his environment. he was a young man and ambitious, but his hopes were not selfish. at bottom he was an idealist, though a practical one. he had had to shut his eyes to many things which he deplored, had been driven to compromises which he despised. essentially clean-handed, the soul of him had begun to wither at the contact of that which he saw about him and was so large a part of. "i am not fit for it. that is the truth. mott has no imagination, and property rights are the most sacred thing on earth to him. he will do better at it than i," he told himself, as he walked forward bareheaded into the great sunset glow that filled the saddle between two purple hills in front of him. as he swung round a bend in the road a voice, clear and sweet, came to him through the light filtered air. "laska!" a young woman on horseback was before him. her pony stood across the road, and she looked up a trail which ran down into it. the lifted poise of the head brought out its fine lines and the distinction with which it was set upon the well-molded throat column. apparently she was calling to some companion on the trail who had not yet emerged into view. at sound of his footsteps the rider's head turned. "good afternoon, mr. hobart," she said quietly, as coolly as if her heart had not suddenly begun to beat strangely fast. "good afternoon, miss balfour." each of them was acutely conscious of the barrier between them. since the day when she had told him of her engagement they had not met, even casually, and this their first sight of each other was not without embarrassment. "we have been to lone pine cone," she said rather hurriedly, to bridge an impending silence. he met this obvious statement with another as brilliant. "i walked out from town. my horse is a little lame." but there was something she wanted to say to him, and the time for saying it, before the arrival of her companion, was short. she would not waste it in commonplaces. "i don't usually read the papers very closely, but this morning i read both the herald and the sun. did you get my note?" "your note? no." "i sent it by mail. i wanted you to know that your friends are proud of you. we know why you resigned. it is easy to read between the lines." "thank you," he said simply. "i knew you would know." "even the sun recognizes that it was because you are too good a man for the place." "praise from the sun has rarely shone my way," he said, with a touch of irony, for that paper was controlled by the ridgway interest. "in its approval i am happy." her impulsive sympathy for this man whom she so greatly liked would not accept the rebuff imposed by this reticence. she stripped the gauntlet from her hand and offered it in congratulation. he took it in his, a slight flush in his face. "i have done nothing worthy of praise. one cannot ask less of a man than that he remain independent and honest. i couldn't do that and stay with the consolidated, or, so it seemed to me. so i resigned. that is all there is to it." "it is enough. i don't know another man would have done it, would have had the courage to do it after his feet were set so securely in the way of success. the trouble with americans is that they want too much success. they want it at too big a price." "i'm not likely ever to have too much of it," he laughed sardonically. "success in life and success in living aren't the same thing. it is because you have discovered this that you have sacrificed the less for the greater." she smiled, and added: "i didn't mean that to sound as preachy as it does." "i'm afraid you make too much of a small thing. my squeamishness has probably made me the laughing-stock of mesa." "if so, that is to the discredit of mesa," she insisted stanchly. "but i don't think so. a great many people who couldn't have done it themselves will think more of you for having done it." another pony, which had been slithering down the steep trail in the midst of a small rock slide, now brought its rider safely to a halt in the road. virginia introduced them, and hobart, remembered that he had heard miss balfour speak of a young woman whom she had met on the way out, a miss laska lowe, who was coming to mesa to teach domestic science in the public schools. there was something about the young teacher's looks that he liked, though she was of a very different type than virginia. not at all pretty in any accepted sense, she yet had a charm born of the vital honesty in her. she looked directly at one out of sincere gray eyes, wide-awake and fearless. as it happened, her friend had been telling her about hobart, and she was interested in him from the first. for she was of that minority which lives not by bread alone, and she felt a glow of pride in the man who could do what the sun had given this man credit for editorially. they talked at haphazard for a few minutes before the young women cantered away. as hobart trudged homeward he knew that in the eyes of these two women, at least, he had not been a fool. chapter . a conspiracy tucked away in an obscure corner of the same issue of the papers which announced the resignation of lyndon hobart as manager of the consolidated properties, and the appointment of james k. mott as his temporary successor, were little one-stick paragraphs regarding explosions, which had occurred the night before in tunnels of the taurus and the new york. the general public paid little attention to these, but those on the inside knew that ridgway had scored again. his spies had carried the news to him of the projected capture of these two properties by the enemy. instead of attempting to defend them by force, he had set off charges of giant powder which had brought down the tunnel roofs and effectually blocked the entrances from the consolidated mines adjoining. with the indefatigable patience which characterized him, harley set about having the passages cleared of the rock and timber with which they were filled. before he had succeeded in doing this his enemy struck another telling blow. from judge purcell he secured an injunction against the consolidated from working its mines, the diamond king, the mary k, and the marcus daly, on the absurd contention that the principal ore-vein of the marcus daly apexed on the tin, triangle wedged in between these three great mines, and called by ridgway the trust buster. though there was not room enough upon this fragment to sink a shaft, it was large enough to found this claim of a vein widening as it descended until it crossed into the territory of each of these properties. though harley could ignore court injunctions which erected only under-ground territory, he was forced to respect this one, since it could not be violated except in the eyes of the whole country. the three mines closed down, and several thousand workmen were thrown out of employment. these were immediately reemployed by ridgway and set to work both in his own and the consolidated's territory. within a week a dozen new suits were instituted against the consolidated by its enemy. he harassed it by contempt proceedings, by applications for receiverships, and by other ingenious devices, which greatly tormented the new york operator. for the first time in his life the courts, which harley had used to much advantage in his battles to maintain and extend the trusts he controlled, could not be used even to get scant justice. meanwhile both leaders were turning their attention to the political situation. the legislators were beginning to gather for the coming session, and already the city was full of rumors about corruption. for both the consolidated and its enemy were making every effort to secure enough votes to win the election of a friendly united states senator. the man chosen would have the distribution of the federal patronage of the state. this meant the control of the most influential local politicians of the party in power at washington as well as their followers, an almost vital factor for success in a state where political corruption had so interwoven itself into the business life of the community. the hotel lobbies were filled with politicians gathered from every county in the state. big bronzed cattlemen brushed shoulders with budding lawyers from country towns and ward bosses from the larger cities. the bars were working overtime, and the steady movement of figures in the corridors lasted all day and most of the night. here and there were collected groups, laughing and talking about the old frontier days, or commenting in lowered tones on some phase of the feverish excitement that was already beginning to be apparent. elevators shot up and down, subtracting and adding to the kaleidoscope of human life in the rotundas. bellboys hurried to and fro with messages and cocktails. the ring of the telephone-bell cut occasionally into the deep hum of many voices. all was confusion, keen interest, expectancy. for it was known that simon harley had sent for $ , in cold cash to secure the election of his candidate, roger d. warner, a lawyer who had all his life been close to corporate interests. it was known, too, that waring ridgway had gathered together every element in the state that opposed the domination of the consolidated, to fight their man to a finish. bets for large sums were offered and taken as to the result, heavy odds being given in favor of the big copper trust's candidate. for throughout the state at large the consolidated influence was very great indeed. it owned forest lands and railroads and mines. it controlled local transportation largely. nearly one-half the working men in the state were in its employ. into every town and village the ramifications of its political organization extended. the feeling against it was very bitter, but this was usually expressed in whispers. for it was in a position to ruin almost any business man upon whom it fastened a grudge, and to make wealthy any upon whom it chose to cast its favors. nevertheless, there were some not so sure that the consolidated would succeed in electing its man. since ridgway had announced himself as a candidate there had been signs of defection on the part of some of those expected to vote for warner. he had skillfully wielded together in opposition to the trust all the elements of the state that were hostile to it; and already the word was being passed that he had not come to the campaign without a barrel of his own. the balloting for united states senator was not to begin until the eighth day of the session, but the opening week was full of a tense and suppressed excitement. it was known that agents of both sides were moving to and fro among the representatives and state senators, offering fabulous prices for their votes and the votes of any others they might be able to control. men who had come to the capital confident in their strength and integrity now looked at their neighbors furtively and guiltily. day by day the legislators were being debauched to serve the interest of the factions which were fighting for control of the state. night after night secret meetings were being held in out-of-the-way places to seduce those who clung desperately to their honesty or held out for a bigger price. bribery was in the air, rampant, unashamed. thousand-dollar bills were as common as ten-dollar notes in ordinary times. sam yesler, commenting on the situation to his friend jack roper, a fellow member of the legislature who had been a cattleman from the time he had given up driving a stage thirty years before, shook his head dejectedly over his blue points. "i tell you, jack, a man has to be bed-rocked in honesty or he's gone. think of it. a country lawyer comes here who has never seen five thousand dollars in a lump sum, and they shove fifteen thousand at him for his vote. he is poor, ambitious, struggling along from hand to mouth. i reckon we ain't in a position to judge that poor devil of a harassed fellow. mebbe he's always been on the square, came here to do what was right, we'll say, but he sees corruption all round him. how can he help getting a warped notion of things? he sees his friends and his neighbors falling by the wayside. by god, it's got to the point in this legislature that an honest man's an object of obloquy." "that's right," agreed roper. "easy enough for us to be square. we got good ranches back of us and can spend the winter playing poker at the mesa club if we feel like it. but if we stood where billy george and garner and roberts and munz do, i ain't so damn sure my virtue would stand the strain. can you reach that salt, sam?" "billy george has got a sick wife, and he's been wanting to send her back to her folks in the east, but he couldn't afford it. the doctors figured she ought to stay a year, and billy would have to hire a woman to take care of his kids. i said to him: 'hell, billy, what's a friend for?' and i shoves a check at him. he wouldn't look at it; said he didn't know whether he could ever pay it, and he had not come down to charity yet." "billy's a white man. that's what makes me sick. right on top of all his bad luck he comes here and sees that everybody is getting a big roll. he thinks of that white-faced wife of his dragging herself round among the kids and dying by inches for lack of what money can buy her. i tell you i don't blame him. it's the fellows putting the temptation up to him that ought to be strung up." "i see that hound pelton's mighty active in it. he's got it in for ridgway since waring threw him down, and he's plugging night and day for warner. stays pretty well tanked up. hopper tells me he's been making threats to kill waring on sight." "i heard that and told waring. he laughed and said he hoped he would live till pelton killed him. i like waring. he's got the guts, as his miners say. but he's away off on this fight. he's using money right and left just as harley is." yesler nodded. "the whole town's corrupted. it takes bribery for granted. men meet on the street and ask what the price of votes is this morning. everybody feels prosperous." "i heard that a chambermaid at the quartzite hotel found seven thousand dollars in big bills pinned to the bottom of a mattress in garner's room yesterday. he didn't dare bank it, of course." "poor devil! he's another man that would like to be honest, but with the whole place impregnated with bribery he couldn't stand the pressure. but after this is all over he'll go home to his wife and his neighbors with the canker of this thing at his heart until he dies. i tell you, jack, i'm for stopping it if we can." "how?" "there's one way. i've been approached indirectly by pelton, to deliver our vote to the consolidated. suppose we arrange to do it, get evidence, and make a public exposure." they were alone in a private dining-room of a restaurant, but yesler's voice had fallen almost to a whisper. with his steady gray eyes he looked across at the man who had ridden the range with him fifteen years ago when he had not had a sou to bless himself with. roper tugged at his long drooping mustache and gazed at his friend. "it's a large order, sam, a devilish large order. do you reckon we could deliver?" "i think so. there are six of us that will stand pat at any cost. if we play our cards right and keep mum the surprise of it is bound to shake votes loose when we spring the bomb. the whole point is whether we can take advantage of that surprise to elect a decent man. i don't say it can be done, but there's a chance of it." the old stage-driver laughed softly. "we'll be damned good and plenty by both sides." "of course. it won't be a pleasant thing to do, but then it isn't exactly pleasant to sit quiet and let these factions use the state as a pawn in their game of grab." "i'm with you, sam. go to it, my boy, and i'll back you to the limit." "we had better not talk it over here. come to my room after dinner and bring landor and james with you. i'll have reedy and keller there. i'll mention casually that it's a big game of poker, and i'll have cards and drinks sent up. you want to remember we can't be too careful. if it leaks out we lose." "i'm a clam, sam. do you want i should speak of it to landor and james?" "better wait till we get together." "what about ward? he's always been with us." "he talks too much. we can take him in at the last minute if we like." "that would be better. i ain't so sure about reedy, either. he's straight as a string, of course; not a crooked hair in his head. but when he gets to drinking he's likely to let things out." "you're right. we'll leave him out, too, until the last minute. there's another thing i've thought of. ridgway can't win. at least i don't see how he can control more than twenty five votes. suppose at the very last moment we make a deal with him and with the democrats to pool our votes on some square man. with waring it's anything to beat the consolidated. he'll jump at the chance if he's sure he is out of the running himself. those of the democrats that harley can't buy will be glad to beat his man. i don't say it can be done, jack. all i say is that it is worth a trial." "you bet." they met that night in yesler's rooms round a card-table. the hands were dealt for form's sake, since there were spies everywhere, and it was necessary to ring for cigars and refreshments occasionally to avoid suspicion. they were all cattlemen, large or small, big outdoors sunburned men, who rode the range in the spring and fall with their punchers and asked no odds of any man. until long past midnight they talked the details over, and when they separated in the small hours it was with a well-defined plan to save the state from its impending disgrace if the thing could be done. chapter . laska opens a door the first ballots for a united states senator taken by the legislature in joint session failed to disclose the alignment of some of the doubtful members. the democratic minority of twenty-eight votes were cast for springer, the senator whose place would be taken by whoever should win in the contest now on. warner received forty-four, ridgway twenty-six, eight went to pascom, a former governor whom the cattlemen were supporting, and the remaining three were scattered. each day one ballot was taken, and for a week there was a slight sifting down of the complimentary votes until at the end of it the count stood: warner ridgway springer pascom warner still lacked ten votes of an election, but it was pretty thoroughly understood that several of the democratic minority were waiting only long enough for a colorable excuse to switch to him. all kinds of rumors were in the air as to how many of these there were. the consolidated leaders boldly claimed that they had only to give the word to force the election of their candidate on any ballot. yesler did not believe this claim could be justified, since pelton and harley were already negotiating with him for the delivery of the votes belonging to the cattlemen's contingent. he had held off for some time with hints that it would take a lot of money to swing the votes of such men as roper and landor, but he had finally come to an agreement that the eight votes should be given to warner for a consideration of $ , . this was to be paid to yesler in the presence of the other seven members on the night before the election, and was to be held in escrow by him and roper until the pact was fulfilled, the money to be kept in a safety deposit vault with a key in possession of each of the two. on the third day of the session, before the voting had begun, stephen eaton, who was a state senator from mesa, moved that a committee be appointed to investigate the rumors of bribery that were so common. the motion caught the consolidated leaders napping, for this was the last man they had expected to propose such a course, and it went through with little opposition, as a similar motion did in the house at the same time. the lieutenant-governor and the speaker of the house were both opposed to warner, and the joint committee had on it the names of no consolidated men. the idea of such a committee had originated with ridgway, and had been merely a bluff to show that he at least was willing that the world should know the whole story of the election. nor had this committee held even formal meetings before word reached eaton through yesler that if it would appoint a conference in some very private place, evidence would be submitted implicating agents of the warner forces in attempts at bribery. it was close to eleven o'clock when sam yesler stepped quietly from a side door of his hotel and slipped into the street. he understood perfectly that in following the course he did, he was taking his life in his hands. the exposure of the bribery traffic would blast forever the reputations of many men who had hitherto held a high place in the community, and he knew the temper of some of them well enough to be aware that an explosion was probable. spies had been dogging him ever since the legislature convened. within an hour one of them would be flying to pelton with the news that he was at a meeting of the committee, and all the thugs of the other side would be turned loose on his heels. as he walked briskly through the streets toward the place appointed, his hand lay on the hilt of a revolver in the outside pocket of his overcoat. he was a man who would neither seek trouble nor let it overwhelm him. if his life were attempted, he meant to defend it to the last. he followed side streets purposely, and his footsteps echoed along the deserted road. he knew he was being dogged, for once, when he glanced back, he caught sight of a skulking figure edging along close to a wall. the sight of the spy stirred his blood. grimly he laughed to himself. they might murder him for what he was doing, but not in time to save the exposure which would be brought to light on the morrow. the committee met at a road-house near the outskirts of the city, but only long enough to hear yesler's facts and to appoint another meeting for three hours later at the offices of eaton. for the committee had come here for secrecy, and they knew that it would be only a short time before pelton's heelers would be down upon them in force. it was agreed they should divide and slip quietly back to town, wait until everything was quiet and convene again. meanwhile eaton would make arrangements to see that his offices would be sufficiently guarded for protection against any attack. yesler walked back to town and was within a couple of blocks of his hotel when he glimpsed two figures crouching against the fence of the alley. he stopped in his tracks, watched them intently an instant, and was startled by a whistle from the rear. he knew at once his retreat, too, was cut off, and without hesitation vaulted the fence in front of a big gray stone house he was passing. a revolver flashed from the alley, and he laughed with a strange kind of delight. his thought was to escape round the house, but trellis work barred the way, and he could not open the gate. "trapped, by jove," he told himself coolly as a bullet struck the trellis close to his head. he turned back, ran up the steps of the porch and found momentary safety in the darkness of its heavy vines. but this he knew could not last. running figures were converging toward him at a focal point. he could hear oaths and cries. some one was throwing aimless shots from a revolver at the porch. he heard a window go up in the second story and a woman's frightened voice ask. "what is it? who is there?" "let me in. i'm ambushed by thugs," he called back. "there he is--in the doorway," a voice cried out of the night, and it was followed by a spatter of bullets about him. he fired at a man leaping the fence. the fellow tumbled back with a kind of scream. "god! i'm hit." he could hear steps coming down the stairway and fingers fumbling at the key of the door. his attackers were gathering for a rush, and he wondered whether the rescue was to be too late. they came together, the opening door and the forward pour of huddled figures. he stepped back into the hall. there was a raucous curse, a shot, and yesler had slammed the door shut. he was alone in the darkness with his rescuer. "we must get out of here. they're firing through the door," he said, and "yes" came faintly back to him from across the hall. "do you know where the switch is?" he asked, wondering whether she was going to be such an idiot as to faint at this inopportune moment. his answer came in a flood of light, and showed him a young woman crouched on the hall-rack a dozen feet from the switch. she was very white, and there was a little stain of crimson on the white lace of her sleeve. a voice from the landing above demanded quickly, "who are you, sir?" and after he had looked up', cried in surprise, "mr. yesler." "miss balfour," he replied. "i'll explain later. i'm afraid the lady has been hit by a bullet." he was already beside his rescuer. she looked at him with a trace of a tired smile and said: "in my arm." after which she fainted. he picked up the young woman, carried her to the stairs, and mounted them. "this way," said virginia, leading him into a bedroom, the door of which was open. he observed with surprise that she, too, was dressed in evening clothes, and rightly surmised that they had just come back from some social function. "is it serious?" asked virginia, when he had laid his burden on the bed. she was already clipping with a pair of scissors the sleeve from round the wound. "it ought not to be," he said after he had examined it. "the bullet has scorched along the fleshy part of the forearm. we must telephone for a doctor at once." she did so, then found water and cotton for bandages, and helped him make a temporary dressing. the patient recovered consciousness under the touch of the cold water, and asked: what was the matter. "you have been hurt a little, but not badly i think. don't you remember? you came down and opened the door to let me in." "they were shooting at you. what for?" she wanted to know. he smiled. "don't worry about that. it's all over with. i'm sorry you were hurt in saving me," said yesler gently. "did i save you?" the gray eyes showed a gleam of pleasure. "you certainly did." "this is mr. yesler, laska. mr. yesler--miss lowe. i think you have never met." "never before to-night," he said, pinning the bandage in place round the plump arm. "there. that's all just now, ma'am. did i hurt you very much?" the young woman felt oddly exhilarated. "not much. i'll forgive you if you'll tell me all about the affair. why did they want to hurt you?" his big heart felt very tender toward this girl who had been wounded for him, but he showed it only by a smiling deference. "you're right persistent, ma'am. you hadn't ought to be bothering your head about any such thing, but if you feel that way i'll be glad to tell you." he did. while they sat there and waited for the coming of the doctor, he told her the whole story of his attempt to stop the corruption that was eating like a canker at the life of the state. he was a plain man, not in the least eloquent, and he told his story without any sense that he had played any unusual part. in fact, he was ashamed that he had been forced to assume a role which necessitated a kind of treachery to those who thought they had bought him. laska lowe's eyes shone with the delight his tale inspired in her. she lived largely in the land of ideals, and this fight against wrong moved her mightily. she could feel for him none of the shame which he felt for himself at being mixed up in so bad a business. he was playing a man's part, had chosen it at risk of his life. that was enough. in every fiber of her, she was glad that good fortune had given her the chance to bear a part of the battle. in her inmost heart she was even glad that to the day of her death she must bear the scar that would remind her she had suffered in so good a cause. virginia, for once obliterating herself, perceived how greatly taken they were with each other. at bottom, nearly every woman is a match-maker. this one was no exception. she liked both this man and this woman, and her fancy had already begun to follow her hopes. never before had laska appeared to show much interest in any of the opposite sex with whom her friend had seen her. now she was all enthusiasm, had forgotten completely the pain of her wound in the spirit's glow. "she loved me for the danger i had pass'd, and i loved her that she did pity them. this only is the witchcraft i have us'd.'" virginia quoted softly to herself, her eyes on the young woman so finely unconscious of the emotion that thrilled her. not until the clock in the hall below struck two did yesler remember his appointment in the ridgway building. the doctor had come and was about to go. he suggested that if yesler felt it would be safe for him to go, they might walk across to the hotel together. "and leave us alone." laska could have bitten her tongue after the words were out. virginia explained. "the leighs are out of the city to-night, and it happens that even the servants are gone. i asked miss lowe to stay with me all night, but, of course, she feels feverish and nervous after this excitement. couldn't you send a man to watch the rest of the night out in the house?" "why don't you stay, mr. yesler?" the doctor suggested. "you could sleep here, no doubt." "you might have your meeting here. it is neutral ground. i can phone to mr. ridgway," proposed virginia in a low voice to yesler. "doesn't that seem to imply that i'm afraid to leave?" laughed yesler. "it implies that we are afraid to have you. laska would worry both on your account and our own. i think you owe it to her to stay." "oh, if that's the way it strikes you," he agreed. "fact is, i don't quite like to leave you anyhow. we'll take leigh's study. i don't think we shall disturb you at all." "i'm sure you won't--and before you go, you'll let us know what you have decided to do." "we shall not be through before morning. you'll be asleep by then," he made answer. "no, i couldn't sleep till i know all about it." "nor i," agreed laska. "i want to know all about everything." "my dear young lady, you are to take the sleeping-powders and get a good rest," the doctor demurred. "all about everything is too large an order for your good just now." virginia nodded in a businesslike way. "yes, you're to go to sleep, laska, and when you waken i'll tell you all about it." "that would be better," smiled yesler, and virginia thought it significant that her friend made no further protest. gray streaks began to show in the sky before yesler tapped on the door of virginia's room. she had discarded the rather elaborate evening gown he had last seen her in, and was wearing some soft fabric which hung from the shoulders in straight lines, and defined the figure while lending the effect of a loose and flowing drapery. "how is your patient?" he asked. "she has dropped into a good sleep," the girl whispered. "i am sure we don't need to worry about her at all." "nevertheless, it's a luxury i'm going to permit myself for a day or two," he smiled. "i don't have my life saved by a young lady very often." "i'm sure you will enjoy worrying about her," she laughed. he got back at her promptly. "there's somebody down-stairs worrying about you. he wants to know if there is anything he can do for you, and suggests inviting himself for breakfast in order to make sure." "mr. ridgway?" "how did you guess it first crack? mr. ridgway it is." she considered a moment. "yes, tell him to stay. molly will be back in time to make breakfast, and i want to talk to him. now tell me what you did." "we did mr. warner. at least i hope so," he chuckled. "i'm so glad. and who is to be senator? is it waring?" "no. it wouldn't have been possible to elect him even if we had wanted to." "and you didn't want to," she flashed. "no, we didn't," he admitted frankly. "we couldn't afford to have it generally understood that this was merely a partisan fight on the consolidated, and that we were pulling waring's chestnuts out of the fire for him." he did not add, though he might have, that ridgway was tarred with the same brush as the enemy in this matter. "then who is it to be?" "that's a secret. i can't tell even you that. but we have agreed on a man. waring is to withdraw and throw his influence for him. the democratic minority will swing in line for him, and we'll do the rest. that's the plan. it may not go through, however." "i don't see who it can be that you all unite on. of course, it isn't mr. pelton?" "i should hope not." "or mr. samuel yesler?" "you've used up all the guesses allowed you. if you want to know, why don't you attend the joint session to-day? it ought to be highly interesting." "i shall," she announced promptly. "and i'll bring laska with me." "she won't be able to come." "i think she will. it's only a scratch." "i don't like to think how much worse it might have been." "then don't think of it. tell waring i'll be down presently." he went down-stairs again, and miss balfour returned to the room. "was that mr. yesler?" quietly asked a voice from the bed. "yes, dear. he has gone back to the hotel. he asked about you, of course." "he is very kind." "it was thoughtful, since you only saved his life," admitted the ironical miss balfour. "wasn't it fortunate that we were up?" "very fortunate for him that you were." virginia crossed the room to the bed and kissed her friend with some subtle significance too elusive for words. laska appeared, however to appreciate it. at least, she blushed. chapter . an explosion in the taurus the change of the relationship between ridgway and his betrothed, brought about by the advent of a third person into his life, showed itself in the manner of their greeting. she had always been chary of lovers' demonstrations, but until his return from alpine he had been wont to exact his privilege in spite of her reluctance. now he was content with the hand she offered him. "you've had a strenuous night of it," he said, after a glance at the rather wan face she offered the new day. "yes, we have--and for that matter, i suppose you have, too." man of iron that he was, he looked fresh as morning dew. with his usual lack of self-consciousness, he had appropriated leigh's private bath, and was glowing from contact with ice-cold water and a crash towel. "we've been making history," he agreed. "how's your friend?" "she has no fever at all. it was only a scratch. she will be down to breakfast in a minute." "good. she must be a thoroughbred to come running down into the bullets for a stranger she has never seen." "she is. you'll like laska." "i'm glad she saved sam from being made a colander. i can't help liking him, though he doesn't approve of me very much." "i suppose not." "he is friendly, too." ridgway laughed as he recalled their battle over who should be the nominee. "but his conscience rules him. it's a free and liberal conscience, generally speaking--nothing puritan about it, but a distinctive product of the west. yet, he would not have me for senator at any price." "why?" "didn't think i was fit to represent the people; said if i went in, it would be to use the office for my personal profit." "wasn't he right?" "more or less. if i were elected, i would build up my machine, of course, but i would see the people got a show, too." she nodded agreement. "i don't think you would make a bad senator." "i would be a live wire, anyhow. sam had other objections to me. he thought i had been using too much money in this campaign." "and have you?" she asked, curious to see how he would defend himself. "yes. i had to if i were going to stand any chance. it wasn't from choice. i didn't really want to be senator. i can't afford to give the time to it, but i couldn't afford to let harley name the man either. i was between the devil and the deep sea." "then, really, mr. yesler came to your rescue." "that's about it, though he didn't intend it that way." "and who is to be the senator?" he gave her a cynical smile. "warner." "but i thought--why, surely he--" the surprise of his cool announcement took her breath away. "no, he isn't the man our combination decided on, but the trouble is that our combination is going to fall through. sam's an optimist, but you'll see i'm right. there are too many conflicting elements of us in one boat. we can't lose three votes and win, and it's a safe bet we lose them. the consolidated must know by this time what we have been about all night. they're busy now sapping at our weak links. our only chance is to win on the first vote, and i am very sure we won't be able to do it." "oh, i hope you are not right." a young woman was standing in the doorway, her arm in a sling. she had come in time to hear his prophesy, and in the disappointment of it had forgotten that he was a stranger. virginia remedied this, and they went in to breakfast. laska was full of interest, and poured out eager questions at ridgway. it was not for several minutes that virginia recollected to ask again who was the man they had decided upon. her betrothed found some inner source of pleasure that brought out a sardonic smile. "he's a slap in the face at both harley and me." "i can't think who--is he honest?" "as the day." "and capable?" "oh, yes. he's competent enough." "presentable?" "yes. he'll do the state credit, or rather he would if he were going to be elected." "then i give it up." he was leaning forward to tell, when the sharp buzz of the electric door-bell, continued and sustained, diverted the attention of all of them. ridgway put down his napkin. "probably some one to see me." he had risen to his feet when the maid opened the door of the dining-room. "a gentleman to see mr. ridgway. he says it is very important." from the dining-room they could hear the murmur of quick voices, and soon ridgway returned. he was a transformed man. his eyes were hard as diamonds, and there was the bulldog look of the fighter about his mouth and chin. "what is it, waring?" cried virginia. "trouble in the mines. an hour ago harley's men rushed the taurus and the new york, and drove my men out. one of my shift-foremen and two of his drillers were killed by an explosion set off by mike donleavy, a foreman in the copper king." "did they mean to kill them?" asked the girl whitely. "i suppose not. but they took the chance. it's murder just the same--by jove, it's a club with which to beat the legislators into line." he stopped, his brain busy solving the problem as to how he might best turn this development to his own advantage. part of his equipment was his ability to decide swiftly and surely issues as they came to him. now he strode to the telephone and began massing his forces. "main --yes--yes--this the sun?--give me brayton--hello, brayton. get out a special edition at once charging harley with murder. run the word as a red headline clear across the page. show that vance edwards and the other boys were killed while on duty by an attack ordered by harley. point out that this is the logical result of his course. don't mince words. give it him right from the shoulder. rush it, and be sure a copy of the paper is on the desk of every legislator before the session opens this morning. have a reliable man there to see that every man gets one. scatter the paper broadcast among the miners, too. this is important." he hung up the receiver, took it down again, and called up eaton. "hello! this you, steve? send for trelawney and straus right away. get them to call a mass meeting of the unions for ten o'clock at the courthouse square. have dodgers printed and distributed announcing it. shut down all our mines so that the men can come. i want straus and trelawney and two or three of the other prominent labor leaders to denounce harley and lay the responsibility for this thing right at his door. i'll be up there and outline what they had better say." he turned briskly round to the young women, his eyes shining with a hard bright light. "i'm sorry, but i have got to cut out breakfast this morning. business is piling up on me too fast. if you'll excuse me, i'll go now." "what are you going to do?" asked virginia. "i haven't time to tell you now. just watch my smoke," he laughed without mirth. no sooner did the news of the tragedy reach simon harley than he knew the mistake of his subordinates would be a costly one. the foreman, donleavy, who had directed the attack on the taurus, had to be brought from the shafthouse under the protection of a score of pinkerton detectives to safeguard him from the swift vengeance of the miners, who needed but a word to fling themselves against the cordon of police. harley himself kept his apartments, the hotel being heavily patrolled by guards on the lookout for suspicious characters. the current of public opinion, never in his favor, now ran swiftly against him, and threats were made openly by the infuriated miners to kill him on sight. the members of the unions came to the massmeeting reading the story of the tragedy as the sun colored the affair. they stayed sullenly to listen to red-hot speeches against the leader of the trust, and gradually the wrath which was simmering in them began to boil. ridgway, always with a keen sense of the psychological moment, descended the court-house steps just as this fury was at its height. there were instant cries for a speech from him so persistent that he yielded, though apparently with reluctance. his fine presence and strong deep voice soon gave him the ears of all that dense throng. he was far out of the ordinary as a public speaker, and within a few minutes he had his audience with him. he deprecated any violence; spoke strongly for letting the law take its course; and dropped a suggestion that they send a committee to the state-house to urge that harley's candidate be defeated for the senatorship. like wild-fire this hint spread. here was something tangible they could do that was still within the law. harley had set his mind on electing warner. they would go up there in a body and defeat his plans. marshals and leaders of companies were appointed. they fell into ranks by fours, nearly ten thousand of them all told. the big clock in the court-house was striking twelve when they began their march to the statehouse. chapter . the election at the very moment that the tramp of twenty thousand feet turned toward the state-house, the report of the bribery investigating committee was being read to the legislature met in joint session. the committee reported that it had examined seven witnesses, yesler, roper, landor, james, reedy, kellor, and ward, and that each of then had testified that former congressman pelton or others had approached him on behalf of warner; that an agreement had been made by which the eight votes being cast for bascom would be give to warner in consideration of $ , in cash, to be held in escrow by yesler, and that the committee now had the said package, supposed to contain the bills for that amount, in its possession, and was prepared to turn it over to the legislature for examination. except for the clerk's voice, as he read the report, a dead silence lay tensely over the crowded hall. men dared not look at their neighbors, scarce dared breathe, for the terror that hung heavy on their hearts. scores were there who expected their guilt to be blazoned forth for all the world to read. they waited whitely as the monotonous voice of the clerk went from paragraph to paragraph, and when at last he sat down, having named only the bribers and not the receivers of bribes, a long deep sigh of relief swept the house. fear still racked them, but for the moment they were safe. furtively their glances began to go from one to another of their neighbors and ask for how long safety would endure. one could have heard the rustle of a leaf as the chairman of the committee stepped forward and laid on the desk of the presiding officer the incriminating parcel. it seemed an age while the chief clerk opened it, counted the bills, and announced that one hundred thousand dollars was the sum contained within. stephen eaton then rose in his seat and presented quietly his resolution, that since the evidence submitted was sufficient to convict of bribery, the judge of the district court of the county of mesa be requested to call a special session of the grand jury to investigate the report. it was not until sam yesler rose to speak upon that report that the pent-up storm broke loose. he stood there in the careless garb of the cattleman, a strong clean-cut figure as one would see in a day's ride, facing with unflinching steel-blue eyes the tempest of human passion he had evoked. the babel of voices rose and fell and rose again before he could find a chance to make himself heard. in the gallery two quietly dressed young, women, one of them with her arm in a sling, leaned forward breathlessly and waited. laska's eyes glowed with deep fire. she was living her hour of hours, and the man who stood with such quiet courage the focus of that roar of rage was the hero of it. "you call me judas, and i ask you what christ i have betrayed. you call me traitor, but traitor to what? like you, i am under oath to receive no compensation for my services here other than that allowed by law. to that oath i have been true. have you? "for many weeks we have been living in a carnival of bribery, in a debauched hysteria of money-madness. the souls of men have been sifted as by fire. we have all been part and parcel of a man-hunt, an eager, furious, persistent hunt that has relaxed neither night nor day. the lure of gold has been before us every waking hour, and has pursued us into our dreams. the temptation has been ever-present. to some it has been irresistible, to some maddening, to others, thank god! it has but proved their strength. our hopes, our fears, our loves, our hates: these seducers of honor have pandered to them all. our debts and our business, our families and our friendships, have all been used to hound us. to-day i put the stigma for this shame where it belongs--upon simon harley, head of the consolidated and a score of other trusts, and upon waring ridgway, head of the mesa ore-producing company. these are the debauchers of our commonwealth's fair name, and you, alas! the traffickers who hope to live upon its virtue. i call upon you to-day to pass this resolution and to elect a man to the united states senate who shall owe no allegiance to any power except the people, or to receive forever the brand of public condemnation. are you free men? or do you wear the collar of the consolidated, the yoke of waring ridgway? the vote which you will cast to-day is an answer that shall go flying to the farthest corner of your world, an answer you can never hope to change so long as you live." he sat down in a dead silence. again men drew counsel from their fears. the resolution passed unanimously, for none dared vote against it lest he brand himself as bought and sold. it was in this moment, while the hearts of the guilty were like water, that there came from the lawn outside the roar of a multitude of voices. swiftly the word passed that ten thousand miners had come to see that warner was not elected. that they were in a dangerous frame of mind, all knew. it was a passionate undisciplined mob and to thwart them would have been to invite a riot. under these circumstances the joint assembly proceeded to ballot for a senator. the first name called was that of adams. he was an old cattleman and a democrat. "before voting, i want to resign my plate a few moments to mr. landor, of kit carson county," he said. landor was recognized, a big broad-shouldered plainsman with a leathery face as honest as the sun. he was known and liked by everybody, even by those opposed to him. "i'm going to make a speech," he announced with the broad smile that showed a flash of white teeth. "i reckon it'll be the first i ever made here, and i promise it will be the last, boys. but i won't keep you long, either. you all know how things have been going; how men have been moving in and out and buying men here like as if they were cattle on the hoof. you've seen it, and i've seen it. but we didn't have the nerve to say it should stop. one man did. he's the biggest man in this big state to-day, and it ain't been five minutes since i heard you hollar your lungs out cursing him. you know who i mean--sam yesler." he waited till the renewed storm of cheers and hisses had died away. "it don't do him any harm for you to hollar at him, boys--not a mite. i want to say to you that he's a man. he saw our old friends falling by the wayside and some of you poor weaklings selling yourselves for dollars. because he is an honest, game man, he set out to straighten things up. i want to tell you that my hat's off to sam yesler. "but that ain't what i rose for. i'm going to name for the united states senate a clean man, one who doesn't wear either the harley or the ridgway brand. he's as straight as a string, not a crooked hair in his head, and every manjack of you knows it. i'm going to name a man"--he stopped an instant to smile genially around upon the circle of uplifted faces--"who isn't any friend of either one faction or another, a man who has just had independence enough to quit a big job because it wasn't on the square. that man's name is lyndon hobart. if you want to do yourselves proud, gentlemen, you'll certainly elect him." if it was a sensation he had wanted to create, he had it. the warner forces were taken with dumb surprise. but many of them were already swiftly thinking it would be the best way out of a bad business. he would be conservative, as fair to the consolidated as to the enemy. more, just now his election would appeal to the angry mob howling outside the building, for they could ask nothing more than the election of the man who had resigned rather than order the attack on the taurus, which had resulted in the death of some of their number. hoyle, of the democrats, seconded the nomination, as also did eaton, in a speech wherein he defended the course of ridgway and withdrew his name. within a few minutes of the time that eaton sat down, the roll had been called and hobart elected by a vote of seventy-three to twenty-four, the others refusing to cast a ballot. the two young women, sitting together in the front row of the gallery, were glowing with triumphant happiness. virginia was still clapping her hands when a voice behind her suggested that the circumstances did not warrant her being so happy over the result. she turned, to see waring ridgway smiling down at her. "but i can't help being pleased. wasn't mr. yesler magnificent?" "sam was all right, though he might have eased up a bit when he pitched into me." "he had to do that to be fair. everybody knows you and he are friends. i think it was fine of him not to let that make any difference in his telling the truth." "oh, i knew it would please you," her betrothed laughed. "what do you say to going out to lunch with me? i'll get sam, too, if i can." the young women consulted eyes and agreed very readily. both of them enjoyed being so near to the heart of things. "if mr. yesler will lunch with the debaucher of the commonwealth, we shall be very happy to join the party," said virginia demurely. ridgway led them down to the floor of the house. through the dense throng they made their way slowly toward him, ridgway clearing a path with his broad shoulders. suddenly they heard him call sharply, "look out, sam." the explosion of a revolver followed sharply his words. ridgway dived through the press, tossing men to right and left of him as a steamyacht does the waves. through the open lane he left in his wake, the young women caught the meaning of the turmoil: the crumpled figure was yesler swaying into the arms of his friend, roper, the furious drink-flushed face of pelton and the menace of the weapon poised for a second shot, the swift impact of waring's body, and the blow which sent the next bullet crashing into the chandelier overhead. all this they glimpsed momentarily before the press closed in on the tragic scene and cut off their view. chapter . further developments while harley had been in no way responsible for pelton's murderous attack upon yesler, public opinion held him to account. the pinkertons who had, up till this time, been employed at the mines, were now moved to the hotel to be ready for an emergency. a special train was held in readiness to take the new yorker out of the state in the event that the stockman should die. meanwhile, the harassing attacks of ridgway continued. through another judge than purcell, the absurd injunction against working the diamond king, the mary k, and the marcus daly had been dissolved, but even this advantage had been neutralized by the necessity of giving back to the enemy the taurus and the new york, of which he had just possessed himself. all his life he had kept a wheather-eye upon the impulsive and fickle public. there were times when its feeling could be abused with impunity, and other times when this must be respected. reluctantly, harley gave the word for the withdrawal of his men from the territory gained. ridgway pushed his advantage home and secured an injunction, not only against the working, but against the inspection of the copper king and the jim hill. the result of the consolidated move had been in effect to turn over, temporarily, its two rich mines to be looted by the pirate, and to make him very much stronger than before with his allies, the unions. by his own imprudence, harley had made a bad situation worse, and delivered himself, with his hands tied, into the power of the enemy. in the days of turmoil that followed, waring ridgway's telling blows scored once and again. the morning after the explosion, he started a relief fund in his paper, the sun, for the families of the dead miners, contributing two thousand dollars himself. he also insisted that the consolidated pay damages to the bereaved families to the extent of twenty thousand dollars for each man killed. the town rang with his praises. mesa had always been proud of his success; had liked the democratic spirit of him that led him to mix on apparently equal terms with his working men, and had backed him in his opposition to the trust because his plucky and unscrupulous fight had been, in a measure, its fight. but now it idolized him. he was the buffer between it and the trust, fighting the battles of labor against the great octopus of broadway, and beating it to a standstill. he was the moses destined to lead the working man out of the egypt of his discontent. had he not maintained the standard of wages and forced the consolidated to do the same? had he not declared an eight-hour day, and was not the trust almost ready to do this also, forced by the impetus his example had given the unions? so ridgway's agents whispered, and the union leaders, whom he had bought, took up the burden of their tale and preached it both in private talk and in their speeches. in an attempt to stem the rising tide of denunciation that was spreading from mesa to the country at large, harley announced an eight hour day and an immense banquet to all the consolidated employees in celebration of the occasion. ten thousand men sat down to the long tables, but when one of the speakers injudiciously mentioned the name of ridgway, there was steady cheering for ten minutes. it was quite plain that the miners gave him the credit for having forced the consolidated to the eight-hour day. the verdict of the coroner's jury was that vance edwards and the other deceased miners had come to their death at the hands of the foreman, michael donleavy, at the instigation of simon harley. true bills were at once drawn up by the prosecuting attorney of mesa county, an official elected by ridgway, charging harley and donleavy with conspiracy, resulting in the murder of vance edwards. the billionaire furnished bail for himself and foreman, treating the indictments merely as part of the attacks of the enemy. the tragedy in the taurus brought to the surface a bitterness that had hitherto not been apparent in the contest between the rival copper interests. the lines of division became more sharply drawn, and every business man in mesa was forced to declare himself on one side or the other. harley scattered detectives broadcast and imported five hundred pinkertons to meet any emergency that might arise. the spies of the consolidated were everywhere, gathering evidence against the mesa ore-producing company, its conduct of the senatorial campaign, its judges, and its supporters criminal indictments flew back and forth thick as snowflakes in a christmas storm. it began to be noticed that an occasional foreman, superintendent, or mining engineer was slipping from the employ of ridgway to that of the trust, carrying secrets and evidence that would be invaluable later in the courts. everywhere the money of the consolidated, scattered lavishly where it would do the most good, attempted to sap the loyalty of the followers of the other candidates. even eaton was approached with the offer of a bribe. but ridgway's potent personality had built up an esprit de corps not easily to be broken. the adventurers gathered to his side were, for the most part, bound to him by ties personal in their nature. they were financial fillibusters, pledged to stand or fall together, with an interest in their predatory leader's success that was not entirely measurable in dollars and cents. nor was that leader the man to allow the organization he had builded with such care to become disintegrated while he slept. his alert eye and cheery smile were everywhere, instilling confidence in such as faltered, and dread in those contemplating defection. he harassed his rival with an audacity that was almost devilish in its unexpected ingenuity. for the first time in his life simon harley, the town back on the defensive by a combination of circumstances engineered by a master brain, knew what it was to be checkmated. he had not the least doubt of ultimate victory, but the tentative success of the brazen young adventurer, were gall and wormwood to his soul. he had made money his god, had always believed it would buy anything worth while except life, but this western buccaneer had taught him it could not purchase the love of a woman nor the immediate defeat of a man so well armed as waring ridgway. in truth, though harley stuck at nothing, his success in accomplishing the destruction of this thorn in his side was no more appreciable than had been that of hobart. the westerner held his own and more, the while he robbed the great trust of its ore under cover of the courts. in the flush of success, ridgway, through his lieutenant, eaton, came to judge purcell asking that a receiver be appointed for the consolidated supply company, a subsidiary branch of the trust, on the ground that its affairs were not being properly administered. the supply company had paid dividends ranging from fifteen to twenty-five per cent for many years, but ridgway exercised his right as a stockholder to ask for a receivership. in point of fact, he owned, in the name of eaton, only one-tenth of one per cent of the stock, but it was enough to serve. for purcell was a bigoted old missourian, as courageous and obstinate as perfect health and ignorance could make him. he was quite innocent of any legal knowledge, his own rule of law being to hit a consolidated head whenever he saw one. lawyers might argue themselves black in the face without affecting his serenity or his justice. purcell granted the application, as well as a restraining order against the payment of dividends until further notice, and appointed eaton receiver over the protests of the consolidated lawyers. ridgway and eaton left the court-room together, jubilant over their success. they dined at a restaurant, and spent the evening at the ore-producing company's offices, discussing ways and means. when they had finished, his chief followed eaton to the doors, an arm thrown affectionately round his shoulder. "steve, we're going to make a big killing. i was never so sure of anything in my life as that we shall beat simon harley at his own game. we're bound to win. we've got to win." "i wish i were as sure as you." "it's hard pounding does it, my boy. we'll drive him out of the montana copper-fields yet. we'll show him there is one little corner of the u. s. where simon harley's orders don't go as the last word." "he has a hundred dollars to your one." "and i have youth and mining experience and the inside track, as well as stancher friends than he ever dreamed of," laughed ridgway, clapping the other on the back. "well, good night, steve. pleasant dreams, old man." the boyish secretary shook hands warmly. "you're a man, chief. if anybody can pull us through it will be you." triumphant confidence rang in the other's answering laugh. "you bet i can, steve." chapter . one million dollars eaton, standing on the street curb at the corner of the ridgway building, lit a cigar while he hesitated between his rooms and the club. he decided for the latter, and was just turning up the hill, when a hand covered his mouth and an arm was flung around his neck in a stranglehold. he felt himself lifted like a child, and presently discovered that he was being whirled along the street in a closed carriage. "you needn't be alarmed, mr. eaton. we're not going to injure you in the least," a low voice explained in his ear. "if you'll give me your word not to cry out, i'll release your throat." eaton nodded a promise, and, when he could find his voice, demanded: "where are you taking me?" "you'll see in a minute, sir. it's all right." the carriage turned into an alley and stopped. eaton was led to a ladder that hung suspended from the fire-escape, and was bidden to mount. he did so, following his guide to the second story, and being in turn followed by the other man. he was taken along a corridor and into the first of a suite of rooms opening into it. he knew he was in the mesa house, and suspected at once that he was in the apartments of simon harley. his suspicion ripened to conviction when his captors led him through two more rooms, into one fitted as an office. the billionaire sat at a desk, busy over some legal papers he was reading, but he rose at once and came forward with hand extended to meet eaton. the young man took his hand mechanically. "glad to have the pleasure of talking with, you, mr. eaton. you must accept my apologies for my methods of securing a meeting. they are rather primitive, but since you declined to call and see me, i can hold only you to blame." an acid smile touched his lips for a moment, though his eyes were expressionless as a wall. "mr. eaton, i have brought you here in this way to have a confidential talk with you, in order that it might not in any way reflect upon you in case we do not come to an arrangement satisfactory to both of us. your friends cannot justly blame you for this conference, since you could not avoid it. mr. eaton, take a chair." the wills of the two men flashed into each other's eyes like rapiers. the weaker man knew what was before him and braced himself to meet it. he would not sit down. he would not discuss anything. so he told himself once and again to hold himself steady against the impulse to give way to those imperious eyes behind which was the impassive, compelling will. "sit down, mr. eaton." "i'll stand, mr. harley." "sit down." the cold jade eyes were not to be denied. eaton's gaze fell sullenly, and he slid into a chair. "i'll discuss no business except in the presence of mr. ridgway," he said doggedly, falling back to his second line of defenses. "to the contrary, my business is with you and not with mr. ridgway." "i know of no business you can have with me." "wherefore i have brought you here to acquaint you with it." the young man lifted his head reluctantly and waited. if he had been willing to confess it to himself, he feared greatly this ruthless spoiler who had built up the greatest fortune in the world from thousands of wrecked lives. he felt himself choking, just as if those skeleton fingers had been at his throat, but he promised himself never to yield. the fathomless, dominant gaze caught and held his eyes. "mr. eaton, i came here to crush ridgway. i am going to stay here till i do. i'm going to wipe him from the map of montana--ruin him so utterly that he can never recover. it has been my painful duty to do this with a hundred men as strong and as confident as he is. after undertaking such an enterprise, i have never faltered and never relented. the men i have ruined were ruined beyond hope of recovery. none of them have ever struggled to their feet again. i intend to make waring ridgway a pauper." stephen eaton could have conceived nothing more merciless than this man's callous pronouncement, than the calm certainty of his unemphasized words. he started to reply, but harley took the words out of his mouth. "don't make a mistake. don't tie to the paltry successes he has gained. i have not really begun to fight yet." the young man had nothing to say. his heart was water. he accepted harley's words as true, for he had told himself the same thing a hundred times. why had ridgway rejected the overtures of this colossus of finance? it had been the sheerest folly born of madness to suppose that anybody could stand against him. "for ridgway, the die is cast," the iron voice went on. "he is doomed beyond hope. but there is still a chance for you. what do you consider your interest in the mesa ore-producing company worth, mr. eaton?" the sudden question caught eaton with the force of a surprise. "about three hundred thousand dollars," he heard himself say; and it seemed to him that his voice was speaking the words without his volition. "i'm going to buy you out for twice that sum. furthermore, i'm going to take care of your future--going to see that you have a chance to rise." the waverer's will was in flux, but the loyalty in him still protested. "i can't desert my chief, mr. harley." "do you call it desertion to leave a raging madman in a sinking boat after you have urged him to seek the safety of another ship?" "he made me what i am." "and i will make you ten times what you are. with ridgway you have no chance to be anything but a subordinate. he is the mesa ore-producing company, and you are merely a cipher. i offer your individuality a chance. i believe in you, and know you to be a strong man." no ironic smile touched harley's face at this statement. "you need a chance, and i offer it to you. for your own sake take it." every grievance eaton had ever felt against his chief came trooping to his mind. he was domineering. he did ride rough-shod over his allies' opinions and follow the course he had himself mapped out. all the glory of the victory he absorbed as his due. in the popular opinion, eaton was as a farthing-candle to a great electric search-light in comparison with ridgway. "he trusts me," the tempted man urged weakly. he was slipping, and he knew it, even while he assured himself he would never betray his chief. "he would sell you out to-morrow if it paid him. and what is he but a robber? every dollar of his holdings is stolen from me. i ask only restitution of you--and i propose to buy at twice, nay at three times, the value of your stolen property. you owe that freebooter no loyalty." "i can't do it. i can't do it." "you shall do it." harley dominated him as bullying schoolmaster does a cringing boy under the lash. "i can't do it," the young man repeated, all his weak will flung into the denial. "would you choose ruin?" "perhaps. i don't know," he faltered miserable. "it's merely a business proposition, young man. the stock you have to sell is valuable to-day. reject my offer, and a month from now it will be quoted on the market at half its present figure, and go begging at that. it will be absolutely worthless before i finish. you are not selling out ridgway. he is a ruined man, anyway. but you--i am going to save you in spite of yourself. i am going to shake you from that robber's clutches." eaton got to his feet, pallid and limp as a rag. "don't tempt me," he cried hoarsely. "i tell you i can't do it, sir." harley's cold eye did not release him for an instant. "one million dollars and an assured future, or--absolute, utter ruin, complete and final." "he would murder me--and he ought to," groaned the writhing victim. "no fear of that. i'll put you where he can't reach you. just sign your name to this paper, mr. eaton." "i didn't agree. i didn't say i would." "sign here. or, wait one moment, till i get witnesses." harley touched a bell, and his secretary appeared in the doorway. "ask mr. mott and young jarvis to step this way." harley held out the pen toward eaton, looking steadily at him. in a strong man the human eye is a sword among weapons. eaton quailed. the fingers of the unhappy wretch went out mechanically for the pen. he was sweating terror and remorse, but the essential weakness of the man could not stand out unbacked against the masterful force of this man's imperious will. he wrote his name in the places directed, and flung down the pen like a child in a rage. "now get me out of montana before ridgway knows," he cried brokenly. "you may leave to-morrow night, mr. eaton. you'll only have to appear in court once personally. we'll arrange it quietly for to-morrow afternoon. ridgway won't know until it is done and you are gone." chapter . a little lunch at aphonse's it chanced that ridgway, through the swinging door of a department store, caught a glimpse of miss balfour as he was striding along the street. he bethought him that it was the hour of luncheon, and that she was no end better company than the revamped noon edition of the morning paper. wherefore he wheeled into the store and interrupted her inspection of gloves. "i know the bulliest little french restaurant tucked away in a side street just three blocks from here. the happiness disseminated in this world by that chef's salads will some day carry him past st. peter with no questions asked." "you believe in salvation by works?" she parried, while she considered his invitation. "so will you after a trial of alphonse's salad." "am i to understand that i am being invited to a theological discussion of a heavenly salad concocted by father alphonse?" "that is about the specifications." "then i accept. for a week my conscience has condemned me for excess of frivolity. you offer me a chance to expiate without discomfort. that is my idea of heaven. i have always believed it a place where one pastures in rich meadows of pleasure, with penalties and consciences all excluded from its domains." "you should start a church," he laughed. "it would have a great following--especially if you could operate your heaven this side of the styx." she found his restaurant all he had claimed, and more. the little corner of old paris set her eyes shining. the fittings were parisian to the least detail. even the waiter spoke no english. "but i don't see how they make it pay. how did he happen to come here? are there enough people that appreciate this kind of thing in mesa to support it?" he smiled at her enthusiasm. "hardly. the place has a scarce dozen of regular patrons. hobart comes here a good deal. so does eaton. but it doesn't pay financially. you see, i know because i happen to own it. i used to eat at alphonse's restaurant in paris. so i sent for him. it doesn't follow that one has to be less a slave to the artificial comforts of a supercivilized world because one lives at mesa." "i see it doesn't. you are certainly a wonderful man." "name anything you like. i'll warrant alphonse can make good if it is not outside of his national cuisine," he boasted. she did not try his capacity to the limit, but the oysters, the salad, the chicken soup were delicious, with the ultimate perfection that comes only out of gaul. they made a delightfully gay and intimate hour of it, and were still lingering over their demi-tasse when yesler's name was mentioned. "isn't it splendid that he's doing so well?" cried the girl with enthusiasm. "the doctor says that if the bullet had gone a fraction of an inch lower, he would have died. most men would have died anyhow, they say. it was his clean outdoor life and magnificent constitution that saved him." "that's what pulled him through," he nodded. "it would have done his heart good to see how many friends he had. his recovery was a continuous performance ovation. it would have been a poorer world for a lot of people if sam yesler had crossed the divide." "yes. it would have been a very much poorer one for several i know." he glanced shrewdly at her. "i've learned to look for a particular application when you wear that particularly sapient air of mystery." her laugh admitted his hit. "well, i was thinking of laska. i begin to think her fair prince has come." "meaning yesler?" "yes. she hasn't found it out herself yet. she only knows she is tremendously interested." "he's a prince all right, though he isn't quite a fairy. the woman that gets him will be lucky. "the man that gets laska will be more than lucky," she protested loyally. "i dare say," he agreed carelessly. "but, then, good women are not so rare as good men. there are still enough of them left to save the world. but when it comes to men like sam--well, it would take a diogenes to find another." "i don't see how even mr. pelton, angry as he was, dared shoot him." "he had been drinking hard for a week. that will explain anything when you add it to his temperament. i never liked the fellow." "i suppose that is why you saved his life when the miners took him and were going to lynch him?" "i would not have lifted a hand for him. that's the bald truth. but i couldn't let the boys spoil the moral effect of their victory by so gross a mistake. it would have been playing right into harley's hands." "can a man get over being drunk in five minutes? i never saw anybody more sober than mr. pelton when the mob were crying for vengeance and you were fighting them back." "a great shock will sober a man. pelton is an errant coward, and he had pretty good reason to think he had come to the end of the passage. the boys weren't playing. they meant business." "they would not have listened to another man in the world except you," she told him proudly. "it was really sam they listened to--when he sent out the message asking them to let the law have its way." "no, i think it was the way you handled the message. you're a wizard at a speech, you know." "thanks." he glanced up, for alphonse was waiting at his elbow. "you're wanted on the telephone, monsieur." "you can't get away from business even for an hour, can you?" she rallied. "my heaven wouldn't suit you at all, unless i smuggled in a trust for you to fight." "i expect it is eaton," he explained. "steve phoned down to the office that he isn't feeling well to-day. i asked him to have me called up here. if he isn't better, i'm going to drop round and see him." but when she caught sight of his face as he returned she knew it was serious. "what's the matter? is it mr. eaton? is he very ill?" she cried. his face was set like broken ice refrozen. "yes, it's eaton. they say--but it can't be true!" she had never seen him so moved. "what is it, waring?" "the boy has sold me out. he is at the courthouse now, undoing my work--the judas!" the angry blood swept imperiously into her cheeks. "don't waste any more time with me, waring. go--go and save yourself from the traitor. perhaps it is not too late yet." he flung her a grateful look. "you're true blue, virginia. come! i'll leave you at the store as we pass." the defection of eaton bit his chief to the quick. the force of the blow itself was heavy--how heavy he could not tell till he could take stock of the situation. he could see that he would be thrown out of court in the matter of the consolidated supply company receivership, since eaton's stock would now be in the hands of the enemy. but what was of more importance was the fact that eaton's interest in the mesa ore-producing company now belonged to harley, who could work any amount of mischief with it as a lever for litigation. the effect, too, of the man's desertion upon the morale of the m. o. p. forces must be considered and counteracted, if possible. he fancied he could see his subordinates looking shiftyeyed at each other and wondering who would slip away next. if it had been anybody but steve! he would as soon have distrusted his right hand as steve eaton. why, he had made the man, had picked him out when he was a mere clerk, and tied him to himself by a hundred favors. up on the snake river he had saved steve's life once when he was drowning. the boy had always been as close to him as a brother. that steve should turn traitor was not conceivable. he knew all his intimate plans, stood second to himself in the company. oh, it was a numbing blow! ridgway's sense of personal loss and outrage almost obliterated for the moment his appreciation of the business loss. the motion to revoke the receivership of the supply company was being argued when ridgway entered the court-room. within a few minutes the news had spread like wild-fire that eaton was lined up with the consolidated, and already the paltry dozen of loafers in the court-room had swelled into hundreds, all of them eager for any sensation that might develop. ridgway's broad shoulders flung aside the crowd and opened a way to the vacant chair waiting for him. one of his lawyers had the floor and was flaying eaton with a vitriolic tongue, the while men craned forward all over the room to get a glimpse of the traitor's face. eaton sat beside mott, dry-lipped and pallid, his set eyes staring vacantly into space. once or twice he flung a furtive glance about him. his stripped and naked soul was enduring a foretaste of the judgment day. the whip of scorn with which the lawyer lashed him cut into his shrinking sensibilities, and left him a welter of raw and livid wales. good god! why had he not known it would be like this? he was paying for his treachery and usury, and it was being burnt into him that as the years passed he must continue to pay in self-contempt and the distrust of his fellows. the case had come to a hearing before judge hughes, who was not one of ridgway's creatures. that on its merits it would be decided in favor of the consolidated was a foregone conclusion. it was after the judge had rendered the expected decision that the dramatic moment of the day came to gratify the seasoned court frequenters. eaton, trying to slip as quietly as possible from the room, came face to face with his former chief. for an interminable instant the man he had betrayed, blocking the way squarely, held the trembling wretch in the blaze of his scorn. ridgway's contemptuous eyes sifted to the ingrate's soul until it shriveled. then he stood disdainfully to one side so that the man might not touch him as he passed. some one in the back of the room broke the tense silence and hissed: "the damned judas!" instantly echoes of "judas! judas!" filled the room, and pursued eaton to his cab. it would be many years before he could recall without scalding shame that moment when the finger of public scorn was pointed at him in execration. chapter . harley scores what harley had sought in the subornation of eaton had been as much the moral effect of his defection as the tangible results themselves. if he could shake the confidence of the city and state in the freebooter's victorious star, he would have done a good day's work. he wanted the impression to spread that ridgway's success had passed its meridian. nor did he fail of his purpose by more than a hair's breadth. the talk of the street saw the beginning of the end. the common voice ran: "it's 'god help ridgway' now. he's down and out." but waring ridgway was never more dangerous than in apparent defeat. if he were hit hard by eaton's treachery, no sign of it was apparent in the jaunty insouciance of his manner. those having business with him expected to find him depressed and worried, but instead met a man the embodiment of vigorous and confident activity. if the subject were broached, he was ready to laugh with them at eaton's folly in deserting at the hour when victory was assured. it was fortunate for ridgway that the county elections came on early in the spring and gave him a chance to show that his power was still intact. he arranged to meet at once the political malcontents of the state who were banded together against the growing influence of the consolidated. he had a few days before called together representative men from all parts of the state to discuss a program of action against the enemy, and ridgway gave a dinner for them at the quartzite, the evening of eaton's defection. he was at the critical moment when any obvious irresolution would have been fatal. his allies were ready to concede his defeat if he would let them. but he radiated such an assured atmosphere of power, such an unconquerable current of vigor, that they could not escape his own conviction of unassailability. he was at his genial, indomitable best, the magnetic charm of fellowship putting into eclipse the selfishness of the man. he had been known to boast of his political exploits, of how he had been the warwick that had made and unmade governors and united states senators; but the fraternal "we" to-night replaced his usual first person singular. the business interests of the consolidated were supreme all over the state. that corporation owned forests and mills and railroads and mines. it ran sheep and cattle-ranches as well as stores and manufactories. most of the newspapers in the state were dominated by it. of a population of two hundred and fifty thousand, it controlled more than half directly by the simple means of filling dinner-pails. that so powerful a corporation, greedy for power and wealth, should create a strong but scattered hostility in the course of its growth, became inevitable. this enmity ridgway proposed to consolidate into a political organization, with opposition to the trust as its cohesive principle, that should hold the balance of power in the state. when he rose to explain his object in calling them together, ridgway's clear, strong presentment of the situation, backed by his splendid bulk and powerful personality, always bold and dramatic, shocked dormant antagonisms to activity as a live current does sluggish inertia. for he had eminently the gift of moving speech. the issue was a simple one, he pointed out. reduced to ultimates, the question was whether the state should control the consolidated or the consolidated the state. with simple, telling force he faced the insidious growth of the big copper company, showing how every independent in the state was fighting for his business life against its encroachments, and was bound to lose unless the opposition was a united one. let the independents obtain and keep control of the state politically and the trust might be curbed; not otherwise. in eternal vigilance and in union lay safety. he sat down in silence more impressive than any applause. but after the silence came a deluge of cheers, the thunder of them sweeping up and down the long table like a summer storm across a lake. presently the flood-gates of talk were unloosed, and the conservatives began to be heard. opposition was futile because it was too late, they claimed. a young irishman, primed for the occasion, jumped to his feet with an impassioned harangue that pedestaled ridgway as the washington of the west. he showed how one man, in coalition with the labor-unions, had succeeded in carrying the state against the big copper company; how he had elected senators and governors, and legislators and judges. if one man could so cripple the octopus, what could the best blood of the state, standing together, not accomplish? he flung patrick henry and robert emmet and daniel webster at their devoted heads, demanding liberty or death with the bridled eloquence of his race. but ridgway was not such a tyro at the game of politics as to depend upon speeches for results. his fine hand had been working quietly for months to bring the malcontents into one camp, shaping every passion to which men are heir to serve his purpose. as he looked down the table he could read in the faces before him hatred, revenge, envy, fear, hope, avarice, recklessness, and even love, as the motives which he must fuse to one common end. his vanity stood on tiptoe at his superb skill in playing on men's wills. he knew he could mold these men to work his desire, and the sequel showed he was right. when the votes were counted at the end of the bitter campaign that followed, simon harley's candidates went down to disastrous defeat all over the state, though he had spent money with a lavish hand. in mesa county, ridgway had elected every one of his judges and retired to private life those he could not influence. harley's grim lips tightened when the news reached him. "very well," he said to mott "we'll see if these patriots can't be reached through their stomachs better than their brains. order every mill and mine and smelter of the consolidated closed to-night. our employees have voted for this man ridgway. let him feed them or let them starve." "but the cost to you--won't it be enormous?" asked mott, startled at his chief's drastic decision. harley bared his fangs with a wolfish smile. "we'll make the public pay. our store-houses are full of copper. prices will jump when the supply is reduced fifty per cent. we'll sell at an advance, and clean up a few millions out of the shut-down. meanwhile we'll starve this patriotic state into submission." it came to pass even as harley had predicted. with the consolidated mines closed, copper, jumped up--up--up. the trust could sit still and coin money without turning a hand, while its employees suffered in the long, bitter northern winter. all the troubles usually pursuant on a long strike began to fall upon the families of the miners. when a delegation from the miners' union came to discuss the situation with harley he met them blandly, with many platitudes of sympathy. he regretted--he regretted exceedingly--the necessity that had been forced upon him of closing the mines. he had delayed doing so in the hope that the situation might be relieved. but it had grown worse, until he had been forced to close. no, he was afraid he could not promise to reopen this winter, unless something were done to ameliorate conditions in the court. work would begin at once, however, if the legislators would pass a bill making it optional with any party to a suit to have the case transferred to another judge in case he believed the bias of the presiding judge would be prejudicial to an impartial hearing. ridgway was flung at once upon the defensive. his allies, the working men, demanded of him that his legislature pass the bill wanted by harley, in order that work might recommence. he evaded their demands by proposing to arbitrate his difficulties with the consolidated, by offering to pay into the union treasury hall a million dollars to help carry its members through the winter. he argued to the committee that harley was bluffing, that within a few weeks the mines and smelters would again be running at their full capacity; but when the pressure on the legislators he had elected became so great that he feared they would be swept from their allegiance to him, he was forced to yield to the clamor. it was a great victory for harley. nobody recognized how great a one more accurately than waring ridgway. the leader of the octopus had dogged him over the shoulders of the people, had destroyed at a single blow one of his two principal sources of power. he could no longer rely on the courts to support him, regardless of justice. very well. if he could not play with cogged dice, he was gambler enough to take the honest chances of the game without flinching. no despair rang in his voice. the look in his eye was still warm and confident. mesa questioned him with glimpses friendly but critical. they found no fear in his bearing, no hint of doubt in his indomitable assurance. chapter . "not guilty"--"guilty" ridgway's answer to the latest move of simon harley was to put him on trial for his life to answer the charge of having plotted and instigated the death of vance edwards. not without reason, the defense had asked for a change of venue, alleging the impossibility of securing a fair trial at mesa. the courts had granted the request and removed the case to avalanche. on the second day of the trial aline sat beside her husband, a dainty little figure of fear, shrinking from the observation focused upon her from all sides. the sight of her forlorn sensitiveness so touched ridgway's heart that he telegraphed virginia balfour to come and help support her through the ordeal. virginia came, and henceforth two women, both of them young and unusually attractive, gave countenance to the man being tried for his life. not that he needed their support for himself, but for the effect they might have on the jury. harley had shrewdly guessed that the white-faced child he had married, whose pathetic beauty was of so haunting a type, and whose big eyes were so quick to reflect emotions, would be a valuable asset to set against the black-clad widow of vance edwards. for its effect upon himself, so far as the trial was concerned, simon harley cared not a whit. he needed no bolstering. the old wrecker carried an iron face to the ordeal. his leathern heart was as foreign to fear as to pity. the trial was an unpleasant bore to him, but nothing worse. he had, of course, cast an anchor of caution to windward by taking care to have the jury fixed. for even though his array of lawyers was a formidably famous one, he was no such child as to trust his case to a western jury on its merits while the undercurrent of popular opinion was setting so strongly against him. nor had he neglected to see that the court-room was packed with detectives to safeguard him in the event that the sympathy of the attending miners should at any time become demonstrative against him. the most irritating feature of the trial to the defendant was the presence of the little woman in black, whose burning eyes never left for long his face. he feigned to be unconscious of her regard, but nobody in the court-room was more sure of that look of enduring, passionate hatred than its victim. he had made her a widow, and her heart cried for revenge. that was the story the eyes told dumbly. from first to last the case was bitterly contested, and always with the realization among those present--except for that somber figure in black, whose beady eyes gimleted the defendant--that it was another move in the fight between the rival copper kings. the district attorney had worked up his case very carefully, not with much hope of securing a conviction, but to mass a total of evidence that would condemn the consolidated leader-before the world. to this end, the foreman, donleavy, had been driven by a process of sweating to turn state's evidence against his master. his testimony made things look black for harley, but when hobart took the stand, a palpably unwilling witness, and supported his evidence, the ridgway adherents were openly jubilant. the lawyers for the defense made much of the fact that hobart had just left the consolidated service after a disagreement with the defendant and had been elected to the senate by his enemies, but the impression made by his moderation and the fine restraint of his manner, combined with his reputation for scrupulous honesty, was not to be shaken by the subtle innuendos and blunt aspersions of the legal array he faced. nor did the young district attorney content himself with hobart's testimony. he put his successor, mott, on the stand, and gave him a bad hour while he tried to wring the admission out of him that harley had personally ordered the attack on the miners of the taurus. but for the almost constant objections of the opposing counsel, which gave him time to recover himself, the prosecuting attorney would have succeeded. ridgway, meeting him by chance after luncheon at the foot of the hotel elevator--for in a town the size of avalanche, waring had found it necessary to put up at the same hotel as the enemy or take second best, an alternative not to his fastidious taste--rallied him upon the predicament in which he had found himself. "it's pretty hard to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, without making indiscreet admissions about one's friends, isn't it?" he asked, with his genial smile. "did i make any indiscreet admissions?" "i don't say you did, though you didn't look as if you were enjoying yourself. i picked up an impression that you had your back to the wall; seemed to me the jury rather sized it up that way, mott." "we'll know what the jury thinks in a few days." "shall we?" the other laughed aloud. "now, i'm wondering whether we shall know what they really think." "if you mean that the jury has been tampered with it is your duty to place your evidence before the court, mr. ridgway." "when i hear the verdict i'll tell you what i think about the jury," returned the president of the ore-producing company, with easy impudence as he passed into the elevator. at the second floor waring left it and turned toward the ladies' parlor. it had seemed to him that aline had looked very tired and frail at the morning session, and he wanted to see virginia about arranging to have them take a long drive into the country that afternoon. he had sent his card up with a penciled note to the effect that he would wait for her in the parlor. but when he stepped through the double doorway of the ornate room it was to become aware of a prior occupant. she was reclining on a divan at the end of the large public room. neither lying nor sitting, but propped up among a dozen pillows with head and limbs inert and the long lashes drooped on the white cheeks, aline looked the pathetic figure of a child fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion after a long strain. since he was the man he was, unhampered by any too fine sense of what was fitting, he could no more help approaching than he could help the passionate pulse of pity that stirred in his heart at sight of her forlorn weariness. her eyes opened to find his grave compassion looking down at her. she showed no surprise at his presence, though she had not previously known of it. nor did she move by even so much as the stir of a limb. "this is wearing you out," he said, after the long silence in which her gaze was lost helplessly in his. "you must go home--away from it all. you must forget it, and if it ever crosses your mind think of it as something with which you have no concern." "how can i do that--now." the last word slipped out not of her will, but from an undisciplined heart. it stood for the whole tangled story of her troubles: the unloved marriage which had bereft her of her heritage of youth and joy, the love that had found her too late and was so poignant a fount of distress to her, the web of untoward circumstance in which she was so inextricably entangled. "how did you ever come to do it?" he asked roughly, out of the bitter impulse of his heart. she knew that the harshness was not for her, as surely as she knew what he meant by his words. "i did wrong. i know that now, but i didn't know it then. though even then i felt troubled about it. but my guardian said it was best, and i knew so little. oh, so very, very little. why was i not taught things, what every girl has a right to know--until life teaches me--too late?" nothing he could say would comfort her. for the inexorable facts forbade consolation. she had made shipwreck of her life before the frail raft of her destiny had well pushed forth from harbor. he would have given much to have been able to take the sadness out of her great childeyes, but he knew that not even by the greatness of his desire could he take up her burden. she must carry it alone or sink under it. "you must go away from here back to your people. if not now, then as soon as the trial is over. make him take you to your friends for a time." "i have no friends that can help me." she said it in an even little voice of despair. "you have many friends. you have made some here. virginia is one." he would not name himself as only a friend, though he had set his iron will to claim no more. "yes, virginia is my friend. she is good to me. but she is going to marry you, and then you will both forget me." "i shall never forget you." he cried it in a low, tense voice, his clenched hands thrust into the pockets of his sack coat. her wan smile thanked him. it was the most he would let himself say. though her heart craved more, she knew she must make the most of this. "i came up to see virginia," he went on, with a change of manner. "i want her to take you driving this afternoon. forget about that wretched trial if you can. nothing of importance will take place to-day." he turned at the sound of footsteps, and saw that miss balfour had come into the room. "i want you to take mrs. harley into the fresh sunshine and clear air this afternoon. i have been telling her to forget this trial. it's a farce, anyhow. nothing will come of it. take her out to the homes--take and cheer her up." "yes, my lord." virginia curtseyed obediently. "it will do you good, too." she shot a mocking little smile at him. "it's very good of you to think of me." "still, i do sometimes." "whenever it is convenient," she added. but with aline watching them the spirit of badinage in him was overmatched. he gave it up and asked what kind of a rig he should send round. virginia furnished him the necessary specifications, and he turned to go. as he left the room simon harley entered. they met face to face, and after an instant's pause each drew aside to allow the other to pass. the new yorker inclined his head silently and moved forward toward his wife. ridgway passed down the corridor and into the elevator. as the days of the trial passed excitement grew more tense. the lawyers for the prosecution and the defense made their speeches to a crowded and enthralled court-room. there was a feverish uncertainty in the air. it reached a climax when the jury stayed out for eleven hours before coming to a verdict. from the moment it filed back into the court-room with solemn faces the dramatic tensity began to foreshadow the tragedy about to be enacted. the woman harley had made a widow sat erect and rigid in the seat where she had been throughout the trial. her eyes blazed with a hatred that bordered madness. ridgway had observed that neither aline harley nor virginia was present, and a note from the latter had just reached him to the effect that aline was ill with the strain of the long trial. afterward ridgway could never thank his pagan gods enough that she was absent. there was a moment of tense waiting before the judge asked: "gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?" the foreman rose. "we have, your honor." a folded note was handed to the judge. he read it slowly, with an inscrutable face. "is this your verdict, gentlemen of the jury?" "it is, your honor." silence, full and rigid, held the room after the words "not guilty" had fallen from the lips of the judge. the stillness was broken by a shock as of an electric bolt from heaven. the exploding echoes of a pistol-shot reverberated. men sprang wildly to their feet, gazing at each other in the distrust that fear generates. but one man was beyond being startled by any more earthly sounds. his head fell forward on the table in front of him, and a thin stream of blood flowed from his lips. it was simon harley, found guilty, sentenced, and executed by the judge and jury sitting in the outraged, insane heart of the woman he had made a widow. mrs. edwards had shot him through the head with a revolver she had carried in her shoppingbag to exact vengeance in the event of a miscarriage of justice. chapter . aline turns a corner aline might have been completely prostrated by the news of her husband's sudden end, coming as it did as the culmination of a week of strain and horror. that she did not succumb was due, perhaps, to ridgway's care for her. when harley's massive gray head had dropped forward to the table, his enemy's first thought had been of her. as soon as he knew that death was sure, he hurried to the hotel. he sent his card up, and followed it so immediately that he found her scarcely risen from the divan on which she had been lying in the receiving-room of her apartments. the sleep was not yet shaken from her lids, nor was the wrinkled flush smoothed from the soft cheek that had been next the cushion. even in his trouble for her he found time to be glad that virginia was not at the moment with her. it gave him the sense of another bond between them that this tragic hour should belong to him and her alone--this hour of destiny when their lives swung round a corner beyond which lay wonderful vistas of kindly sunbeat and dewy starlight stretching to the horizon's edge of the long adventure. she checked the rush of glad joy in her heart the sight of him always brought, and came forward slowly. one glance at his face showed that he had brought grave news. "what is it? why are you here?" she cried tensely. "to bring you trouble, aline." "trouble!" her hand went to her heart quickly. "it is about--mr. harley." she questioned him with wide, startled eyes, words hesitating on her trembling lips and flying unvoiced. "child--little partner--the orders are to be brave." he came forward and took her hands in his, looking down at her with eyes she thought full of infinitely kind pity. "is it--have they--do you mean the verdict?" "yes, the verdict; but not the verdict of which you are thinking." she turned a quivering face to his. "tell me. i shall be brave." he told her the brutal fact as gently as he could, while he watched the blood ebb from her face. as she swayed he caught her in his arms and carried her to the divan. when, presently, her eyes fluttered open, it was to look into his pitiful ones. he was kneeling beside her, and her head was pillowed on his arm. "say it isn't true," she murmured. "it is true, dear." she moved her head restlessly, and he took away his arm, rising to draw a chair close to the lounge. she slipped her two hands under her head, letting them lie palm to palm on the sofapillow. the violet eyes looked past him into space. her tangled thoughts were in a chaos of disorder. even though she had known but a few months and loved not at all the grim, gray-haired man she had called husband, the sense of wretched bereavement, the nearness of death, was strong on her. he had been kind to her in his way, and the inevitable closeness of their relationship, repugnant as it had been to her, made its claims felt. an hour ago he had been standing here, the strong and virile ruler over thousands. now he lay stiff and cold, all his power shorn from him without a second's warning. he had kissed her good-by, solicitous for her welfare, and it had been he that had been in need of care rather than she. two big tears hung on her lids and splashed to her cheeks. she began to sob, and half-turned on the divan, burying her face in her hands. ridgway let her weep without interruption for a time, knowing that it would be a relief to her surcharged heart and overwrought nerves. but when her sobs began to abate she became aware of his hand resting on her shoulder. she sat up, wiping her eyes, and turned to him a face sodden with grief. "you are good to me," she said simply. "if my goodness were only less futile! heaven knows what i would give to ward off trouble from you. but i can't, nor can i bear it for you." "but it is a help to know you would if you could. he--i think he wanted to ward off grief from me, but he could not, either. i was often lonely and sad, even though he was kind to me. and now he has gone. i wish i had told him how much i appreciated his goodness to me." "yes, we all feel that when we have lost some one we love. it is natural to wish we had been better to them and showed them how much we cared. let me tell you about my mother. i was thirteen when she died. it was in summer. she had not been well for a long time. the boys were going fishing that day and she asked me to stay at home. i had set my heart on going, and i thought it was only a fancy of hers. she did not insist on my staying, so i went, but felt uncomfortable all day. when i came back in the evening they told me she was dead. i felt as if some great icy hand were tightening, on my heart. somehow i couldn't break down and cry it out. i went around with a white, set face and gave no sign. even at the funeral it was the same. the neighbors called me hard-hearted and pointed me out to their sons as a terrible warning. and all the time i was torn with agony." "you poor boy." "and one night she came to me in a dream. she did not look as she had just before she died, but strong and beautiful, with the color in her face she used to have. she smiled at me and kissed me and rumpled my hair as she used to do. i knew, then, it was all right. she understood, and i didn't care whether others did or not. i woke up crying, and after i had had my grief out i was myself again." "it was so sweet of her to think to come to you. she must have been loving you up in heaven and saw you were troubled, and came down just to comfort you and tell you it was all right," the girl cried with soft sympathy. "that's how i understood it. of course, i was only a boy, but somehow i knew it was more than a dream. i'm not a spiritualist. i don't believe such things happen, but i know it happened to me," he finished illogically, with a smile. she sighed. "he was always so thoughtful of me, too. i do wish i had--could have been--more--" she broke off without finishing, but he understood. "you must not blame yourself for that. he would be the first to tell you so. he took you for what you could give him, and these last days were the best he had known for many years." "he was so good to me. oh, you don't know how good." "it was a great pleasure to him to be good to you, the greatest pleasure he knew." she looked up as he spoke, and saw shining deep in his eyes the spirit that had taught him to read so well the impulse of another lover, and, seeing it, she dropped her eyes quickly in order not to see what was there. with him it had been only an instant's uncontrollable surge of ecstasy. he meant to wait. every instinct of the decent thing told him not to take advantage of her weakness, her need of love to rest upon in her trouble, her transparent care for him and confidence in him so childlike in its entirety. for convention he did not care a turn of his hand, but he would do nothing that might shock her self-respect when she came to think of it later. sternly he brought himself back to realities. "shall i see mr. mott for you and send him here? it would be better that he should make the arrangements than i." "if you please. i shall not see you again before i go, then?" her lips trembled as she asked the question. "i shall come down to the hotel again and see you before you go. and now good-by. be brave, and don't reproach yourself. remember that he would not wish it." the door opened, and virginia came in, flushed with rapid walking. she had heard the news on the street and had hurried back to the hotel. her eyes asked of ridgway: "does she know?" and he answered in the affirmative. straight to aline she went and wrapped her in her arms, the latent mothering instinct that is in every woman aroused and dormant. "oh, my dear, my dear," she cried softly. ridgway slipped quietly from the room and left them together. chapter . a good samaritan yesler, still moving slowly with a walking stick by reason of his green wound, left the street-car and made his way up forest road to the house which bore the number . in the remote past there had been some spasmodic attempt to cultivate grass and raise some shade-trees along the sidewalks, but this had long since been given up as abortive. an air of decay hung over the street, the unmistakable suggestion of better days. this was writ large over the house in front of which yesler stopped. the gate hung on one hinge, boards were missing from the walk, and a dilapidated shutter, which had once been green, swayed in the breeze. a woman of about thirty, dark and pretty but poorly dressed, came to the door in answer to his ring. two little children, a boy and a girl, with their mother's shy long-lashed southern eyes of brown, clung to her skirts and gazed at the stranger. "this is where mr. pelton lives, is it not?" he asked. "yes, sir." "is he at home?" "yes, sir." "may i see him?" "he's sick." "i'm sorry to hear it. too sick to be seen? if not, i should like very much to see him. i have business with him." the young woman looked at him a little defiantly and a little suspiciously. "are you a reporter?" sam smiled. "no, ma'am." "does he owe you money?" he could see the underlying blood dye her dusky cheeks when she asked the question desperately, as it seemed to him with a kind of brazen shame to which custom had inured her. she had somehow the air of some gentle little creature of the forests defending her young. "not a cent, ma'am. i don't want to do him any harm." "i didn't hear your name." "i haven't mentioned it," he admitted, with the sunny smile that was a letter of recommendation in itself. "fact is i'd rather not tell it till he sees me." from an adjoining room a querulous voice broke into their conversation. "who is it, norma?" "a gentleman to see you, tom." "who is it?" more sharply. "it is i, mr. pelton. i came to have a talk with you." yesler pushed forward into the dingy sitting-room with the pertinacity of a bookagent. "i heard you were not well, and i came to find out if i can do anything for you." the stout man lying on the lounge grew pale before the blood reacted in a purple flush. his very bulk emphasized the shabbiness of the stained and almost buttonless prince albert coat he wore, the dinginess of the little room he seemed to dwarf. "leave my house, seh. you have ruined this family, and you come to gloat on your handiwork. take a good look, and then go, mr. yesler. you see my wife in cotton rags doing her own work. is it enough, seh?" the slim little woman stepped across the room and took her place beside her husband. her eyes flashed fire at the man she held responsible for the fall of her husband. yesler's generous heart applauded the loyalty which was proof against both disgrace and poverty. for in the past month both of these had fallen heavily upon her. tom pelton had always lived well, and during the past few years he had speculated in ventures far beyond his means. losses had pursued him, and he had looked to the senatorship to recoup himself and to stand off the creditors pressing hard for payment. instead he had been exposed, disgraced, and finally disbarred for attempted bribery. like a horde of hungry rats his creditors had pounced upon the discredited man and wrested from him the remnants of his mortgaged property. he had been forced to move into a mere cottage and was a man without a future. for the only profession at which he had skill enough to make a living was the one from which he had been cast as unfit to practise it. the ready sympathy of the cattleman had gone out to the politician who was down and out. he had heard the situation discussed enough to guess pretty close to the facts, and he could not let himself rest until he had made some effort to help the man whom his exposure had ruined, or, rather, had hastened to ruin, for that result had been for years approaching. "i'm sorry, mr. pelton. if i've injured you i want to make it right." "make it right!" the former congressman got up with an oath. "make it right! can you give me back my reputation, my future? can you take away the shame that has come upon my wife, and that my children will have to bear in the years to come? can you give us back our home, our comfort, our peace of mind?" "no, i can't do this, but i can help you to do it all," the cattleman made answer quietly. he offered no defense, though he knew perfectly well none was needed. he had no responsibility in the calamity that had befallen this family. pelton's wrong-doing had come home to those he loved, and he could rightly blame nobody but himself. however much he might arraign those who had been the agents of his fall, he knew in his heart that the fault had been his own. norma pelton, tensely self-repressed, spoke now. "how can you do this, sir?" "i can't do it so long as you hold me for an enemy, ma'am. i'm ready to cry quits with your husband and try a new deal. if i injured him he tried to even things up. well, let's say things are squared and start fresh. i've got a business proposition to make if you're willing to listen to it." "what sort of a proposition?" "i'm running about twenty-five thousand sheep up in the hills. i've just bought a ranch with a comfortable ranch-house on it for a kind of central point. my winter feeding will all be done from it as a chief place of distribution. same with the shearing and shipping. i want a good man to put in charge of my sheep as head manager, and i would be willing to pay a proper salary. there ain't any reason why this shouldn't work into a partnership if he makes good. with wool jumping, as it's going to do in the next four years, the right kind of man can make himself independent for life. my idea is to increase my holdings right along, and let my manager in as a partner as soon as he shows he is worth it. now that ranch-house is a decent place. there's a pretty good school, ma'am, for the children. the folks round that neighborhood may not have any frills, but--" "are you offering tom the place as manager?" she demanded, in amazement. "that was my idea, ma'am. it's not what you been used to, o' course, but if you're looking for a change i thought i'd speak of it," he said diffidently. she looked at him in a dumb surprise. she, too, in her heart knew that this man was blameless. he had done his duty, and had nearly lost his life for it at the hands of her husband. now, he had come to lift them out of the hideous nightmare into which they had fallen. he had come to offer them peace and quiet and plenty in exchange for the future of poverty and shame and despair which menaced them. they were to escape into god's great hills, away from the averted looks and whispering tongues and the temptations to drown his trouble that so constantly beset the father of her children. despite his faults she still loved tom pelton; he was a kind and loving husband and father. out on the range there still waited a future for him. when she thought of it a lump rose in her throat for very happiness. she, who had been like a rock beside him in his trouble, broke down now and buried her head in her husband's coat. "don't you, honey--now, don't you cry." the big man had lost all his pomposity, and was comforting his sweetheart as simply as a boy. "it's all been my fault. i've been doing wrong for years--trying to pull myself out of the mire by my bootstraps. by gad, you're a man, sam yesler, that's what you are. if i don't turn ovah a new leaf i'd ought to be shot. we'll make a fresh start, sweetheart. dash me, i'm nothing but a dashed baby." and with that the overwrought man broke down, too. yesler, moved a good deal himself, maintained the burden of the conversation cheerfully. "that's all settled, then. tell you i'm right glad to get a competent man to put in charge. things have been running at loose ends, because i haven't the time to look after them. this takes a big load off my mind. you better arrange to go up there with me as soon as you have time, pelton, and look the ground over. you'll want to make some changes if you mean to take your family up there. better to spend a few hundreds and have things the way you want them for mrs. pelton than to move in with things not up to the mark. of course, i'll put the house in the shape you want it. but we can talk of that after we look it over." in his embarrassment he looked so much the boy, so much the culprit caught stealing apples and up for sentence, that norma pelton's gratitude took courage. she came across to him and held out both hands, the shimmer of tears still in the soft brown eyes. "you've given us more than life, mr. yesler. you can't ever know what you have done for us. some things are worse than death to some people. i don't mean poverty, but--other things. we can begin again far away from this tainted air that has poisoned us. i know it isn't good form to be saying this. one shouldn't have feelings in public. but i don't care. i think of the children--and tom. i didn't expect ever to be happy again, but we shall. i feel it." she broke down again and dabbed at her eyes with her kerchief. sam, very much embarrassed but not at all displeased at this display of feeling, patted her dark hair and encouraged her to composure. "there. it's all right, now, ma'am. sure you'll be happy. any mother that's got kids like these--" he caught up the little girl in his arms by way of diverting attention from himself. this gave a new notion to the impulsive little woman. "i want you to kiss them both. come here, kennie. this is mr. yesler, and he is the best man you've ever seen. i want you to remember that he has been our best friend." "yes, mama." "oh, sho, ma'am!" protested the overwhelmed cattleman, kissing both the children, nevertheless. pelton laughed. he felt a trifle hysterical himself. "if she thinks it she'll say it when she feels that way. i'm right surprised she don't kiss you, too." "i will," announced norma promptly, with a pretty little tide of color. she turned toward him, and yesler, laughing, met the red lips of the new friend he had made. "now, you've got just grounds for shooting me," he said gaily, and instantly regretted his infelicitous remark. for both husband and wife fell grave at his words. it was pelton that answered them. "i've been taught a lesson, mr. yesler. i'm never going to pack a gun again as long as i live, unless i'm hunting or something of that sort, and i'm never going to drink another drop of liquor. it's all right for some men, but it isn't right for me." "glad to hear it. i never did believe in the hip-pocket habit. i've lived here twenty years, and i never found it necessary except on special occasions. when it comes to whisky, i reckon we'd all be better without it." yesler made his escape at the earliest opportunity and left them alone together. he lunched at the club, attended to some correspondence he had, and about : drifted down the street toward the post-office. he had expectations of meeting a young woman who often passed about that time on her way home from school duties. it was, however, another young woman whose bow he met in front of mesa's largest department store. "good afternoon, miss balfour." she nodded greeting and cast eyes of derision on him. "i've been hearing about you. aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "yes, ma'am. what for in particular? there are so many things." "you're a fine christian, aren't you?" she scoffed. "i ain't much of a one. that's a fact," he admitted. "what is it this time--poker?" "no, it isn't poker. worse than that. you've been setting a deplorable example to the young." "to young ladies--like miss virginia?" he wanted to know. "no, to young christians. i don't know what our good deacons will say about it." she illuminated her severity with a flashing smile. "don't you know that the sins of the fathers are to descend upon their children even to the third and fourth generation? don't you know that when a man does wrong he must die punished, and his children and his wife, of course, and that the proper thing to do is to stand back and thank heaven we haven't been vile sinners?" "now, don't you begin on that, miss virginia," he warned. "and after the man had disgraced himself and shot you, after all respectable people had given him an extra kick to let him know he must stay down and had then turned their backs upon him. i'm not surprised that you're ashamed." "where did you get hold of this fairy-tale?" he plucked up courage to demand. "from norma pelton. she told me everything, the whole story from beginning to end." "it's right funny you should be calling on her, and you a respectable young lady--unless you went to deliver that extra kick you was mentioning," he grinned. she dropped her raillery. "it was splendid. i meant to ask mr. ridgway to do something for them, but this is so much better. it takes them away from the place of his disgrace and away from temptation. oh, i don't wonder norma kissed you." "she told you that, too, did she?" "yes. i should have done it, too, in her place." he glanced round placidly. "it's a right public place here, but--" "don't be afraid. i'm not going to." and before she disappeared within the portals of the department store she gave him one last thrust. "it's not so public up in the library. perhaps if you happen to be going that way?" she left her communication a fragment, but he thought it worth acting upon. among the library shelves he found laska deep in a new volume on domestic science. "this ain't any kind of day to be fooling away your time on cook-books. come out into the sun and live," he invited. they walked past the gallows-frames and the slag-dumps and the shaft-houses into the brown hills beyond the point where green copper streaks showed and spurred the greed of man. it was a day of spring sunshine, the good old earth astir with her annual recreation. the roadside was busy with this serious affair of living. ants and crawling things moved to and fro about their business. squirrels raced across the road and stood up at a safe distance to gaze at these intruders. birds flashed back and forth, hurried little carpenters busy with the specifications for their new nests. eager palpitating life was the key-note of the universe. "virginia told me about the peltons," laska said, after a pause. "it's spreading almost as fast as if it were a secret," he smiled. "i'm expecting to find it in the paper when we get back." "i'm so glad you did it." "well, you're to blame." "i!" she looked at him in surprise. "partly. you told me how things were going with them. that seemed to put it up to me to give pelton a chance." "i certainly didn't mean it that way. i had no right to ask you to do anything about it." "mebbe it was the facts put it up to me. anyhow, i felt responsible." "mr. roper once told me that you always feel responsible when you hear anybody is in trouble," the young woman answered. "roper's a goat. nobody ever pays any attention to him." presently they diverged from the road and sat down on a great flat rock which dropped out from the hillside like a park seat. for he was still far from strong and needed frequent rests. their talk was desultory, for they had reached that stage of friendship at which it is not necessary to bridge silence with idle small talk. here, by some whim of fate, the word was spoken. he knew he loved her, but he had not meant to say it yet. but when her steady gray eyes came back to his after a long stillness, the meeting brought him a strange feeling that forced his hand. "i love you, laska. will you be my wife?" he asked quietly. "yes, sam," she answered directly. that was all. it was settled with a word. there in the sunshine he kissed her and sealed the compact, and afterward, when the sun was low among the hill spurs, they went back happily to take up again the work that awaited them. chapter . friendly enemies ridgway had promised aline that he would see her soon, and when he found himself in new york he called at the big house on fifth avenue, which had for so long been identified as the home of simon harley. it bore his impress stamped on it. its austerity suggested the puritan rather than the classic conception of simplicity. the immense rooms were as chill as dungeons, and the forlorn little figure in black, lost in the loneliness of their bleakness, wandered to and fro among her retinue of servants like a butterfly beating its wings against a pane of glass. with both hands extended she ran forward to meet her guest. "i'm so glad, so glad, so glad to see you." the joy-note in her voice was irrepressible. she had been alone for weeks with the conventional gloom that made an obsession of the shadow of death which enveloped the house. all voices and footsteps had been subdued to harmonize with the grief of the mistress of this mausoleum. now she heard the sharp tread of this man unafraid, and saw the alert vitality of his confident bearing. it was like a breath of the hills to a parched traveler. "i told you i would come." "yes. i've been looking for you every day. i've checked each one off on my calendar. it's been three weeks and five days since i saw you." "i thought it was a year," he laughed, and the sound of his uncurbed voice rang strangely in this room given to murmurs. "tell me about everything. how is virginia, and mrs. mott, and mr. yesler? and is he really engaged to that sweet little school-teacher? and how does mr. hobart like being senator?" "not more than a dozen questions permitted at a time. begin again, please." "first, then, when did you reach the city?" he consulted his watch. "just two hours and twenty-seven minutes ago." "and how long are you going to stay?" "that depends." "on what?" "for one thing, on whether you treat me well," he smiled. "oh, i'll treat you well. i never was so glad to see a real live somebody in my life. it's been pretty bad here." she gave a dreary little smile as she glanced around at the funereal air of the place. "do you know, i don't think we think of death in the right way? or, maybe, i'm a heathen and haven't the proper feelings." she had sat down on one of the stiff divans, and ridgway found a place beside her. "suppose you tell me about it," he suggested. "i know i must be wrong, and you'll be shocked when you hear." "very likely." "i can't help feeling that the living have rights, too," she began dubiously. "if they would let me alone i could be sorry in my own way, but i don't see why i have to make a parade of grief. it seems to--to cheapen one's feelings, you know." he nodded. "just as if you had to measure your friendship for the dead with a yardstick of mother grundy. it's a hideous imposition laid on us by custom, one of ibsen's ghosts." "it's so good to hear you say that. and do you think i may begin to be happy again?" "i think it would be allowable to start with one smile a day, say, and gradually increase the dose," he jested. "in the course of a week, if it seems to agree with you, try a laugh." she made the experiment without waiting the week, amused at his whimsical way of putting it. nevertheless, the sound of her own laughter gave her a little shock. "you came on business, i suppose?" she said presently. "yes. i came to raise a million dollars for some improvements i want to make." "let me lend it to you," she proposed eagerly. "that would be a good one. i'm going to use it to fight the consolidated. since you are now its chief stockholder you would be letting me have money with which to fight you." "i shouldn't care about that. i hope you beat me." "you're my enemy now. that's not the way to talk." his eyes twinkled merrily. "am i your enemy? let's be friendly enemies, then. and there's something i want to talk to you about. before he died mr. harley told me he had made you an offer. i didn't understand the details, but you were to be in charge of all the copper-mines in the country. wasn't that it?" "something of that sort. i declined the proposition." "i want you to take it now and manage everything for me. i don't know mr. harley's associates, but i can trust you. you can arrange it any way you like, but i want to feel that you have the responsibility." he saw again that vision of power--all the copper interests of the country pooled, with himself at the head of the combination. he knew it would not be so easy to arrange as she thought, for, though she had inherited harley's wealth, she had not taken over his prestige and force. there would be other candidates for leadership. but if he managed her campaign aline's great wealth must turn the scale in their favor. "you must think this over again. you must talk it over with your advisers before we come to a decision," he said gravely. "i've told mr. jarmyn. he says the idea is utterly impossible. but we'll show him, won't we? it's my money and my stock, not his. i don't see why he should dictate. he's always 'my dear ladying' me. i won't have it," she pouted. the fighting gleam was in ridgway's eyes now. "so mr. jannyn thinks it is impossible, does he?" "that's what he said. he thinks you wouldn't do at all." "if you really mean it we'll show him about that." she shook hands with him on it. "you're very good to me," she said, so naively that he could not keep back his smile. "most people would say i was very good to myself. what you offer me is a thing i might have fought for all my life and never won." "then i'm glad if it pleases you. that's enough about business. now, we'll talk about something important." he could think of only one thing more important to him than this, but it appeared she meant plans to see as much as possible of him while he was in the city. "i suppose you have any number of other friends here that will want you?" she said. "they can't have me if this friend wants me," he answered, with that deep glow in his eyes she recognized from of old; and before she could summon her reserves of defense he asked: "do you want me, aline?" his meaning came to her with a kind of sweet shame. "no, no, no--not yet," she cried. "dear," he answered, taking her little hand in his big one, "only this now: that i can't help wanting to be near you to comfort you, because i love you. for everything else, i am content to wait." "and i love you," the girl-widow answered, a flush dyeing her cheeks. "but i ought not to tell you yet, ought i?" there was that in her radiant tear-dewed eyes that stirred the deepest stores of tenderness in the man. his finer instincts, vandal and pagan though he was, responded to it. "it is right that you should tell me, since it is true, but it is right, too, that we should wait." "it is sweet to know that you love me. there are so many things i don't understand. you must help me. you are so strong and so sure, and i am so helpless." "you dear innocent, so strong in your weakness," he murmured to himself. "you must be a guide to me and a teacher." "and you a conscience to me," he smiled, not without amusement at the thought. she took it seriously. "but i'm afraid i can't. you know so much better than i do what is right." "i'm quite a paragon of virtue," he confessed. "you're so sure of everything. you took it for granted that i loved you. why were you so sure?" "i was just as sure as you were that i cared for you. confess." she whispered it. "yes, i knew it, but when you did not come i thought, perhaps---- you see, i'm not strong or clever. i can't help you as virginia could." she stopped, the color washing from her face. "i had forgotten. you have no right to love me--nor i you," she faltered. "girl o' mine, we have every right in the world. love is never wrong unless it is a theft or a robbery. there is nothing between me and virginia that is not artificial and conventional, no tie that ought not to be broken, none that should ever of right have existed. love has the right of way before mere convention a hundredfold." "ah! if i were sure." "but i was to be a teacher to you and a judge for you." "and i was to be a conscience to you." "but on this i am quite clear. i can be a conscience to myself. however, there is no hurry. time's a great solvent." "and we can go on loving each other in the meantime." he lifted her little pink fingers and kissed them. "yes, we can do that all the time." chapter . breaks one and makes another engagement miss balfour's glass made her irritably aware of cheeks unduly flushed and eyes unusually bright. since she prided herself on being sufficient for the emergencies of life, she cast about in her mind to determine which of the interviews that lay before her was responsible for her excitement. it was, to be sure, an unusual experience for a young woman to be told that her fiance would be unable to marry her, owing to a subsequent engagement, but she looked forward to it with keen anticipation, and would not have missed it for the world. since she pushed the thought of the other interview into the background of her mind and refused to contemplate it at all, she did not see how that could lend any impetus to her pulse. but though she was pleasantly excited as she swept into the reception-room, ridgway was unable to detect the fact in her cool little nod and frank, careless handshake. indeed, she looked so entirely mistress of herself, so much the perfectly gowned exquisite, that he began to dread anew the task he had set himself. it is not a pleasant thing under the most favorable circumstances to beg off from marrying a young woman one has engaged oneself to, and ridgway did not find it easier because the young woman looked every inch a queen, and was so manifestly far from suspecting the object of his call. "i haven't had a chance to congratulate you personally yet," she said, after they had drifted to chairs. "i've been immensely proud of you." "i got your note. it was good of you to write as soon as you heard." she swept him with one of her smile-lit side glances. "though, of course, in a way, i was felicitating myself when i congratulated you." "you mean?" she laughed with velvet maliciousness. "oh, well, i'm dragged into the orbit of your greatness, am i not? as the wife of the president of the greater consolidated copper company--the immense combine that takes in practically all the larger copper properties in the country--i should come in for a share of reflected glory, you know." ridgway bit his lip and took a deep breath, but before he had found words she was off again. she had no intention of letting him descent from the rack yet. "how did you do it? by what magic did you bring it about? of course, i've read the newspapers' accounts, seen your features and your history butchered in a dozen sunday horrors, and thanked heaven no enterprising reporter guessed enough to use me as copy. every paper i have picked up for weeks has been full of you and the story of how you took wall street by the throat. but i suspect they were all guesses, merely superficial rumors except as to the main facts. what i want to know is the inside story--the lever by means of which you pried open the door leading to the inner circle of financial magnates. you have often told me how tightly barred that door is. what was the open-sesame you used as a countersign to make the keeper of the gate unbolt?" he thought he saw his chance. "the countersign was 'aline harley,'" he said, and looked her straight in the face. he wished he could find some way of telling her without making him feel so like a cad. she clapped her hands. "i thought so. she backed you with that uncounted fortune her husband left her. is that it?" "that is it exactly. she gave me a free hand, and the immense fortune she inherited from harley put me in a position to force recognition from the leaders. after that it was only a question of time till i had convinced them my plan was good." he threw back his shoulders and tried to take the fence again. "would you like to know why mrs. harley put her fortune at my command?" "i suppose because she is interested in us and our little affair. doesn't all the world love a lover?" she asked, with a disarming candor. "she had a better reason," he said, meeting her eyes gravely. "you must tell me it--but not just yet. i have something to tell you first." she held out her little clenched hand. "here is something that belongs to you. can you open it?" he straightened her fingers one by one, and took from her palm the engagement-ring he had given her. instantly he looked up, doubt and relief sweeping his face. "am i to understand that you terminate our engagement?" she nodded. "may i ask why?" "i couldn't bring myself to it, waring. i honestly tried, but i couldn't do it." "when did you find this out?" "i began to find it out the first day of our engagement. i couldn't make it seem right. i've been in a process of learning it ever since. it wouldn't be fair to you for me to marry you." "you're a brick, virginia!" he cried jubilantly. "no, i'm not. that is a minor reason. the really important one is that it wouldn't be fair to me." "no, it would not," he admitted, with an air of candor. "because, you see, i happen to care for another man," she purred. his vanity leaped up fully armed. "another man! who?" "that's my secret," she answered, smiling at his chagrin. "and his?" "i said mine. at any rate, if three knew, it wouldn't be a secret," was her quick retort. "do you think you have been quite fair to me, virginia?" he asked, with gloomy dignity. "i think so," she answered, and touched him with the riposte: "i'm ready now to have you tell me when you expect to marry aline harley." his dignity collapsed like a pricked bladder. "how did you know?" he demanded, in astonishment. "oh well, i have eyes." "but i didn't know--i thought--" "oh, you thought! you are a pair of children at the game," this thousand-year-old young woman scoffed. "i have known for months that you worshiped each other." "if you mean to imply" he began severely. "hit somebody of your size, warry," she interrupted cheerfully, as to an infant. "if you suppose i am so guileless as not to know that you were coming here this afternoon to tell me you were regretfully compelled to give me up on account of a more important engagement, then you conspicuously fail to guess right. i read it in your note." he gave up attempting to reprove her. it did not seem feasible under the circumstances. instead, he held out the hand of peace, and she took it with a laugh of gay camaraderie. "well," he smiled, "it seems possible that we may both soon be subjects for congratulation. that just shows how things work around right. we never would have suited each other, you know." "i'm quite sure we shouldn't," agreed virginia promptly. "but i don't think i'll trouble you to congratulate me till you see me wearing another solitaire." "we'll hope for the best," he said cheerfully. "if it is the man i think, he is a better man than i am." "yes, he is," she nodded, without the least hesitation. "i hope you will be happy with him." "i'm likely to be happy without him." "not unless he is a fool." "or prefers another lady, as you do." she settled herself back in the low easy chair, with her hands clasped behind her head. "and now i'd like to know why you prefer her to me," she demanded saucily. "do you think her handsomer?" he looked her over from the rippling brown hair to the trim suede shoes. "no," he smiled; "they don't make them handsomer." "more intellectual?" "no." "of a better disposition?" "i like yours, too." "more charming?" "i find her so, saving your presence." "please justify yourself in detail." he shook his head, still smiling. "my justification is not to be itemized. it lies deeper--in destiny, or fate, or whatever one calls it." "i see." she offered markham's verses as an explanation: "perhaps we are led and our loves are fated, and our steps are counted one by one; perhaps we shall meet and our souls be mated, after the burnt-out sun." "i like that. who did you say wrote it?" the immobile butler, as once before, presented a card for her inspection. ridgway, with recollections of the previous occasion, ventured to murmur again: "the fairy prince." virginia blushed to her hair, and this time did not offer the card for his disapproval. "shall i congratulate him?" he wanted to know. the imperious blood came to her cheeks on the instant. the sudden storm in her eyes warned him better than words. "i'll be good," he murmured, as lyndon hobart came into the room. his goodness took the form of a speedy departure. she followed him to the door for a parting fling at him. "in your automobile you may reach a telegraph-office in about five minutes. with luck you may be engaged inside of an hour." "you have the advantage of me by fifty-five minutes," he flung back. "you ought to thank me on your knees for having saved you a wretched scene this afternoon," was the best she could say to cover her discomfiture. "i do. i do. my thanks are taking the form of leaving you with the prince." "that's very crude, sir--and i'm not sure it isn't impertinent." miss balfour was blushing when she returned to hobart. he mistook the reason, and she could not very well explain that her blushes were due to the last wordless retort of the retiring "old love," whose hand had gone up in a ridiculous bless-you-my-children attitude just before he left her. their conversation started stiffly. he had come, he explained, to say good-by. he was leaving the state to go to washington prior to the opening of the session. this gave her a chance to congratulate him upon his election. "i haven't had an opportunity before. you've been so busy, of course, preparing to save the country, that your time must have been very fully occupied." he did not show his surprise at this interpretation of the fact that he had quietly desisted from his attentions to her, but accepted it as the correct explanation, since she had chosen to offer it. miss balfour expressed regret that he was going, though she did not suppose she would see any less of him than she had during the past two months. he did not take advantage of her little flings to make the talk less formal, and virginia, provoked at his aloofness, offered no more chances. things went very badly, indeed, for ten minutes, at the end of which time hobart rose to go. virginia was miserably aware of being wretched despite the cool hauteur of her seeming indifference. but he was too good a sportsman to go without letting her know he held no grudge. "i hope you will be very happy with mr. ridgway. believe me, there is nobody whose happiness i would so rejoice at as yours." "thank you," she smiled coolly, and her heart raced. "may i hope that your good wishes still obtain even though i must seek my happiness apart from mr. ridgway?" he held her for an instant's grave, astonished questioning, before which her eyes fell. her thoughts side-tracked swiftly to long for and to dread what was coming. "am i being told--you must pardon me if i have misunderstood your meaning--that you are no longer engaged to mr. ridgway?" she made obvious the absence of the solitaire she had worn. before the long scrutiny of his steady gaze: her eyes at last fell. "if you don't mind, i'll postpone going just yet," he said quietly. her racing heart assured her fearfully, delightfully, that she did not mind at all. "i have no time and no compass to take my bearings. you will pardon me if what i say seems presumptuous?" silence, which is not always golden, oppressed her. why could she not make light talk as she had been wont to do with waring ridgway? "but if i ask too much, i shall not be hurt if you deny me," he continued. "for how long has your engagement with mr. ridgway been broken, may i ask?" "between fifteen and twenty minutes." "a lovers' quarrel, perhaps!" he hazarded gently. "on the contrary, quite final and irrevocable mr. ridgway and i have never been lovers. she was not sure whether this last was meant as a confession or a justification. "not lovers?" he waited for her to explain her proud eyes faced him. "we became engaged for other reasons. i thought that did not matter. but i find my other reasons were not sufficient. to-day i terminated the engagement. but it is only fair to say that mr. ridgway had come here for that purpose. i merely anticipated him." her self-contempt would not let her abate one jot of the humiliating truth. she flayed herself with a whip of scorn quite lost on hobart. a wave of surging hope was flushing his heart, but he held himself well in hand. "i must be presumptuous still," he said. "i must find out if you broke the engagement because you care for another man?" she tried to meet his shining eyes and could not. "you have no right to ask that." "perhaps not till i have asked something else. i wonder if i should have any chance if i were to tell you that i love you?" her glance swept him shyly with a delicious little laugh. "you never can tell till you try." the pony rider boys in montana by frank gee patchin chapter i fitting out for the journey "forsythe!" announced the trainman in a loud voice. "that is where we get off, is it not!" asked tad butler. "yes, this is the place," answered professor zepplin. "i don't see any place," objected stacy brown, peering from the car window. "where is it?" "you'll see it in a minute," said walter perkins. "chunky, we are too busy to bother answering all your silly questions. why don't you get a railroad guide? town's on the other side. it's one of those one-sided towns. use your eyes more and your tongue less," added ned rector impatiently. with this injunction, ned rose and began pulling his belongings from the rack over his head, which action was followed by the three other boys in the party. professor zepplin had already risen and was walking toward the car door. the northern pacific train on which they were riding, came to a slow, noisy stop. from it, alighted the four boys, sun-burned, clear-eyed and springy of step. they were clad in the regulation suits of the cowboy, the faded garments giving evidence of long service on the open plains. accompanying the lads was a tall, athletic looking man, his face deeply bronzed from exposure to wind, sun and storm, his iron gray beard standing out in strong contrast, giving to his sun burned features a ferocious appearance that was not at all in keeping with the man's real nature. a man dressed in a neat business suit, but wearing a broad brimmed sombrero stepped up to the boys without the least hesitation, the moment they reached the platform. "are you the pony rider boys?" he asked smilingly. "we are, sir," replied tad, lifting his hat courteously. "glad to know you, young man. i am mr. simms the banker here. i was requested by banker perkins of chillicothe, missouri, to meet you young gentlemen. funds for your use while here are deposited in my bank ready for your order. where is professor--professor----" "zepplin?" "yes, that's the name." "this is he," tad informed him, introducing the professor. "if you and the young men will come up to the bank we will talk matters over. i would ask you to my house, but my family is spending the summer at my ranch out near gracy butte." "it is just as well," said the professor. "we are not exactly up here on a social mission. the boys are crowding all the time possible into their life during their vacation. i presume they are anxious to get started again." leaving their baggage at the railroad station, the party set off up the street with the banker, to make final arrangements for the journey to which they looked forward with keen anticipation. readers of this series will remember how, in "the pony rider boys in the rockies," the four lads set off on horseback to spend part of their summer vacation in the mountains. the readers will remember too, the many thrilling experiences that the boys passed through on that eventful trip, between hunting big game in hand to hand conflict, fighting a real battle with the bad men of the mountains, and how in the end they discovered and took possession of the lost claim. readers will also remember how the lads next joined in a cattle drive, and their adventures and exciting trip across the plains in "the pony rider boys in texas." it will be recalled that on this expedition they became cowboys in reality, living the life of the cattle men, sharing their duties and their hardships, participating in wild, daring night rides, facing appalling storms, battling with swollen torrents, bravely facing many perils, and tow eventually tad butler and his companions solved the veiled riddle of the plains, thus bringing great happiness to others as well as keen satisfaction to themselves. after having completed their eventful trip in texas, the boys had expressed a desire to next make a trip of exploration to the north country. arrangements had therefore been made by the father of walter perkins for a journey into the wilder parts of montana. none of the details, however, had been decided upon. the boys felt that they were now experienced enough to be allowed to make their own arrangements, always, of course, with the approval of their companion, professor zepplin. as a result they arrived in forsythe one hot july day, about noon. their ponies had been shipped home, the little fellows having become a bit too docile to suit the tastes of the lads, who had been riding bucking bronchos during their trip on a cattle drive in southern texas. they knew they would have little difficulty in finding animals to suit them up in the grazing country. "and now what are your plans, young men?" smiled the hanker, after all had taken seats in his office in the rear of the bank. the lads waited for professor zepplin to speak. "tell mr. simms what you have in mind," he urged. "we had thought of going over the old custer trail," spoke up walter. "where, down in the black hills?" "no, not so far down as that. we should like to go over the trail he followed and visit the scene of his last battle and get a little mountain trip as well----" "are there any mountains around here?" asked stacy innocently. mr. simms laughed, in which he was joined by the boys. "my lad, there's not much else up here. you'll find all the mountains you want and some that you will not want----" "any indians?" asked chunky. "state's full of them." "good indians, of course," nodded the professor. "well, you know the old saying that 'the only good indian is a dead indian.' they're good when they have to be. we have very little trouble with the crows, but sometimes the black feet and flat heads get off their reservations and cause us a little trouble." chunky was listening with wide open eyes. "i--i don't like indians," he stammered. "none of us are overfond of them, i guess. since you arrived i have been thinking of something that may interest you." "we are in your hands," smiled the professor. "as i said a short time ago, i have a ranch out near gracy butte." "cattle?" asked tad, with quickened interest. "no, sheep. i have another up on the missouri river. i am getting in five thousand more sheep that some of my men are bringing in on a drive. they should be along very shortly now." "you deal in large numbers in this country," smiled the professor. "yes, we have to if we expect to make a profit. i intend to send these five thousand new sheep to the missouri river ranch. it will be a long, hard drive and we shall need some extra men. how would you boys like to join the outfit and go through with them? i promise you you will get all the outdoor life you want." "well, i don't know," said tad doubtfully. "i don't just like sheep." mr. simms laughed. "you've been with a cattle outfit. i can see that. you have learned to hate sheep and for no reason--no good reason whatever. sheep are a real pleasure to manage. besides, they are wholesome, intelligent little animals. the cattle men resent their being on the range for the reason that the sheep crop down the grass so close that the cattle are unable to get enough. they try to drive us off." "by what right?" interrupted the professor. "right of strength, that's all. on free grass we have as much right as the cattle men. have you your own ponies?" "no; we expect to purchase some here. can you recommend us to a ranch where we can fit ourselves out? we have our saddles and camp outfit, of course," said tad. "yes; i'll take you out to my brother's ranch just outside the town. he has some lively little bronchos there. he won't ask you any fancy price, either. if you buy, why, you can give him an order on my bank and i will settle with him. you know you have funds here for your requirements. what do you say to the sheep idea?" "will you let us think it over, mr. simms!" asked walter. "why, certainly. you will have plenty of time to visit the rosebud mountains as well. i have arranged for a guide. you will find him at the edge of the foothills where he lives. you can't miss him. when do you plan to start?" asked the banker. "we thought we should like to get away today," replied tad. "i see you are not losing any time, young men. we may be able to fix you up so you can start this afternoon. you will want to camp out, i imagine, and not make the journey in one day." "oh, yes, we are used to that," interjected ned. "we have slept out of doors so long now that we should not feel comfortable in a real bed." "i understand. i have been a cowboy as well as sheepman, and have spent many weeks on the open range. it was different then," he added reminiscently. "we will drive out to my brother's ranch now, if you are ready." the boys rose instantly. they were looking forward to having their new ponies, with keen anticipation. after a short drive they reached the ranch, and a herd of half wild ponies was driven into a corral where the lads might look them over and make their choice. "i think that little bay there, with the pink eyes will suit me," decided tad. "is he saddle broken?" "after a fashion, yes. he's been out a few times. but he's full of ginger," announced the cowboy who was showing the horses to them. "that's what i want. don't like to have to use the spur to keep my mount from going to sleep," laughed the boy. "you won't need the irons to keep this pony awake or yerself either." "you may give me the most gentle beast on the premises," spoke up the professor. "i have had quite enough of wild horses and their pranks," a speech at which the boys all laughed heartily. "me too," agreed chunky. "you'll take what you get. you couldn't stay on any kind of horse for long at a time. why, you'd fall off one of those wooden horses that they have in harness shops," announced ned rector witheringly. "i can ride as well as you can," retorted the fat boy, looking his tormentor straight in the eyes. "chunky means business when he looks at you that way," laughed walter. "better keep away from him, ned." "think i'll take the pink-eyed one," decided tad. "pink-eye. that will be a good name for him. got a rope?" "yes, kin you rope him?" "i'll try if you will stir them up a bit," answered the freckle-faced boy. "you might as well pick out our ponies, too," observed the professor. "you are the only one of our party who is a competent judge of horse flesh." tad nodded. his rope was held loosely in his hand, the broad loop lying on the ground a few feet behind him, while the cowboy began milling the biting, kicking animals about the corral. now pink-eye's head was raised above the back of his fellows so that tad got a good roping sight. the lariat began curving in the air, then its great loop opened, shot out and dropped neatly over the head of the pink-eyed pony. tad drew it taut before it settled to the animal's shoulder, at the same time throwing his full weight on the rawhide. he would have been equally successful in trying to hold a steam engine. before the lad had time to swing the line and throw the pony from its feet, the muscular little animal had leaped to one side. the sudden jerk hurled the boy through the air. "look out!" warned the cowboy. his warning came too late. tad was thrown with great force full against the heels of another broncho. "he'll be killed!" cried professor zepplin. up went the pony's hind feet and with them tad butler. the pony came down as quickly as it had gone up, but tap kept on going. he had been near the wire corral when he was jerked against the animal's feet. the pony kicked a clean goal and tad was projected over the wire fence, landing in a heap several feet outside the corral. the lad was on his feet almost instantly. when they saw that he had not been seriously injured the boys set up a defiant yell. "hurt you any?" grinned the cowboy. "only my pride," answered tad, with a sheepish smile. "i never had that happen to me before." "other ponies got in your way so you couldn't throw your rope down on the pink-eyed one and trip him. i'll get him out for you." "you will do nothing of the sort. i can rope my own stock." after having obtained another lariat, tad, not deeming it wise to attempt to try to pick up the rope that the animal was dragging about the corral, once more took his station, while the cowman began milling them around the enclosure by sundry shouts and prods. there was much kicking and squealing. "now cut him out!" shouted tad. the cowboy did so. pink-eye was beating a tattoo in the air with his heels. he was occupying a little open space all by himself at that moment. the rope again curled through the air. tad gave it a quick undulating motion after feeling the pull on the pony's neck, and the next moment the little animal fell heavily to his side. "woof!" said the pony. "come out of here!" commanded the lad, jerking the animal to its feet and starting for the exit. the pink-eyed broncho followed its new master out as if he had been doing so every day for a long time. tad picked out a spotted roan for stacy brown, to which he gave the appropriate name of "painted-squaw". bad-eye, was considered an appropriate name for ned rector's broncho, while walter drew a dapple gray which he decided to call buster. after choosing a well broken animal for the professor, and picking out a suitable pack horse, the boys announced that they were ready for the start. an hour or so was spent in getting provisions enough to last them for a few days, all of which, together with their camp equipment, was strapped to the backs of the ponies. it was now three o'clock in the afternoon. ahead of them was a thirty mile journey over an unknown trail. "i think we had better have a guide to take us out to the foothills until we shall have found our permanent guide," said the professor. "no, please don't," urged tad. "we are plainsmen enough now to be able to find our own way," added ned. "it's a clear trail. we can see the rosebud range from here. that's it over there, isn't it, mr. simms?" "yes," replied the banker. "all you will have to do will be to get your direction by your compass before you start, and hold to it. you will not be able to see the mountains all the time, as the country is rolling and there are numerous buttes between here and there." "any indians?" asked stacy apprehensively. "you may see some, but they will not bother you," laughed the banker. "i shall hope to have you all spend next sunday with us at my ranch; then we can discuss our plans for your joining my outfit." "how far is it from where we are bound?" asked the professor. "not more than twenty miles. just a few hours' ride." filled with joyful anticipations the little party set out, headed for the mountain ranges that lay low in the southwest, some thirty miles distant. contrary to their usual practice, they had taken no cook with them, having decided to rely wholly on their own resources for a time at least, which they felt themselves safe in doing after their many experiences thus far on their summer vacation. the little western village was soon left behind them. turning in their saddles, they found that it had sunk out of sight. they could not tell behind which of the endless succession of high and low buttes the town was nestling. tad consulted his compass, after which the lads faced the southwest and pressed cheerfully on. the pony rider boys were fairly started now on what was to prove the most exciting and eventful journey of their lives. chapter ii yawns prove disastrous "yah-h-h hum." stacy brown yawned loudly. "yah-hum," breathed walter perkins, half rousing himself from his nap. "ho-ho-hum," added the deep bass voice of professor zepplin. "yah--see here, stop that!" commanded ned rector, suddenly raising himself to a sitting posture. "you've done nothing but stretch your mouth in yawns ever since we reached montana. see, you've waked up the whole camp." "ho-hum," said chunky. "say, what ails you?" demanded tad, putting down by supreme force of will, his own inclination to yawn. "i--i guess--yah--it must be the--the mountain air. yah-hum," yawned the fat boy. pink-eye coughed off among the cedars. "what means all this disturbance, young gentlemen?" demanded the professor. "it's chunky and the bronchos yawning," ned rector informed him. "so did you," observed stacy brown. "did what?" "yawned. see, see! your mouth's open now. you're going to yawn this very second you----" his taunts were lost in the shouts of the pony riders. ned rector's face was set determinedly, a vacant expression having taken full possession of his eyes. "he is going to yawn," announced walter solemnly. "stake down the camp." in spite of his determination not to yield to the impulse of the moment, ned's mouth slowly opened to its extreme capacity, accompanied by a deep intake of breath. "y-a-h-h-h-hum!" he exploded. "got you that time. he--he----" walter's words died away in a long-drawn, gaping yawn. ned waited to hear no more. with a yell he projected himself at the fat boy. stacy, however, observing the move, had quickly rolled to one side. ned struck the ground heavily. stacy was rolling over and over now as if his very life depended upon getting away. he could not spare the time to get up and run, so he continued to roll over and over, making no mean progress at that. "go it, chunky!" shouted walter in high glee. the scene, dimly lighted by the smouldering camp-fire, was so ludicrous as to send the boys into shouts of laughter. all were thoroughly awake now. they had made camp at sunset on the banks of the east fork, of what was known as fennell's creek, a broad, deep stream which, joining its companion fork some ten miles further down, flowed into the clear waters of the yellowstone. here they had cooked their supper after many attempts, made with varying degrees of success and much laughter. later they had rolled themselves into their blankets and gone to sleep. they had been awakened by stacy brown's yawns. in a moment each had taken his turn at yawning, but all took the interruption good-naturedly, save ned rector. by this time he had grown very much excited. no sooner would he pounce upon the spot where stacy appeared to be, than the fat boy by a few swift rolls would propel himself well beyond the reach of his irate companion. "it'll be the worse for you when i do get you," cried ned. at that moment ned tripped over a limb, and, plunging headlong, measured his length on the ground. the sympathy of the camp was with the rolling chunky. "get a net," shouted walter. "no, rope him, ned. that's the only way you ever will catch him," jeered tad. both boys were dancing about their companions, shivering in their pajamas and uttering shouts of glee. "he's a regular high roller," said tad. "no, not a high roller," answered walter. "here, here!" admonished the professor. "stop this nonsense. i want to go to sleep. i don't mind you young gentlemen enjoying yourselves, but midnight is rather late for such pranks, it strikes me. into your blankets, every one of you." it was doubtful that the boys even heard his voice. if they did, they failed entirely to catch the meaning of his words, so absorbed were they in the mad scramble of ned rector and stacy brown. "roll, chunky, roll!" urged walter, jumping up and down in his bare feet. "good thing he's fat. if he weren't so round he could never do it," mocked tad. "i'll bet he was a fast creeper when he was a baby." the ponies, disturbed by the noise and excitement, had scrambled to their feet and were moving about restlessly in the bushes where they were tethered. "master stacy, you will get up at once!" commanded the professor sternly. "i can't," wailed the fat boy. "then i'll help you," decided the professor firmly, striding toward the spot where he had last heard the lad's voice. "look out for the river!" warned tad, as the thought of what was below the boy suddenly occurred to him. "help, help! i'm rolling in," cried stacy. "there he goes, down the bank! grab him!" shouted walter. "where?" demanded ned, not fully grasping the import of the warning. "there, there! don't you see him? right in front of you. he's going to fall into the river!" stacy had forgotten that they were encamped on the east shore of the fork and that the broad stream was flowing rapidly along just below him. the banks at that point were high and precipitous, the water almost icy cold, being fresh from the clear mountain streams a few miles above. in spots it was deep and treacherous. frantically grasping at weeds and slender sprouts, as he rolled down the almost perpendicular bluff, stacy yelled lustily for help. from the soft, sandy soil the weeds came away in his hands, without in the slightest degree checking his progress. tad realized the danger perhaps more fully than did the others. in the darkness the lad might slip into one of the treacherous river pockets and drown before they could reach him. grasping his rope which lay beside his cot. tad sprang to the top of the bluff, swinging the loop of his lariat above his head as he ran. he could faintly make out the figure of his companion rolling down the steep bank. "hold up your hand so i can drop the rope over you," shouted tad, at the same time making a skillful cast. his aim was true. the rawhide reached the mark. chunky, however, feeling it slap him smartly on the cheek, brushed the rope aside in his excitement, not realizing what it was that had struck him. "grab it!" roared tad, observing that he had failed to rope the lad. with a mighty splash, stacy brown plunged into the stream broadside on. "he's in! i heard him strike!" cried walter. with a warning cry to the others to bring lights, tad, without an instant's hesitation, leaped over the bluff and went shooting down it in a sitting posture. "tad's gone in, too," shouted walter excitedly, as their ears caught a second splash. it was more clean cut than had been stacy's dive, and might have passed unnoticed had they not known the meaning of the sound. ned rector stood as if dazed. he knew that somehow he had thoughtlessly plunged his companions into dire peril. "wha--what is it?" he stammered. "they're in the river! don't you understand?" answered walter sharply, moving forward as if to follow over the bank in an effort to rescue his companion. "keep back!" commanded the professor. "you'll all drown if you go over that bank." the professor, with more presence of mind than the others, had sprung up and rushed for the camp-fire, from which he snatched a burning ember. at any other time the sight of his long, gaunt figure, clad in a full suit of pink pajamas, dashing madly about the camp, would have excited the lads to uproarious merriment. but laughter was far from their thoughts at that moment. "use your eyes! do you see him?" demanded professor zepplin, peering down anxiously into the shadows. "no. oh, tad!" shouted ned. there was no reply to the boy's hail. "thaddeus!" roared the professor. still no answer. down the stream a short distance they could hear the water roaring over the rocks, from where it dropped some twenty feet and continued on its course. the falls there were known as buttermilk falls, because of the churning the water received in its lively drop, and more than one mountaineer had been swept over them to his death in times of high water. between the camp and these falls there was a sharp bend in the river, and ere the boys had recovered from their surprise, their companions undoubtedly had been swept around the bend and on beyond their sight. "do--do you--do you think----" stammered walter. "they have gone down stream," answered the professor shortly. "run for it, boys! run as you never ran before!" ned dived for the thicket where the ponies were tethered. it was the work of a moment only to release bad-eye. without waiting to saddle him, ned threw himself upon the surprised animal's back, and with a wild yell sent the broncho plunging through the camp. he was nearly unseated when bad-eye suddenly veered to avoid stepping into the camp-fire, which ned rector in his haste had forgotten. the lad gripped the pony's mane and hung on desperately until he finally succeeded in righting himself, all the while kicking the pony's sides with his bare feet to urge him on faster. they were out of the camp, tearing through the thicket before the professor and walter had even gotten beyond the glow of the fire. ned was obliged to make a wide detour instead of taking a short cut across the bend made by the river. there were rocks in his way, so that a few moments of valuable time were lost before he reached the stream on the other side of the obstruction. "come, we must run," urged the professor. "i'm afraid both of them may have gone over the falls." "oh, i hope he is not too late!" answered walter, with a half sob, as they ran regardless of the fact that sharp sticks and jagged stones were cruelly cutting into their feet. chapter iii the boys rescue each other ned swung around the bend at a tremendous pace. he was able to see little about him, though as he once more reached the bank he could tell where the river lay, because the river gorge lay in a deeper shadow than did the rest of the landscape about him. "oh, tad! tad!" he shouted. a faint call answered him. he was not quite sure that it was not an echo of his own voice. "tad! t-a-d!" "hurry!" it seemed a long distance away--that faint reply to his hail. "that you, tad!" "y-e-s." "where are you!" "here." "where? i don't see you." "in the river. just below the bend." hurriedly dismounting and making a quick examination of the banks he discovered that they were so nearly straight up and down that it would be impossible to get his companions out at that point. "i can't get you out here. you'll have to wait a few moments. are you swimming?" "no, i am holding to a rock. it's awful slippery and i'm freezing too." "all right. is stacy with you?" "yes, i've got him." "good! have courage! i'll be with you," said ned encouragingly. "you'll have to hurry. i can't hold on much longer. the falls are just below here and if i have to let go it's all up with us." ned had no need to be told that. he could almost feel the spray from the falls on his face, so close were they to him and their roar was loud in his ears, so that he was obliged to raise his voice in calling to his companions. leaping to the back of bad-eye, ned was off like a shot, tearing through the brush, headed toward camp. on the way he passed professor zepplin and walter, nearly running them down in his mad haste. "got a rope?" he shouted in passing. "no," answered walter. "then get one and hurry around the bend. you'll be needed there in a minute. i'm going down into the stream from the camp." the professor, seeming to comprehend what ned had in mind, turned and ran back to the camp. without an instant's hesitation, ned rector, upon reaching their camping place, put his pony at the bank where the two boys had gone over. the little animal refused to take it. he bucked and the lad had a narrow escape from following where tad and chunky had gone a short time before. "i've got to have a saddle. that's the only way i can stick on to drive him in, and we'll need it to hold to as well," he decided. every moment was precious now. whirling the animal about, ned drove him into the thicket where the saddles lay folded against trees. it was the work of seconds for him to leap off and throw the heavy saddle on bad-eye's back. the boy worked with the speed and precision of a gattling gun. yet he groaned hopelessly when he realized that his delay might mean the death of two of his companions. professor zepplin arrived at the camp just as ned had finally cinched the girths and swung himself into the saddle. "where--where is he?" gasped the professor, now breathing hard. "below the bend. get back there with a rope and be ready to toss it to him if he lets go." ned and his pony crashed through the brush. he had no spur with which to urge on the animal, but ned had thoughtfully picked up a long, stout stick, and once more they drove straight at the high bank. "stop! i forbid it!" thundered the professor. ned paid no more attention to him than had he not spoken. it was a time when words were useless. what was necessary was action and quick action at that. "hurry with that rope!" commanded ned. the pony slowed up as they approached the bank of the river, but ned was in no mood for trifling now. he brought down the stick on the animal's hip with a terrific whack. bad-eye angered by the blow, squealed and leaped into the air with all four feet free of the ground. "hi-yi!" exclaimed the pony rider sharply, again smiting the animal while the latter was still in the air. ned's plan was to enter the stream at that point and swim down with the pony until they should have reached the boys and rescued them from their perilous position. while the bluff was sandy at the point where they had fallen in, down below, where tad was now desperately clinging to the rock, the stream wound through a rocky cut, whose high sides were slippery and uncertain, especially in the darkness of the night. bad-eye needed no further goading to force him to do his master's bidding. with another squeal of protest the little animal plunged for the bank. no sooner had his forward feet reached over the edge of it than the treacherous sands gave way beneath them. the pony pivoted on its head, landing violently on its back. ned had dismounted without the least effort on his part, so that he was well out of the way when his mount landed. he had been hurled from the saddle the instant the pony's feet struck the unresisting sand. but ned clung doggedly to the bridle reins. he, too, struck on his back. he heard the squealing, kicking pony floundering down upon him, its every effort to right itself forcing it further and further down the slippery bank. now on its back, now with its nose in the sand, bad-eye was rapidly nearing the swiftly moving creek. ned had all he could do to keep out of the way, and on account of the darkness he had to be guided more by instinct than by any other sense. however, it was not difficult to keep track of the now thoroughly frightened animal. ned leaped to one side. an instant later, and he would have been caught under the pony. the animal hit the water with a mighty splash, with ned still clinging to the reins. as the pony went in, ned was jerked in also, striking the water head first. he could have screamed from the shock of the icy water, which seemed to smite him like a heavy blow. for a moment boy and pony floundered about in the stream. it seemed almost a miracle that the lad was not killed by those flying hoofs that were beating the water almost into a froth. as soon as he was able to get to the surface ned exerted all his strength to swim out further toward the middle of the stream. even when he was under water, he still kept a firm grip on the rein. to let go would be to lose all that he had gained after so much danger in getting as far as he had. by this time, both boy and pony had drifted down stream several rods. the pony righted himself and struck out for the bank. ned was by his side almost instantly, being aided in the effort to get there by having the reins to pull himself in by. bad-eye refused instinctively to head down stream. there was only one thing to do. that was to climb into the saddle and get him started. ned did this with difficulty. his weight made the pony sink at first, the animal whinnying with fear. fearing to drown the broncho, the boy slipped off, at the same time taking a firm grip on the lines. bad-eye came to the surface at once. ned's right hand was on the pommel, the reins bunched in his left. he brought his knee sharply against the animal's side. "whoop!" he urged, again driving the knee against the pony's ribs. under the strong guiding hand of his master, the animal fighting every inch of the way, began swimming down stream. "i'm coming!" shouted the boy. before that moment he had not had breath nor the time to call. "i'm coming!" he repeated, as they swung around the wide sweeping curve. "are you there, tad?" "yes," was the scarcely distinguishable reply. "i've got to let go." "you hold on. bad-eye and i will be there in a minute and the professor is hurrying down along the bank with a rope." "i'm freezing. i'm all numb, that's the trouble," answered tad weakly. ned knew that the plucky lad was well-nigh exhausted. the strain of holding to the slippery rock in the face of the swift current was one that would have taxed the strength of the strongest man, to say nothing of the almost freezing cold water, which chilled the blood and benumbed the senses. "you've gone past me," cried tad. "i know it. i'm heading up," replied ned rector. ned had purposely driven his pony further down stream so that he might the easier pick them up as he went by on the return trip. "are you all right down there?" called the professor, who had reached a point on the bank opposite to them. "yes, but get ready to cast me a rope," directed ned. "i'm afraid i cannot." "then have walter do it." "he is not here. i directed him to remain in camp in case he was needed there." "all right. you can try later. i'll tell you how. i'm busy now." "don't run me down," warned tad butler. "keep talking then, so i'll know where you are. just say yip-yip and keep it up." tad did so, but his voice was weak and uncertain. ned swam the pony alongside of them, pulling hard on the reins to slow the animal down without exerting pressure enough to stop him. "is chunky able to help himself?" "yes, if he will." "then both of you grab bad-eye by the mane as he goes by. don't you miss, for if you do, we're all lost." "the pony won't be able to get the three of us up the stream," objected tad. "i know it." "then, what are we going to do?" "i'll stay here and hang on. you send walter back with the pony as soon as you get there. better call to him to get pink-eye or one of the others saddled as soon as you can make him hear. we'll save time that way. i'm afraid bad-eye won't be able to make the return trip." "now grab for the rock," cried tad. ned did so, but he missed it. tad still clinging to chunky fastened his right hand in the broncho's mane. all three of the boys were now clinging to the overburdened animal. ned began swimming to assist the pony, for he realized that they had dropped back a few feet in taking on the extra weight. "work further back and get hold of the saddle," ned directed. tad followed his instructions. "i'm afraid he'll never make it," groaned ned. "i----" at that instant his hand came in violent contact with a hard, cold object. it was the slender, pillar-like rock that tad had been clinging to for so long in the icy water. "i've got it," exclaimed ned. he cast loose from bad-eye and threw both arms about the rock. the pony freed from a share of his burden, struck off up stream against the current, making excellent headway. "i don't like to do this," tad called back. "i wouldn't, were it not for chunky. he couldn't have stood it there another minute." "you can't help yourself now. how's the kid?" called ned. "he's all right now." "professor, are you up there?" "yes." he had heard the dialogue between the boys, and understood well what had been done. "that was a brave thing to do, master ned." "thank you, professor. suppose you try to cast that rope to me. i'm afraid i shall never be able to hold on here alone as long as tad did. b-r-r-r, but it's cold!" he shivered. the professor tried his hand at casting the lariat. "never touched me," said ned, more to keep up his own spirits than with the intent to speak slightingly of the professor's effort. "take it up stream throw it out, then let it float down," suggested ned. professor zepplin did so, but the rope was found to be too short to reach, and at ned's direction, he made no further attempt. soon ned heard some one shouting cheerily up the stream. it was tad butler. he had dashed up to camp immediately upon reaching shore, and the exercise restored his circulation. walter, who was in camp had pink-eye ready and saddled for an emergency, and tad mounting the pony, forced him to take to the water. he was now returning to rescue his brave friend, who was clinging to the rock. he had been unwilling to trust the perilous trip to anyone else. "i was afraid walt would go over the falls, pony and all," he explained, wheeling alongside ned rector and picking him up from the rock. "i'll run a foot race with you when we get ashore," laughed tad. "go you," answered ned promptly. "the one who loses has to get up and cook the breakfast." chapter iv surprised by an unwelcome visitor "i'm sorry i was to blame for your going into the creek," apologized ned rector, bending over the shivering stacy. "i fell in, didn't i?" grinned the fat boy. "no, you rolled in. my, but that water was cold!" "b-r-r-r!" shivered stacy, as the recollection of his icy bath came back to him. "di--did you win the race?" "tad won it. i've got to get up and cook the breakfast, and it wasn't my turn at all. it was tad's turn." "yab-hum," yawned stacy, "i'm awful sleepy." "so am i," answered ned, uttering a long-drawn yawn. "see here, master ned. get out of those wet pajamas, rub yourself down thoroughly and put on a dry suit. i can't have you all sick on my hands to-morrow," commanded the professor. "don't worry about us," laughed ned. "it takes more than a bath in a cold creek to lay us up, eh, tad?" "i hope so," answered tad butler, who had rubbed himself until his body glowed. "but i thought once or twice that i was a goner while i was holding to that rock. i could not make chunky try to support himself at all. he just clung to me until he fagged me all out." "come now, young gentlemen, down with this coffee and into the blankets." professor zepplin had prepared the coffee, with which to warm the lads up, and had heated in the camp-fire some good sized boulders, which he wrapped in blankets and tucked in their beds. chunky was the only one of the boys who did not protest. ned and tad objected to being "babied" as they called it, and when the professor was not looking, they quickly rolled the feet warmers out at the foot of their beds. early next morning they were aroused by the cook's welcome call to breakfast. none of the lads seemed to be any the worse for his exciting experiences in the creek, much to the relief of professor zepplin, who feared the icy bath might at least bring on heavy colds. tumbling from their cots, they quickly washed; and then sprinting back and forth a few times, stirred up their circulation, after which the boys sat down to the morning meal with keen appetites. ned had cooked a liberal supply of bacon and potatoes and boiled a large pot of coffee. stacy opened his mouth as if he were about to yawn. "don't you dare to do that," warned ned, waving the coffee pot threateningly. "the first boy who yawns to-day gets into trouble. and stacy brown, if you fall in the river again you'll get out the best way you can alone. we won't help you, remember that." "this bacon looks funny," retorted stacy, holding up a piece at the end of his fork. "kind of looks as if something had happened to it." "just what i was going to say," added walter. "yes, what has happened to it? it's as black as the professor's hat." all eyes were fixed upon the cook. "i don't care, i couldn't help it. if any of you fellows think you can do any better, you just try it. cook your own meals if you don't like my way of serving them up. it wasn't my turn to get the breakfast, anyway." "our cook evidently has a grouch on this morning," laughed walter. "doesn't agree with him to take a midnight bath." "the bath was all right, but i object to having my cooking criticised." "the bacon does look peculiar," decided professor zepplin, sniffing gingerly at his own piece. ned's face flushed. "what did you do to it to give it that peculiar shade, young man?" "why, i soused it in the creek to wash it off, then laid it in the fire to cook," replied ned. "in the fire?" shouted tad. "of course. how do you expect i cooked it?" demanded the boy irritably. "i cooked it in the fire." "i could do better'n that myself," muttered stacy. "didn't you use the spider?" asked walter. "spider? no. i didn't know you used a spider. do you?" "he cooked it in the fire," groaned tad. "peculiar, very peculiar to say the least," decided the professor grimly. "gives it that peculiar sooty flavor, common to smoked ham i think we shall have to elect a new cook if you cannot do better than that. however, we'll manage to get along very well with this meal. if we have to get others we will hold a consultation as to the latest and most approved methods of doing so," he added, amid a general laugh at ned's expense. breakfast over, blankets were rolled and packed on the ponies. about nine o'clock the pony riders set out for the foothills, after first having consulted their compasses and decided upon the course they were to follow to reach the point, some fifteen miles distant, where they expected to pick up the guide. "seems good to be in the saddle once more, doesn't it?" smiled walter, after they had gotten well under way. "beats being in the river at midnight," laughed tad. "bad-eye looks as if he needed grooming, too. ned, i take back all i said about the bacon this morning. you did me a good turn last night. if it hadn't been for you, chunky and i wouldn't be here now. i couldn't have held to that rock much longer." "neither could i," interjected stacy wisely. ned gave him a withering glance. "you are an expert at falling in, but when it comes to getting out, that's another matter." "how blue those mountains look!" marveled walter, shading his eyes and gazing off toward the rosebud range. "i hear there are some lawless characters in there, too," tad answered thoughtfully. "where'd your hear that?" demanded ned. "heard some men talking about it in the hotel back at forsythe." "mustn't believe all you hear. what did they say?" "acting upon your advice, i should say that you wouldn't believe it if i told you," answered tad sharply. "these men are a kind of outlaws, i believe. they steal horses and cattle. probably sell the hides--i don't know. somehow the government officers have not been able to catch them, let alone to find out who they are." "indians, probably," replied ned. "the country is full of them about here, so i hear." "mustn't believe all you hear," piped up stacy, repeating ned rector's own words, and the latter's muttered reply was lost in the laughter that followed. it was close to twelve o'clock when they finally emerged on a broad table or mesa. before them lay the foothills of the rosebud, rising in broken mounds, some of which towered almost level with the lower peaks of the mountains themselves. "i don't see anything of our guide's cabin," said tad, halting and looking about them. "what do you think, professor!" "we will go on to the foothills and wait there. i imagine he will be waiting for us somewhere hereabouts." "yes, we have followed our course by the compass," answered tad. however, the lad had overlooked the fact, as had the others, that in order to find a suitable fording place, they had followed the hanks of the east fork for several miles. this served to throw them off their course and when they finally reached the foothills they were some six miles to the north of the place where the guide was to pick them up. as they rode on, the ground gradually rose under them, nor did they realize that they were entering the foothills themselves; and so it continued until they finally found themselves surrounded by hills, narrow draws and broad, rocky gorges. "young gentlemen, i think we had better halt right here. we shall be lost if we continue any farther," decided the professor. "this is a nice level spot with just enough trees to give us shade. i propose that we dismount and make camp." "yes, we haven't had the tents up since we were in the rockies," replied ned. "we shall be forgetting how to pitch them soon if we do not have some practice." on this trip, besides their small tents, the pony riders had brought with them canvas for a nine by twelve feet tent, which they proposed to use for a dining tent in wet weather, as well as a place for social gathering whenever the occasion demanded its use. they named it the parlor. in high spirits, the lads leaped from their ponies and began removing their packs. stacy brown began industriously tugging at the fastenings which held the large tent to the back of the pack pony. "i can't get it loose," he shouted. "what kind of hitch do you call this, anyway?" "young man, that's a squaw hitch. ever hear of it before?" laughed tad. "no. what kind of hitch is a squaw hitch?" asked chunky. "probably one that the braves use to tie up their wives with when they get lazy," ned informed him. "i know," spoke up walter. "it's a hitch used to fasten the packs to the ponies. mr. stallings explained that to me when we were in texas." "right," announced tad, skillfully loosening the hitch, thus allowing the canvas of the parlor tent to fall to the ground. while tad and walter were doing this, professor zepplin with stacy had started off with hatchets to cut poles for the tents. the sleeping tents were erected in a straight row with the parlor tent set up to the rear some few rods, backing up against the hills nearest to the mountains. in front of the small tents the ponies were tethered out among the trees so as to be in plain view of the boys in case of trouble. profiting from past experiences, they knew that without their mounts they would find themselves helpless. in an hour the camp was pitched and the boys stood off to view the effect of their work. "looks like a military camp," said ned. "all but the guns," replied walter. "we might stack our rifles outside here to make it look more military like." "let's do it." suggested tad. laughing joyously, the lads got out their rifles, standing them on their stocks, with the muzzles together in front of the small tents. not being equipped with bayonets the guns refused to stand alone, so they bound the muzzles together with twine wrapped about the sights. this held them firmly. "there!" glowed ned. "where's the flag? somebody get that and i'll cut a pole for it," suggested tad butler. in a few moments old glory was waving idly in the gentle summer breeze and the boys, doffing their hats, gave three cheers and a tiger for it, in which professor zepplin joined with almost boyish enthusiasm. "i always take off my hat to that beautiful flag," said the professor, gazing up at it admiringly. "how about your own country's flag?" teased ned. "that is it. i am an american citizen. your flag is my flag. and now that we have done homage to our country and our flag, supposing we consult our own bodily comfort by getting dinner. of course, if you young gentlemen are not hungry we can skip the noon----" "not hungry? did you ever hear of our skipping a meal when we could get it?" protested walter. "for a young man with a delicate appetite, you do very well," laughed the professor. "it wag less than two months ago, if i remember correctly, that the doctors thought you were not going to live, you were so delicate." "almost as delicate as chunky now," chuckled ned maliciously. the midday meal was more successful than had been their breakfast. they ate it under the trees, deciding to dine in the parlor tent just at dusk. the afternoon was spent in shooting, at which the boys were becoming quite proficient. by this time, even stacy brown could be trusted to manage his own rifle without endangering the lives of his companions. "is there any game in these hills?" asked ned, while he was refilling the magazine of his repeating rifle. "plenty of it, i am told," replied the professor. "there is big game all over the state." "what kind?" "bears, mountain lions and the like." "w-h-e-w. that sounds interesting. may we go gunning to-morrow?" "better wait until the guide joins us. it will be best to have some one with us who understands the habits of the animals. as you have learned, hunting big game is not boys' play," concluded the professor. "yes, i remember our experience in hunting the cougar in the rockies. i guess i'll wait." during the afternoon, the boys made short trips along the foothills hoping to find some trace of the guide, but search as they would they were unable to locate him. nor did they dare stray far from the camp for fear of being unable to find their way back. the foothills all looked so alike that if one unfamiliar with them should lose his way he would find himself in a serious predicament. "i guess we shall have to camp here for the rest of the summer," professor zepplin said, while they were eating their supper. "we must be a long distance from our man if he has not heard our shooting this afternoon." the boys were enjoying themselves, however; in addition, there was a sense of independence that they had not felt before. they were alone and entirely on their own resources, which of itself added to the zest of the trip. the supper dishes having been cleared away and the camp-fire stirred up to a bright, cheerful blaze, all hands gathered in the parlor tent for an evening chat. above them swung an oil lantern which dimly shed its rays over the little company. professor zepplin was poring over an old volume that he had brought with him, while the boys were discussing the merits of their new ponies, which by this time had developed their individual peculiarities. chunky, growing sleepy, had crawled to the rear of the tent, where he sat leaning against the closed flap, nodding drowsily. finally they saw him straighten up and brush a hand over the back of his head. "he's dreaming," laughed ned. "imagines he's rolling down the river bank again." suddenly they were aroused by the fat boy's voice raised in angry protest. "stop tickling my neck," he growled, vigorously rubbing that part of his anatomy. "funny, you fellows can't let me alone." "you must be having bad dreams," laughed ned. "we are not bothering you. we're all over here." "yes, you are. you've done it three times and you woke me up," answered the fat boy, settling back and closing his eyes preparatory to renewing his disturbed nap. he was asleep in a moment, not having heeded the laughter of his companions, nor their noisy comments. but stacy dozed for a moment only. he sat up quickly and very straight, while a shrewd expression appeared in his eyes. had they been looking they might have observed one of his hands being drawn cautiously behind him, as if he were reaching for something. the boys were too busy, however, to pay any heed to the lad, and the professor was deeply absorbed in his book. "i've got you this time! tell me you weren't tickling my neck? i'll show you stacy brown's not the sleepy head you----" the boy paused suddenly and scrambling to all fours turned about on his hands and knees, intently gazing at the flap against which he had been leaning. "what's the matter, gone crazy over there!" called tad. "anybody would think you had from the racket you are making." stacy did not answer. he had not even heard tad speak to him. his eyes, bulging with fear, were fixed on the flap. what he saw was a long black snout poked through the slit in the canvas, and just back of that a pair of beady, evil eyes. "y-e-o-w!" yelled stacy. the lad leaped to his feet and dashed from the tent, bowling over walter and tad as he ran, shouting in his fright and crying for help. knowing instinctively that something really serious had happened, the others sprang up, peering at the other end of the tent. for a moment, they could see nothing in the flickering shadows; then as their eyes became more accustomed to the half light, they discovered what filled them with alarm as well. "run for your lives!" shouted tad, bolting from the tent in a single leap, followed almost instantly by ned rector and walter perkins. the professor with one startled glance, hurled his precious book at the object he saw entering the tent at the back, and bolted through the front opening, taking the end tent pole down with him in his hasty flight. chapter v the pursuit of the burning bear "what is it?" cried walter breathlessly, slowing up when he observed that the others were doing likewise. "it's a bear, i think," replied the professor. "i only saw the head so i can't be sure. keep away. where is stacy?" "i--i think he's running, still," answered ned, his voice somewhat shaky. "there goes the other tent pole down!" shouted tad. "he's wrecking the place. that's too bad," groaned walter. "are the provisions all in there?" asked the professor anxiously. "no, most of them are over in my tent, where i took them from the pack pony," ned informed him. "we are that much ahead anyway. i think we had better get a little further away, young gentlemen. we had better get near trees so we can make a fairly dignified escape if that fellow concludes to come out after us." "he's too busy just now," announced tad, with an attempt at laughter. "get the guns," ordered the professor. "i can't," cried tad. "why can't you? i will get them myself." "they are all in that tent there with the bear," groaned tad. "there's a box of shells in there, too," added walter. "i put it there myself." "then, indeed, we had better take to the trees," decided professor zepplin. "wait," warned tad. "he won't get out right away. see, he has pulled the tent down about him." "yes, he's having the time of his life," nodded ned. "i hope he never gets out. if we had our guns now!" and, indeed, mr. bruin was having his own troubles. angry snarls and growls could be heard under the heaving canvas as the black bear plunged helplessly about, twisting the tent about him in his desperate struggles to free himself. they could hear the clatter of the tinware as he threshed about, and the crash and bang of other articles belonging to their equipment. "look! what's that light?" exclaimed walter. "fire!" cried the professor. "the tent's on fire!" shouted tad. "quick, get water!" urged ned. "what for? to put out the bear?" laughed tad. "i had forgotten about the lantern. that's what has caused the fire. when the tent collapsed the lantern went down with it, and in his floundering about he has managed to set the place on fire," the professor informed them. "there goes the parlor tent. that settles it," said walter. the other two boys groaned. "has he-ha-ha-has he gone?" wailed chunky, peering from behind a tree. "no, he hasn't gone. he's very much here. don't you see that tent! what do you suppose is making it hump up in the middle, if he isn't there? and the tent's on fire, too," answered ned, in a tone of disgust. "this is a bad start for sure." "i didn't fall in that time, did i? i fell out," interrupted stacy. "lucky for me that i did, too. i would have been in a nice fix if that tent had come down on me and that animal at the same time." he shivered at the thought. "what is it, a lion?" "lion! no, you ninny, it's a bear. b-e-a-r," spelled ned, with strong emphasis. "do you understand that?" "y-y-e-s. i-i-i thought it was a lion. i did, honest," he muttered. "and it tickled my neck with its paw, too. wow!" stacy instinctively moved further away from the tent. disturbing as their situation was at that moment, the lads could not repress a shout of laughter over stacy's funny words. but stacy's face was solemn. he saw nothing to laugh at. "lucky for both of you that you didn't yawn. the bear might nave fallen in," jeered ned. "might have been a good thing for us if chunky had yawned. maybe the bear would have got to yawning at the same time, and yawned and yawned until he was so helpless that we could have captured him," laughed walter. "not much chance of that," answered tad. "bears don't yawn until after a full meal. i guess our bear over there hasn't had one lately or he wouldn't have been nosing about our camp when we were all there." "keep back there, boys. please don't get too close. he is liable to break out at any time. he is a small bear, but there is no telling what he may do in his rage when he emerges," warned the professor. "we're not afraid," answered ned. the boys, having no weapons, had armed themselves with clubs, prepared to do battle with their visitor should he chance to come their way. "what's that racket over there in the bushes?" demanded ned, wheeling sharply. "it's the ponies," answered tad, darting away. at last the little animals had discovered the presence of the bear in camp and were making frantic efforts to break their tethers. "come over here, some of you. the bronchos are having a fit. i can't manage all of them at once," called tad in an excited tone. "what's the matter--are they afraid?" called the professor. "i should say they are. they'll get away from me if you don't hurry." leaving the hear to his own desperate efforts, the boys rushed to the aid of tad butler. they were not quick enough, however. "there goes one of them!" cried tad. a pony had broken the rope and with a snort, had bounded away. tad, leaped on the bare back of his own pony, first having caught up his lariat, and set out after the fleeing animal. luckily the runaway broncho had headed for the open and tad was able to overhaul him before they had gone far from the camp. riding up beside the little animal it was an easy matter to drop the loop over his head and bring him down. "there, that will teach you to run away," growled the boy, cinching the rope and dragging the unruly pony back to camp. in the meantime the others, after considerable effort, had succeeded in securing the other plunging bronchos, more rope having been brought for the purpose, while tad, breathing hard, staked down the frightened animal he had roped. "now we'll see how mr. bear is getting along," announced the professor, as they turned back toward the camp, where the bear was still fighting desperately with the smouldering tent. as they reached the scene they observed professor zepplin hurrying to his tent. he was back again almost at once. "just happened to think of my revolver," he explained. "think you can kill him with that?" asked tad. "i don't know. i can try. it's a thirty-eight calibre." "won't even feel it," sniffed ned. "i've read lots of times that it takes a lot to kill a bear." the professor raised his weapon and fired at the spot where the tent appeared to be most active. though he had pulled the trigger only once a series of sudden explosions followed, seemingly coming from beneath the tent itself. "what's that!" demanded the professor, lowering his own weapon, plainly puzzled. "guess the bear's shooting at us," suggested chunky wisely. "no. i know what it is," cried tad. "you know?" demanded ned. "sure. it's our cartridges exploding. the fire from the lantern has got at those pasteboard boxes in which we carried the shells." now they were popping with great rapidity, and instinctively the boys drew further away from the danger zone, though the professor told them the bullets could not hurt them, there being not sufficient force behind to carry them that distance. the professor stood his ground as an object lesson and again resumed his target practice. the tough canvas resisted the bear's efforts, and the fire was burning slowly. however, the tent seemed to be ruined and the boys feared their rifles would share a similar fate. "he's breaking out!" yelled chunky, who was some distance to the right of the others, now dancing up and down in his excitement. "look out for him!" with a last desperate effort, the animal had succeeded in forcing his way through the stubborn canvas. "look, look!" yelled walter perkins, greatly excited. the spectacle was one that for the moment held the boys spellbound. a mass of flame separated itself from the ruins of the tent. with snarls of pain and rage the mass ambled rapidly away in a trail of fire. "the bear's on fire!" shouted ned rector. "help!" screamed chunky. blinded by the pain and the flames that had gotten into its eyes, the animal not seeing the lad, lurched heavily against him and stacy brown went down with a howl of terror. the boy, who had not been harmed, was up like a flash, running from the fearful thing as fast as his short legs would carry him. "oh, that's too bad!" exclaimed tad. he did not refer to the accident to his companion, which he considered as too trivial to notice, but rather to the sufferings of the animal. tad felt a deep sympathy for any dumb animal that was in trouble, no matter if it were a bear which would have shown him no mercy had they met face to face. "professor, let me have your revolver please," he cried. "what for?" "i want to put the brute out of his misery. please do!" "there are no more shells in it." "then load it. i'm going to get pink-eye. hurry, hurry! can't you see how the miserable creature is suffering?" the lad darted away for his pony, while professor zepplin, sharing something of the boy's own feelings, hurried to his tent and recharged his weapon. he had no more than returned when tad came dashing up on pink-eye. "where is he? do you see him?" "over there, i can see the fire in the bushes," answered ned rector. "quick, give me the gun," demanded tad. "wait, i'll go with you," said ned. "no, remain where you are," ordered professor zepplin. "some of you will surely be shot. thaddeus, remember, you are not to go far from camp." tad was off in a twinkle. putting the spurs to pink-eye, the animal leaped from the camp and disappeared among the trees. "i am afraid i should not have allowed him to go," announced the professor, with a doubtful shake of his head. but it was too late now for regrets. tad found the going rough. he soon made out the flaming animal just ahead of him. the beast was down rolling from side to side in a frantic effort to put out the fire that was burning into his flesh. tad could not understand why the fur should make so much flame. he spurred the pony as near to the animal as he could get. then he saw that the bear had become entangled in the guy ropes, and that he was pulling along with him portions of the burning canvas, attached to the ropes. it was this which made the animal a living torch. the pony in its fright was rearing and plunging, bucking and squealing so that the lad had difficulty in keeping his seat. "steady, steady, pink-eye," he soothed. for an instant the broncho ceased its wild antics and stood trembling with fear. "bang!" tad had aimed the heavy revolver and pulled the trigger. instantly the pony went up into the air again and the lad gripped its sides with his legs, giving a gentle pressure with the spurs. "whoa, pink-eye! i hit mm, i did. i aimed for his head, but i must have merely grazed it. i wish i could kill the brute and put him out of his misery," said the lad more concerned for the suffering animal before him than for his own safety. no sooner had he fired the first shot, than the bear sprang to its feet and sped away up a steep bank. tad noticed that the bear's rolling had extinguished some of the fire, but he knew that it was still burrowing in the beast's fur, causing him great agony. "i am too far away to hit him. i've got to get closer," decided the boy. "pink-eye, do you think you can make that climb?" the pony shook its head and rattled the bits in its mouth. "all right, old chap, try it." a cluck and a gentle slap on the broncho's flanks sent him straight for the steep bank. at first his feet slipped under him; he stumbled, righted himself and digging in the slender hoofs fairly lifted himself up and up. in the meantime mr. bruin was making better progress. he seemed unable to escape from the fire, but he could get away from this new enemy, the gun in the hands of the boy on the horse. every little while as he found he had gained on his pursuer the bear would throw himself down, and with snarls and angry growls, take a few awkward rolls; then be up and off again. once more the lad thought he was near enough to take another shot. releasing the reins and dropping them to the pony's neck, he steadied the hand that held the gun with the left and fired. "oh, pshaw, i missed him!" he groaned. "that's too bad. i'm only adding to his misery. next time i'll get nearer to him before i try to shoot." he went at pink-eye, applying every method with which he was familiar to increase the pony's speed. pink-eye responded as best he could, and began climbing the hill that had now developed into a fair sized mountain, making even more rapid headway than the bear himself. "good boy," encouraged tad. "we'll overhaul him if you can keep that up. steady now. don't slip or you'll tumble me down the hill and yourself, too. steady, pink-eye. w-h-o-e-e!" "bang!" the bear was running broadside to him and the lad could not resist taking another shot at it. like the previous effort, however, he had failed. tad tittered an exclamation of disgust and put spurs to the pony. "i never did know how to handle a revolver," he complained. "i'll begin to practise with this gun to-morrow if i get out of this scrape safely." he had failed to take into consideration that a bear was an extremely difficult animal to kill, and that frequently one of them could carry many bullets in its body without seeming to be bothered at all. but the lad was determined to get this one. he had not thought of where he was going nor how far from camp he had strayed. his one desire now was to get the animal and put a quick end to it. this time tad was enabled to get closer to bruin than at any time during the chase. he drove the pony at a gallop right up alongside of the animal. leaning over he aimed the gun at the beast's head, holding it firmly with both hands. tad gave the trigger a quick, firm pressure. a sharp explosion followed. at the same instant, pink-eye in a frightened effort to get clear of the bear, leaped to one side. the lad, leaning over from the saddle, was taken unawares, and making a desperate effort to grasp the saddle pommel, tad was hurled sideways to the ground. "whoa, pink-eye!" he commanded sharply as he was falling. but pink-eye refused to obey. the pony uttered a loud snort and plunged into the bushes. there he paused, wheeled, and peered out suspiciously at the boy and the bear. tad's shot had gone home. his aim had been true. yet the sting of the bullet served only to anger the bear still further. with an angry growl, it turned and charged the lad ferociously. in falling, the plucky boy had struck on his head and shoulders, the fall partially stunning him. for an instant, he pivoted on his head, then toppling over on his back, he lay still. powerless to move a muscle, the lad was dimly conscious of a hulking figure standing over him, its hot breath on his face. his right hand clutched the revolver, but he seemed unable to raise it. a loud explosion sounded in tad butler's ears, then sudden darkness overwhelmed him. chapter vi lost in the rosebud range "whoa, pink-eye!" muttered the lad, stirring restlessly. "i'll get him next time. look out, he's charging us. oh!" the boy suddenly opened his eyes. the darkness about him was deep and impenetrable and he was conscious of a heavy weight on his chest. what it was, he did not know, and some moments passed before he had recovered sufficiently to form an intelligent idea of what had happened. all at once he recollected. "it was the bear," he murmured. "i wonder if i am dead!" no, he could feel the ground under him, and a rock that his right hand rested on, felt cold and chilling. but what of the pressure on his chest? cautiously the lad moved a hand toward the object that was holding him down. his fingers lightly touched it. tad could scarce repress a yell. it was the head of the bear that was resting on him, and he had no idea whether the animal were dead or asleep, awaiting the moment when the lad should stir again to fasten its cruel teeth into his body. the boy was satisfied, however, that by exerting all his strength he would be able to pull himself away before the beast could awaken, even, providing it were still alive. first he sought cautiously for his weapon, his fingers groping about over the ground at his right hand. he could not find it. undoubtedly it had fallen underneath the bear. tad determined to mate a desperate effort to escape. he felt as if his hair were standing on end. with a cry that he could not keep back, the lad whirled over and sprang to his feet. as he did so he leaped away, running with all his might until he had put some distance between himself and the prostrate animal. realizing that he was not being followed, tad brought up sharply and dodged behind a tree. there he stood listening intently for several minutes. not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night. the leaves of the trees hung limp and lifeless, for no breeze was stirring. "i wonder if he's dead," whispered the lad, almost afraid to trust his voice out loud. "maybe that shot finished him. i must find out somehow." tad searched his clothes for matches, finally finding his match safe. next he sought to gather some sticks with which to make a torch, but the only wood he was able to find was of oak and so green that it would not burn. "that's too bad," he muttered. "i'll have to try it with the matches." lighting one he picked his way carefully toward the place where he had been lying, peering into the shadows ahead of him suspiciously as he went. "there he is," breathed tad. he could faintly make out the figure of the bear lying half on its side as it had been before, the only difference being that the animal's head was stretched out on the ground instead of on the lad's chest. "i believe he's dead. he must be or he'd have been after me before this," decided the boy. "i 'm going to find out." mustering his courage, tad continued his cautious approach, lighting match after match, shading the flame with his hands so that the light would not get into his eyes and prevent him from seeing anything ahead of him. it required no little courage for a boy alone in the mountains to walk up to a bear, not knowing whether the animal were dead or alive. yet when tad butler made up his mind to do a certain thing, he persisted until he had accomplished it. he reached the side of the animal, that is, close enough so that he could get a good view of it. the bear never moved and tad drew closer, walking on his toes that he might make no sound. there seemed no other way to make certain except to stir the animal. "i'll do it," whispered tad. cautiously lighting another match he drew back his left foot and administered a sound kick to the beast's side. thinking that the bear had moved under the blow, tad whirled and ran tittering a loud "oh!" he waited, but could hear no sound. "i believe i am afraid of myself. that bear hasn't stirred at all. i'm going back this time and make sure." he did. but this time, steeling himself to the task, tad stood still after he had prodded the beast with his foot again. there was no movement other than a slight tremor caused by the impact of the kick. "hurrah, i've shot a bear!" cried the lad in the excess of his excitement. "i wonder what the boys will say. the next question is how am i going to get him back to camp?" tad pondered over this problem some moments. "i know," he cried. "i'll hitch a rope to him and make pink-eye tow him out. but where is that pony?" all at once the realization came to him that the pony had thrown him off. that was the last he had seen of pink-eye. tad whistled and called, listening after each attempt without the slightest result. "he's gone. i've got to find my way back as best i can. the worst of it is i may be a long way from camp, but i guess i can find my way with the compass all right." the compass, however, was nowhere to be found. the lad went through his pockets twice in search of it. "pshaw! just my luck. i'm as bad at losing things as chunky is in falling in. i'll get the gun anyway, for the professor will be provoked if i go back without it. ah, there it is." tad picked up the weapon joyfully. "i've got something to defend myself with, at least," he told himself. a moment later when he discovered that the weapon held nothing but empty shells, the keen edge of his joy was dulled. "well, it's better to pack back an empty gun than no gun at all," he decided philosophically. "let me see, i think we came up that way. they'll build a big fire so i can see it and i ought to be there within half an hour at least." the lad struck out confidently. he had been lost in the wilderness before, and though he felt a slight uneasiness he had no doubt of his ability to find the camp eventually. he walked vigorously for half an hour. then he halted. the same impressive silence surrounded him. "i think i have been going a little too far to the left," he decided. he changed his course and plodded on methodically again. another half hour passed and once more the lad paused, this time with the realization strong upon him that he had lost his way. placing both hands to his mouth tad uttered a long drawn "c-o-o-e-e-e!" he listened intently, then repeated the call. the sound of his own voice almost frightened him. "oh, i'm lost!" he cried, now fully appreciating his position. the panic of the lost seized him and tad ran this way and that, plunging ahead for some distance, then swerving to the right or to the left in a desperate attempt to free himself from the endless thicket, bruising his body from contact with the trunks of the trees and cutting his hands as they struck the rocks violently when he fell. "tad butler, you stop this!" he commanded sternly, bringing himself up sharply. "i didn't think you were such a silly kid as to be afraid of the dark." but in his innermost heart the lad knew that it was not the shadows that had so upset him. it was the feeling of being lost in an unknown forest. instead of being in the foothills as he had supposed, he was penetrating the fastnesses of the rosebud mountains themselves. "there is no use in my going on like this," he decided finally. "i'll sit down and wait for daylight. that's all i can do. i surely can find my way back to camp when the light comes again." the next question was where should he go--where find a safe place to stay until morning. tad remembered with a start that there were bears in the range. he knew this from his own recent experience. how many other savage beasts there might be in the woods he did not know. he had heard some one speak of mountain lions, and having seen these before, he fervently hoped he might not have another experience with them, unarmed as he was. "if this gun only were loaded, i should feel better." after searching around for some time, tad found a ledge that seemed to rise to a considerable height. up this he clambered. it would give him a good view in the morning anyway, besides protecting him from any prowling animals that might chance in that part of the forest. tad ensconced himself in a slight depression, and with a flat rock for a resting place, leaned back determined to make the best of his position. a gentle breeze now stirred the foliage above his head and all about him until the sound became a restless murmur, as if nature were holding council over the lad's predicament. the lost boy did not so interpret the sounds, however. he made a more practical application of them. "it's going to rain," he decided wisely, casting a glance above him at the sky, which was becoming rapidly overcast. "and i haven't any umbrella," he added, grinning at his own feeble joke. "well, i've been wet before. i cannot well be any more so than i was last night. i'll bet the rainwater will be warmer than the waters in the east fork. if it isn't i'll surely freeze to death." fortunately he had worn his coat when he left the camp, else he would now have suffered from the cold. as it was, he shivered, but more from nervousness than from the chill night air. "yoh--hum, but i'm sleepy," he murmured drowsily. a moment more and his head had drooped to one side and tad butler was sleeping as soundly as if tucked away between his own blankets back in his tent in the foothills. chapter vii almost betrayed by a sneeze tad awakened with a start. his first impression was that he smelled smoke, and for the moment he believed himself back in camp. a movement convinced him of his error. a jagged point of rock had cut into his flesh while he slept. he almost cried out with the pain of it, and as he moved a little to shift his body from it, the wound hurt worse than ever. the lad was still surrounded by an impenetrable darkness. it all came back to him--but standing out stronger than all the rest was the fact that he was lost. "wonder how long i've slept," he muttered. "seems as if i had been here a year. lucky i awoke or i'd been stuck fast on that rock, for good and all. whew! b-r-r-r! i think it's going to snow. thought it was going to rain just before i went to sleep. wonder if they have snow up here in the summer time. have almost everything else," continued the lad, muttering to himself, half under his breath. slowly rising he shook himself vigorously and rubbed his palms together to get his circulation stirred up. "hello, what's that? i remember now, i smelled smoke or thought i did." tad sniffed the chill air suspiciously. "it is smoke," he decided. "maybe i've set the woods on fire with my matches. guess i'll climb down and investigate." he started to move down the side of the ledge when it occurred to him that perhaps it would be better to investigate from where he was; he did not know what danger he might be running into if he were to climb down without first having made sure that it was perfectly safe to do so. just what he might meet with he did not know. but he felt an uneasy sense of impending danger. "often feel that way when i first wake up, especially if i've been eating pie the night before," he confided to himself, in order to urge his courage back to life. bending forward he peered from side to side, but was unable to find a single trace of light, anywhere about him. if it were a fire it must be some distance away, he concluded. "if it were some distance away, i wouldn't smell it. the wind has died down. no, the fire that smoke comes from is right near by me," he whispered. the sense of human habitation near him caused his pulses to beat more rapidly. the question that remained for him to decide, was who was it that had started the fire? tad butler determined to find out if possible, and at once. he crept cautiously to the right, feeling his way along the ledge, not being sure how near he was to the edge. he found it more suddenly than he had expected, and narrowly missed falling over head first. "whew! that was a close call," he muttered. "i must be more careful." there was no sign of either smoke or fire below him, as he observed after getting his balance again. he drew back cautiously and worked his way to the side that he had been facing, yet with no better result than before. there yet remained two sides to be investigated--the one he had climbed up and the other that lay to the left of him. tad chose the latter as the most likely to give him the information he sought. however, he found that the edge lay some distance away. the table of rock was much wider than he had imagined, when he first ascended to it. the way was rough. once the lad's foot slipped into a crevice. in seeking to withdraw it he gave the ankle a wrench that caused him to settle down on the rocks with a half moan of pain. his shoe had become wedged in between the rocks so that he had difficulty in withdrawing it at all, and the injured ankle gave him a great deal of pain as he struggled to release himself. "guess i'll have to take off my shoe. hope i haven't sprained my ankle. i'll be in a fine mess if i have," he grumbled. the ankle gave him considerable trouble; but he rubbed it all of ten minutes, and he found that he could endure his shoe again. he was full of curiosity as well as anxiety to learn the cause of the smoke, which, by this time, seemed to be coming his way in greater volume. after having relaced the shoe and leggin, tad started on again, this time on all fours, not trusting himself to try to walk, feeling his way ahead of him with his hands, which he considered the safer way to do. "there's somebody down there," he whispered, after a long interval of slow creeping over the rocks. "i wonder who it is? perhaps they are looking for me. i'll give them a surprise if they are." the surprise, however, was to be tad's. at last he reached the edge of the little butte. slowly stretching his neck and lying flat on his stomach, he peered over. a cloud of black smoke rolled up into his face, causing the lad to withdraw hastily. "aka-c-h-e-w," sneezed tad, burying his face in his hands. "whew, what a smudge! i'll bet they heard that sneeze." "what's that?" demanded a gruff voice below. "sounded like somebody sneezing." "no, it's an owl," replied another. "i've heard that kind before. sometimes you'd think it was a fellow snoring." "must be funny kind of a bird," grunted the first speaker. "he's right. that's exactly what i am," growled tad, who had plainly overheard their conversation. yet he was thankful that the men below had not realized the truth. tad was quite willing to be mistaken for a bird under the circumstances. after making sure that the men were not going to investigate the sound, the boy crept again toward the edge, working to the right a little further this time, so that the smoke might not smite him full in the face as had been the case before. there were four of them--strangers. the boy observed that they were dressed like cowboys, broad brimmed hats, blue shirts and all. from the belt of each was suspended a holster from which protruded the butt of a heavy revolver. "cowboys," he breathed. "at least they ought to be and i hope they are nothing else." the lad's attention was fixed particularly on one of the party. he was all of six feet tall, powerfully built, his swarthy face covered with a scraggly growth of red beard, and with a face of a peculiarly sinister appearance. "when do they expect the herd?" asked the first speaker. "be here the day after tomorrer i reckon," answered the man with the red beard. "how many?" "they say there's five thousand sheep in the herd, but it's more'n likely there'll be ten when they git here." "huh!" grunted the other. "there'll be less when we git through with them." "you bet." "boss simms will be mad. he'll be ripping, when we clean him out." two of the men rose at the big fellow's direction and stalked off into the bushes to attend to their ponies, which the lad could hear stirring restlessly, but could not see. "simms!" breathed tad. "what does this mean? those men are up to some mischief. i know it. i must find out what it is they are planning to do." tad learned a few moments later, but in his attempts to overhear what the plans of these strange men were, he nearly lost his own life. chapter viii into the enemy's camp "has simms been warned that he'd better keep them out of this here territory?" asked one. "yes." "who told him?" "bob moore, who owns the double x ranch on the west side of the range. i saw to that," announced the man with the beard. tad decided that he was the leader of the party, but it was not yet clear what they were planning to do. yet he knew that if he listened long enough something was sure to be dropped that would give him a clue to the mystery. "bob's mad as a trapped bear over it. swears he'll kill every sheep in the country before he'll let simms drive in the new herd and graze it here." "suppose you put it into his head proper like to do something?" laughed one. "well, i did talk it over with him a bit," admitted the leader. "but he wasn't hard to show." "when is the thing coming off?" "we haven't decided yet. we four will talk that over. perhaps the same night they get in. they'll be restless then and easy to start." "but won't the foreman corral the sheep?" "don't think so. haven't room. they haven't fixed up a new corral, because they expected to graze the sheep on north. that many will clean up the range right straight ahead of us for more'n a hundred miles, so that we cattle men won't have half a chance to graze our cattle," grinned the spokesman of the party. his companions laughed harshly. "i reckon," answered another. "we'll have all the cattle men on both sides of the rosebud range so stirred up that they will pitch into that flock like hyenas who haven't had a square meal since snow fell last. when they break loose there's going to be fun, now i tell you. that's the time we get busy. we ought to be able to get a thousand of them anyhow. before next morning we'll be so far down toward the big horn range that they won't catch us. and besides, after the cattle men get through killing mutton, a thousand more or less won't be missed. it'll make a nice bunch to add to our flock. if we work that a few times we'll have enough to make a shipment worth while." "so that's the game is it?" muttered tad butler. "well, they won't do it if i can help it." yet be realized how powerless he was at that moment to defeat their nefarious plans. somehow they were going to urge the real cattle men to use highhanded measures to destroy mr. simms's flock. they were going to scatter them, and then these men were going to make off with all they could drive away. it did not seem to the listening boy that such things were possible; yet mr. simms was authority for the statement that such acts were not unknown in this far northern state. there were still many points that tad was not clear on, but he had heard enough to enable him to give the rancher a timely warning of what they proposed to do. the lad knew what that meant. it meant trouble. his sympathies had been largely with the cattle men--he had looked down on the sheep industry and for the reason that he knew only what the cattle men had told him about it. at that moment tad butler was experiencing a change of heart. that they could plan ruthlessly to slaughter the inoffensive little animals passed his comprehension. a remark below him caused the lad to prick up his ears and listen intently. "as i came over the little muddy this afternoon, i thought i saw some sort of a camp in the foothills," said a voice. "thought mebby that might be the outfit, though i couldn't see what they were doing on that side of the range." "oh," laughed the big man, "i know the one you mean. yes, i took a look at that outfit myself." "oh, he did, eh? wonder we didn't see him," grunted tad, realizing that the men referred to the camp of the pony riders. "there was something besides bears around there, i see." "find out what it was!" "yes, it seemed to be a camp of boys. there was only one man in the bunch so far as i could see. he was a tall gent with whiskers that hadn't been shaved for two weeks o' sundays." tad could not repress a laugh. "i wish the boys could hear that," he said, laughing softly. "that hits off the professor better than a real picture could do." "huh! what were they doing!" "you can search me for the answer. i haven't got it," laughed the big fellow. "we don't need to bother about them. they're out here with some crazy idea in their tops. they can't interfere with our plans any." "you'd better not be too sure about that," chuckled tad. "perhaps one of them may if he has the good luck to get out of here without being discovered." "what's the plan, bluff?" "so that's his name? i'll remember that," muttered tad. "that's what i wanted you boys to meet me here for. i want you to see all the ranchers before to-morrow night on both sides of the rosebud. understand now, no blunt giving away of the game. you want to start by telling them you hear boss simms is bringing in ten thousand head of sheep, and that he's going to graze them up the valley all the way over the free grass to the north. tell them that it'll be mighty poor picking for the cows and so on until you get 'em good and properly mad----" "yes, what then?" "better let the ranchers make threats first, then you can say that you hear the others are going to teach boss simms a lesson and stampede his flock to-morrow or next night. say you hear the word will go out when the mine is ready to touch a match to. you'll know how to work it?" "sure thing, bluff. who do you want us to see?" "i want you and jake to take the west side of the mountains. lazy and i will take the east. work it thoroughly and don't you go to making any bad breaks. right after the job is over, besides the sheep we get for our own herd, there'll be a few thousand laying dead around these parts. we'll take the contract to skin them for the hides. that'll be another rake off. do you follow me?" "yes." "to-morrow night meet me at the three sisters and i'll be able to give you your orders for the rest of the boys." "you don't think they'll suspect you--that they'll be wise to what the game is?" asked one of the men apprehensively. "no fear of that. they'd never mix me up with any such deal as that. i'm a respectable law abiding rancher, i am," laughed the man with the red beard. "don't you go to getting cold feet. that's the sure way to get caught," admonished the leader. "want us to start now?" "no, sure not. what's the use? we'd better turn in and get some sleep. it'll be light enough by three o'clock in the morning. we'll get a rasher of bacon and some hot coffee, then we'll light out for the valley. you know you don't have to see bob moore. and better not go near the circle t ranch. i'm not any too sure about those fellows. we'll turn in now." "i've heard enough to hang the whole bunch," thought tad butler. "the trouble is i don't know who they are. but that does not make so much difference. only if i did know, mr. simms might be able to have them arrested. as it is, i guess the best he can do is to get ready to fight them off when they do come," reasoned the lad. "better stake the ponies nearer camp in case anything comes along. i came across bear tracks a few miles to the east of here," the big man advised them. "so did i," thought tad. "i forgot to tell you that there'll be three or four crow braves with us on the raid as well as half a dozen blackfeet?" "blackfeet? what are them redskins doing down here, off the reservation?" demanded jake. "they're like all critters, think the pasture over the fence is better'n their own," laughed bluff. "guess there's no need of any of us keeping awake. we ain't likely to have any surprises." the cowboy outlaw, however, was about to have the most surprising of surprises that could have come to him at that time. tad, in his anxiety to catch every word that was uttered, had drawn his body close up to the edge of the cliff, his head and shoulders hanging well over. in front of him, right down to the camp stretched a long, sloping rock, whose smooth face, glistened in the light of the camp fire. as the men rose to prepare for the night, tad began pulling himself cautiously back, bracing himself with one hand. suddenly the hand slipped. how it happened he was unable to tell afterward, but instantly tad was over the rock and tobogganing down its side head first. a spot rougher than the rest of the rock, caught in his clothes, righting the boy's body, permitting him to shoot down the rest of the way, feet first. the pony rider boy's presence of mind did not desert him for an instant. it was not a long drop. he felt that he would land safely, providing he did not turn again and land on his head instead of his feet. it was a chance very liable to happen, as he knew from his experience of a second before. they heard him coming, but did not catch the significance of it. "what's that!" exclaimed bluff, springing up in alarm. "i don----" "y-e-o-w!" tad had uttered the shrill scream. with great presence of mind he hoped to take them so by surprise that they would hesitate for the few seconds, and that in this delay he would be able to get away. the lad's feet struck the ground, his body plunged forward and he fell sprawling at the very feet of the men he was seeking to get away from. "catch him! it's a man!" roared the leader. with one accord they sprang for the prostrate form of tad butler. chapter ix tad outwits his pursuers tad was lithe and supple. as the champion wrestler of the high school, back in his home town in missouri, he was possessed of many tricks that had proved useful to him on more than one occasion since the pony riders set out on their summer's jaunt. "y-e-o-w!" yelled the lad in a high-pitched, piercing voice, intended to confuse his enemy. and it served its purpose well. as the men leaped upon him, tad raised himself to all fours, his back slightly arched. in this position he ran on hands and feet like a monkey, darting straight between the legs of the man with the beard. the big man flattened himself on the ground face downward, while tad, who had tripped him, was well outside the ring. in an instant the leader's fellows had dropped on him and the four men were floundering helplessly, in what, to all appearances, might have been a football scrimmage. tad was not yelling now. he was fairly flying, running on his toes and seeking to do so without making the slightest sound. the men quickly untangled themselves and with yells of rage bounded from their camp in search of the one who had caused so much disturbance. it had all happened so quickly that they had not succeeded in getting a good look at their tormentor. "it's a boy!" roared bluff. "catch him. no, shoot! don't let him get away!" "where is he!" "i don't know. fan the bushes, fan everything. we've got to get him!" "keep it up. do you see him?" "no." as tad heard the bullets snipping the leaves over his head, he instinctively ducked and, turning sharply to the left, skulked through the trees. by the flickering light of the camp fire he had seen something that gave him a sudden idea. "watch out. there he is?" "where, where?" "there, by the ponies. give it to him!" cried jake. "stop, you fools!" thundered the leader. "do you want to kill the bronchs? get after him. what are you standing there like a lot of dumbheads for?" "i see him. i kin pink him," yelled one of the four. "i said go after him. not a shot in that direction!" commanded bluff. tad bad caught a glimpse of the ponies. "i'm going to try it," he breathed. no thought of wrong entered his mind. he was about to take a horse that did not belong to him. he knew his life was at stake and that having overheard their plans he would be sure to suffer were he to fall into their hands. "it's not stealing. it's just fighting them on their own ground," gasped the boy, tugging desperately at the stake rope in an effort to free the first pony he came to. the leash resisted all his efforts. out came the lad's jack knife. one sweep and the rope fell apart. they had discovered him. every second was precious now. he was thankful that the men had removed neither bridles nor saddles, though he knew the bit was hanging from the animal's mouth. but tad cared little for this. he could manage the pony, he felt sure. with a yell of defiance he leaped into the saddle and dug his fist into the animal's side, uttering a shrill, "yip-yip!" the pony, responding to the demands of its rider, sprang away through the forest, putting the lad in imminent peril of being swept off by low hanging limbs. "he's getting away. he's got one of the ponies. give it to him now, but don't hit the rest of the cayuses!" yelled the leader in high excitement. tad had it in mind to liberate the other animals and start them off on a stampede. it was the fault of the outlaw cowboys that he did not. they discovered his whereabouts sooner than he had hoped they might. it was all he could do to get one pony free and mount in time, for they were running toward him at top speed. instantly, upon their leader giving them the order to fire, the men raised their weapons, taking quick, careful aim, and pulled the triggers. their bullets whistled far above the head of the fleeing boy, as the ground was sloping and he was traveling downward rapidly. "keep it up. you may get in a chance shot. no, stop. take to the ponies." three of them, including the leader, cast loose the remaining animals, and springing upon their backs, spurred the bronchos into a run. they were in hot pursuit of the lad now, with freshly loaded guns ready to fire the instant they came within range of him. tad's pony was crashing through the brush, making such a racket that there could be no trouble about their keeping on the trail. they needed no light by which to follow it unerringly. the boy soon came to a realization of this. then again the men were so much more familiar with mountain riding that he felt sure they would eventually overhaul him. even now they were gaining. there could be no doubt of that. "i'll ride as long as i can, then i'll try to get away from them some other way," he decided. the moment was rapidly approaching when he would be forced to resort to other tactics. just what these should be he did not know. he would either be shot or captured in the event of his being unable to devise some other method of escape. tad butler was resourceful. he had no idea of giving up yet. he was determined above all, to defeat the desperate purpose of these men and save mr. simms from the loss of his flock. "we're gaining on him!" cried one of the pursuers. "i can hear the pony plainer now." "yes, i kin hear him snort," added another. "you'll hear that cub doing some snorting on his own account in a minute," snarled bluff, applying the spurs mercilessly. "shall we shoot, cap!" "i'll let you know when to shoot. no use filling all the trees in the range full of lead. we'll be up with him in a few minutes now and there'll be things doing. he can't get away. we've got him to rights this time." "he's a slick one whoever he is. think he heard us?" "can't guess. don't make any difference anyhow. he won't have a chance to use the information, if he did hear." "we're coming up on him," cried jake. "halt!" bellowed the leader. the pony in the lead did not slacken its speed in the least. bluff repeated his command, but still without perceptible result. "halt or we shoot!" tad butler made no reply. he was leaning far over on the pony's neck now. in this position he was less likely to be swept off by limbs, and, again, were they to fire on him as they had threatened, there was a much better chance of the shots going harmlessly over, instead of through him. thus far their marksmanship had been poor. this was the second time the lad had been under fire, the first having been in the battle of the mountaineers, when the pony riders were in the rocky mountains, on which occasion tad had conducted himself with such coolness and bravery. tad realized no fear, however. it thrilled him. a strange sense of elation possessed him. he felt strong and resourceful--he felt that he would be willing to do or dare almost anything. "let him have it!" commanded the leader sternly. the men obeyed instantly. their weapons sent a rattling fire in the direction of the fleeing broncho. "halt! will you halt!" the pony still plunged on. "once more!" the men fired again, two rounds each. this time they heard the pony plunge crashing to the ground. his rapid course had come to a sudden end. the pursuers set up a yell of triumph. "he's down! he's down! we've got him!" "give him another one!" to make sure that their man should not escape they fired their weapons again. the pursuers dashed up with drawn revolvers, ready to shoot at the least sign of resistance. bluff leaped from his pony and struck a match. tad's mount lay dying in the brush. "there's no one here," said bluff, his face working nervously. of tad butler there was no sign. he had disappeared utterly. chapter x the ride fob help "there's pink-eye!" exclaimed ned rector. "is it possible?" answered the professor. "then something has happened to tad." "mebby--mebby the bear's got him," suggested stacy brown, his face blanching. all through the night the little party had sat up anxiously awaiting the return of their companion, who had set out after the bear. the tent had been ruined, but they found that the rifles had not been harmed at all, having been stacked in front of the small tents. early in the morning the three boys and professor zepplin had followed tad's trail for some distance into the foothills, but feared to penetrate too far for fear of getting lost. the professor reasoned that it would be much better to return to camp and give tad a chance to find his way in in case he himself should prove to have been lost. this the boys had done, but they were impatient to be doing something more active. ned rector was fairly fuming, because their guardian would not permit him to set out alone in search of the missing boy. "no," the professor had said; "if i did that with all of you, we should have the whole party scattered over the mountains and it is doubtful if we should all get together again before snow flies." yet when tad's pony came trotting back to camp, the matter took on a more serious aspect. something must be done and at once. "now, will you let me go, professor?" begged ned. "not in those mountains alone, if that is what you mean." "then what can we do?" "if the guide were only here!" interjected walter. "do you suppose i could find him?" "it will be useless to try, my boy. about the only course we can follow now, is that leading back to forsythe, and i am not sure that we shouldn't be lost doing that." "then we don't know it," retorted ned. "i know the trail. i could go back over it with my eyes shut. why would that not be the idea, professor? why not let me ride back to forsythe? mr. simms would give us some one who knew the foothills and mountains and i could bring him back." "let me see, how far is it?" mused the professor. "thirty miles, he said." "why, it would take you couple of days to make that and back." "you try me and see. i can get a fresh pony to come back with, and if i do not return with the guide, what difference does it make? he's the one you want. but never fear, i'll be back with him between now and morning if i have no bad luck," urged the lad earnestly. "i am half inclined to agree to your plan. if i were sure that you knew the way----" "it is not possible to get lost. we have the compasses and we know the direction in which forsythe lies. all we have to do is to travel in an opposite direction from that by which we came." "supposing we all go!" suggested walter. "wouldn't do at all," answered the professor, with an emphatic shake of the head. "some one must remain here in case tad returns. that boy will get back somehow. i feel sure of that. he is resourceful and strong. and besides, he has my revolver. no; more than one on the trip would be apt to delay rather than to help. master ned, you may go." "good!" shouted the lad. bad-eye looked up almost resentfully as the boy approached him on the run, threw on the saddle and cinched the girths. the hits were slipped into the animal's mouth, and, placing his left foot in the stirrup, ned threw himself into the saddle. "i'm ready now," he said, his eyes sparkling with anticipation, as he rode up to the little group. "i'll show you that i'm not a tenderfoot even if i am from missouri," he laughed. "be careful," warned professor zepplin. "don't worry about me, and, chunky, you look out for bears. if tad should come in within the next half hour or so, you can fire off your rifles to let me know. then i'll turn about and come back. good-bye, all." "good-bye and good luck," they shouted. giving a gentle pressure to the spurs, ned rector started off on his long ride at a brisk gallop. within a short time the lad had the satisfaction of finding that he was emerging from the foothills. he then pulled up the pony and consulted his compass. "five points north of east. the professor said that should take me back. besides i remember that we came this way yesterday. i'm going to save some time by fording that fork without going the roundabout way we took before." ned galloped on again. had it not been for his anxiety over tad, he would have enjoyed his ride to the fullest. the morning was glorious; the sun had not yet risen high enough to make the heat uncomfortable; birds were singing and in spots where the sun had not yet penetrated a heavy dew was glistening on foliage and grass. ned drew a long breath, drinking in the delicious air. "this is real," he said. "nothing artificial about this. i wish i might stay here always." the lad did not think of the deep snows and biting cold of the northern winters there, winters so severe that hundreds of head of sheep and cattle frequently perished from the killing weather. he saw nature only in her most peaceful mood. he had ridden on for something more than two hours, when he came to the east fork, where they had had such an exciting experience two nights before. after a few moments' riding along the bank he discovered the spot where they had made their camp on the opposite side. "i'm going to take a chance and ford right here," he decided. "no, i guess my mission is too important to take the risk. if i should get caught in there i should at least be delayed. there's somebody else who must be considered. that's tad." half a mile above, the lad found a place that he felt safe in trying. luckily he got across without mishap. he had found a rocky bar without being aware of it, and the water while swift was shallow enough so that by slipping his feet from the stirrups and holding them up, he was able to ford the stream without even getting them damp. "i wonder why we didn't find this place the other night," he said aloud. "i guess we were in too big a hurry. that's the trouble with us boys. we blunder along without using our heads. but, i guess i had better not boast until after i have gotten back safely from forsythe," he laughed. "i may need some good advice myself before that is accomplished." the pony with ears laid back had settled to a long, loping gallop, covering mile after mile without seeming to feel the strain in the least. some distance beyond the fork, ned descried a horseman who had halted on beyond him, evidently awaiting his approach. ned was not greatly concerned about this. on the contrary, it was a relief to see a human being. the man hailed him as he drew up. ned noted the red beard and the general sinister appearance of the man. "how," greeted the stranger, tossing his hand to the lad. "how," answered ned in kind. "where you headed!" "forsythe." "stranger in these parts, i reckon?" "yes, sir." "on a herd?" "expect to be soon. just finished a drive down in texas." "cattle, of course?" "oh, yes." "that's right. this sheep business has got to stop. i hear there's going to be something doing round these parts pretty lively," grinned the stranger. "what do you mean?" asked the lad, peering sharply into the man's face. "oh, nothing much," answered the other. "thought being as you were a cowman it might interest you some." "it does," replied the boy almost sharply. "well, guess the rest, then," laughed the stranger. "where'd you get that pony?" "is that not rather a personal question?" asked ned, smiling coldly. "not in this country. kinder reminded me of a nag that belonged to me. he strayed away from my ranch a few weeks ago," said the fellow significantly. "it wasn't this pony," retorted ned, flushing. "i bought this animal. good day, sir, i must be getting along." "in a hurry, ain't ye?" "i am," answered ned, touching the spurs to the pony's sides and galloping off. "hey, hold on a minute," called the stranger. "can't. in too much of a hurry," replied ned. "i don't like the looks of that fellow at all," muttered the boy as he rode on, instinctively urging his mount along at an increased speed to put as much distance as possible between himself and the curious stranger. "funny he should ask me that question about my pony. however, perhaps it is a peculiarity in this part of the country. wonder what he meant by saying that there would be something doing here pretty quick." after a time ned turned in his saddle and looked back. the horseman was standing as ned had left him. he was watching the boy. ned swung his hand, and then turned, glad that he was well rid of the man. late in the afternoon, he saw the village of forsythe just ahead of him. the boy could have shouted at the sight. "straight as you could shoot a bullet," he chuckled. "i guess i can follow the old custer trail without getting lost." he did not pause, but galloped on into the village and up the main street, not halting until he had reached the bank with which mr. simms was connected. he was stiff and sore from the long, continuous ride, and as he dismounted he found that he could scarcely stand. after tethering the pony to the iron rod that had been fastened to two posts, ned walked into the bank. red-faced and dusty he presented himself to the banker. at first the latter did not appear to recognize him. "i am ned rector of the pony rider boys," explained the lad. mr. simms sprang up and grasped the boy cordially by the hand. "this is a surprise. you back so soon? why, is anything wrong!" "well, yes, there is," admitted ned. "sit down and tell me about it." ned seated himself, but the effort hurt him and he winced a little. "stiffened up, eh? where did you come from?" the lad explained and mr. simms uttered a soft whistle. "well, you have had a ride. i didn't suppose you boys could ride like that. i suppose the guide found you?" "we have seen nothing of him at all." "is it possible? i should not have troubled myself to come back to tell you had it not been for the fact that one of our boys is lost." "lost?" "yes. at least we think so. he has been away since early last evening. we should not have worried so much had not his pony returned without him early this morning. we dared not go far into the mountains to search for him for fear of getting lost ourselves." "you don't mean it?" "yes. i came back to see if you could give me a man from here, or get me one rather. one who knows the mountains and who will ride back with me at once." "of course i will. you did perfectly right in coming to me quickly. my foreman is in town to-day. he will be in shortly and i think he will know of some one who will answer your purpose. i wish you had ridden to my ranch, however. it would have been much nearer." "i didn't know where it was." "of course not." "while waiting for the foreman, tell me about how it all happened?" urged mr. simms. ned went over the events of the previous evening, in detail, to all of which the banker gave an attentive ear. mr. simms regarded him with serious face. "you young men are having plenty of excitement, i must say. yes, you are right. something must have happened to master tad. he looks to me like a boy who could be relied upon to look out for himself pretty well, however," added the banker. "he is. we were afraid that perhaps he might have gotten into trouble with the bear." "quite likely. do you plan on going back with the guide that we get for you?" "certainly." "then you will need a fresh, pony. i will have one brought around for you when you are ready to start. i should think, however, that it would be best for you to remain over until tomorrow. you'll be lamed up for sure." "no, i must go back. i'll be lame all right, but it won't be the first time. i'm lame and sore now. i've polished that saddle so you could skate on it already," laughed ned. mr. simms laughed. "i can understand that quite easily. i've been in the saddle a good share of my life, too. there comes the foreman now." the foreman of the simms ranch, who bore the euphonious name of luke larue, was a product of the west. six feet tall, straight, muscular, with piercing gray eyes that looked out at one from beneath heavy eyelashes, ned instinctively recognized him as a man calculated to inspire confidence. he shook hands with the young man cordially, sweeping him with a quick, comprehensive glance. mr. simms briefly related all that ned rector had told him, and the foreman glanced at the young man with renewed interest after learning of the ride he had taken that morning. "pretty good for a tenderfoot, eh?" ned's bronzed face took on a darker hue as he blushed violently. "i don't exactly call myself that now, sir," he replied. "right. you say your friend chased a bear out!" the lad nodded. luke shook his head. "bad. can he shoot?" "oh, yes. but he had only a revolver--a heavy thirty-eight calibre that belongs to professor zepplin." "nice toy to hunt bears with," laughed the foreman. "bear's probably cleaned him up. i'll get a man i know and i'll go back with you myself. we can run down the trail easily enough, but it will need two trailers, one to follow the pony and the other the bear after their trails separate," the foreman informed them wisely. "do--do--you think he has been killed?" stammered ned. "i ain't saying. it looks bad, that's all." ned forced a composure that he did not feel. he started to ask a further question, when there came a sudden interruption that brought all three to their feet. chapter xi a race against time but to return to tad and his experiences in seeking to elude his pursuers. the boy saw that it was a question of a few moments only before they would surely overhaul him. already the bullets from their revolvers were making their presence known about him. "getting too warm for me," decided the lad coolly. it occurred to him to leave the pony and take his chances on foot. the animal did not belong to him and he would have to abandon it sooner or later. a volley closer than the rest emphasized his decision. the lad freed his feet from the stirrups and slipped from the saddle, at the same time giving the pony a sharp slap, uttering a shrill little "yip!" as the animal dashed away. after this, tad did not wait a second. he ran obliquely away from the pony. this he thought would be better than turning sharply to the left or right. the next moment he came into violent contact with the base of a tree. he noted that it's trunk was a sloping one, and without pausing to think of the wisdom of his act, the lad quickly scrambled up it. to his delight he found himself amid the spreading branches of a pinon tree. he wriggled in among the foliage, stretching himself along a limb, where he clung almost breathless. he had no sooner gained that position than the pony went down under the fire of his pursuers. "too bad," muttered tad. "it's a shame i had to desert the broncho. he did me a good service." the men galloped by a few feet from the boy's hiding place and came to a halt beside the prostrate pony. his straining ears caught their every word. when they began to shoot, tad flattened himself still more, instinctively. some of the bullets passed close beneath him, and he wished that he might have chosen a higher tree in which to hide. bang! it seemed to have cut the leaves just behind his head. tad repressed a shiver and shut his lips tightly together. he was determined not to permit himself to feel any fear. at last the men joined each other right under the tree in which he was hiding. tad fairly held his breath. "well, what do you think, cap?" "don't think. i know. the cayuse has given us the slip." "no, not much use looking for him. better wait here till morning then try to trail him down, if we don't find him laid out somewhere in the bushes round here," suggested one. "yes, we might as well go back to camp. we can't spend much time looking for him in the morning. we've got other work to do. i wish i knew just how much that fellow overheard. queerest thing i ever come across, and i don't like it a little bit." they removed the saddle and bridle from the dead pony, after which they started slowly away. tad breathed again. yet he still lay along the pinon limb, every sense on the alert. he was not sure that it was not a trick to draw him out. he already was too good a woodsman to be caught napping thus easily. after a time, however, deciding that all the men had left, the lad cautiously began to work his way down the sloping tree trunk. his feet touched the ground, his arms still being about the pinon trunk. in that position he lay for several minutes. "i guess it's all right," decided tad, straightening up. "the question is, which way shall i go? i've got to be a long ways from here by daylight or that will be the end of me. it would be just my luck to run right into that gang again." after pondering a moment he decided that, knowing the direction the men had taken, there was only one thing for him to do. he would strike out in the opposite direction. he did so at once, first standing in one spot for some time to get his bearings exactly. then, the lad started away bravely. at first he moved cautiously and as he got further away, increased his speed and went on with less caution. he kept bearing to the right to offset the natural tendency to stray too far the other way, which is usual with those who are lost in the forest. tad was tired and sore, but he did not allow himself to give any thought to that. his one thought now, was to get out of the forest and give the alarm to the owner of the ranch against whom he had heard the men plotting. hearing water running somewhere near, tad realized that he was very thirsty, and after a few minutes' search, he located a small mountain stream. making a cup of his hands he drank greedily, then took up his weary journey again. forcing his way through dense patches of brush, stumbling into little gullies, becoming entangled amongst fallen trees and rotting brush heaps, boy and clothes suffered a sad beating. day dawned faintly after what had seemed an endless night. the sky which he could faintly make out through the trees above him, was of a dull leaden gray, which slowly merged into an ever deepening blue. off to his right he caught glimpses of patches of blue that were lower down. "i must be up in the mountains," said tad aloud. "i wonder how i ever got up here." this was a certain aid to him, however. he reasoned that if the valley lay to his right, he must be going nearly northward. that would lead him toward the place where he believed the simms ranch lay, and at the present moment that was tad butler's objective point. it might be losing valuable time were he to try to find his way back to camp. "i'll get down lower," he decided, turning sharply to the right and descending the sloping side of the mountains. reaching the lower rocks, he found that he was more likely to lose his way there than higher up. he was now in the foothills. there, all sense of direction was lost. so tad, began ascending the mountain. he went up just far enough to enable him to see the blue sky off to the right again, after which he forced his way along the rocky slope. it was tough traveling and he felt it in every muscle of his body. after plodding on for hours, he paused finally and listened. "thought i heard a bell tinkle," he muttered. "i've heard of people hearing such things when they were nearly crazed with hunger and fatigue on the desert. i wonder if i am going the same way. oh, pshaw! tad butler, you could keep on walking all day. don't be silly," he said to himself encouragingly. the tinkling bell was now a certainty. "i know what it is!" exclaimed the lad joyously. "it's sheep! i've heard them before. i'm near sheep and that means there will be men around. it's sheepmen that i am looking for now." with hat in hand, the boy dashed off down the mountain side, leaping lightly from rock to rock, his red neck-handkerchief streaming in the breeze behind him, as he followed an oblique course toward the foothills. all at once he burst out on to a broad, green mesa, and there, before his delighted eyes was a great herd of snowy-white sheep grazing contentedly. off on the further side of the flock he descried a man lazily sitting in his saddle while a dog was rounding up a bunch of stray lambs further to tad's right. the man was watching the work of the dog, so that he did not discover the lad at once. tad decided that he would go around the herd to the left. that appeared to be the shortest way to reach him. he did not wish to try to go straight through the herd. he had gone but a little way before he saw that the man had observed him and was now riding around the upper end of the flock to meet him. "hello, what do you want?" shouted the fellow. "i want to find mr. simms's ranch. is it anywhere near here?" "two miles up that way. where'd you come from?" "i don't know. i've been lost in the mountains. i must see mr. simms at once." "guess you've got a long walk ahead of you then," laughed the sheepman. "boss simms is up to forsythe." "is his family at the ranch?" asked tad. "i reckon the women folks is. you seem to be in a hurry, pardner." "i am. i must hurry." wondering at the haste of the disreputable looking youngster, the sheepman watched him until he had gotten out of sight. finding the footing good and encouraged by the knowledge that he had but two miles to go, the lad dropped into a lope which he kept up until the white side of the simms ranch buildings reflected back the morning sun just ahead of him. tads legs almost collapsed under him as he staggered into the yard and asked a boy whom he saw there, for mrs. simms. he was directed by a wave of the hand to a near-by door, on which tad rapped insistently. "i wish to see mrs. simms, please," he said to the servant, who responded to his knock. "i am mrs. simms. what is it you wish?" answered a voice somewhere in the room. it was a pleasant voice, reminding tad much of his mother's, and a sense of restfulness possessed him almost at once. he felt almost as if he were at home again. "i would like to speak with you, alone, please." "who are you?" "i am tad butler from missouri. i----" "oh, yes, nay husband told me you were expected," she said cordially, extending her hand. "i owe you an apology for appearing in this shape, but i have been lost in the mountains and seem to be rather badly in need of a change of clothes," smiled the lad. "come right in. never mind the clothes. perhaps i may be able to help you. you say you have been lost?" "yes." "where are your companions?" "i don't know. i left them in camp somewhere, i am not sure where." "oh, that is too bad. if you will remain until night perhaps we can spare one of the herders to help you find them----" "pardon me, but it is not for that that i came here," interrupted the lad. "it was on a far more important matter." "yes?" "it is a matter that concerns your husband very seriously." "tell me about it, please?" said mrs. simms anxiously. "have you anyone that you could send to forsythe at once with an urgent message for your husband?" he asked. "there is no one. the herders would not dare to leave their flocks--that is not until the sheep were safe in their corral to-night." "that will be too late. i'll have to go myself. have you a spare pony that i could ride!" "of course. that is if you can rope one out of the pen and saddle it yourself." "certainly. i can do that," said the boy quickly. "but i shall probably ride him pretty hard and fast. i do not think mr. simms will object when he learns my reasons." "is it so serious as that?" "it seems so to me. last night while lost in the mountains i overheard some men plotting against your husband. they said he was expecting a large number of sheep that were being brought in on a drive." "yes, that is true." "they were planning to attack the herd, to stampede it and kill all the animals they could----" "is it possible?" demanded the woman, growing pale. "they mean it, too. i think i will get the pony and start now," decided tad, rising. "you are a brave boy," exclaimed the banker's wife, laying an impulsive hand on tad's shoulder. "i wish you did not have to go. you are tired out now. i can see that." "i'll be all right when i get in the saddle again," he smiled. "thank you just as much." "you shall not leave this house until you have had your breakfast. what can i be thinking of?" announced mrs. simms. "you are doing us all a very great service and i am not even thoughtful enough to offer you something to eat though you are half starved." "i had better not spare the time to sit down," objected tad. "i must be going if you will show me the way." "not until you have eaten." "then, will you please make me some sandwiches? i can eat them in the saddle, and i shall get along very nicely until i get to town. i'll eat enough to make up for lost time when i get at it," he laughed. he was out of the house and running toward the corral, to which mrs. simms had directed him. tad hunted about until he found a rope; then going to the enclosure scanned the ponies critically. "i think i'll take that roan," he decided. "looks as if he had some life in him." the roan had plenty, as tad soon learned. however, after a lively little battle he succeeded in getting the animal from the enclosure and saddling and bridling him. tad could find no spurs, but he helped himself to a crop which he found in the stable, though, from what he had been able to observe, the pony would require little urging to make him go at a good speed. mrs. simms was outside when tad rode up. she had prepared a lunch for him, placing it in a little leather bag with a strap attached for fastening the package over his shoulder. "please say nothing about what i have told you," urged tad. "i don't want them to know we understand their plans. that is the only way mr. simms will be able to catch them." "of course, i shall not mention it. good-bye and good luck." tad mounted his broncho and was off, head-ding directly for the town of forsythe. chapter xii a timely warning arriving in the little town about noon, tad dashed up the street toward mr. simms' bank. tethering his broncho to the post, he entered the bank, and in his anxiety, pushed open the door of mr. simms' private office without ceremony. here, as we already know, were mr. simms, luke larue and ned, all eagerly discussing tad's mysterious disappearance. for a moment not one of those in the office spoke a word. tad stood before them, his clothes hanging in ribbons, his face scratched and torn, the dust and grime of the plains fairly ground into his face, hands and neck. luke larue, of course, did not know the lad, but the keen eyes of the banker lighted up with recognition. "master ned," he said. "i think if this young man were washed and dressed up, you might recognize in him the friend you are looking for." "tad!" exclaimed the boy, springing forward, excitedly grasping the hands of the freckle-faced boy. "hello, ned. what you doing here?' "looking for you. they're all upset back at the camp. we thought the bear had gotten you." "no, i got the bear. a two-legged bear nearly got me later on. i'll tell you all about it later. i want to see mr. simms now." "master tad, i don't know where you have been, but you certainly look used up. this is the foreman of my ranch, mr. luke larue," said the banker. with a quiet smile on the face of each, man and boy shook hands. "heard about you," greeted luke. "heard you was a tenderfoot. don't look like it." "neither do i feel like it. feel as if i'd been put through an ore mill or something that would grind equally fine. when do you expect the sheep?" the foreman shot a keen glance at him. "to-day or to-morrow. why?" "because there is trouble ahead for you when they get here." "what do you mean?" "what is this you say?" demanded mr. simms. "that is what i have come here to tell you about. there is a plan on foot to ride down your sheep when they get here." larue laughed. "guess they'd better not try it. where did you hear that fairy story, young man?" "it's not a fairy tale--it is the fact." mr. simms had risen from his chair and was now facing tad. he saw in the lad's face what convinced him that there was more to be told. "let me hear all about it, master tad," he said. "somebody's been filling the boy up with tenderfoot yarns," smiled the foreman. tad did not appear to heed the foreman's scoffing. instead, he began in a low incisive voice the narration of his experiences of the previous night, beginning with the bear hunt and ending with his finding his way out of the forest that morning. as he proceeded with the story, the lines on the face of the banker grew tense, his blue eyes appearing to fade to a misty gray. at first indifferent, larue soon pricked up his ears, then became intensely interested in the story. "and that's about all i can think of to tell you," concluded tad. ned uttered a low whistle of amazement. "so you think this is a tenderfoot yarn, eh?" asked the banker, turning to his foreman. "not now," answered larue. "i guess the boy did get it straight." "humph! you had no means of knowing--didn't hear what his name was, did you?" "no, sir. he was a big man with red hair and beard and he had a scar over his left temple. the men with him called him bluff." "don't know any such man, do you, luke?" luke shook his head. "nobody who would mix up in such a dirty deal as that. oscar stillwell who owns a cow ranch on the other side of the rosebud, answers to that description, but he ain't the man for that kind of a raw job. known him five years now." "sure about him, are you?" "positive. he don't approve of the hatred that the cowmen generally have for the sheep business. says there's free grass enough for all of us and that the sheepmen have just as much right to it as the cowmen. i'll ride over to his ranch this afternoon and talk with him. i can tell him the story without his giving it away." "just as you think best. you know your man and i don't." "yes. and if there's any such plan on foot, he'll be likely to know about it." "this business has been getting altogether too common. all the way up and down the old custer trail, there has been sheep killing, sheep stealing, stampeding and no end of trouble for the past year. we have seemed unable to fix the responsibility on anyone. but i'll tell you that if they try to break into any of our herds this time, somebody is going to be shot," decided mr. simms, compressing his lips tightly together. "we're forewarned this time." "have you any suggestions, mr. simms? i must be getting back to the ranch if this is in the wind?" "yes. let no one outside of our own men, know that we suspect, unless it be stillwell and you are sure you can trust him----" "there's no doubt of it." "when the new herd gets here, put all the men on it save one who will watch the corral at night. they won't be likely to attack the sheep that are in the enclosure. it's the new ones that we have to herd on the open range that they will be likely to direct their efforts toward. master tad has heard as much." "will you be out?" "of course. i'll ride out this afternoon and remain at the ranch or on the range until this thing has blown over. we had better begin grazing north at once. i want to get them up where the grass is better, as soon as possible. then you can let them take their time until after shearing. we're late with that as it is. see that the men are well armed, but make no plans until i have been out and looked the ground over." "very well. suppose you have no idea where it was that these men found you, or where you found them?" asked the foreman. "no, sir. i was too busy to take notice." "i should say so," laughed mr. simms. "i'd better be moving then, if there's nothing else to be said," decided luke. "i think you had better spare the time to take these young men back to their camp." "i helped myself to one of your horses, mr. simms. the roan." "help yourself to anything that belongs to me, young man," answered the banker. "you have done us a service that nothing we can do will repay." "the roan--you say you rode the roan?" asked lame. "yes. he's a good one." "did he throw you?" "he tried to," grinned tad. "then i take back all i said about your being a tenderfoot. there aren't three men on the ranch who can stick on his back when he takes a notion that he doesn't want them to." "luke, i have asked these young men to join our outfit. when i did so, i didn't know i was drawing a prize. they rather thought the sheep business wouldn't suit them, having been out with a herd of cows----" "we shall be glad to accept your kind offer, mr. simms," interrupted tad. "i've changed my mind since i saw how the cattle men act toward sheep." "that's good." "when do you wish us to join you?" "join to-day by all means, if you have no other plans. i am surprised that the guide failed you. you will not need a guide if you go with the outfit, and you can take as many side trips for hunting, as you wish." "that will be fine," agreed ned rector. "another idea occurs to me. my boy philip has not been well, and if you lads have no objection, i should like to send him along with the herd. if you will keep an eye on him to see that he doesn't get into trouble, i shall be deeply grateful to you." "of course we shall," answered tad brightening. "how old is he?" "only twelve. he's quite a baby still. you will not have any responsibility at all, you understand. he and old hicks the cook of the outfit, are great friends, and hicks will look after him most of the time." "we shall be glad to have him with us," glowed ned. "perhaps you would prefer not to join until after this trouble is over. it probably would be safer, come to think of it----" "no. i think we should like to join right away," interrupted tad hastily. "besides, we may be able to be of some service to you. we can handle cattle, so i don't know why we should not be of use with sheep. don't you think so, ned?" "yes, of course. that will just suit chunky, too. that's what we call our friend stacy brown," explained ned, with a grin. "he's the fat boy, you know." "was once. he's getting over it rapidly," laughed tad. "his uncle won't know him when he gets back to chillicothe." "you have had most of the fun and excitement thus far, tad. now the rest of us want to have some too." "if you call being shot at fun, then i have had more than my share." "most likely you will have all that's coming to you if this thing comes off," grunted the foreman. "i'm going out now. meet you here in an hour. we'll ride back to the ranch. i'll either accompany you to your own camp from there, or send some one else who knows the way. i think i understand where your friends are located. i'm going to get a case of shells at the hardware store, mr. simms." "that's the idea. better take out some more guns while you are about it. you know what to buy." at the appointed time larue presented himself at the bank, announcing himself as ready for the ride. the banker again renewed his expressions of appreciation of all that tad butler had done for him, after which they swung into their saddles and started off on their long ride over the plains. there was plenty of excitement before the pony riders. their few weeks with the herd were to be more eventful, even, than had been their journey with the cattle over the plains of texas. chapter xiii preparing for an attack it was late on the following forenoon when the pony rider boys descended on the simms ranch, bag and baggage. larue had relieved one of the herders and sent him back with tad butler and ned rector, to bring up the rest of the party. the parlor tent they found had been too badly damaged to be worth carrying along, so they left it where the bear had wrecked it. "heard anything from the herd?" was tad's first question as mr. simms came out to greet them. "we certainly have. they are within three miles of here now. i have given orders to keep them clear of the ranch, and the herders are at work deflecting them to the northward. we shall bed them down about five miles from here to-night. to-morrow we will push on slowly for the grass regions up the state. i have arranged for you to remain at the ranch to-night." "oh, no. we prefer to go out and join the herd," objected tad. "we most certainly do," added ned. "that's what we are here for." "have you heard anything new?" asked tad, in a low voice, leaning from his saddle. "yes. i heard that the cowmen all through here are stirred up. it isn't any one man or set of men that's doing it. we have received threats from different sources if we allow the sheep to stray from our own ranch," answered mr. simms, with serious face. "and you have decided----?" "to go on." "hello, is this your son, philip?" asked tad, as a slender, pale-faced boy came toward them. "yes, this is phil. come here, phil and meet my young friends." the pony rider boys took to the lad at once. he was a manly little fellow, but delicate to the point of being fragile, the lad having only recently recovered from a serious attack of typhoid fever. "you see what the outdoor life has done for these young gentlemen, phil," said mr. simms. "i shall expect you to come back this fall, looking every bit as well as they do now. all get ready for dinner. it will be served in a few moments. later in the day, we shall move out on the range. phil, have you packed up your things?" "yes, sir. i'm all ready." the noon meal was a jolly affair. the herders cooked their own meals out on the range, and after this the boys would eat with them. but to-day they were invited guests in the home of the rancher and hanker. in the meantime professor zepplin and mr. simms had become interested in each other and already were looking forward to the next few days on the range together, with keen pleasure. the start was made shortly after three o'clock, the party reaching their destination well before sundown. the pony riders uttered a shout as they descried the white canvas top of the chuck wagon. it was a familiar sight to them. on beyond that was a perfect sea of white backs and bobbing heads, where the great herd was grazing contentedly after its long journey to the free grass of montana. the boys had never seen anything like it. the sheep dogs, too, were a source of never-ending interest. the boys watched the intelligent animals, as of their own accord they rounded up a bunch here and there that they had observed straying from the main herd, working the sheep back to their fellows quietly and without in the least appearing to disturb them. "what kind of sheep is that over there?" asked chunky, pointing. "that's no sheep. that's billy," answered mr. simms. "who's he?" "the goat. you've no doubt heard of a bell wether?" "i have," spoke up tad. "that's what billy is. he leads the sheep. they will follow a leader almost anywhere. in crossing a stream billy wades in without the least hesitation and they cross right over after him. otherwise we should have great difficulty in getting them over." "oh, yes, i know a goat. had one once," replied stacy. "does he butt?" "sometimes. his temper is not what might be called angelic. i suspect the boys have been teasing him pretty well. however, you want to look out for some of those rams. they are ugly and they can easily knock a man down. if you are up early in the morning you will see them at play--you will see what they can do with their tough heads." "i forgot to tell you," said larue in a low voice, "that some of the men report having encountered indians during the day." "that's nothing new. there are plenty of them around here," laughed the banker. "they think they were blackfeet. the reds were so far away, however, that the men could not make certain." "off the reservation again, eh? probably think they can pick up a few sheep. well, look out for them. if you catch them at any shines just shoot to scare. don't hit them. we don't want any government inquiry. i have suspected for a long time that some of them were hiding in the rosebuds and that the crow indians were in league with them. it's only the bad indians who stray from their reservations, you see," explained mr. simms. "we have to be on the lookout for these roving bands all the time or they'd steal all we have." "i should think you would complain to the indian agencies," suggested the professor. "doesn't pay. they would take it out of us in a worse way, perhaps. they're a revengeful gang." one by one the herders came in with their dogs and flocks, rounding the sheep in for the night, having chosen for the purpose a slight depression in the plain. for the first time, the boys had an opportunity to meet the ranchers and compare them with the cattle men they tad known in texas. they were a hardy lot, taciturn and solemn-faced. the most silent man in the bunch, was noisy cooper, who scarcely ever spoke a word unless forced to do so by an insistent question. bat coyne had been a cattle man down in texas, while mary johnson--so called because of his pink and white complexion, which no amount of sun or wind could tarnish--was said to have come from the east. he had left there for reasons best known to himself, working on sheep ever since. it was old hicks, however, who interested tad most. hicks's first words after being introduced were in apology for being cook on a sheep ranch. he was limping about, flourishing a frying-pan to accentuate his protests. "i'm a cowpuncher, i am. wish i'd never joined this mutton outfit," he growled. "then why did you?" asked tad, smiling broadly. "why? i joined because i could get more pay. that's why. what you suppose i joined for?" "i thought perhaps you preferred sheep," answered the lad meekly. "like them--like mutton?" snarled old hicks, hurling his frying-pan angrily into the chuck wagon. "between sheep and had injuns, give me the injun every time. why, every time i have to cook one it makes me sick; it does." "indians? do you cook indians?" asked stacy, who had been an interested listener to the conversation. "wha--wha--cook indians? no! i cook mutton. what do you take me for?" "i--i--i didn't know," muttered stacy meekly. "thought i heard you say you did." "you got another think coming," growled the cook, limping away. "come over here and take a sniff at this kettle?" he called, turning back to tad. the lad did so. "smells fine, doesn't it?" "i think so. what is it, mutton?" "boiled mutton. i kin smell the wool. bah." "do you cook them with the wool on?" asked chunky, edging nearer the kettle. "see here, young man. this here is a bad country to ask fool questions in. use your eyes and ears. give your tongue a rest. it'll stop on you some day." chunky retired somewhat crestfallen, and from that moment on he kept aloof from the irascible cook, whom he held in wholesome awe. "come and get it!" bellowed old hicks, who, after prodding about the interior of the kettle with a sharp stick for some time, decided that the hated mutton was ready to be served. the pony riders did not share hicks's repugnance to mutton. they helped themselves liberally, and even phil simms went so far as to pass his plate for a second helping. by the time the meal had been finished twilight was upon them. the boys, when professor zepplin called their attention to the lateness of the hour, made haste to pitch their tents, while mr. simms, with phil and the sheepmen, looked on approvingly. "you boys go at it like troopers," he smiled. "you'll have to pitch your own, too, after to-day, philip." "we'll help him," chorused the boys. "we've got to do something to earn our board," said ned. "if we eat all the time the way we have tonight, there won't be many sheep left to graze by the time we've finished the trip," laughed walter. "somebody has to eat the cook's share," interrupted larue. "what i came over here to ask was whether you boys were intending to take your turns at herding for the next few nights?" "of course we are," they answered in one voice. "that's what we are up here for," added tad. "got any guns?" "rifles. fortunately, they were not in the tent that was set afire by the bear, so they are all right," replied tad. "however, i'll have to ask the professor about taking them out. i do not think he will care to have us do so." "i'll give you each a revolver," announced the foreman. "luke, never mind the guns. the boys will do their part by keeping guard. we don't want them to be mixed up in any trouble that may follow. if there is any shooting to be done, we can take care of that, i guess," said mr. simms, with a grim smile. "yes, i could not think of permitting it," said the professor firmly; hence it was decided that the lads should go on as they had been doing, leaving the sterner work to those whose business it was to attend to it. after the darkness had settled over the camp, the boys observed that there were more men present than had been the case when they had their supper. mr. simms explained that they were some men he had sent for to help protect the herd. he had ordered them to report after dark, so that the trouble-makers might know nothing about the increased force. the rancher was determined to teach the cattle men of the free-grass range a lesson they would not soon forget. "what do you wish us to do?" asked walter. "we are anxious to get busy." "i think two of you had better go out for the first half of the night; the other two for the latter half." "do we take our ponies?" asked tad. "yes. all of us will ride, excepting the few men who are regularly on guard with the sheep. but you will not move around much. make no noise and be watchful. that is all we can do." it was decided that ned and walter should take the early trick; tad and stacy brown going out after midnight. the herders were already attending to their duties. and now mr. simms and the foreman having given their orders, the reserve force moved out one at a time until all had disappeared in the darkness. a signal had been agreed upon, so that they might recognize each other in the dark. the rancher had thrown out his reserve force in the shape of a picket line, located some distance out from the herd and covering a circle something more than a mile in diameter. this was done so that in case of an attack they would have an opportunity to drive off their enemy without great danger to the herd. the battle, more than likely, would be ended before the cowmen could get near enough to the sheep to inflict any damage. the two boys left camp rather closer together than had the others, as they were to keep in touch during their watch. in a short time the guards were all placed and a great silence settled over the scene, broken only now and then by the bleating of a lamb that had lost its mother in the darkness. chapter xiv bunted by a merino ram the simms outfit breathed a sigh of relief when daylight came again. there had been nothing more disturbing than stacy brown's yawns in the early part of the night. so persistent had been these that the professor and mr. simms found themselves yawning in sympathy. old hicks, who was sitting up to prepare hot coffee for any of the sheepmen who might come in, was affected in a like manner. had it not been for the presence of the owner of the herd hicks might have adopted heroic measures to put a stop to stacy's yawns. as it was, he threatened all sorts of dire things. at breakfast time the cook seemed to be in a far worse humor than ever when he gave the breakfast call. "come and get it. and i hope it chokes you!" he bellowed, voicing his displeasure at everything and everybody in general. tad rode in as fresh as if he had not had a sleepless vigil. his rest of late had been more or less irregular, but it seemed to have not the slightest effect either on his spirits or his appetite. all felt the relief from the strain of the night's watching and it was a more sociable company that gathered at the table than had been the case on the previous evening. "well, how do you like being a sheepman?" asked mr. simms jovially. "it's better than being lost in the mountains and being shot at by cowmen," averred tad. "perhaps you'll have a chance to enjoy the latter pleasure, still," said mr. simms. "i do not delude myself that we are out of danger yet; it may be that they have taken warning and given it up." "what are the plans for to-day?" asked ned rector. "the herd will graze on, and later in the day we shall move the camp five or six miles up the range. see any indians last night?" "no," answered the boys, sobering a little. "old hicks is authority for the statement that they were hovering somewhere near during the night." "how does he know?" asked tad. "you'll have to make inquiry of hicks himself if you want to find out," laughed the rancher. "probably the same way that he knows we are talking about him now." all eyes were directed toward the cook. hicks was limping around the mutton kettle, shaking his fist at it and berating it, though in a voice too low for them to hear. "that's one of your cattle men for you," chuckled mr. simms. "i think he would take genuine pleasure in boiling a sheepman in his pot. but he takes the money," added mr. simms significantly. "by the way, where's your chum?" "whom do you mean?" asked walter, glancing about the table. "chunky, i believe you call him." "that's so, where is he?" demanded tad, laying down his fork. "probably fallen in somewhere again," growled ned. "did not master stacy come in with you, ned?" asked the professor hurriedly. "no, sir." "he was with you last night?" "no, not all the time. he went out with me, but i saw him only twice during the early part of my watch." mr. simms looked serious. "i hope nothing has happened to him. see here, luke. they tell me master stacy has not been seen this morning. know anything of it?" "why, no. are you sure? have you looked in his tent?" "excuse me, i'll go see if he isn't there," said tad, rising from the table and hurrying to the tent occupied by his companion. "no," he said as he returned; "evidently he has not been there since we went out at midnight." "ask old hicks if he has seen him come in," directed mr. simms. the cook said he had not set eyes on the fat boy, adding that he didn't care a rap if he never came back. the boys looked at each other with mute, questioning eyes. "we must go in search of him at once," decided the professor. "yes, don't worry, professor," calmed the rancher. "he has probably strayed off by himself and is unable to find his way back. luke will round him up in short order. finish your breakfast, everybody, then we will see that the young man is brought back. funny he should have gotten away without any one's having noticed it." "he's always getting himself into trouble," declared ned. "i thought i was the only one that did that," retorted tad, with an attempt at gayety. "that's different. i know what i'm talking about. something is sure to happen to that boy before we are ready to go back home." "begins to look as if something had already happened," said walter. a wild yell startled the sheepmen at the table. it seemed to come from some distance away. everybody started up, some reaching for their guns. "we are attacked!" cried one. "no, but we're going to be!" shouted another. "there comes one of the boys on a pony giving the alarm." "get ready, everybody!" the camp was in instant confusion. in their haste to prepare for action, the table was upset and its contents piled in a confused heap. old hicks was roaring out his displeasure, the foreman was shouting out his orders, while professor zepplin was seeking to make himself heard in an effort to give directions to his charges. suddenly the voice of the foreman was heard above the uproar. "hold on!" he shouted. "it's one of our own--it's------oh, bah!" "what is it? what is it!" cried mr. simms, unlimbering his weapon. "it's chunky," snorted ned rector disgustedly. "the fat boy has been falling in again or i'll eat mutton all the rest of my natural life." "it sure enough is he," answered tad, gazing off at the horseman who was riding at top speed and trying to urge his pony on still faster. "i wonder what he has been getting into this time. hope it's nothing serious." "not to him, anyway, judging by the way he is riding," replied walter. "something has given him a mighty good start, anyhow," shrewdly decided the foreman. "i know what it is--i know what he's in such a hurry about," said ned. "what?" asked walter. "breakfast. he's just found out it's breakfast time," jeered ned. "can't have no breakfast," growled old hicks. "breakfast is et." "excepting what's on the ground," added mary johnson. "what's he yelling about?" "something's gone twisted," decided champ blake. "think so, noisy?" "uh-hu," agreed the silent one. all eyes were fixed on chunky. he was gesticulating wildly and pointing back to the hills from which he had just come. "i believe they are after us, and in broad daylight, too," snapped mr. simms. "get your ponies. be quick! ride fast. don't let them get near the sheep." thus admonished, the sheepmen sprang for their saddles. the boys followed suit at once, leaving only the professor and old hicks to look after the camp. a bunch of sheep had trotted to a water hole hard by the camp, a faithful shepherd dog following along after them to see that they returned to the main flock as soon as they should have satisfied their thirst. the sheep were now between chunky and the camp. so intent was he on attracting the attention of the men that he failed to observe the small flock in his path. neither did the sheepmen notice it. if old hicks did, he did not care what happened either to the sheep or to the boy to whom he had taken such a violent dislike. "wow! wow! wow!" screamed the boy in a shrill, high-pitched voice. "what's the matter?" "where are they?" "how many of 'em?" these and other questions were hurled at chunky as he dashed straight toward the camp. he pointed back to the foothills. "they're there, he says," shouted the foreman. "come on. spread out so as to cover the herd. don't you let a man get through our lines." their ponies were stretched out with noses reaching for some unseen object, as it seemed. they swept past the lad within hailing distance, riding hard, while he continued to reach for home. stacy had turned to look back at the racing sheepmen, when his pony drove biting and striking right into the flock crowded about the water hole, for the ponies liked the sheep no more than did the cook. the broncho went down like a flash, hopelessly entangled with the bleating, frightened animals. but stacy did not stop. that is, he did not do so at once. the lad had shot neatly over the broncho's head, describing a nice curve in the air as he soared. pock! his head landed with a muffled sound. "ouch! help!" a loud, angry bleat followed his exclamation. the lad's head had been driven with great violence against the soft, unresisting side of a merino ram. the merino went down under the blow. but his soft fleece had saved the boy from serious injury, if not from a broken neck. "i fell off," cried stacy, struggling to his feet, running his fingers over his body, as if to determine whether or not he had been hurt. "i--i didn't see them. th--they got in my way." whether he had or not was not now the question, at least so far as the merino was concerned. the ram was angry. he resented being bunted over in any such manner. the animal, scrambling to his feet, uttered a bleat, at the same time viciously throwing up his head, landing lightly, for him, on chunky's leg. "stop kicking me! i say you stop that you----" he did not finish what he had started to say. the merino, finding the mark a satisfactory one, had backed quickly off. with head well down, eyes on the boy who had been the cause of his downfall, he charged with a rush. just at the instant when he delivered the blow, the tough, horned head was raised ever so little. "ye-o-ow!" shrieked the boy as he felt himself suddenly lifted from his feet and once more propelled through the air head first. it seemed in that brief interval of sailing through space as if every particular bone in his body had been jarred loose from its fastenings. chunky felt as if he were all falling apart while making his brief second flight. he was headed straight for the muddy water hole, and the ram was charging him a second time. the lad did not know this, however. just at the edge of the water hole the merino caught him again, neatly flipping him in the air and landing the boy on his back, with a mighty splash, right in the middle of the pool. yet the force of the ram's charge had been so great that he was unable to stop when he discovered the water at his feet. in endeavoring to do so, his strong little feet ploughed into the soft turf. the merino did a pretty half somersault and he too landed in the mud pool on his back. unfortunately, he struck in the identical spot that chunky had, and for a moment there was such a threshing about, such a commotion there as two monsters of the deep might have made in a battle to the death. old hicks was hammering a dishpan on a wheel of the chuck wagon, regardless of the damage he was inflicting on the pan, and screaming with delight. professor zepplin as soon as he could recover his wits, rushed to the rescue and from the flying legs and horns managed to extract stacy brown and drag him up to the dry ground. the lad was a spectacle. mud was plastered over him from head to foot, while the muddy water was dripping from hair, mouth, ears, eyes and nose. "i--i fell in, didn't i?" he gasped. "wh--who kicked me?" "who kicked him?" jeered old hicks. "oh, help, help!" he cried, rolling with laughter. stacy began to sputter in an uncertain voice. professor zepplin shook him roundly. "why didn't you get out of it? the water wasn't over my head, you chunk," roared old hicks. chunky eyed him sadly. "it was the way i went in," he said, breathing hard as he wrung the water from his trousers by twisting them in his hand. at that the irrepressible hicks went off into another paroxysm of mirth. chapter xv roped by a cowboy the professor had no sooner marched stacy to his tent to wash the mud from himself and get into a clean suit of clothes, than the sheepmen came galloping back to camp. a few of them had been left out near the foothills in case of a surprise. "where's that boy who sent us off on this fool chase?" demanded luke larue, riding right into the camp. chunky poked his head from the tent, holding the flap about him to cover himself. "what did you tell us the cowmen were after us for?" "who, me?" "yes, come out here. i want to talk to you." "i--i--i can't." "you'd better or i'll have to fetch you out. why can't you?" demanded the foreman sternly. "i--i haven't got any clothes on," stammered the boy. the foreman slipped from his pony, leaning against a tree with a helpless expression on his face. stacy's companions with mr. simms and several of the sheepmen rode in at that moment. "where's that boy?" demanded the rancher of larue. the foreman pointed to the tent. but the lad not yet having finished his toilet, all hands were obliged to stand about waiting for him. they did so with much impatience. stacy took all the time he needed, apparently not believing that there was any necessity for haste. at last he sauntered out smiling broadly. "i think you owe us an explanation, at least," announced mr. simms, a peculiar smile playing about the corners of his lips. he had intended to be stern, but the sight of chunky's good-natured face disarmed him at once, as it did most people. "'bout what?" asked the lad. "sending us out to the foothills, telling us the cowmen were attacking us." stacy's eyes opened widely. "never said so." "what did you say, then?" "nothing." "i guess we are all dreaming," laughed the rancher. "will you please tell me what did happen then, when you started us away?" "when i was riding in, you all started up and mounted your ponies. somebody yelled, 'where are they?' i pointed back to the mountains, and then you rode on," the lad informed him. it was an unusually long speech for chunky to make without many halts and pauses. but he did very well with it. "that is exactly what you did do. when we got there we found not the slightest trace of the cowmen. where did you see them?" "i didn't see them," persisted the lad. "then why did you tell us you did?" "i didn't." mr. simms thrust his hands in his pockets and strode back and forth several times. "say, young man, did you see anything at all, except what your imagination furnished?" chunky nodded emphatically. "what did you see?" "indians." "oh, pshaw!" grunted mr. simms disgustedly. "indians?" interrupted walter perkins. "tell me about it?" "i was asleep," began stacy. "so that's the way you keep watch over our herd is it?" growled luke. "we were just about to organize a searching party to go after you, when we saw you coming." "i got tired. i sat down by a rook and--y-a-li--hum----" "ho-ho-ho--hum," yawned the foreman. within half a minute the whole outfit was yawning lazily, all save old hicks, the cook, who with hands thrust into his trousers pockets stood peering at the fat boy out of the corners of his eyes. "stop that, d'ye hear!" snapped ned rector angrily. "i'll duck you in that water hole, if you don't." "just been ducked," answered stacy lazily. "got kicked in by a sheep." "what about the indians?" asked tad impatiently. "i guess you dreamed you saw them." "no, i didn't. i went to sleep by the rock and when i woke up it was daylight. i yawned." "of course you did," jeered ned. "wouldn't have been you if you hadn't yawned." "i was rubbing my eyes and trying to make up my mind where i was when--when----" "when what?" urged tad. "when somebody said, 'how?'" the sheepmen laughed. "i--i looked around, and there--there stood a lot of indians----" "on their heads!" asked ned. "no, sitting on their ponies. then--then i--" "then you pitched into them and drove them away," laughed walter. "no, i didn't. i yelled and run away. so would you." every man and boy of the sheep outfit roared with laughter. "my boy," said mr. simms, "you will have to get used to seeing indians if you remain with us long. this state is full of them, some bad, some good. but you need not be afraid of them. they dare not interfere with us, so if you see any, just pass the time of day and go on along about your business." "when i got back here i fell in----" professor zepplin here broke into the conversation to explain what had happened to the fat boy, whereupon the outfit once more shouted with merriment. the camp finally having been restored to its normal state, plans were made for moving on to the north. "i wish you would ride over to groveland corners and get me fifty feet of quarter inch rope, tad," said mr. simms. "you will have no trouble in finding the way. i'll show you exactly how to get there and find your way back afterwards. and by the way, you might take philip with you, if you don't mind. i want him to get all the riding he can stand." "i'll answer yes to both, requests," smiled tad. "how far is it to the--the----" "corners? five miles as the crow flies. it will be a slightly longer distance, because you have to go around the little butte. the place is situated just behind it on the west side." "then, i'm ready now, if phil is." the young man was not only ready, but anxious to be off, so without delay, the two lads brought in their ponies and after receiving final instructions as to how to find the new camp, they set off at an easy gallop in the fresh morning air, their spirits rising as they rode over the green mesa that lay sparkling in the morning sunlight. groveland corners was little more than its name implied, consisting of one store that supplied the wants of the half dozen families who inhabited the place, as well as furnishing certain supplies to near-by ranchmen. a group of cattle men had gathered at the store. they were sitting on the front porch talking earnestly when the two boys rode up. tad dismounted, hitching his pony, while phil, shifting to an easy position on his saddle, waited until the purchase of the rope had been made. the conversation came to a sudden pause as the boys rode up, the cowmen eyeing the newcomers almost suspiciously, tad thought. however, he paid no attention to them, further than to bid them a pleasant good morning, to which one or two of them gave a grunting reply. he had noticed one raw-boned mountain boy among the lot who had answered his greeting with a sneering smile and a reply under his breath that tad had not caught. the lad gave no heed to it, but went about his business. besides the rope, he made several small purchases for himself. in reply to a question of the storekeeper, tad informed him that he was with the simms outfit. one of the cowmen who had entered the store, overhearing this, went outside and informed his companions. "hello, kid," greeted one, as the boy left the store. "how's mutton to-day?" busily coiling the rope, tad paid no attention to the taunt; he hung the rope on his saddle horn and then methodically unhitched pinkeye. "going to hang yerself?" jeered another. "that's all a mutton puncher's worth. i guess." tad felt his face flush. he paused long enough to turn and look straight into the eyes of the speaker. "my, but ain't our little boy spunky!" called the fellow in derision. "if he is, he knows, at least, enough to mind his own business," snapped tad. a jeering laugh followed the remark. "did ye mean that fer me?" demanded the mountain boy, rising angrily. "if the coat fits, put it on," answered the freckle-faced boy indifferently, vaulting lightly into the saddle. "i'll bet that's boss simms's kid--the pale-faced dude, eh?" sneered one sharply. an angry growl answered the suggestion. tad thinking it was time to be off, turned his pony about and phil did the same. but no sooner had they headed their mounts toward home, tad being slightly in the lead, than a rope squirmed through the air. it dropped over the shoulders of mr. simms' delicate young son, tightened about his arms with a jerk. "help!" cried the frightened boy. tad, glancing back apprehensively saw what had happened. he wheeled his pony like a flash, but not quickly enough to save his companion from falling. phil simms was roped from his pony, landing heavily in the dust of the street. "y-e-o-w!" chorused the cowboys. chapter xvi tad whips a mountain boy "shame! shame on you!" cried tad butler indignantly. the lad leaped from his pony which he quickly tethered to the hitching bar in front of the store. this done he ran to his fallen companion, who still lay where the lariat had thrown him. he was half stunned and covered with dust. after jerking him from his pony, however, the cowboys, though continuing their shouts of glee, had made no further effort to molest philip. tad quickly released him. "i 've had a lot to do with cowboys, but you're the first i ever knew who would do a thing like that. the cowboys i know are gentlemen." "then, d'ye mean to say that we ain't, ye miserable cayuse?" demanded one of the number, rising menacingly. "the fellow who roped that boy is a loafer!" answered tad bravely, taking a couple of paces forward and facing the crowd. "you wouldn't dare do that to a man, especially if he had a gun as you have. why didn't you try it on luke lame when he was over here?" "oh, go back to yer mammy," jeered one. "i want to know who threw that rope? if he isn't too big a coward, he'll tell me. i guess mr. simms will settle with him." "it's up to you, bob, i guess," nodded one of them, addressing the angry-faced mountain boy who was one of their number. the latter rose with what was intended to appear as offended dignity. "ye mean me?" he demanded, glaring. "yes, if you are the one who did it," answered tad, looking him squarely in the eyes. "then your going to git the alfiredest lickin' you ever had in your life," announced the mountain boy. tad held the other with a gaze so steady and unflinching as to cause the mountain boy to pause hesitatingly. "phil, jump on your pony and get out of here," directed the lad in a low tone. "he stays where he is," commanded one of the cowboys. "do as i tell you," retorted tad sharply. "be quick about it, too." a cowboy aimed a gun at phil simms. "try it, if ye want ter git touched up," he warned. "bob, sail into the fresh kid," he added, nodding his head toward tad butler. "i'm not looking for a fight--i don't want to fight, but if that loafer comes near me i'll have to do the best i can," answered tad bravely. "i don't expect to get fair play. i'll----" "you'll git fair play and you'll git more besides," called the previous speaker. "go to him, bob." bob lowered his head, sticking out his chin and assuming a belligerent attitude with eyes fixed on the slender figure of his opponent. tad was observing the mountain boy keenly, measuring him mentally, while young simms, pale-faced and frightened, was leaning against his pony, which he had caught and was preparing to mount when he was stopped by the gun of the cowboy. "see, you've got him rattled already, bob," shouted a cowman triumphantly. "he'll be running in a minute." "come away, tad," begged philip. "keep quiet. don't speak to me," answered the lad, without turning his head toward his companion. tad butler's whole being was centered on the work that he knew was ahead of him. he was angry. he felt that he had never been more so in his life, but not a trace of his emotion showed in his face or actions. if he ever had need of coolness, it was at this very moment. he did not know whether he would be able to master the raw-boned mountaineer or not. the lad's training in athletics had been thorough, and his title of champion wrestler of the high school in chillicothe had been earned by hard work and persistent effort to make himself physically fit. "he's all of twenty-five pounds heavier than i am," decided the boy. "i've got to try some tricks that he doesn't know about, if i hope to make any kind of showing." bob was now approaching him with an ugly grin on his face. tad's arms hung easily by his side. "come on, what are you waiting for?" tad smiled. with a bellow of rage, bob rushed him. tad laughed, and stepping quickly to one side, thrust a foot between the bully's legs as he passed. bob landed flat on his face in the dust of the street. the cowboys set up a roar of delight. it was sport, no matter who got the worst of it. "give them room," shouted some one, as the men closed quickly about the combatants. "let the kids fight it out." these tactics were so new to bob, that he did not know just what had happened to him. and when he had scrambled to his feet, he met the laughing face of tad butler, which enraged him past all control. this was exactly what tad wanted. bob with a bellow again charged him. tad made a pass and missed, but covered his failure by neatly ducking under the upraised arm of the cowboy, whose surprised look when he found that he had been punching the empty air brought forth yells of delight from his companions. tad had cast away his hat, that it might not interfere with his movements. no sooner had he done so than his opponent renewed his attack. but tad skillfully parried the heavy blows, delivered awkwardly and without any great amount of skill. the great danger was that his adversary with his superior strength might beat down the lad's defense and land a blow that would put a sudden end to the fray. tad was watching for an opening that would enable him to put in practice a plan that had formed in his brain. "look out for the cayuse, bob. he ain't so big a tenderfoot as he looks," warned a cowboy. but bob had already discovered this fact. though his fists were beating a tattoo in the air he seemed unable to land a blow on the body of his elusive adversary, and this only served to anger him the more. "ki-yi!" yelled the cowboys as a short arm blow, delivered through the mountaineer's windmill movements, reached his jaw and sent him sprawling. tad had not been able to put the force into it that he wanted to, else the battle might have ended then and there. bob came back. this time he uttered no taunts. the blow hurt him. his head felt dizzy and his fists did not work with the same speed that they had done before. all at once tad's right hand shot out, his fist open instead of being closed. it closed over the left wrist of the cowboy with an audible slap. tad's left hand joined his right in closing over his adversary's wrist. he whirled sharply, bringing bob's left arm over his adversary's shoulder. then something happened that made the cowmen gasp with astonishment. the slender lad lifted the big mountain boy clear of the ground, hurled him over his head, and still clinging to the wrist, brought him down with a smashing jolt, flat on his back in the middle of the village street. phil simms narrowly escaped being struck by the heels of the mountain boy's boots as they described a half circle in the air. bob lay perfectly still. and for a moment the cowboys stood speechless with amazement. "whoopee!" yelled one. "who-o-o-p-e-e!" chorused the others, dancing about tad butler and his fallen victim in wild delight. "i'm sorry i had to do it," muttered the boy. they helped bob to his feet, pounded him on the back, making jeering remarks about his being whipped by a kid, until his courage gradually was urged back as his strength returned. suddenly bob turned on his assailant, and throwing both arms about him, bore him to earth. the move was so unexpected that the lad had no opportunity to side step out of the way. the weight of the mountaineer was so great that tad found himself unable to squirm from under. bob, with a growl of rage, raised his fist, bringing it down with the same movement that he would wield a meat axe. tad never flinched as he saw it coming. his eyes were fixed upon the descending fist, his every nerve centered on the task of watching it. just at the instant when fist and face seemed to be meeting, the lad by a mighty effort, jerked his head ever so little to the right. "oh!" yelled bob. something snapped. the pressure released from his body, ever so little, tad by a supreme muscular effort, threw his opponent slightly to one side, and quickly wormed himself from under. he was on his feet in an instant. the cowboys did not know what had happened, but they knew that the boy from the simms ranch had done something to their companion that for the instant had taken all of the fight out of him. tad had been only partly responsible for bob's present condition, however. by jerking his head to one side he had caused the mountain boy's fist to strike the hard roadbed instead of tad's head. bob struggled to his feet, holding the right wrist with the left hand and moaning with pain. the right hung limp. tad knew what had happened. "he's broken his wrist. i'm glad i didn't have to do it for him," said the lad. at first glowering glances were cast in tad's direction. they were of half a mind to punish him in their own way. "you said it was to be a fair fight," spoke up the lad. "has it been?" there was a momentary silence. "the kid's right," exclaimed a cowman. "he cleaned up bob fair and square. i reckon you kin go, now." "thank you." "hold on a minute. not so fast, young fellow. i'm kinder curious like to know how ye put bob over yer head like that!" asked another. "it was a simple little japanese wrestling trick," laughed the boy. "kin ye do that to me?" "i don't know." "well, yer going ter try and right here and now." "all right, come over here on the grass where the ground isn't so hard. if i succeed in doing it, though, you must agree not to get mad. i can't fight you, you know. you are too big for me." the cowman grinned significantly, and strode over to the place indicated by tad butler. "now what d'ye want me ter do?" he demanded, leering. "yer see i'm willing?" "strike at me, if you wish. i don't care how you go about it," replied tad. "here goes!" the cowman launched a terrific blow with his right. tad sprang back laughing. "if that had ever hit me, you never would have known how the other trick is worked," he said, while the cowboys laughed uproariously at the fellow's surprise when he found that his fist had not landed. "guess the kid ain't no slouch, eh, jim?" jeered one. jim let go another, then a third one. the third blow proved his undoing. the next instant jim's boots were describing a half circle in the air over tad butler's head. his revolvers slipping from their holsters in transit, dropped to the ground and jim landed flat on his back with a mighty grunt. he was up with a roar, his right hand dropping instinctively to his empty holster. "wh-o-o-o-e!" warned the fellow's companions. "no fair, jim. no fair. he said as he'd do it, and he did. kid, you'd clean out the whole outfit, give you time, i reckon." jim pulled himself together, restored his weapons to their places, and walked over to tad, extending his hand. "that was a dizzy wallop ye give me, pardner," he said, with a sheepish grin. "if ye'll show me how it's did, i'll call it square." tad laughingly did so. "i guess i couldn't get even with them any easier than by showing them the trick," he grinned, mounting his pony, and accompanied by philip rode away. "they'll try that trick till the whole bunch of them get into a battle royal." they did, as tad learned next day. chapter xvii chunky rides the goat "there's the sheep," announced tad, after they had ridden on for some time. "i'm glad," said phil, "do you know, tad, i thought those men were going to kill you." phil's courage had returned, when he realized that they were in sight of friends once more. tad laughed. "they aren't half so bad as they would have us believe. the boy was the worst of the lot. he needed to be taught a lesson, but i wish i hadn't hurt him," he mused. "he did it himself; you didn't." "yes, i know. i had to to save my own face." the lad laughed heartily at his own joke, which philip, however, failed to catch. "now we'll find out where the camp is," said tad, espying a herder off to the north of them. having been directed to the new camp, phil galloped away, tad remaining to chat with the sheepman a few minutes. yet he made no mention of his experience at groveland corners, not being particularly proud of it, after all. after riding slowly about with, the herder for half an hour, the lad jogged off toward camp, which his companion had reached before him. philip had spread the story of tad's battle with the cowboy. old hicks, contrary to his usual practice, had listened with one ear, giving a grunt of satisfaction when the story had been told. as a result there were several persons eagerly awaiting him in the sheep camp when he rode up. "who's getting into trouble now?" demanded stacy, with mock seriousness. "you need a guardian, i guess. i presume mr. simms thinks so, too." "heard you had two black eyes," jeered ned rector. "say, tad, we've agreed that you shall show us how you did it, using chunky for your model," said walter perkins. tad smiled good-naturedly, dismounting from the saddle and tethering the pony with his usual care. "guess i'd better leave the saddle on. there may be something doing any minute," he mused. "mr. simms wants ye over to his tent," old hicks informed tad. "oh, all right," answered the lad, walking briskly to the little tent occupied by the owner of the herd. the foreman was there awaiting tad's arrival as well. "first i want to thank you for having taken phil's part so splendidly," glowed mr. simms. "it is a wonder they did not do you some harm after that." "oh, they were not half bad," laughed tad. "they were ashamed of what they'd done after it was all over." "no. there's no shame in that crowd. i know them. phil has told me about it. i know them all, and they shall suffer for roping that boy," went on the rancher angrily. "one of them has," answered tad, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "besides, there's going to be a big fight over there. perhaps they are at it now." "fight? i should judge from what i hear that there already has been one. what do you mean?" "oh, nothing very serious. i taught them the japanese trick of throwing a man over my head. they were trying it on when i left. shouldn't be surprised, after they learn how to do the trick, if they got mad and had a real fight." luke larue leaned back, slapping his thighs and laughing uproariously. "well, you are a smart one," he exclaimed. "couldn't lick them all yourself, so you fixed it so they'd sail in and lick each other. funniest thing i ever heard. i'll have to tell old hicks about that. but i won't do it till after dinner, or he'll burn the mutton and spoil our meal. fighting each other!" luke indulged in more hilarity. "you heard nothing, of course--they said nothing about our herd----" "no, but it was plain that they had no love for you, mr. simms. it was the boy who roped philip, though. i do not think the men would have done anything like that." "it's all the same. it shows the feeling that exists. nothing will ever wipe that out except a good whipping. it's coming to them and they are going to get it." "you think then--you believe they have not given up their plan of attacking the sheep?" asked tad. "given it up? not they. they have been too well nagged on by your friend of the rosebud. i wish i knew who he is. i probably never shall, though." "i'll know him if i see him again." "you might not. camp-fire sight is tricky." "i'll know his voice, sir. i presume you will continue your watch over the herd to-night?" "yes, and for many nights to come. we shall keep it up until we get far enough to the north so that we are sure there will be no trouble. i guess you had better go on the late trick to-night. that is the most important. we'll send your friend chunky out early in the evening. his habit of going to sleep at unusual times is too serious to trust him with the late and dangerous watch. if they strike it will be close to morning, i imagine." "i hope they won't, for your sake." "so do i," answered mr. simms, with emphasis. the afternoon was waning. the pony riders were all in camp, some reading, others writing letters home, for already much had happened that would make interesting reading to the folks off in the little missouri town. steam was rising from the big kettle, into which old hicks was about to drop a quarter of mutton for the evening meal, and an air of perfect peace hovered over the camp of the sheepmen. under a spreading tree the bell goat of the outfit lay stretched out sound asleep. he had been in that position most of the afternoon, there being nothing special for him to do, as the herd was grazing as it saw fit, without any effort being made to urge it along. from the other side of the tree the round face of stacy brown might have been observed peering to one side of the sleeping goat. he listened intently. billy was breathing short, regular breaths, with no thought of the trouble that was in store for him. from the expression of the boy's face it was evident that he was forming some mischievous plan of his own. this was verified when, after dodging back behind the tree, his head appeared once more and a stick was cautiously thrust out. slowly it was pushed toward billy's nose, which it gently rubbed and then was withdrawn. billy probably thought it was a fly, for one impatient hoof brushed the troubled nose; then the interrupted nap was continued. stacy tried it again with equal success. his sides were shaking with laughter, and every little while he would hide himself behind the tree to give vent to his merriment. the others were too busy to notice what he was doing, though once old hicks paused in his work to cast a suspicious glance in that direction. stacy had been amusing himself for several minutes and with such success that he grew more bold. he had stepped from behind the tree that he might the better reach his victim. now the tickling and the sweep of the impatient hoof became more frequent. billy grunted as if he were having a bad dream, and this amused stacy so much that he was obliged to retire behind the tree again to laugh. as he emerged this time, billy slowly opened a cautious eye, all unobserved by his tormentor. with a hand over his own mouth to keep back the laughter, the lad rubbed the stick gently over the goat's nose. billy's chin whiskers took an almost imperceptible upward tilt and the observing eye opened a little more widely. next time stacy varied the performance by giving the goat a malicious little dig in the ribs with the sharp end of the stick. billy rose up into the air as if hurled there by an explosion beneath him. when he landed on his four feet, it was with head pointed directly toward the foe and with fore legs sloping well back under him ready for a drive with his tough little head. "oh!" exclaimed chunky, rapping the goat smartly over the nose with the stick to drive the animal off. billy drove all right, but it was not away from the lad. stacy was standing with legs apart and billy dived between them, at the same time lifting his head. the effect was instantaneous. chunky was neatly flipped to the goat's back, face down with his legs dangling about the animal's neck. instinctively he took a quick grip with the legs, locking his feet on the underside of billy's neck and his hands about the withers. at that moment the surprised goat gave an excellent imitation of a broncho trying to throw its rider. "hel-p!" cried chunky in a muffled voice. no one save the cook heard it. "whoop!" bellowed old hicks, smiting his thigh with a mighty fist and screaming with laughter. the pony riders and everyone else in camp sprang to their feet, not understanding what the commotion was about. "the kid's riding the goat," yelled hicks. "he's initiating himself into the order of know nuthins. see him buck! see him buck!" the camp roared. "let go, chunky!" shouted walter. "i can't, i'll fall off," answered the boy in a scarcely audible voice. "i'll help you then. come on, boys." they made a concerted rush to rescue their companion. this was the signal for the goat to adopt new tactics. he probably thought it was some new form of torture that they had planned for him. billy headed for the tent of the owner of the herd. he went through it like a projectile, upsetting the folding table on which mr. simms was writing, and out through the flap at the other end. by this time the outfit was in an uproar. even the sheep on the range near by paused in their grazing to gaze curiously campward; the herders off in that direction shaded their eyes against the sun and tried to make out the cause of the disturbance. "y-e-o-w!" encouraged the cook, waving a loaf of bread above his head and dancing about with a more pronounced limp than usual. jerk, jerk, went chunky's head until he feared it would be jerked from his body. "stay by him, stay by him, kid," encouraged a sheepman. mr. simms rushing from his tent, startled and angry, instantly forgot the words of protest that were on his lips and joined heartily in laughter at the ludicrous sight. "look out that you don't lose your stirrups," jeered ned as goat and rider shot by him with a bleat. walter made a grab for billy with the result that he was pivoting on his own head the next second. once they thought chunky was going to fall off and put a sudden end to their fun, but he soon righted himself, whereupon he tightened the grip of hands and legs. by this time the goat was mad all through. he seemed bent now upon doing all the damage he could. "stop that! want to run me down!" shouted ned, grabbing a tree as the outfit swept by him, the goat uttering a sharp bleat and chunky a howl of protest. all at once billy headed for the kitchen department. old hicks saw him coming and with a few quick hops got out of the way. "hi there, hang you, where you heading?" he roared. the tinware had been stacked up on a bench to dry out in the sunlight. perhaps it was the rays of the sun on the bright tin that attracted billy's attention. at any rate he went through it with a bound, amid the crash of rattling tin and splintering wood. old hicks made a swing at the animal with the long stick he had been using to prod the kettle of mutton. he missed and sat down suddenly, his lame leg refusing to bear the strain that had been put upon it. it was astonishing the endurance the goat showed, for chunky was no light weight in any sense of the word. now and then he would just graze the trunk of a tree, bringing a howl from his rider as the latter's leg was scraped its full length against the bark of the tree. by this time nearly everyone in camp had laughingly sought places of safety, some in the chuck wagon, others climbing saplings as best they could, for no man knew in what direction billy might head next. old hicks refused to take the protection that the wagon offered. he stood his ground, stick held firmly in both hands, awaiting a chance to rap the boy or the goat when they next passed. his opportunity came soon. he had been baking pies for the sheepmen's supper and these he had placed on the tail board of the wagon, which he had removed and laid upon a frame made of sticks stuck into the ground. billy finished the pies in one grand charge. the enraged cook forgot his own danger and boldly striding out into the open began throwing things at the mad goat. it mattered not what he threw. anything he laid his hands on answered for the purpose--dishpans, small kettles, knives, loaves of bread--all went the same way, some of them reaching chunky and bringing a howl from him. the goat, however, escaped without being hit once. twice more after wrecking the pies, did he charge the kitchen. it was noticed, however, that he avoided the hot stove. hicks gladly would have lost that for the sake of seeing the goat smash against it and end his career. after one drive more ferocious than any he had made before, billy whirled and came back. old hicks stood with his back to the kettle, stick held aloft. he was going to get the goat this time, for he saw the animal would pass close to him if he held his present course. billy did so until within a few feet of the cook. then he changed his direction. he changed it more suddenly than the cook had looked for. billy's head hit old hicks a powerful blow. the cook doubled up with a grunt. when he came down he landed fairly in the kettle of hot mutton. cook and kettle toppled over, the former yelling for help and struggling desperately to extricate himself. chunky too had fared badly in the final charge. the shock had thrown him sideways and he crumpled up not far from the kettle and its human occupant. they fished old hicks from the wreck, fuming and raging and threatening to kill the goat and to chase the "heathen kid" out of the camp. chunky was limp and breathless when they picked him up. they dragged the lad away from the vicinity of the cook as quickly as possible. old hicks' rage at that moment was a thing to avoid. the goat, billy, galloped away, the least disturbed of the outfit, but it was observed that he prudently remained out on the range with the sheep that night. "i didn't fall in that time, did i?" gasped chunky, after his breath had come back sufficiently to enable him to talk. "no, but you're going to do so when the cook gets hold of you," warned ned. "hicks? old hicks fell into the mutton broth, didn't he?" chuckled the fat boy. chapter xviii the vigil by the foothills supper was late in the sheep camp that evening. old hicks was in a terrible rage and no one dared protest at the delay, for fear he would get no supper at all. the boys were still discussing stacy brown's feat, and every time the subject was referred to all during the evening, it was sure to elicit a roar of laughter. as night came on, the sky was gradually blotted out by a thin veil of clouds, which seemed to grow more dense as the evening wore on. chunky had been sent out with mary johnson on guard duty, walter having gone out with the foreman. that left tad butler and ned rector of the pony rider boys, to take their turn on the late trick. tad preferred to sit up rather than to try to sleep for the short time that would intervene before it came his turn to go out. "do you think we shall have any trouble tonight?" he asked, looking up as mr. simms passed his tent. "you know as much about that as i do, my boy. perhaps your courage over at the corners may scare them off, eh? they may think, if we are all such fighters over here, that it will be a good place to keep away from." tad laughed good-naturedly. "guess i didn't give them any such fright as that. how is philip this evening?" "sound asleep. it's doing the boy good. he hasn't slept like this since his illness last spring." "i wish he might go on with us and spend the summer out of doors." "h-m-m-m," mused mr. simms. "i am afraid he would be too great a care. no, tad, the boy is a little too young. where are you going next?" "i am not sure." "well, let me know when you find out and we will talk it over. fine night for a raid of any kind, isn't it?" "yes, sir," answered tad, glancing up at the black clouds. "good luck to you to-night. you and your partner must take care of yourselves. do not take any unnecessary risk. you will have done your part in using your keen young eyes to see that no one gets near the camp." "i should feel better if i had a gun," laughed the boy. "somehow--but no, i guess it is not best." "certainly not." tad turned up the lantern in his tent and sat down to his book, which he had been reading most of the evening. he was not interrupted again until the camp watchmen came around to turn out the second guard. ned was asleep and he tumbled out rubbing his eyes, not sure just what was wanted of him. "wake up," laughed tad. "you are getting to be a regular sleepy head." "guess i am. is--is it time to go out?" "it is. and it is a dark night, too." "whew! i should say it is," replied ned, with an apprehensive glance out beyond the camp. "how are we ever going to find our way about to-night?" "i don't imagine we shall be moving about much after we get on our station. mr. larue will place us there." "where are we going to be?" "he hasn't said. i did hear him say that we were going to watch singly instead of in pairs, in order that he might cover more territory with the men at his disposal." "sounds shivery." "i don't know why it should. it is night, that is the only difference. i am getting used to being out in the night and not knowing where i am," laughed tad. tucking the lunches that had been wrapped for them into their pockets, the two boys walked over to the place where their ponies were tethered. the animals had been left bridled and saddled, the saddle girths having been loosened. these the boys tightened and prepared to mount when tad happened to think of something. "hold my pony, ned. i want to get something from the tent." tad returned a moment later with his lariat, which he coiled carefully and hung to the saddle horn, ned rector observing him with an amused smile. "if you can't shoot them you're going to rope them, eh?" "a rope is always a good thing to have with you. you don't think so, but it is. never know what minute you are going to need it badly." "it wouldn't do me any good, no matter how much i needed it," smiled ned. "i couldn't lasso the side of a barn." "you do very well. if you will practise every day you will be able to handle it as well as the average cowboy in less than a week. come along." as they left the camp, luke larue met them to conduct the boys to the places where they were to spend the last half of the night. "after we leave the herd behind us, it's the frozen tongue for you," he said. "you mean we are not to speak?" asked tad. "not a word out loud. if you have anything you must say, whisper." "oh, all right." they dropped ned first. his station was nearer to the herd than that which had been assigned to tad. the latter went on with the foreman until they were fairly out by the foothills. "i've given you one of the most responsible stations, you see," whispered the foreman. "it will be lonesome out here. do you mind?" "not at all. anybody near me?" "noisy cooper is over there to your left about ten rods away. bat coyne is to your right here. you're not so close that you can rub elbows, however. be watchful. it's just the night for a raid. use your own judgment in case you hear anything suspicious. above all look out for yourself. you've got a pony that will take you away from trouble pretty fast if you get in a hurry. you know the signal?" "yes." "then good night and good luck," whispered luke, reaching out and giving tad's hand a hearty clasp. there was something so encouraging--so confident in the grip, that even had tad butler's courage been waning, it would have come back to him with a rush after that. "good night," he breathed. "i'll be on the spot if anything occurs." "i know that," answered the foreman. in an instant luke had been swallowed up in the great shadow and not even the hoof beats of his pony were audible to the listening ears of the boy. tad looked about him inquiringly. as his eyes became more used to the darkness he found himself able to make out objects about him, though the darkness distorted them into strange shapes. "i think i'll get under that tree," he decided. "no one can see me there. they'd pick me out here in a minute. the cowboys have eyes as well as ears. i know that, for i've lived with them." the lad tightened on the reins ever so little, and the pony pricking up its ears moved away with scarcely a sound, as if realizing that extreme caution were expected of it. they pulled up under the shadow of the tree. there, tad found that he could see what lay about him even better than before. he patted pink-eye on the neck and a swish of the animal's tail told him that the little attention was appreciated. "good boy," soothed the lad, running his fingers through the mane, straightening out a kink here and there. he had dropped the reins as he finished with the mane, and pink-eye's head began to droop until his nose was almost on the ground. he had settled himself for the long vigil. perhaps he would go to sleep in a few moments. the rider hoped he would, for then there would be no movement that a stranger might hear. it was a lonesome post. there was scarcely a sound, though now and then a bird twittered somewhere in the foliage and once he beard the mournful hoot of an owl far away to his left. "i wonder if that could have been a signal, or was it a real bird," whispered tad to himself. "i have heard of a certain band of outlaws that always used the hoot of the owl as their signal to each other." after an interval of perhaps a minute another owl wailed out its weird cry off to his right. tad butler pricked up his ears. "well, if it isn't a signal, those owls are holding a regular wireless conversation. hark!" far back in the foothills there sounded another similar call. tad butler was sure, by this time, that something was going on that would bear watching. for a long time he heard nothing more, and was beginning to think that perhaps he had drawn on his imagination too far. it might be owls after all. "i wonder if the others heard that, too? maybe they know better than i what it means, if it means anything at all. i wish mr. larue would happen along now. i'd like to tell him what i think." he knew, however, that the foreman, like himself was stationed somewhere off there in the blackness, sitting on his pony as immovable as a statue, his straining eyes peering into the night, his ears keyed to catch the slightest sound. a gentle breeze rippled over the trees, stirring the foliage into a soft murmur. then the breeze passed on and silence once more settled over the scene. tad sighed. even a little wind was a welcome break in the monotony. he was not afraid, but his nerves were on edge by this time, and tad made no attempt to deny it. something snapped to the left of him. the sound was as if some one had stepped on a dry branch which had crumpled under his weight. the lad was all attention instantly. "there certainly is something over there," he whispered. "it may be a man, but i'll bet it's a bear or some other animal. if it's a bear, first thing i know pink-eye will bolt and then i'll be in a fix." tad cautiously gathered up the reins, using care not to disturb the pony, for it was all important that the animal remain absolutely quiet just now. but, though the boy listened with straining ears, there was no repetition of the sound and this led him to believe that it had been an animal, which perhaps had scented them and was stalking him already. it was not a comforting thought. yet tad never moved. he sat in his saddle rigidly, every nerve and muscle tense. he was determined to be calm no matter what happened. the lad's head was thrown slightly forward, his chin protruding stubbornly, and as he listened there was borne to his ears another sound. it was as if something was approaching with a soft tread. he could hear it distinctly. "whatever that thing is, it has four feet," decided the lad quickly. "it's not a man, that is sure." instinctively he permitted his left hand to drop to the pommel of the saddle so that he might not be unseated in case pink-eye should take sudden alarm and leap to one side. the reins were lightly bunched in the left, tad's right hanging idly at his side. the footsteps became more and more pronounced, tad's curiosity increasing in proportion. he fully expected to see a bear lumber from the shadows at any second now. if this happened he did not know what he should do. of course he could ride away, but in doing so he might alarm the watching sheepmen and upset all their plans. the noise after approaching for some moments, suddenly ceased. tad's eyes were fairly boring into the shadows. all at once the particular shadow at which he was looking moved. tad started violently. the shadow moved forward a few steps, then halted. it was a man on horseback. he had ridden right out from the foothills. "it's here," whispered tad butler to himself. the rider moved up a few steps again, this time halting within a few feet of the watching boy. tad's hand cautiously stole down to his lariat. he brought it up at arm's length, held it for one brief moment then swung it over his head. chapter xix a clever capture his plan had been conceived in a flash and executed almost as quickly. the rawhide rope squirmed through the air. he could not be sure of his aim in the darkness, but the stranger was so close that tad did not believe he could miss. he knew that if he did, he would find himself in a serious predicament. he heard a sudden startled exclamation. at that instant, pink-eye, alarmed by the unusual movement on his back, awakened and leaped lightly to one side. "i've got him," breathed the boy, feeling the line draw tight under his hand. "i've caught a man i----" pink-eye had discovered the presence of strangers now and with a snort he changed his position by again leaping to one side. tad heard the man strike the ground with a grunt. he took a turn of the lariat around the saddle pommel, drawing it taut. "who are you!" demanded the lad. a snarl of rage and a struggle over there on the ground was his only answer. "get up, if you don't want to be dragged. if you make a loud noise it will be the worse for you," announced the boy sternly. he clucked to the pony, which started forward suddenly, throwing a strain upon the rope. "steady, pink-eye. we don't want to hurt him," he cautioned, slowing the animal down to almost a walk. "are you on your feet back there?" "y-y-y-yes." there came a sharp jerk on the line. the boy knew that the man he had roped, pinioning his arms to his side had managed to get his hands up and grasped the line. in a moment he would free himself. tad pressed the rowels of his spurs against pink-eye's sides. the animal sprang forward, but the boy quickly checked him, pulling him down into a jog trot that was not beyond the endurance of a man to follow for a short distance. "remember if you allow yourself to fall down i'll drag you the rest of the way in," warned tad butler. "i won't hurt you if you behave yourself." "le--le--let me go. i--i--i--i--aint't done n-n-nothing." "we'll decide that when i get you back to camp," answered tad. "and don't let me hear you raising your voice again or i'll put spurs to the pony. do you understand?" "y-y-y-e-s." on the soft ground the footfalls of the pony made no sound that could be heard any distance away. on ahead of him the lad saw the dim light of a lantern, which he knew was at the camp and his heart leaped exultantly at the thought of what he had accomplished. he wondered if the others or any of them had done as well. "won't mr. simms be surprised?" he glowed. "wait, i--i--i'm going to drop," came a voice from behind him. it sounded far away and indistinct. "you'd better not unless you want to go the rest of the way lying on your back," called back the lad. however, he slackened the speed of his pony a little, thinking that perhaps his prisoner might be in distress. tad was too tender hearted to cause another to suffer, even if it were an enemy. the lad kept his left hand on the rope. in this way he was able to judge how well the man was following. now and then a violent jerk told tad that he was experimenting to see if he could not get away. the fellow might have braced his feet and possibly snapped the line, but he evidently feared to do this lest he be thrown on his face and dragged that way, for the noose of the lariat had, by this time, so tightened about his body as to bind his arms tightly to his side. tad uttered a warning whistle. instantly he noted figures moving about the camp. his call had been heard. the camp-fire was stirred to give more light, and as its embers flared up, tad butler and his prisoner galloped in. at first they did not observe that he had a man in tow. old hicks hobbled forward with a growl and a demand to know what the row was about. "what is it, boy? what is it? are they coming!" exclaimed mr. simms, running toward him. "i've got a man. i can't stop. grab him!" cried tad in an excited, triumphant tone. mr. simms saw. the others observed at the same time. they made a concerted rush for the lad's prisoner. "stop!" commanded the rancher. tad drew up instantly. as he did so three of them grabbed the man at the other end of the lariat, throwing him on the ground flat on his back. "all right?" sang back tad. "yes." the boy unwound the rope from his saddle pommel and casting the end from him, rode back and dismounted. yes, he had caught a cowman, but the fellow sullenly refused to answer a question that was put to him. the prisoner was glaring up at him with eyes so full of malignant hate that tad instinctively shrank back. "know him!" asked mr. simms sharply. "not by name. he's one of the men i saw over at the corners. he was the worst one of the lot, except the boy they called bob." no amount of questioning, however, would draw the fellow out. they had bound him hand and foot and straightened up to view their work. "there's no use in wasting time," decided mr. simms. "drag him over to my tent and throw him in. did you hear anybody besides this man?" tad told him about the owl calls. the rancher pondered a few seconds. "that sounds to me more like an indian trick. but i am satisfied we are going to be attacked tonight. you had better go back to your post. can you find the way?" "yes, i think so," answered the lad. "boy, you've done a great piece of work. i'll talk with you about it when we have more time. i must hurry out and find luke. the rest of you stick by the camp until you know that the cowmen are here; then sail in. there'll likely be some shooting." "any further instructions?" asked tad, bunching the reins in his hand preparatory to mounting. "nothing. that is, unless you find you can rope some more of these cayuses. i'd like to have them all tied up here for a while. i've got a few things to say to them. they'd have to listen whether they wanted to or not if they were all in the same fix that fellow is," he added with a short, mirthless laugh. tad swung himself into the saddle, first having coiled his rope and hung it in its place. "good-bye," he sang out, starting out at a gallop and disappearing in the night. as tad drew near the scene of his recent experience, he slowed the pony down to a walk, moving on with extreme caution. he did not want to fall into the trap that the cowboy had only a short time before. after groping about in the darkness some time, he finally came upon the very tree that had sheltered him before. tad uttered a low exclamation of satisfaction, once more taking up his position under its spreading branches. he had been there but a short time when the foreman rode up, giving a low whistle so that the boy would know who it was. "anything develop?" "yes." "what?" tad told him briefly of the capture of the cowboy. "good boy," glowed luke, reaching over and slapping tad on the back approvingly. "i guess we made no mistake in giving you this post. but there's not likely to be any more of them come through this way. i am going to send you down nearer the center. we are going to have all the fun we want before morning. so i wish you would move down nearer the herd. when the racket begins, if it does, we shall need all the sheepmen to help drive off the raiders. you will relieve one of them and look after the sheep. i have told your friend ned the same thing. he's down there now." "where are the sheep?" "head just a little to your left and ride straight, on till you come up with them. but be sure to give the whistle now and then so our men will know who you are if they chance to hear you coming. did anybody know the fellow you roped?" "no. i saw him at the store yesterday, though." "guess you've made no mistake then. well, so long." tad missed his way in the darkness, and had roamed about for some time before finally coming up with the herd. even then he was at a part of the line where there seemed to be no one on guard. he whistled and waited. after a little the signal was answered it was then only a matter of a few moments before he had joined the herder and delivered his message. the man rode away to take up his new position and tad settled down to tending sheep. there was little for him to do, the animals being sound asleep, but he rather enjoyed the relief from the strain that he had been under while watching for intruders off yonder under the tree. dismounting, the boy sat down on the ground, having stripped the reins over the pony's neck so that he could keep them in his hand. pinkeye nibbled at the grass a few seconds. it did not seem to satisfy the animal, for the sheep had worked it pretty well down ahead of him. so pink-eye went to sleep, and tad found himself nodding so persistently that he forced himself to get up and walk back and forth a few paces each way. "i am getting to be as much of a sleepy head as chunky is," he smiled. "that goat ride was the funniest thing i ever saw. i wonder where billy took himself to. he's a wise goat. i actually believe he had more fun out of putting the camp to the bad than the rest of us experienced in watching him." pink-eye woke up and rubbed his nose against the boy's coat sleeve. a shrill whistle trilled out off to the west. it was followed by another and another, until the air seemed full of them. tad paused abruptly in his walk and listened. a pistol spat viciously. he caught the flash faintly in the distance. tad threw the reins over pink-eye's neck and vaulted into the saddle. boy and pony were both wide awake now. chapter xx thrilling rescue of the rancher "they're here," breathed the lad. "i wonder what's going to happen." as if in answer to his question, a volley of pistol shots sounded to the west of him. almost instantly following, guns began to pop to the north and south. shouts and yells sounded everywhere. startled, half a hundred sheep near him, scrambled to their feet. "w-h-o-e-e-e," soothed tad, turning toward them as he remembered that he had a duty to perform. "come now, pink-eye, never mind the shooting. just you and i attend to our business. that's what we've got to do." yet tad regretted that he was not over there in the thick of the fight. he gave a long whistle, hoping to find some one near him. the whistle was not answered, therefore he concluded that he was alone on that side of the herd. but where was ned? he should be somewhere near by. by this time the restless herd required his whole attention. tad galloped up and down the line, speaking soothing words to the frightened sheep, whistling and trying to sing. "here, barker," he cried, discovering that he was not alone in his efforts. one of the sheep dogs was trotting along by his side, uttering little encouraging yelps to assist in keeping the lines well formed. "that's a good dog. i guess you and i can handle this outfit, can't we, barker?" barker barked as if in approval of the sentiment. tad called the animal to him and sent him back the other way, while he pressed on. the noise of the conflict seemed to be up that way and it was at that end that there would be more likelihood of disturbance to the sheep, he thought, urging his pony along a little faster. all at once guns began to flash ahead of him. "i believe they are in the flock already," he cried, putting spurs to pink-eye and dashing on at top speed. "yes, they are shooting into the flock. i can tell by the flashes of their guns. oh, if i had a gun!" the thought that they were slaughtering the innocent animals roused all the fighting blood in tad butler's nature. but what could he, single-handed and unarmed, expect to do to stop the ruthless slaughter? from the opposite direction, he heard a body of horsemen bearing down on the sheep killers. in a moment more they too began to shoot. he noted quickly, however, that this latter body of men were not shooting down. they were shooting over the heads of the herd at the men who were killing the stock. "good! good! give it to them!" fairly screamed the lad, rising in his stirrups, waving his hat and continuing his words of encouragement to the men of mr. simms's outfit. what mattered it whether they could hear him or not? a rattling fire was running along both lines of men. but the sheep killers, now content to ride down the sheep, were shooting back at their assailants. "somebody will be killed, i know," cried tad. "who's there?" he roared, as he heard the hoof beats of a running pony behind him. "it's me, chunky," came the answer. "get out of here, boy. you will be killed." "i can't. i'm afraid to stay back there in the camp all alone. hicks has gone too and----" "then get back down the line and help me to hold these sheep. don't give anyone a chance to say a pony rider boy is afraid of anything. how'd you like to be over there where those guns are going off? now, brace up. look cheerful and tend to those sheep the same as barker is doing." thus admonished, stacy did brace up. "all right," he said, pulling himself together and turning his pony about. in the meantime the shouting had increased in volume and the shooting was more rapid. tad had all he could do to hold the sheep in place. he knew that up above him they were rushing wildly here and there, and the wave of terror rolled over those in his immediate vicinity. "they're beating them back!" cried the boy. "the cowboys are giving way. hooray!" this proved to be the case. the defense of the sheepmen was a surprise to the cowboys, where they had thought to surprise the sheep herders and stampede the herd before any opposition was offered. with a yell of triumph the forces under mr. simms rode right over the scurrying sheep in their effort to drive the cowmen off. at that moment the clouds parted and the full moon shone out, lighting up the scene brightly. tad gazed in awe on the rushing ponies as he pulled his own to a stop. the cowmen, too, seemed to take courage from the moonlight. some had started to retreat. these whirled about and returned to the charge. "oh, there goes mr. simms!" cried the boy. he saw the rancher waver in the saddle, throw up his hands and slip sideways with head and arms hanging down. "he's shot! he's shot! they don't see him!" shouted tad. he cried out at the top of his voice to attract the attention of the ranchers, but in the uproar, no one heard him. his voice in that mad melee was a puny thing. fortunately the rancher's feet still clung to the stirrups, but his head was hanging so low that it appeared to be bumping along the ground with every leap of his pony, which was headed straight for the lines of the enemy. "oh, why won't they see him!" groaned the lad. "i can't stand it to sit here doing nothing and see a man lose his life that way--if he's not dead already." tad, acting upon a sudden resolve, shook out his reins, gave the pony a quick pressure with the spurs. "hi-yi!" he snapped. pink-eye leaped forward, with tad urging him to renewed efforts by sharp slaps on the animal's thigh. the boy was not shouting now. he did not wish to attract attention to himself if it could be avoided. in order to head off the rancher's pony, tad was compelled to follow an oblique direction which, if he continued it, would land him fairly in the center of the enemy's lines. "i must beat him out. it's the only way i can do anything. go, pink-eye! go!" and pink-eye did go as he had never gone before since tad butler had owned him. slowly but surely he was heading off the other horse. they saw him now and a few scattering shots were sent in his direction, but the lad heeded them no more than had they been rain drops. his mind was too fully absorbed with the task he had set for himself. at last he and the rancher's pony were converging on a single point. mr. simms's pony reached it first with tad only a few feet away. they were fairly between the lines now and bullets were flying about them. tad could hear their whut! whut! as they sped past him. he had lost the race. but there still remained one more resource. his rope was in its place. tad slipped it from the saddle horn and made a quick reach for the rancher. he groaned when he saw that he had missed his aim. yet, instead of giving up the battle, the lad was more determined than ever to rescue the owner of the herd that he had cast his fortunes with. the rowels were dug into the sides of the pony with a firmer pressure than before, and tad began rapidly to haul in the lariat with one hand. when once he felt the knot at his finger tips he began whirling the loop over his head, leaning well forward in his saddle, riding at a tremendous pace on the fleet-footed little pony. he cast. this time the loop fell true. "steady! steady! pink-eye," he cautioned, taking a quick turn about the pommel. to stop too suddenly might throw the other pony on its side and crush the rancher. the lariat had dropped over the other animal's neck and was quickly drawn down. pinkeye stopped, braced himself as he felt his fellow slowing down under the pressure of the loop on his neck. "whoa!" commanded tad sharply, leaping from the saddle and taking up on the lariat as fast as he could. a shrill yell from the cowmen told him they would be upon him in a moment. they understood now what he was trying to do. tad worked with feverish haste to release mr. simms from the stirrups. yet when he had finally accomplished this, his work was not yet half done. he did not know whether the rancher was dead or alive, nor had he the time to satisfy himself on this point. grasping mr. simms under the arms, the lad dragged him over to pink-eye, and with a strength born of the excitement of the moment, succeeded in throwing the rancher's body over the back of his own pony. the lad was panting in short, quick breaths. he had barely enough strength left to crawl on pink-eye's back. once there, he fairly fell across mr. simms's body, clinging to it with one hand, the other gripped on the pommel. pink-eye seemed to know what was expected of him, for straightway he got under motion, trotting off toward the lines of the sheepmen. the cowboys turned their guns on the little outfit, but the sheepmen now discovering what was going on, gave a mighty yell and swept down on their enemy. the cowboys gave way before the resistless rush, and whirling their ponies, raced for the foothills, with the pursuers shooting and yelling as they lashed and spurred their ponies after them. tad was almost overwhelmed as the sheepmen rushed by him. but he had saved mr. simms and he did not care if the jostling ponies of his friends had almost run him down in their mad rush. the lad now gaining in strength, pulled himself to a sitting posture and hurried pink-eye along at a little faster gait. they were headed for the camp, which they reached in a few minutes. tenderly the lad lifted the rancher from the saddle, stretching him out on the grass. his first care was to determine whether the man were alive or dead. "he's alive!" cried tad exultingly. "he's only stunned." a bullet had grazed the rancher's head, ploughing a little furrow as it passed, but there was nothing more. had tad not reached him in time no doubt he would have been killed. getting water from the chuck wagon, tad bathed the wound and dashed water into the rancher's face until signs of returning consciousness were evident. after a little while mr. simms opened his eyes and asked what had happened. tad told him, leaving out his own part in the rescue entirely, save that he had brought him in. the lad, after telling mr. simms that the cowboys had been driven off, helped the rancher to his tent and put him to bed, or rather induced him to lie down on his cot, for mr. simms's head was whirling. no sooner had tad done this than he heard a galloping pony rapidly approaching the camp. the lad stepped out as the horseman pulled up. it was the foreman. he threw himself from his mount and started on a run for mr. simms's tent. "hello!" he exclaimed, bringing up short. "where's the boss? is he hurt? what happened to him?" he demanded excitedly, without giving tad a chance to answer between questions. "i think he is all right, mr. larue. he had a close call"---- "was he shot?" "a bullet grazed the side of his head, and then his pony ran away. i guess that came nearer killing him than did the bullet." "he owes his life to you, and that's no joke," answered the foreman shortly. "we didn't see that he was in trouble till one of the boys discovered you chasing his pony. then we saw you rope the critter and pack the boss on your own cayuse." "was--was anybody killed?" asked tad hesitatingly. "no. mary got a bullet through the calf of his right leg, and bat coyne lost a piece of an ear. guess that's about all." "yes; but what of the others? were any of the cowmen killed?" "no such luck," growled the foreman. "we pinked a few of them, but they're too tough to kill. we come mighty near having a fight, however," he mused. "near!" exploded the boy. "i should say you were right up to it." "we've lost a lot of sheep, boy; that's of more consequence." "how many?" "no telling. can't tell till morning. it'll take all day to round up the scattered bunches--those that were not killed." "where are the boys--ned and the rest of them?" asked tad, suddenly bethinking himself of his companions. "oh, that's what i came back here for--one of the things. they're all right. that is, they're out there with the bunch, except phil. have you seen him?" "phil? no. where is he?" "he was with me, but he got away somewhere." "phil gone?" "it seems so." "oh, that's too bad. what shall we do?" "go hunt for him. do you want to join me?" asked the foreman, with sudden energy, leaping into his saddle again. "of course i do," answered tad butler, running for his own pony and following the foreman out of camp at a quick gallop. chapter xxi two boys strangely missing "no use. he's been picked up by those dastardly cowmen," growled luke after he and tad had searched until daybreak. "we must go back to the camp and then turn out the outfit. we've got to find him, that's all. mr. simms will be crazy when he hears that the boy has strayed away from us." "what do you think he'll do?" asked tad in a worried tone. "heaven only knows. if it's those cow fellows who have done it, he'll never rest till he's settled with them for good and all. i'll plan out a hunt for the kid, but it has got to be each man for himself. we must cover every inch of the territory to the north, west and south of us. he couldn't have gone the other way. come, let's be hustling back to camp." "perhaps they have not taken him at all. i should not be surprised if he were only lost." but luke shook his head. he was convinced that the rancher's son had not strayed away of his own accord. he believed that the cowmen had picked the lad up and carried him away for sheer revenge on mr. simms. having seen philip at groveland comers, some of them knew him, argued the foreman. when mr. simms was informed of the loss of phil, he was well-nigh beside himself. "do something! why don't you do something?" he exclaimed in agony. "we have," answered luke. "and we have returned to get the rest of your men started on a daylight hunt." "did he take his pony with him?" asked tad, as a thought occurred to him. "yes," replied luke. "then, if the pony has not come back, it is pretty good evidence that philip is still on his back, it seems to me." "then turn out; everybody turn out!" shouted mr. simms. "don't come back till you get him or bring me some tidings." "you will want some one to round up each scattered band of sheep, mr. simms. you do not want to lose your herd, do you?" asked the foreman. "i don't care for the herd. let two men and the dogs remain with the sheep that did not stampede. all the rest go out on the search. i'll take a turn myself. what's your plan, luke?" the foreman explained that he proposed to send the searchers out alone, so that all the territory might be covered. he had planned to lay his party out in the shape of a fan. the fan closed, he would push up into the foothills, then open it in a wide sweep. as he expressed it, "not even a jack rabbit could get away from them if he were within the semicircle covered by their formation." mr. simms bore the strain as well as a father could be expected to bear it. without the loss of a moment luke gathered the men about him, explaining briefly what was to be done and assigning to each man the part he was to play in the day's search. foremost among the party were the pony rider boys. even stacy brown, serious-faced and impatient to be off, had saddled and bridled his pony and sat awaiting the order to move. at last all was ready. "right!" announced the foreman, whereupon the sheepmen, headed by luke and tad butler, started up at a brisk gallop, headed straight across the mesa, taking a course that would lead them to the foothills, a short distance ahead of them. beaching the foothills, they continued on for some two or three miles. here the foreman gave the order to open the fan, he taking the lead on the left and tad on the right. the searchers were now moving with a space of about a quarter of a mile between them, shouting out the name of phil simms now and then, these calls running down the line to the lower end of the fan-shaped formation. after a time tad found that he could no longer hear the shouts of his companions, yet from the position of the sun, which he consulted frequently, he felt sure that he was following the right course. on and on he rode, until the sun lay on the western horizon. the others of the party were making a thorough search, investigating every gully and draw that lay in their course, shouting for phil, hut not shooting their guns, as this was to be the signal that the lost boy had been found. "i'm afraid we are going to miss him," mused the foreman. "if we fail to find him, then they've got him, sure." at last he had completed his half of the sweep of the fan, and his face wore a troubled look as his pony emerged from the foothills onto the open mesa again. the sun was setting. luke rode out and waited a few moments, and when joined by the rest of his section, started back to the camp. old hicks had prepared the hated mutton for supper by the time the right side of the fan formation got in. not a trace had one of them found of the missing philip simms. the rancher said nothing when told that they had failed. he strode away to his tent and they saw him no more for hours. they had just gathered about the table for the evening meal, all unusually silent, when ned rector, glancing about, made a sudden discovery. "where's tad?" he demanded. "didn't he come in?" asked the foreman, pausing in the act of sitting down to the table. "that's what i should like to know? where is he?" no one seemed to know. "now, he's gone, too," breathed the foreman anxiously. "that's one more mystery on the old custer trail." "we--we'll have to go hunt for tad now. you don't suppose he and phil are together, do you?" asked walter. "i don't know. i hope they are. but, boy, it's useless to go out looking for them now. all we can do will be to wait until morning, then take up the search again"---- "that's what comes from taking kids out on a man's job," growled old hicks, as he served the mutton. "hicks, no one asked you for your opinion," snapped the foreman. "these boys have done men's work ever since they joined. had it not been for tad, boss simms would have been out of business entirely now. don't let me hear anybody casting any slurs on these boys. i won't stand for it." old hicks grumbled and hobbled away to his black kettle, while the others ate their supper in silence. but, somehow, the meal was far from satisfying, and one by one they rose from the table, leaving plates half filled, and strolled away to spend the evening as best they could until bedtime. ned and the foreman remained up, for they were to go out at midnight and take their trick at watching over the herd. "i've just got an idea," said the foreman, calling ned to him. "yes; what is it?" "i'm going to put some one on the herd in my place and ride over to groveland. want to go along?" "yes, if it has anything to do with our friends." "that's what i mean." "all right, i'm ready; but it is pretty late." "makes no difference. we'll wake them up if they are in bed. i want to see cavanagh, who keeps the store. i have one or two questions to ask him." without saying anything to the others as to their intention, the two quietly saddled their ponies and rode off. the foreman made arrangements to have others take their trick, after which they headed across the mesa toward the place where tad had whipped the mountain boy. though the night, like the one that had preceded it, was intensely dark, luke rode on with perfect confidence, never for one instant hesitating over the course. ned did not know that they had reached the little village until the foreman told him. "we're here," he said quietly. "where's the town?" "in it now." "i don't see it, if we are." "you hold my horse. i'll wake up cavanagh," announced the foreman, dismounting and tossing the reins to his companion. luke thundered on the front door of the store, above which the owner had his quarters. after an interval, during which the foreman had pounded insistently with the butt of his revolver, an upper window opened and a voice demanded to know what was wanted. "come down here and i'll tell you." "who are you? what do you mean prowling around this time of the night?" "i'm luke larue, of the simms's outfit, and i want to see you." "oh, hello, luke. thought there was something familiar about your voice. i'll be down in a minute. anybody with you?" "yes, friend. hurry up." cavanagh opened the front door, peering out suspiciously before he permitted his caller to enter. "wait a minute. i want to call my friend in. ned, tether the ponies and come along." after the lad had joined them, the two ranchers entered the store, the proprietor taking them to the back of the store and lighting a lantern, which he placed behind a cracker barrel, so that the light might not be observed from the outside. "now, what is it?" he demanded. luke told him briefly of the battle with the cowboys, of which cavanagh had already heard. then he related the story of the mysterious disappearance of the two boys. "what do you want of me?" asked the storekeeper, when the story had been finished. "to know whether you had heard any of the boys say anything that might lead you to believe they knew anything about the matter?" "no," answered cavanagh after a moment's thought. "hain't heard a word. don't believe they know anything about it. they'd a said something if they'd heard of it." "don't you know anything about the boys yourself?" "no, don't know nothing about them." "sure?" "surest thing, you know." "very well. i believe you. one of my reasons for coming over here, however, was to tell you to keep your eyes and ears open to-morrow." "i'll do that for you----" "if we fail to find them to-morrow, i'll ride over at night after the crowd has left here and hear what you have learned. when any of the cowmen come in, i want you to bring up the subject and try to draw them out. you'll get something that will be of use to us, i know, for i'm dead certain that they've got both of those boys." "do you think they would dare do a thing like that?" asked ned. "dare?" luke laughed harshly. "they'd dare anything, especially about this time. oh, did you hear whether any of them got hit last night!" "two or three is laid up for repairs," grinned the storekeeper. "i'm glad of it. i wish the whole bunch had been trimmed." "lose many sheep?" "yes; too many. but that isn't what's troubling us now." "no, i understand. it's the kids." "exactly. don't forget what you have got to do, now." ned had been leaning against the counter listening to the conversation, when his hand came in contact with a soft object that lay on the counter. he carelessly picked it up and looked at it. what he had found was a sombrero. this of itself was unimportant, for the store carried them for sale. a broad, yellow band about it was what attracted ned rector's attention, causing him to utter a sharp exclamation. "what is it?" demanded luke quickly. "look. did you ever see this before?" he asked excitedly. "it's philip simms's hat," answered the foreman, fixing a stern eye on the old storekeeper. chapter xxii captured by the indians "yes. i recognized it the instant i saw it," answered ned. "cavanagh, what does this mean?" demanded the foreman. "i think it's up to you to explain and mighty quick at that." "i--i don't know anything about it," stammered the storekeeper. "where did you get that hat?" "i bought it." "off whom?" "don't know what his name is. i never seen him before." "tell me all you know. come, i've no time to fool away asking you questions. get to the point." "i'll tell you all i know. a fellow came in here this afternoon. i give him fifty cents for the hat and that's all there was to it." "say where he come from?" "yes, said he was down from the medicine range." "that's more than thirty miles north of here," mused the foreman. "i don't understand it. you sure that's all he said?" "yes; i don't know any more." "then we'll be off. i guess we'd better hit the trail for the medicine range to-night so as to be well on our way by daylight." "here's fifty cents. i'll take the hat with me," said ned, tossing a half dollar on the counter, and stowing the sombrero under his belt. they hurried from the store, with a parting injunction to cavanagh to be watchful. mounting their ponies they rode swiftly away. "we'll return to camp before we leave for the north," said luke. as the sun went down, tad, becoming concerned for himself, turned sharply to the right, urging his pony on so as to get back to camp before night. he did not relish the idea of spending another night alone in the mountains. "i believe i don't know where i am," decided the lad at last, pulling up sharply and gazing first at the sky, then at the unfamiliar landscape about him. "i seem to have acquired the habit of getting lost. hello, i hear some one coming. w-h-o-o-p-e-e!" he shouted to attract the attention of the newcomers, hoping that it might be some of the men from the simms outfit. there were several of them, and though they made no reply, he heard them turn their ponies in his direction. suddenly there rode into the little clearing where he was sitting on his pony, half a dozen men, the sight of whom made him take a short, sharp breath. "indians!" he gasped. with gaudily painted faces, bright blankets and buckskin suits, they made a picturesque group as they halted and surveyed the young man questioningly. one who appeared to be the leader of the party rode forward and peered into tad's face. "how," he grunted. "how," answered tad, saluting bravely, but feeling far from brave at that moment. a second and younger brave rode up at this point and in very good english asked the lad who he was. "i am from the simms sheep ranch, and i guess i have lost my way. if you can set me straight, i shall be very much obliged." the younger man consulted with the older one, who had greeted tad first. "the chief says we are going that way. if you will come along with us we will leave you within about a mile of the camp." "very well," answered the boy, with some reluctance. they seemed friendly enough and, besides, there could be no danger to him in accompanying them. as they started to move on, tad clucked to pink-eye and fell in with the party. he noticed shortly, that the others had ridden up and that he was in reality surrounded by the painted braves. then he remembered that he had heard of roving bands of indians in that part of the country--indians who had been getting off their reservations and indulging in various depredations. "are we getting near the place?" asked the lad finally, a growing uneasiness rising within him. "i'll ask the chief," said the young indian, who had been riding by tad's side. "he says it will be two hours yet," was the reply, after a series of grunts and gestures had passed between the men. "it didn't take me that long to get here." "camp almost one sun away." "who is he?" indicating the leader of the party. "chief." "what's his name?" "chief willy. he doesn't talk much english." "you do, though," answered tad, glancing up at the expressionless face of his companion. "me with wild west show long, long time." "is that so. maybe i have seen you. were you with the show that was in chillicothe last summer? i saw the show then." "me with um," answered the redskin. "why, that's interesting," said the boy, now thoroughly interested and for the time so absorbed in questioning the indian about his life with the show that he forgot his own uneasiness. by this time, darkness intense and impenetrable, at least to the eyes of the boy, had settled down about them. yet it seemed to make no difference to the indians, who kept their ponies at a steady jog-trot, picking their way unerringly, avoiding rocks and treacherous holes as if it were broad daylight. tad did not try to guide pink-eye any more, but let him follow the others, and when he got a little out of his course, the pony next to him would crowd pink-eye over where he belonged. "seems to me we are a long time getting there," announced the boy finally. he was beginning to grow uneasy again. "come camp bymeby," informed the young indian. "chief, him know way." tad had his doubts about that, but he thought it best not to tell them of his misgivings until he was certain. perhaps they were honest indians after all and were only seeking to do him a favor. the lad was getting tired and hungry, having had nothing more than a mutton sandwich since early morning. he judged it must be getting close to midnight now. as if interpreting his thoughts, the young indian rode up close beside him, at the same time thrusting something into tad's hand. "what is it?" asked the boy. "eat. good meat," answered the indian. the boy nibbled at it gingerly. it was meat of some kind, and it was tough. but most anything in the nature of food was acceptable to him then, so he helped himself more liberally and enjoyed his lunch. the dried meat was excellent, even if it was tough to chew. after a little they came to a level stretch, and now the indians put their ponies to a lively gallop, which pink-eye, being surrounded by the other ponies, was forced to fall into to keep from getting run down by the riders behind him. faster and faster they forced their mounts forward, uttering sharp little exclamations to urge them on, accompanied by sundry grunts and unintelligible mutterings. that they all meant something, the boy felt sure. but it meant nothing to him so far as understanding was concerned. after hours had passed the lad found all at once that the gray dawn was upon them and it was not many minutes before the stolid faces of his companions stood out clear and distinct. tad jerked pink-eye up sharply. "see here, where are you taking me to?" he demanded. "camp," grunted the young indian. "you're not. you are taking me away. i shall not go another step with you." summoning all his courage the boy turned his pony about and started to move away. a quick, grunted order from the chief and one of the braves caught pink-eye's bridle, jerking him back to his previous position. "take your hands off, please," demanded tad quietly. "you've no right to do that. for some reason you have deceived me and taken me far from home. i'll----" "no make chief angry," urged the young brave. "i tell you i'm going. you let me alone," persisted the boy, making another effort to ride from them. this time the chief whirled his own pony across tad's path. from under his blanket, he permitted the boy to see the muzzle of a revolver that was protruding there. "ugh!" grunted the chief. "him say you must go. him shoot! no hurt paleface boy." tad hesitated. his inclination was to put spurs to pink-eye and dash away. he did not fear the chief's revolver so much for himself. he did fear, however, that the chief might shoot his pony from under him, which would leave the boy in a worse predicament still. "all right, i'll go with you. but i warn you the first white man i see, i'll tell him you are taking me away." "ugh!" "if he shoots, i don't see how he can help hurting me," added the lad to himself, with a mirthless grin. "bymeby, boy go back with paleface friends." "that's what i expect to do. but if luke larue finds out you have taken me away against my will, he'll do some shooting before the big chief gets a chance to. where are you taking me to?" shrugs of the shoulders was all the answer that tad could get, so he decided to make the best of his position and escape at the first opportunity. keeping his eyes on the alert he followed along without further protest. once, as they ascended a sudden rise of ground on the gallop, he discovered two horsemen on beyond them about half a mile as near as he was able to judge. evidently the indians saw them at the same instant, for they changed their course and went off into the rougher lands to the left. "had they been nearer, i'd have taken a chance and yelled for help," thought the boy. "i will do it the next time i get a chance even if they are a long way off. i can make somebody hear." but they gave him no chance to put his plan into practice. not a human being did tad see during the rest of the journey, nor even a sign of human habitation. evidently they were traveling through a very rough, uninhabited part of the state. if this were the case, he reasoned that they must be working northward. this surmise was verified with the rising of the sun. chief willy gave the lad a quick glance and grunted when he saw his captive looking up at the sun. the chief then uttered a series of grunts, which the younger indian interpreted as meaning that they would soon reach their destination. tad was somewhat relieved to hear this, for he ached all over from his many hours in the saddle. then again he was sleepy and hungry as well. they offered him no more food, so he concluded that they had none. in any event he did not propose to ask for more, even if he were starving. along about nine o'clock in the morning they came suddenly upon a broad river. without hesitation the braves plunged their ponies in, with tad and pink-eye following. there was nothing else they could do tinder the circumstances. the water was not deep, however, the chief having chosen a spot for fording where the stream was not above the ponies' hips. tad lifted up his legs to keep them dry, but the indians stolidly held their feet in their stirrups, appearing not to notice that they were getting wet. "what river is this!" he asked, the first question he had ventured in a long time. the young brave referred the question to his chief, to which the usual grunt of response was made. "him say don't know." tad grinned. "for men who can find their way in the dark as well as these fellows can, they know less than i would naturally suppose," smiled the boy. the chief saw the smile and scowled. tad made careful note of the fording place in case he should have occasion to cross the river on his own hook later on. he examined the hills on both sides of the stream at the same time. leaving the river behind them, they began a gradual ascent. now they did not seem to be in so great a hurry as before, and allowed their ponies to walk for a mile or so, after which they took up their easy jog again. shortly after that the boy descried several wreaths of smoke curling up into the morning sky. the indians were heading straight toward the smoke. at first tad had felt a thrill of hope. but a few moments later when a number of tepees grew slowly out of the landscape he saw that they were approaching what appeared to be an indian village, and his heart sank within him. chapter xxiii in the home of the blackfeet their coming was greeted by the loud barking of dogs, while from the tepees appeared as if by magic, women and children, together with innumerable braves and boys. they fairly swarmed out into the open space in front of the camp, setting up a shout as they recognized the newcomers. "they seem to be mighty glad to see us," growled tad. "wish i could say as much for them." the ponies, seeming to share the general good feeling, pricked up their ears and dashed into the camp at a gallop, pink-eye with the rest. almost before the little animals had come to a stop, the braves threw themselves from their saddles and darted into their tepees. "they seem to have left me out of it, so i guess i'll go back," decided the lad half humorously. but he was given no chance to slip away. the young brave who had accompanied his chief, came running out and grasped the pony by its bridle. "boy, git off," he said. tad threw a leg over the pommel and landed on the ground. he could hardly stand, so stiff were his legs. the young brave took him into one of the tepees, held the flap aside while tad entered, then closed it. the lad heard him moving away. tired out and dispirited, tad butler threw himself down on the grass and, in spite of his troubles, was asleep in a few moments. a dog barking in front of his tepee awakened him. the boy pulled the flap aside ever so little and peered out. he was surprised to find that the sun was setting. he had been asleep practically all day long. scrambling to his feet hastily the lad stepped outside. he did not know whether he would be permitted to roam about, but he proposed to try. the answer came quickly. a brave whom he had not seen before suddenly appeared and, with a grunt of disapproval, grabbed tad by the arms, fairly flinging him into the tepee. the lad's cheeks burned with indignation. "i'll teach them to insult me like that," he fumed, shaking his fist toward the opening. "i'll look out anyway." he did so, prudently drawing the flap close whenever he heard anyone approaching. once as he peered out, a disreputable looking cur snapped at his legs. first, the lad coaxed the animal, then tried to drive him away, finally administering a kick that sent the dog away howling. "i've got revenge on one of the gang anyway," he laughed. "but it's not much of a revenge, at that. i wonder if they are going to bring me anything to eat. i----" the flap was suddenly jerked aside and the face of the chief appeared in the opening. "how," greeted chief willy. "how," answered tad rather sullenly. "what do you want?" "paleface want eat?" "you ought not to have to ask that question. so you can talk english just a little bit? chief, when are you going to let me go away from here? it will only get you into trouble if you try to keep me. they are sure to find me." "no find," grunted the chief. "oh, yes they will." "ugh," answered the redskin, hastily withdrawing. then followed another long period when tad was left alone with his thoughts. "i wonder two things," thought the lad aloud. "i wonder what he brought me here for and i wonder when i am going to get something to eat? captured by the indians, eh? that's more than the rest of the pony riders can say." yet there was a more serious side to it all. they had taken him prisoner for some purpose, but what that purpose was he could not imagine. his thoughts were interrupted by some one silently entering the tent. glancing up, tad saw a slender, rather pretty indian girl standing there looking down at him. the boy scrambled to his feet and took off his sombrero. "how," he said. the girl answered in kind. then she placed on the ground before him a bowl of soup and a plate of steaming stew. tad sniffed the odor of mutton, which now was so familiar to him, wondering at the same time, if it had come from mr. simms's flock. "thank you," he said. "if you will excuse me i will eat. i'm awfully hungry." she nodded and tad went at the meal almost ravenously. the indian girl squatted down on the ground and watched him. "what's your name?" he asked between mouthfuls. "jinny." "that's a funny name. doesn't sound like an indian name. is it?" "me not know. young buck heap big eat," she added. "yes. oh, yes, i have something of an appetite," laughed tad. "jinny, what are they going to do with me, do you know?" the girl shook her head with emphasis. "what tribe is this?" "blackfeet. other paleface boy here too." tad set down his plate and surveyed her inquiringly. "say that again, please. you say there's another paleface boy here in this village?" jinny nodded vigorously. "who is he?" "jinny not know." "when did he--how long has he been here?" "sun-up." "this morning?" "yes. he there," pointing with a finger to the lower end of the village. tad's curiosity was aroused. he wondered if another besides himself had been made an unwilling guest by the blackfeet wanderers. if so, it must have been by another party. a sudden thought occurred to him. tad was wearing a cheap ring on the little finger of his left hand. he had picked up the ring on the plains in texas. hastily stripping it from his finger he handed it to the girl. "want it, jinny?" she did. her eyes sparkled as she slipped it on her own finger and held it off to view the effect. "thank," she said, turning her glowing eyes on tad. "you're welcome. but now i want you to do something for me. i'll send you another, a big, big ring when i get home, if you will help me to get away from here." jinny eyed him steadily for a few seconds, then shook her head. "i'll send you beads, too, jinny--beads like the paleface ladies wear." "you send jinny white woman beads!" "i promise you." "me help um little paleface buck. me help um two," she added, holding up two fingers. without another word, she slipped from the tepee as silently as she had come. tad pondered over this last remark for some time. he did not understand what jinny had meant. "so i'm a buck, am i? that's one thing i haven't been called before since i have been out on the range. she said she would help me to get away. i wonder when she is going to do it." though tad waited patiently until late in the evening, he saw no more of the little indian girl. shortly after dark several camp-fires were lighted, the cheerful blazes lighting up the street or common in front of the row of tepees in which his own was located. children played about the fires, the dogs were disputing over the bones tossed to them after the evening meal, while the squaws and braves, gathered in separate groups, were squatting about, gesticulating and talking. to tad butler the scene held a real interest. he had never before seen an indian camp, and least of all been a prisoner in it. he lay down on his stomach, with elbows on the ground, chin in hands, and gazed out over the village curiously. "i wonder who that other boy is," he mused. "i presume he is a prisoner, too. hello, there's my guard." an indian, with knees clasped in his arms, was rocking to and fro a little distance from the tepee. though he was not looking toward tad's tent, the lad felt sure the fellow had been placed there to watch him. he understood then why jinny had not been to the tepee since bringing his meal. finally the camp quieted down, the fires smouldered and the dogs stretched out before them for sleep. tad butler's tired head drooped lower and lower, his elbows settling until his arms were down and he was lying prone upon the ground, sound asleep. after a time the indian whom the lad had seen sitting out in front rose, and, stepping softly to the tepee, looked in. he gave a grunt of satisfaction, threw himself down right at the entrance and was snoring heavily half a minute later. the camp slumbered on undisturbed until aroused by the ill-natured curs at daybreak next morning. tad was awakened by one of them barking at his door and snapping at him. suddenly pulling his flap open, he hurled his sombrero in the dog's face, frightening it, so that it slunk away with a howl. tad, laughing heartily, reached out and recovered the hat. "hey, there, i want to wash," he called to a brave who was passing. the redskin paid no attention to him. "all right, if you won't, then i'll go without you." he stepped boldly from the tepee and headed for a small stream at the left of the village, which he had observed on the previous day. he had not gone far before he observed that he was being followed at a distance. he did not let it appear that he noticed this, and after making his toilet strolled back to his tepee. tad shrewdly reasoned that if he could induce them to relax their vigilance over him, he would have a better chance to make his escape, and he determined that he would act as if he had no intention of leaving. he made an effort to find out where they had tethered pink-eye, but there were no signs of ponies anywhere. he knew, however, that they could not be far away, for the indian always keeps in touch with his mount. jinny came with his breakfast at sunrise. he noticed the first thing that she was not wearing the ring he had given her, but before he had an opportunity to comment on it, the girl drew the ring from a pocket, placed it on a finger and fell to admiring it. tad laughed and turned to his breakfast. this consisted of a big bowl of corn meal, steaming hot, with some cold mutton on the side. frankly, he admitted to himself that he had eaten far worse meals in more civilized communities. "good morning, jinny. i was so much interested in the breakfast that i forgot to say it when you first came in. this is very good. did you cook it?" she nodded. "i thought so. you beat old hicks's cooking already. hicks is the cook out on mr. simms's sheep ranch, where i come from. understand?" "yes." "i thought you were going to help me to escape," said tad, suddenly leaning toward her. "aren't you?" jinny made a sign for silence, and then went to the opening and peered out cautiously. she returned, and, placing her mouth close to the lad's ear, whispered, "bymeby." tad could scarcely repress a laugh at the tragic tone in which she said it. yet his face was perfectly sober and he continued with his breakfast without further comment. jinny gathered up the dishes and left him without a word. after a time the boy pulled back the flaps and sat down to watch the life of the camp by daylight. the squaws were busily at work, carrying wood and engaged in other occupations, though few of the braves were to be seen. the boy concluded that they must be sleeping. the hours dragged along slowly. it seemed an age until night came once more. somehow he felt that the night would bring him good luck. a warning glance from the indian girl when she brought his supper told him that conversation were better not indulged in, so he said nothing to her. she left the dishes with him and went away at once. that night tad sat up until late, hoping vainly for word from jinny, but none came. when the guard approached the tent along toward midnight, tad feigned sleep, and so well did he feign it that he really went to sleep. he thought he had been napping but a few moments, when a peculiar scratching sound on the back of his tepee brought him up sitting, every nerve on the alert. tad peered out through the flap. the guard was asleep. he crept back to the other side of the tepee and scratched on the tepee wall with his finger-nail. "s-h-h." the warning was accompanied by a slight ripping sound, and he knew the wall was being slit with a knife. "paleface buck, come with jinny," whispered a voice in his ear. chapter xxiv conclusion grasping the lad by the arm, the indian girl led him cautiously straight back from the tepee, guiding him in the darkness unerringly, around all obstructions. after proceeding in a straight line for some distance, she turned and made a wide detour around the camp. he could tell this by the light of the smouldering camp-fires. he dared ask no questions until jinny had given him permission to speak, which was not until they had left the camp some distance behind them. she paused suddenly and faced him. "you send jinny ring?" "yes, i promised you." "you send beads like white women wear?" "of course i will." "then come. ponies here. boy here." not understanding her latter words, tad followed obediently, passing around a point of rocks. "here ponies. here boy." "o tad, is that you?" exclaimed a tremulous voice. "who's that?" demanded tad sharply. "it's phil. o tad!" "phil!" cried the lad, grasping the boy about the neck and hugging him delightedly. "they got you too, did they? oh, i'm so glad i've found you! you must tell me all about it, but not now. we've got to get away from here. thank you, jinny. i shall never forget this. i--" "you send jinny beads?" demanded the girl suggestively. "indeed you shall have the finest set of beads that an indian girl ever wore, even if it takes all my money to buy them. now which way shall we go?" "go river." "where is it?" she took his hand in the darkness and pointed with it in the direction where the river lay. "yes, yes, i know. then where?" "find white man. he tell um. jinny not know." she pressed something into his hand. "what's this?" asked tad sharply. "knife. mebbyso brave catch um paleface buck." tad caught the significance of her words instantly. "no, jinny, thank you very much. i couldn't do that. you keep the knife. i shall not need it, but you shall have the beads just the same." "ugh! go pony. go quick. braves him follow." she pointed back toward the camp, and, grasping tad by the arm, hurried him toward the ponies. "when?" "come now," she insisted. tad felt a sudden thrill as he heard a great commotion back in the camp. "we've got to hurry, phil. i guess they have discovered our escape. you run, jinny. run back. don't you let them know you helped us. say, what will the chief do if he finds it out?" demanded the boy, pausing sharply. "huh. jinny no afraid chief. jinny laugh in chief face. bye." she disappeared with surprising suddenness. "quick, phil! get on your pony and follow me. keep close to me." "i am on," answered the boy bravely. "it's my pony, too." "and so is this one mine. it's pink-eye." "what's that noise!" asked phil in a tremulous voice. "hi-yi-yip-yah--yah-hi-yah!" rang out the indian war cry, as the braves threw themselves on the bare backs of their ponies and tore from the village, going in all directions. tad drove the spurs in viciously. "quick! quick, phil! they're after us." "i'm coming." both ponies sprang away in the darkness, the lads clinging to the saddles, none too sure of the path that lay before them, and riding desperately. bang, bang, bang! three rifle shots rang out in quick succession, and the boys imagined they could hear the bullets sing over their heads. "hi-yi-yip--yah-hi-yah!" "they're gaining on us. they're gaining, phil. ride for your life!" the shrill yells of the indians sounded much closer. the boys believed that their enemies had picked up the trail. "we have got to do something, and do it quick. we've got to outwit them," shouted tad. "what--what"---- "i'll tell you. when we think they are getting too near, i'll pull over by you and take you on my pony. we'll send the other one flying on while we turn off," decided tad. the time for the change came a few moments later. the indians were gaining on them every second. now the "hi-yi-yip--yah-hi-yah" sounded as if it was being shrieked into their ears. tad drove pink-eye right against the other pony. "jump!" he commanded, and phil landed on pink-eye's back without mishap, while tad, giving a vicious kick to the free pony, turned off to the left a little and drove his pony at a run. they reached the river. as the pony plunged in the boys slipped off on opposite sides of him, hanging to the saddle while the pony swam. "hang on tightly. don't let go. there is a strong current here." they could hear the savages racing up and down the river bank, shouting and shooting and searching vainly for the other pony. every minute tad expected to hear them take to the river, but for some reason they did not do so. after a chilling swim, the boys at last reached the other bank, and, shaking the water from their clothes as best they could, both mounted the one pony and struck off, guided by the stars alone. they continued on until daylight, having heard nothing more of the indians. both boys were shivering with cold and exhausted for want of something to eat after their trying night. tad learned from his companion that he had been taken by white men and turned over to the indians for some purpose unknown to him. phil described his captor as a man with a scar on his temple and having a red beard. shortly after sunrise they came upon a flock of sheep, and soon after they were at the house of a rancher, where the boys told their story. the owner of the ranch knew mr. simms well, and besides providing phil with a pony, sent one of his own men to pilot the boys home. they rode into the simms camp about midnight, rousing the camp with their shouts. and the jollification that followed the safe return of phil and his rescuer did the hearts of both boys good. there was no sleep in the simms outfit that night. tad and phil were obliged to tell the story of their experiences over and over again, while the other boys listened in wide-eyed wonder. mr. simms was of the opinion that, having taken phil, the indians picked up tad so that he might not report their being off the reservation. "at any rate we have got the man, thanks to your description," he added. "what, the man with the scar?" "yes. he is the cattle rancher whom luke insisted was such a friend of his. i took a long chance and had the sheriff arrest him to-day. he is being held until you take a look to see if you can identify him. i hope you will be able to." "where is he?" asked the lad. "tied up in the chuck wagon. i'll have him brought over." "hello, bluff," greeted tad, the instant he set eyes on the surly face of the prisoner. "hello, kid. never saw me before, did you?" "i should say i had. that's the man, mr. simms. there can be no doubt about it." "and he is the fellow who caught and turned me over to the indians," added philip, shrinking away from the bearded face. "then i guess there is nothing more to be said," announced mr. simms, with a grim smile. "this man has been doing a crooked business for years, all up and down the trail. of course he had accomplices, but we shall hardly get them. nobody suspected him. the frequent thefts of stock and the killing of sheep was a mystery until you solved it, master tad. i wish i knew how to express my appreciation of what you have done for us." "there is one favor you can do for me if you will, mr. simms." "it is already granted. name it." "i wish you would see that jinny gets the beads i promised her and which i am going to buy as soon as i get where i can." "she shall have them," replied the rancher, "and a present from me, besides. i'll send one of my men to the blackfeet agency especially to deliver your present and mine to the indian girl." "thank you." "to-morrow we shall have to go back to town with the sheriff and his prisoner. i should like to have you accompany us if you will. the prosecuting attorney can take your deposition and thus avoid the necessity of your having to wait for the trial. you are free to continue on your trip then, if you desire." "of course he will go with you," spoke up the professor, who, up to that point, had been too deeply absorbed in the developments of the hour to offer any comment. "all of us will accompany you. boys, you had better get your belongings together before we turn in, as i imagine mr. simms will want to make an early start in the morning. i guess you are all pretty well satisfied with what you have seen of the old custer trail." "yes," shouted the boys. "we've had a great time." "at least some of us have," smiled tad. at forsythe next day tad butler and young philip simms appeared against the prisoner. as the result of their positive identification and further testimony, bluff broke down. he made a full confession, implicating others who had been concerned with him in various misdeeds along the trail, each of whom was eventually brought to justice and punished. their presence being no longer necessary in forsythe, that afternoon the pony rider boys boarded a sleeping car, loudly cheered by a crowd of enthusiastic ranchers and villagers, who had gathered to see them off. and there, with their four smiling faces framed in the pullman windows, we shall take leave of the pony rider boys. they will next be heard from in another volume, entitled, "the pony rider boys in the ozarks, or the secret of ruby mountain," a stirring tale of adventure and daring deeds among the missouri mountains, in which the lads pass through many perils. the end. none [illustration: "a man's plumb crazy to go round blatting all he knows"] the happy family by b.m. bower (b.m. sinclair) author of "chip of the flying u," "the range dwellers," "her prairie knight," "the lure of the dim trails," "the lonesome trail," "the long shadow," etc. g.w. dillingham company publishers new york _ , , , by_ street & smith. _ , by_ g.w. dillingham company. _the happy family_. to b.w.v. _"... met the ananias of the cow camp. i have knocked about cow camps, mining camps, railroad and telegraph camps, and kicked up alkali dust for many a weary mile on the desert. yet wherever i went i never failed to meet him. he is part and parcel of every outfit.... he is indispensable, irresistible, and incorrigible; and while in but few cases can he be held a thing of beauty, he is certainly a joy forever--at least to those who have known his type with some degree of understanding...."_ from a letter. contents. ananias green blink miss martin's mission happy jack, wild man a tamer of wild ones andy, the liar "wolf! wolf!" fool's gold lords of the pots and pans * * * * * the happy family * * * * * ananias green pink, because he knew well the country and because irish, who also knew it well, refused pointblank to go into it again even as a rep, rode alone except for his horses down into the range of the rocking r. general roundup was about to start, down that way, and there was stock bought by the flying u which ranged north of the bear paws. it so happened that the owner of the rocking r was entertaining a party of friends at the ranch; it also happened that the friends were quite new to the west and its ways, and they were intensely interested in all pertaining thereto. pink gathered that much from the crew, besides observing much for himself. hence what follows after. sherwood branciforte was down in the blacksmith shop at the rocking r, watching one andy green hammer a spur-shank straight. andy was what he himself called a tamer of wild ones, and he was hard upon his riding gear. sherwood had that morning watched with much admiration the bending of that same spur-shank, and his respect for andy was beautiful to behold. "lord, but this is a big, wild country," he was saying enthusiastically, "and the people in it are big and--" "wild," supplied andy. "yes, you've just about got us sized up correct." he went on hammering, and humming under his breath, and thinking that, while admiration is all right in its time and place, it is sometimes a bit wearisome. "oh, but i didn't mean that," the young man protested. "what i meant was breezy and picturesque. things can happen, out here. life and men don't run in grooves." "no, nor horses," assented andy. "leastways, not in oiled ones." he was remembering how that spur-shank had become bent. "you did some magnificent riding, this morning. by jove! i've never seen anything like it. strange that one can come out here into a part of the country absolutely new and raw, and see things--" "oh, it ain't so raw as you might think," andy defended jealously, "nor yet new." "of course it is new! a commonwealth in the making. you can't," he asserted triumphantly, "point to anything man-made that existed a hundred years ago; scarcely fifty, either. your civilization is yet in the cradle--a lusty infant, and a--er--vociferous one, but still an infant in swaddling clothes." sherwood branciforte had given lectures before the y.m.c.a. of his home town, and young ladies had spoken of him as "gifted," and he had come to hear of it, and to believe. andy green squinted at the shank before he made reply. andy, also, was "gifted," in his modest western way. "a country that can now and then show the papers for a civilization old as the phenixes of egypt," he said, in a drawling tone that was absolutely convincing, "ain't what i'd call raw." he decided that a little more hammering right next the rowel was necessary, and bent over the anvil solicitously. even the self-complacency of sherwood branciforte could not fail to note his utter indifference to the presence and opinions of his companion. branciforte was accustomed to disputation at times--even to enmity; but not to indifference. he blinked. "my dear fellow, do you realize what it is that statement might seem to imply?" he queried haughtily. andy, being a cowpuncher of the brand known as a "real," objected strongly both to the term and the tone. he stood up and stared down at the other disapprovingly. "i don't as a general thing find myself guilty of talking in my sleep," he retorted, "and i'm prepared to let anything i say stand till the next throw. we may be some vociferous, out here twixt the mississippi and the rockies, but we ain't no infant-in-the-cradle, mister. we had civilization here when the pilgrim fathers' rock wasn't nothing but a pebble to let fly at the birds!" "indeed!" fleered sherwood branciforte, in a voice which gave much intangible insult to one's intelligence. andy clicked his teeth together, which was a symptom it were well for the other to recognize but did not. then andy smiled, which was another symptom. he fingered the spur absently, laid it down and reached, with the gesture that betrays the act as having become second nature, for his papers and tobacco sack. "uh course, you mean all right, and you ain't none to blame for what you don't know, but you're talking wild and scattering. when you stand up and tell me i can't point to nothing man-made that's fifty years old, or a hundred, you make me feel sorry for yuh. i can take you to something--or i've seen something--that's older than swearing; and i reckon that art goes back to when men wore their hair long and a sheep-pelt was called ample for dress occasions." "are you crazy, man?" sherwood branciforte exclaimed incredulously. "not what you can notice. you wait whilst i explain. once last fall i was riding by my high lonesome away down next the river, when my horse went lame on me from slipping on a shale bank, and i was set afoot. uh course, you being plumb ignorant of our picturesque life, you don't half know all that might signify to _imply_." this last in open imitation of branciforte. "it implies that i was in one hell of a fix, to put it elegant. i was sixty miles from anywhere, and them sixty half the time standing on end and lapping over on themselves. that there is down where old mama nature gave full swing to a morbid hankering after doing things unconventional. result is, that it's about as ungodly a mixture of nightmare scenery as this old world can show up; and i've ambled around considerable and am in a position to pass judgment. "so there i was, and i wasn't in no mood to view the beauties uh nature to speak of; for instance, i didn't admire the clouds sailing around promiscous in the sky, nor anything like that. i was high and dry and the walking was about as poor as i ever seen; and my boots was high-heel and rubbed blisters before i'd covered a mile of that acrobatic territory. i wanted water, and i wanted it bad. before i got it i wanted it a heap worse." he stopped, cupped his slim fingers around a match-blaze, and branciforte sat closer. he did not know what was coming, but the manner of the indifferent narrator was compelling. he almost forgot the point at issue in the adventure. "along about dark, i camped for the night under a big, bare-faced cliff that was about as homelike and inviting as a charitable institution, and made a bluff at sleeping and cussed my bum luck in a way that wasn't any bluff. at sun-up i rose and mooched on." his cigarette needed another match and he searched his pockets for one. "what about the--whatever it was you started to tell me?" urged branciforte, grown impatient. andy looked him over calmly. "you've lived in ignorance for about thirty years or so--giving a rough guess at your age; i reckon you can stand another five minutes. as i was saying, i wandered around like a dogy when it's first turned loose on the range and is trying to find the old, familiar barn-yard and the skim-milk bucket. and like the dogy, i didn't run across anything that looked natural or inviting. all that day i perambulated over them hills, and i will say i wasn't enjoying the stroll none. you're right when you say things can happen, out here. there's some things it's just as well they don't happen too frequent, and getting lost and afoot in the bad-lands is one. "that afternoon i dragged myself up to the edge of a deep coulee and looked over to see if there was any way of getting down. there was a bright green streak down there that couldn't mean nothing but water, at that time of year; this was last fall. and over beyond, i could see the river that i'd went and lost. i looked and looked, but the walls looked straight as a boston's man's pedigree. and then the sun come out from behind a cloud and lit up a spot that made me forget for a minute that i was thirsty as a dog and near starved besides. "i was looking down on the ruins--and yet it was near perfect--of an old castle. every stone stood out that clear and distinct i could have counted 'em. there was a tower at one end, partly fell to pieces but yet enough left to easy tell what it was. i could see it had kinda loop-holes in it. there was an open place where i took it the main entrance had used to be; what i'd call the official entrance. but there was other entrances besides, and some of 'em was made by time and hard weather. there was what looked like awhat-you-may-call-'em-- a ditch thing, yuh mind, running around my side of it, and a bridge business. uh course, it was all needing repairs bad, and part of it yuh needed to use your imagination on. i laid there for quite a spell looking it over and wondering how the dickens it come to be way down there. it didn't look to me like it ought to be there at all, but in a school geography or a history where the chapter is on historic and prehistoric hangouts uh the heathen." "the deuce! a castle in the bad-lands!" ejaculated branciforte. "that's what it was, all right. i found a trail it would make a mountain sheep seasick to follow, and i got down into the coulee. it was lonesome as sin, and spooky; but there was a spring close by, and a creek running from it; and what is a treat in that part uh the country, it was good drinking and didn't have neither alkali nor sulphur nor mineral in it. it was just straight water, and you can gamble i filled up on it a-plenty. then i shot a rabbit or two that was hanging out around the ruins, and camped there till next day, when i found a pass out, and got my bearings by the river and come on into camp. so when you throw slurs on our plumb newness and shininess, i've got the cards to call yuh. that castle wasn't built last summer, mister. and whoever did build it was some civilized. so there yuh are." andy took a last, lingering pull at the cigarette stub, flung it into the backened forge, and picked up the spur. he settled his hat on his head at its accustomed don't-give-a-darn tilt, and started for the door and the sunlight. "oh, but say! didn't you find out anything about it afterwards? there must have been something--" "if it's relics uh the dim and musty past yuh mean, there was; relics to burn. i kicked up specimens of ancient dishes, and truck like that, while i was prowling around for fire-wood. and inside the castle, in what i reckon was used for the main hall, i run acrost a skeleton. that is, part of one. i don't believe it was all there, though." "but, man alive, why haven't you made use of a discovery like that?" branciforte followed him out, lighting his pipe with fingers that trembled. "don't you realize what a thing like that means?" andy turned and smiled lazily down at him. "at the time i was there, i was all took up with the idea uh getting home. i couldn't eat skeletons, mister, nor yet the remains uh prehistoric dishes. and i didn't run acrost no money, nor no plan marked up with crosses where you're supposed to do your excavating for treasure. it wasn't nothing, that i could see, for a man to starve to death while he examined it thorough. and so far as i know there ain't any record of it. i never heard no one mention building it, anyhow." he stooped and adjusted the spur to his heel to see if it were quite right, and went off to the stable humming under his breath. branciforte stood at the door of the blacksmith shop and gazed after him, puffing meditatively at his pipe. "lord! the ignorance of these western folk! to run upon a find like that, and to think it less important than getting home in time for supper. to let a discovery like that lie forgotten, a mere incident in a day's travel! that fellow thinks more, right now, about his horse going lame and himself raising blisters on his heels, than of--jove, what ignorance! he--he couldn't _eat_ the skeleton or the dishes! jerusalem!" branciforte knocked his pipe gently against the door-casing, put in into his coat pocket and hurried to the house to hunt up the others and tell them what he had heard. that night the roundup pulled in to the home ranch. the visitors, headed by their host, swooped down upon the roundup wagons just when the boys were gathered together for a cigarette or two apiece and a little talk before rolling in. there was no night-guarding to do, and trouble winged afar. sherwood branciforte hunted out andy green where he lay at ease with head and shoulders propped against a wheel of the bed-wagon and gossipped with pink and a few others. "look here, green," he said in a voice to arrest the attention of the whole camp, "i wish you'd tell the others that tale you told me this afternoon--about that ruined castle down in the hills. mason, here, is a newspaper man; he scents a story for his paper. and the rest refuse to believe a word i say." "i'd hate to have a rep like that, mr. branciforte," andy said commiseratingly, and turned his big, honest gray eyes to where stood the women--two breezy young persons with sleeves rolled to tanned elbows and cowboy hats of the musical comedy brand. also they had gay silk handkerchiefs knotted picturesquely around their throats. there was another, a giggly, gurgly lady with gray hair fluffed up into a pompadour. you know the sort. she was the kind who refuses to grow old, and so merely grows imbecile. "do tell us, mr. green," this young old lady urged, displaying much gold by her smile. "it sounds so romantic." "it's funny you never mentioned it to any of us," put in the "old man" suspiciously. andy pulled himself up into a more decorous position, and turned his eyes towards his boss. "i never knew yuh took any interest in relic-hunting," he explained mildly. "sherwood says you found a _skeleton!_" said the young old lady, shuddering pleasurably. "yes, i did find one--or part of one," andy admitted reluctantly. "what were the relics of pottery like?" demanded one of the cowboy-hatted girls, as if she meant to test him. "i do some collecting of that sort of thing." andy threw away his cigarette, and with it all compunction. "well, i wasn't so much interested in the dishes as in getting something to eat," he apologized. "i saw several different kinds. one was a big, awkward looking thing and was pretty heavy, and had straight sides. then i come across one or two more that was ornamented some. one had what looked like a fish on it, and the other i couldn't make out very well. they didn't look to be worth much, none of 'em." "green," said his employer steadily, "_was_ there such a place?" andy returned his look honestly. "there was, and there is yet, i guess," he asserted. "i'll tell you how you can find it and what it's like--if yuh doubt my words." he glanced around and found every man, including the cook, listening intently. he picked a blade of new grass and began splitting it into tiny threads. the host found boxes for the women to sit upon, and the men sat down upon the grass. "before i come here to work, i was riding for the circle c. one day i was riding away down in the bad-lands alone and my horse slipped in some shale rock and went lame; strained his shoulder so i couldn't ride him. that put me afoot, and climbing up and down them hills i lost my bearings and didn't know where i was at for a day or two. i wandered around aimless, and got into a strip uh country that was new to me and plumb lonesome and wild. "that second day is when i happened across this ruin. i was looking down into a deep, shut-in coulee, hunting water, when the sun come out and shone straight on to this place. it was right down under me; a stone ruin, with a tower on one end and kinda tumbled down so it wasn't so awful high--the tower wasn't. there was a--a--" "moat," branciforte suggested. "that's the word--a moat around it, and a bridge that was just about gone to pieces. it had loopholes, like the pictures of castles, and a--" "battlement?" ventured one of the musical-comedy cowgirls. andy had not meant to say battlement; of a truth, his conception of battlements was extremely hazy, but he caught up the word and warmed to the subject. "battlement? well i should guess yes! there was about as elegant a battlement as i'd want to see anywhere. it was sure a peach. it was--" he hesitated for a fraction of a second. "it was high as the tower, and it had figures carved all over it; them kind that looks like kid-drawing in school, with bows and arrows stuck out in front of 'em, threatening." "not the old greek!" exclaimed one of the girls in a little, breathless voice. "i couldn't say as to that," andy made guarded reply. "i never made no special study of them things. but they was sure old. and--" "about how large was the castle?" put in the man who wrote things. "how many rooms, say?" "i'd hate to give a guess at the size. i didn't step it off, and i'm a punk guesser. the rooms i didn't count. i only explored around in the main hall, like, a little. but it got dark early, down in there, and i didn't have no matches to waste. and next morning i started right out at sun-up to find the way home. no, i never counted the rooms, and if i had, the chances are i'd have likely counted the same one more'n once; to count them rooms would take an expert, which i ain't--not at counting. i don't reckon, though, that there was so awful many. anyway, not more than fifteen or twenty. but as i say, i couldn't rightly make a guess, even; or i'd hate to. ruins don't interest me much, though i was kinda surprised to run acrost that one, all right, and i'm willing to gamble there was warm and exciting times down there when the place was in running order. i'd kinda like to have been down there then. last fall, though, there wasn't nothing to get excited over, except getting out uh there." "a castle away out here! just think, good people, what that means! romance, adventure and scientific discoveries! we must go right down there and explore the place. why can't we start at once--in the morning? this gentleman can guide us to the place, and--" "it ain't easy going," andy remarked, conscientiously. "it's pretty rough; some places, you'd have to walk and lead your horses." they swept aside the discouragement. "we'd need pick and shovels, and men to dig," cried one enthusiast. "uncle peter can lend us some of his men. there may be treasure to unearth. there may be _anything_ that is wonderful and mysterious. get busy, uncle peter, and get your outfit together; you've boasted that a roundup can beat the army in getting under way quickly, now let us have a practical demonstration. we want to start by six o'clock--all of us, with a cook and four or five men to do the excavating. bring it to pass!" it was the voice of the girl whom her friends spoke of as "the life of the party;" the voice of the-girl-who-does-things. "it's sixty-five miles from here, good and strong--and mostly up and down," put in andy. "'quoth the raven,'" mocked the-girl-who-does-things. "we are prepared to face the ups-and-downs. do we start at six, uncle peter?" uncle peter glanced sideways at the roundup boss. to bring it to pass, he would be obliged to impress the roundup cook and part of the crew. it was breaking an unwritten law of the rangeland, and worse, it was doing something unbusiness-like and foolish. but not even the owner of the rocking r may withstand the pleading of a pretty woman. uncle peter squirmed, but he promised: "we start at six; earlier if you say so." the roundup boss gave his employer a look of disgust and walked away; the crew took it that he went off to some secluded place to swear. thereafter there was much discussion of ways and means, and much enthusiasm among the visitors from the east--equalled by the depression of the crew, for cowboys do not, as a rule, take kindly to pick and shovel, and the excavators had not yet been chosen from among them. they were uneasy, and they stole frequent, betraying glances at one another. all of which amused pink much. pink would like to have gone along, and would certainly have offered his services, but for the fact that his work there was done and he would have to start back to the flying u just as soon as one of his best saddle horses, which had stepped on a broken beer bottle and cut its foot, was able to travel. that would be in a few days, probably. so pink sighed and watched the preparations enviously. since he was fairly committed into breaking all precedents, uncle peter plunged recklessly. he ordered the mess-wagon to be restocked and prepared for the trip, and he took the bed-tent and half the crew. the foreman he wisely left behind with the remnant of his outfit. they were all to eat at the house while the mess-wagon was away, and they were to spread their soogans--which is to say beds--where they might, if the bunk-house proved too small or too hot. the foreman, outraged beyond words, saddled at daybreak and rode to the nearest town, and the unchosen half turned out in a body to watch the departure of the explorers, which speaks eloquently of their interest; for cowboys off duty are prone to sleep long. andy, as guide, bolted ahead of the party that he might open the gate. bolted is a good word, for his horse swerved and kept on running, swerved again, and came down in a heap. andy did not get up, and the women screamed. then pink and some others hurried out and bore andy, groaning, to the bunk-house. the visitors from the east gathered, perturbed, around the door, sympathetic and dismayed. it looked very much as if their exploration must end where it began, and the-girl-who-does-things looked about to weep, until andy, still groaning, sent pink out to comfort them. "he says you needn't give up the trip on his account," pink announced musically from the doorway. "he's drawing a map and marking the coulee where the ruin is. he says most any of the boys that know the country at all can find the place for yuh. and he isn't hurt permanent; he strained his back so he can't ride, is all." pink dimpled at the young old lady who was admiring him frankly, and withdrew. inside, andy green was making pencil marks and giving the chosen half explicit directions. at last he folded the paper and handed it to one called sandy. "that's the best i can do for yuh," he finished. "i don't see how yuh can miss it if yuh follow that map close. and if them gay females make any kick on the trail, you just remind 'em that i said all along it was rough going. so long, and good luck." so with high-keyed, feminine laughter and much dust, passed the exploring party from the rocking r. "say," pink began two days later to andy, who was sitting on the shady side of the bunk-house staring absently at the skyline, "there's a word uh praise i've been aiming to give yuh. i've seen riding, and i've done a trifle in that line myself, and learned some uh the tricks. but i want to say i never did see a man flop his horse any neater than you done that morning. i'll bet there ain't another man in the outfit got next your play. i couldn't uh done it better myself. where did you learn that? ever ride in wyoming?" andy turned his eyes, but not his head--which was a way he had--and regarded pink slantwise for at least ten seconds. "yes, i've rode in wyoming," he answered quietly. then: "what's the chance for a job, up your way? is the flying u open for good men and true?" "it won't cost yuh a cent to try," pink told him. "how's your back? think you'll be able to ride by the time skeeker is able to travel?" andy, grinned. "say," he confided suddenly, "if that hoss don't improve some speedy, i'll be riding on ahead. i reckon i'll be able to travel before them explorers get back, my friend." "why?" dimpled pink boldly. "why? well, the going is some rough, down that way. if they get them wagons half way to the coulee marked with a cross, they'll sure have to attach wings onto 'em. i've been some worried about that. i don't much believe uncle peter is going to enjoy that trip--and he sure does get irritable by spells. i've got a notion to ride for some other outfit, this summer." "was that the reason you throwed your horse down and got hurt, that morning?" questioned pink, and andy grinned again by way of reply. "they'll be gone a week, best they can do," he estimated aloud. "we ought to be able to make our getaway by then, easy." pink assured him that a week would see them headed for the flying u. it was the evening of the sixth day, and the two were packed and ready to leave in the morning, when andy broke off humming and gave a snort of dismay. "by gracious, there they come. my mother lives in buffalo, pink, in a little drab house with white trimmings. write and tell her how her son--oh, beloved! but they're hitting her up lively. if they made the whole trip in that there frame uh mind, they could uh gone clean to miles city and back. how pretty the birds sing! pink, you'll hear words, directly." directly pink did. "you're the biggest liar on earth," sherwood branciforte contributed to the recriminating wave that near engulfed andy green. "you sent us down there on a wild-goose chase, you brute. you--" "i never sent nobody," andy defended. "you was all crazy to go." "and nothing but an old stone hut some trapper had built!" came an indignant, female tone. "there never was any castle, nor--" "a man's home is his castle," argued andy, standing unabashed before them. "putting it that way, it was a castle, all right." there was babel, out of which-- "and the skeleton! oh, you--it was a dead _cow!_" this from the young old lady, who was looking very draggled and not at all young. "i don't call to mind ever saying it was human," put in andy, looking at her with surprised, gray eyes. "and the battlements!" groaned the-girl-who-does-things. "you wanted battlements," andy flung mildly into the uproar. "i always aim to please." with that he edged away from them and made his escape to where the cook was profanely mixing biscuits for supper. all-day moves put an edge to his temper. the cook growled an epithet, and andy passed on. down near the stable he met one of the chosen half, and the fellow greeted him with a grin. andy stopped abruptly. "say, they don't seem none too agreeable," he began tentatively, jerking his thumb toward the buzzing group. "how about it, sandy? was they that petulant all the way?" sandy, the map-bearer, chuckled. "it's lucky you got hurt at the last minute! and yet it was worth the trip. uh course we got stalled with the wagons, the second day out, but them women was sure ambitious, and made us go on with a packadero layout. i will say that, going down, they stood the hardships remarkable. it was coming back that frazzled the party. "and when we found the place--say, but it was lucky you wasn't along! they sure went hog-wild when they seen the ruins. the old party with the pompadoor displayed temper, and shed tears uh rage. when she looked into the cabin and seen the remains uh that cow-critter, there was language it wasn't polite to overhear. she said a lot uh things about you, andy. one thing they couldn't seem to get over, and that was the smallness uh the blamed shack. them fourteen or fifteen rooms laid heavy on their minds." "i didn't say there was fourteen or fifteen rooms. i said i didn't count the rooms; i didn't either. i never heard of anybody counting one room. did you, pink?" "no," pink agreed, "i never did!" sandy became suddenly convulsed. "oh, but the funniest thing was the ancient pottery," he gasped, the tears standing in his eyes. "that old dutch oven was bad enough; but when one uh the girls--that one that collects old dishes--happened across an old mackerel can and picked it up and saw the fish on the label, she was the maddest female person i ever saw in my life, barring none. if you'd been in reach about that time, she'd just about clawed your eyes out, andy green. oh me, oh my!" sandy slapped his thigh and had another spasm. sounds indicated that the wave of recrimination was rolling nearer. andy turned to find himself within arm's length of uncle pete. "maybe this is your idea of a practical joke, green," he said to andy. "but anyway, it will cost you your job. i ought to charge you up with the time my outfit has spent gallivanting around the country on the strength of your wild yarn. the quicker you hit the trail, the better it will suit me. by the way, what's your first name?" he asked, pulling out a check-book. "andy," answered the unrepentant one. "andy," uncle peter paused with a fountain pen between his fingers. he looked andy up and down, and the frown left his face. he proceeded to write out the check, and when it was done he handed it over with a pleased smile. "what did you do it for, green?" he queried in a friendlier tone. "self-defence," andy told him laconically, and turned away. half an hour later, andy and pink trailed out of the coulee that sheltered the rocking r. when they were out and away from the fence, and pink's horses, knowing instinctively that they were homeward bound, were jogging straight west without need of guidance, andy felt in his pocket for cigarette material. his fingers came in contact with the check uncle peter had given him, and he drew it forth and looked it over again. "well, by gracious!" he said to himself. "uncle peter thinks we're even, i guess." he handed the check to pink and rolled his cigarette; and pink, after one comprehending look at the slip of paper, doubled up over his saddle-horn and shouted with glee--for the check was written: "pay to the order of ananias green." "and i've got to sign myself a liar, or i don't collect no money," sighed andy. "that's what i call tough luck, by gracious!" * * * * * blink the range-land was at its unpicturesque worst. for two days the wind had raged and ranted over the hilltops, and whooped up the long coulees, so that tears stood in the eyes of the happy family when they faced it; impersonal tears blown into being by the very force of the wind. also, when they faced it they rode with bodies aslant over their saddle-horns and hats pulled low over their streaming eyes, and with coats fastened jealously close. if there were buttons enough, well and good; if not, a strap cinched tightly about the middle was considered pretty lucky and not to be despised. though it was early september, "sour-dough" coats were much in evidence, for the wind had a chill way of searching to the very marrow--and even a good, sheepskin-lined "sour-dough" was not always protection sufficient. when the third day dawned bleakly, literally blown piecemeal from out darkness as bleak, the happy family rose shiveringly and with sombre disapproval of whatever met their blood-shot eyes; dressed hurriedly in the chill of flapping tent and went out to stagger drunkenly over to where patsy, in the mess-tent, was trying vainly to keep the biscuits from becoming dust-sprinkled, and sundry pans and tins from taking jingling little excursions on their own account. over the brow of the next ridge straggled the cavvy, tails and manes whipping in the gale, the nighthawk swearing so that his voice came booming down to camp. truly, the day opened inauspiciously enough for almost any dire ending. as further evidence, saddling horses for circle resolved itself, as weary remarked at the top of his voice to pink, at his elbow, into "a free-for-all broncho busting tournament." for horses have nerves, and nothing so rasps the nerves of man or beast as a wind that never stops blowing; which means swaying ropes and popping saddle leather, and coat-tails flapping like wet sheets on a clothes line. horses do not like these things, and they are prone to eloquent manifestations of their disapproval. over by the bed-wagon, a man they called blink, for want of a better name, was fighting his big sorrel silently, with that dogged determination which may easily grow malevolent. the sorrel was at best a high-tempered, nervous beast, and what with the wind and the flapping of everything in sight, and the pitching of half-a-dozen horses around him, he was nearly crazed with fear in the abstract. blink was trying to bridle him, and he was not saying a word--which, in the general uproar, was strange. but blink seldom did say anything. he was one of the aliens who had drifted into the flying u outfit that spring, looking for work. chip had taken him on, and he had stayed. he could ride anything in his string, and he was always just where he was wanted. he never went to town when the others clattered off for a few hours' celebration more or less mild, he never took part in any of the camp fun, and he never offended any man. if any offended him they did not know it unless they were observant; if they were, they would see his pale lashes wink fast for a minute, and they might read aright the sign and refrain from further banter. so blink, though he was counted a good man on roundup, was left pretty much alone when in camp. andy green, well and none too favorably known down rocking r way, and lately adopted into the happy family on the recommendation of pink and his own pleasing personality, looped the latigo into the holder, gave his own dancing steed a slap of the don't-try-to-run-any-whizzers-on-me variety, and went over to help out blink. blink eyed his approach with much the same expression with which he eyed the horse. "i never hollered for assistance," he remarked grudgingly when andy was at his elbow. "when i can't handle any of the skates in my string, i'll quit riding and take to sheep-herding." whereupon he turned his back as squarely as he might upon andy and made another stealthy grab for the sorrel's ears. (there is such a thing in the range-land as jealousy among riders, and the fame of andy green had gone afar.) "all right. just as you say, and not as i care a darn," andy retorted, and went back to where his own mount stood tail to the wind. he did not in the least mind the rebuff; he really felt all the indifference his manner portrayed--perhaps even more. he had offered help where help was needed, and that ended it for him. it never occurred to him that blink might feel jealous over andy's hard-earned reputation as a "tamer of wild ones," or mistake his good nature for patronage. five minutes later, when chip looked around comprehensively at the lot of them in various degrees of readiness; saw that blink was still fighting silently for mastery of the sorrel and told andy to go over and help him get saddled, andy said nothing of having had his services refused, but went. this time, blink also said nothing, but accepted in ungracious surrender the assistance thus thrust upon him. for on the range-land, unless one is in a mind to roll his bed and ride away, one does not question when the leader commands. andy's attitude was still that of indifference; he really thought very little about blink or his opinions, and the rapid blinking of the pale lashes was quite lost upon him. they rode, eighteen ill-natured, uncomfortable cowboys, tumultuously away from the camp, where canvas bulged and swayed, and loose corners cracked like pistol shots, over the hill where even the short, prairie grass crouched and flattened itself against the sod; where stray pebbles, loosened by the ungentle tread of pitching hoofs, skidded twice as far as in calm weather. the gray sky bent threateningly above them, wind-torn into flying scud but never showing a hint of blue. later there might be rain, sleet, snow--or sunshine, as nature might whimsically direct; but for the present she seemed content with only the chill wind that blew the very heart out of a man. whenever chip pulled up to turn off a couple of riders that they might search a bit of rough country, his voice was sharp with the general discomfort. when men rode away at his command, it was with brows drawn together and vengeful heels digging the short-ribs of horses in quite as unlovely a mood as themselves. out at the end of the "circle," chip divided the remainder of his men into two groups for the homeward drive. one group he himself led. the other owned weary as temporary commander and galloped off to the left, skirting close to the foothills of the bear paws. in that group rode pink and happy jack, slim, andy green and blink the silent. "i betche we get a blizzard out uh this," gloomed happy jack, pulling his coat collar up another fraction of an inch. "and the way chip's headed us, we got to cross that big flat going back in the thick of it; chances is, we'll git lost." no one made reply to this; it seemed scarcely worth while. every man of them rode humped away from the wind, his head drawn down as close to his shoulders as might be. conversation under those conditions was not likely to become brisk. "a fellow that'll punch cows for a living," happy jack asserted venomously after a minute, "had ought to be shut up somewheres. he sure ain't responsible. i betche next summer don't see me at it." "aw, shut up. we know you're feeble-minded, without you blatting it by the hour," snapped pink, showing never a dimple. happy jack tugged again at his collar and made remarks, to which no one paid the slightest attention. they rode in amongst the hills and narrow ridges dividing "draws" as narrow, where range cattle would seek shelter from the cutting blast that raked the open. then, just as they began to realize that the wind was not quite such a raging torment, came a new phase of nature's unpleasant humor. it was not a blizzard that descended upon them, though when it came rolling down from the hilltops it much resembled one. the wind had changed and brought fog, cold, suffocating, impenetrable. yet such was the mood of them that no one said anything about it. weary had been about to turn off a couple of men, but did not. what was the use, since they could not see twenty yards? for a time they rode aimlessly, weary in the lead. then, when it grew no better but worse, he pulled up, just where a high bank shut off the wind and a tangle of brush barred the way in front. "we may as well camp right here till things loosen up a little," he said. "there's no use playing blind-man's-buff any longer. we'll have some fire, for a change. mama! this is sure beautiful weather!" at that, they brightened a bit and hurriedly dismounted and hunted dry wood. since they were to have a fire, the general tendency was to have a big one; so that when they squatted before it and held out cold, ungloved fingers to the warmth, the flames were leaping high into the fog and crackling right cheerily. it needed only a few puffs at their cigarettes to chase the gloom from their faces and put them in the mood for talk. only blink sat apart and stared moodily into the fire, his hands clasped listlessly around his knees, and to him they gave no attention. he was an alien, and a taciturn one at that. the happy family were accustomed to living clannishly, even on roundup, and only when they tacitly adopted a man, as they had adopted pink and irish and, last but not least important, andy green, did they take note of that man's mood and demand reasons for any surliness. "if slim would perk up and go run down a grouse or two," pink observed pointedly, "we'd be all right for the day. how about it, slim?" "run 'em down yourself," slim retorted. "by golly, i ain't no lop-ear bird dog." "the law's out fer chickens," happy jack remarked dolefully. "go on, happy, and get us a few. you've got your howitzer buckled on," fleered andy green. andy it was whose fertile imagination had so christened happy jack's formidable weapon. "aw, gwan!" protested happy jack. "happy looks like he was out for a rep," bantered pink. "he makes me think uh the bad man in a western play. all he needs is his hat turned up in front and his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, like he was killing hogs. happy would make a dandy-looking outlaw, with that gun and that face uh his." "say, by golly, i bet that's what he's figurin' on doing. he ain't going to punch cows no more--i bet he's thinking about turning out." "well, when i do, you'll be the first fellow i lay for," retorted happy, with labored wit. "you never'd get a rep shooting at a target the size uh slim," dimpled pink. "is that toy cannon loaded, happy?" "i betche yuh dassen't walk off ten paces and let me show yuh," growled happy. pink made as if to rise, then settled back with a sigh. "ten paces is farther than you could drive me from this fire with a club," he said. "and you couldn't see me, in this fog." "say, it _is_ pretty solid," said weary, looking around him at the blank, gray wall. "a fellow could sit right here and be a lot ignorant of what's going on around him. a fellow could--" "when i was riding down in the san simon basin," spoke up andy, rolling his second cigarette daintily between his finger-tips, "i had a kinda queer experience in a fog, once. it was thick as this one, and it rolled down just about as sudden and unexpected. that's a plenty wild patch uh country--or it was when i was there. i was riding for a spanish gent that kept white men as a luxury and let the greasers do about all the rough work--such as killing off superfluous neighbors, and running brands artistic, and the like. oh, he was a gay mark, all right. "but about this other deal: i was out riding alone after a little bunch uh hosses, one day in the fall. i packed my gun and a pair uh field glasses, and every time i rode up onto a mesa i'd take a long look at all the lower country to save riding it. i guess i'd prognosticated around like that for two or three hours, when i come out on a little pinnacle that slopes down gradual toward a neighbor's home ranch--only the ranch itself was quite a ride back up the basin. "i got off my horse and set down on a rock to build me a smoke, and was gazing off over the country idle, when i seen a rider come up out of a little draw and gallop along quartering-like, to pass my pinnacle on the left. you know how a man out alone like that will watch anything, from a chicken hawk up in the air to a band uh sheep, without any interest in either one, but just to have your eyes on something that's alive and moves. "so i watched him, idle, while i smoked. pretty soon i seen another fellow ride out into sight where the first one had, and hit her up lively down the trail. i didn't do no wondering--i just sat and watched 'em both for want uh something better to do." "finding them strays wasn't important, i s'pose?" happy jack insinuated. "it could wait, and did. so i kept an eye on these gazabos, and pretty soon i saw the hind fellow turn off the trail and go fogging along behind a little rise. he come into sight again, whipping down both sides like he was heading a wild four-year-old; and that was queer, because the only other live thing in sight was man number one, and i didn't see no reason why he should be hurting himself to get around to windward like that. "maybe it was five minutes i watched 'em: number one loping along like there wasn't nothing urgent and he was just merely going somewhere and taking his time for it, and number two quirting and spurring like seconds was diamonds." "i wish they was that valuable to you," hinted pink. "they ain't, so take it easy. well, pretty soon they got closer together, and then number two unhooked something on his saddle that caught the light. there's where i got my field glasses into play. i drew a bead with 'em, and seen right off it was a gun. and i hadn't no more than got my brain adjusted to grasp his idea, when he puts it back and takes down his rope. that there," andy added naïvely, "promised more real interest; guns is commonplace. "i took down the glasses long enough to size up the layout. glasses, you know, are mighty deceiving when it comes to relative distances, and a hilltop a mile back looks, through the glass, like just stepping over a ditch. with the naked eye i could see that they were coming together pretty quick, and they done so. "number one looks back, but whether he seen number two i couldn't say; seemed to me like he just glanced back casual and in the wrong direction. be that is it may, number two edged off a little and rode in behind a bunch uh mesquite--and then i seen that the trail took a turn, right there. so he pulled up and stood still till the other one had ambled past, and then he whirled out into the trail and swung his loop. "when i'd got the glasses focused on 'em again, he had number one snared, all right, and had took his turns. the hoss he was riding--it was a buckskin--set back and yanked number one end over end out uh the saddle, and number one's hoss stampeded off through the brush. number two dug in his spurs and went hell-bent off the trail and across country dragging the other fellow--and him bouncing over the rough spots something horrible. "i don't know what got the matter uh me, then; i couldn't do anything but sit there on my rock and watch through the glasses. anyway, while they looked close enough to hit with a rock, they was off a mile or more. so while i could see it all i couldn't do nothing to prevent. i couldn't even hear number one yell--supposing he done any hollering, which the chances is he did a plenty. it was for all the world like one uh these moving pictures. "i thought it was going to be a case uh dragging to death, but it wasn't; it looked to me a heap worse. number two dragged his man a ways--i reckon till he was plumb helpless--and then he pulled up and rode back to where he laid. the fellow tried to get up, and did get partly on his knees--and number one standing over him, watching. "what passed i don't know, not having my hearing magnified like my sight was. i framed it up that number two was getting his past, present and future read out to him--what i'd call a free life reading. the rope was pinning his arms down to his sides, and number two was taking blamed good care there wasn't any slack, so fast as he tried to get up he was yanked back. from first to last he never had a ghost of a show. "then number two reaches back deliberate and draws his gun and commences shooting, and i commences hollering for him to quit it--and me a mile off and can't do nothing! i tell yuh right now, that was about the worst deal i ever went up against, to set there on that pinnacle and watch murder done in cold blood, and me plumb helpless. "the first shot wasn't none fatal, as i could see plainer than was pleasant. looked to me like he wanted to string out the agony. it was a clear case uh butchery from start to finish; the damnedest, lowest-down act a white man could be guilty of. he empties his six-gun--counting the smoke-puffs--and waits a minute, watching like a cat does a gopher. i was sweating cold, but i kept my eyes glued to them glasses like a man in a nightmare. "when he makes sure the fellow's dead, he rides alongside and flips off the rope, with the buckskin snorting and edging off--at the blood-smell, i reckon. while he's coiling his rope, calm as if he'd just merely roped a yearling, the buckskin gets his head, plants it and turns on the fireworks. "when that hoss starts in pitching, i come alive and drop the glasses into their case and make a jump for my own hoss. if the lord lets me come up with that devil, i aim to deal out a case uh justice on my own hook; i was in a right proper humor for doing him like he done the other fellow, and not ask no questions. looked to me like he had it coming, all right. "i'd just stuck my toe in the stirrup, when down comes the fog like a wet blanket on everything. i couldn't see twenty feet--" andy stopped and reached for a burning twig to relight his cigarette. the happy family was breathing hard with the spell of the story. "did yuh git him?" happy jack asked hoarsely. andy took a long puff at his cigarette. "well, i--holy smoke! what's the matter with _you_, blink?" for blink was leaning forward, half crouched, like a cat about to pounce, and was glaring fixedly at andy with lips drawn back in a snarl. the happy family looked, then stared. blink relaxed, shrugged his shoulders and grinned unmirthfully. he got up, pulled up his chaps with the peculiar, hitching gesture which comes with long practice and grows to be second nature, and stared back defiantly at the wondering faces lighted by the dancing flames. he turned his back coolly upon them and walked away to where his horse stood, took up the reins and stuck his toe in the stirrup, went up and landed in the saddle ready for anything. then he wheeled the big sorrel so that he faced those at the camp-fire. "a man's a damned fool, andy green, to see more than is meant for him to see. he's plumb crazy to go round blatting all he knows. you won't tell that tale again, _mi amigo!_" there was the pop of a pistol, a puff of blue against the gray, and then the fog reached out and gathered blink and the sorrel to itself. only the clatter of galloping hoofs came to them from behind the damp curtain. andy green was lying on his back in the grass, his cigarette smoking dully in his fingers, a fast widening red streak trailing down from his temple. the happy family rose like a covey of frightened chickens before the echoes were done playing with the gun-bark. on the heels of blink's shot came the crack of happy jack's "howitzer" as he fired blindly toward the hoof-beats. there was more shooting while they scurried to where their horses, snorting excitement, danced uneasily at the edge of the bushes. only one man spoke, and that was pink, who stopped just as he was about to swing into the saddle. "damme for leaving my gun in camp! i'll stay with andy. go on--and if yuh don't get him, i'll--" he turned back, cursing hysterically, and knelt beside the long figure in the grass. there was a tumult of sound as the three raced off in pursuit, so close that the flight of the fugitive was still distinct in the fog. while they raced they cursed the fog that shielded from their vengeance their quarry, and made such riding as theirs a blind gamble with the chances all in favor of broken bones; their only comfort the knowledge that blink could see no better than could they. they did not talk, just at first. they did not even wonder if andy was dead. every nerve, every muscle and every thought was concentrated upon the pursuit of blink. it was the instant rising to meet an occasion undreamed of in advance, to do the only thing possible without loss of a second in parley. truly, it were ill for blink to fall into the hands of those three in that mood. they rode with quirt and spur, guided only by the muffled _pluckety-pluck, pluckety-pluck_ of blink's horse fleeing always just before. whenever the hoof-beats seemed a bit closer, happy jack would lift his long-barreled . and send a shot at random toward the sound. or weary or slim would take a chance with their shorter guns. but never once did they pull rein for steep or gulley, and never once did the hoof-beats fail to come back to them from out the fog. the chase had led afar and the pace was telling on their mounts, which breathed asthmatically. slim, best he could do, was falling behind. weary's horse stumbled and went to his knees, so that happy jack forged ahead just when the wind, puffing up from the open, blew aside the gray fog-wall. it was not a minute, nor half that; but it was long enough for happy jack to see, clear and close, blink pausing irresolutely upon the edge of a deep, brush-filled gulley. happy jack gave a hoarse croak of triumph and fired, just as the fog-curtain swayed back maddeningly. happy jack nearly wept with pure rage. weary and slim came up, and together they galloped to the place, riding by instinct of direction, for there was no longer any sound to guide. ten minutes they spent searching the gulley's edge. then they saw dimly, twenty feet below, a huddled object half-hidden in the brush. they climbed down none too warily, though they knew well what might be lying, venomous as a coiled rattler, in wait for them below. slipping and sliding in the fog-dampened grass, they reached the spot, to find the big sorrel crumpled there, dead. they searched anxiously and futilely for more, but blink was not there, nor was there anything to show that he had ever been there. then not fear, perhaps, but caution, came to happy jack. "aw, say! he's got away on us--the skunk! he's down there in the brush, somewheres, waiting for somebody to go in and drag him out by the ear. i betche he's laying low, right now, waiting for a chance to pot-shot us. we better git back out uh this." he edged away, his eyes on the thicket just below. to ride in there was impossible, even to the happy family in whole or in part. to go in afoot was not at all to the liking of happy jack. slim gave a comprehensive, round-eyed stare at the unpromising surroundings, and followed happy jack. "by golly, that's right. yuh don't git me into no hole like that," he assented. weary, foolhardy to the last, stayed longest; but even weary could not but admit that the case was hopeless. the brush was thick and filled the gully, probably from end to end. riding through it was impossible, and hunting it through on foot would be nothing but suicide, with a man like blink hidden away in its depths. they climbed back to the rim, remounted and rode, as straight as might be, for the camp-fire and what lay beside, with pink on guard. it was near noon when, through the lightening fog, they reached the place and discovered that andy, though unconscious, was not dead. they found, upon examination of his hurt, that the bullet had ploughed along the side of his head above his ear; but just how serious it might be they did not know. pink, having a fresh horse and aching for action, mounted and rode in much haste to camp, that the bed-wagon might be brought out to take andy in to the ranch and the ministrations of the little doctor. also, he must notify the crew and get them out searching for blink. all that night and the next day the cowboys rode, and the next. they raked the foothills, gulley by gulley, their purpose grim. it would probably be a case of shoot-on-sight with them, and nothing saved blink save the all-important fact that never once did any man of the flying u gain sight of him. he had vanished completely after that fleeting glimpse happy jack had gained, and in the end the flying u was compelled to own defeat. upon one point they congratulated themselves: andy, bandaged as he was, had escaped with a furrow ploughed through the scalp, though it was not the fault of blink that he was alive and able to discuss the affair with the others--more exactly, to answer the questions they fired at him. "didn't you recognize him as being the murderer?" weary asked him curiously. andy moved uneasily on his bed. "no, i didn't. by gracious, you must think i'm a plumb fool!" "well, yuh sure hit the mark, whether yuh meant to or not," pink asserted. "he was the jasper, all right. look how he was glaring at yuh while you were telling about it. _he_ knew he was the party, and having a guilty conscience, he naturally supposed yuh recognized him from the start." "well, i didn't," snapped andy ungraciously, and they put it down to the peevishness of invalidism and overlooked the tone. "chip has given his description in to the sheriff," soothed weary, "and if he gets off he's sure a good one. and i heard that the sheriff wired down to the san simon country and told 'em their man was up here. mama! what bad breaks a man will make when he's on the dodge! if blink had kept his face closed and acted normal, nobody would have got next. andy didn't know he was the fellow that done it. but it sure was queer, the way the play come up. wasn't it, andy?" andy merely grunted. he did not like to dwell upon the subject, and he showed it plainly. "by golly! he must sure have had it in for that fellow," mused slim ponderously, "to kill him the way andy says he did. by golly, yuh can't wonder his eyes stuck out when he heard andy telling us all about it!" "i betche he lays for andy yet, and gits him," predicted happy jack felicitously. "he won't rest whilst an eye-witness is running around loose. i betche he's cached in the hills right now, watching his chance." "oh, go to hell, the whole lot of yuh!" flared andy, rising to an elbow. "what the dickens are yuh roosting around here for? why don't yuh go on out to camp where yuh belong? you're a nice bunch to set around comforting the sick! _vamos_, darn yuh!" whereupon they took the hint and departed, assuring andy, by way of farewell, that he was an unappreciative cuss and didn't deserve any sympathy or sick-calls. they also condoled openly with pink because he had been detailed as nurse, and advised him to sit right down on andy if he got too sassy and haughty over being shot up by a real outlaw. they said that any fool could build himself a bunch of trouble with a homicidal lunatic like blink, and it wasn't anything to get vain over. pink slammed the door upon their jibes and offered andy a cigarette he had just rolled; not that andy was too sick to roll his own, but because pink was notably soft-hearted toward a sick man and was prone to indulge himself in trifling attentions. "yuh don't want to mind that bunch," he placated. "they mean all right, but they just can't help joshing a man to death." andy accepted also a light for the cigarette, and smoked moodily. "it ain't their joshing," he explained after a minute "it's puzzling over what i can't understand that gets on my nerves. i can't see through the thing, pink, no way i look at it." "looks plain enough to me," pink answered. "uh course, it's funny blink should be the man, and be setting there listening--" "yes, but darn it all, pink, there's a funnier side to it than that, and it's near driving me crazy trying to figure it out. yuh needn't tell anybody, pink, but it's like this: i was just merely and simply romancing when i told that there blood-curdling tale! i never was south uh the wyoming line except when i was riding in a circus and toured through, and that's the truth. i never was down in the san simon basin. i never set on no pinnacle with no field glasses--" andy stopped short his labored confession to gaze, with deep disgust, upon pink's convulsed figure. "well," he snapped, settling back on the pillow, "_laugh_, darn yuh! and show your ignorance! by gracious, i wish _i_ could see the joke!" he reached up gingerly and readjusted the bandage on his head, eyed pink sourly a moment, and with a grunt eloquent of the mood he was in turned his face to the wall. * * * * * miss martin's mission when andy green, fresh-combed and shining with soap and towel polish, walked into the dining-room of the dry lake hotel, he felt not the slightest premonition of what was about to befall. his chief sensation was the hunger which comes of early rising and of many hours spent in the open, and beyond that he was hoping that the chinaman cook had made some meat-pie, like he had the week before. his eyes, searching unobtrusively the long table bearing the unmistakable signs of many other hungry men gone before--for andy was late--failed to warn him. he pulled out his chair and sat down, still looking for meat-pie. "good after_noon!_" cried an eager, feminine voice just across the table. andy started guiltily. he had been dimly aware that some one was sitting there, but, being occupied with other things, had not given a thought to the sitter, or a glance. now he did both while he said good afternoon with perfunctory politeness. "such a _beau_tiful day, isn't it? _so_ invigorating, like rare, old wine!" andy assented somewhat dubiously; it had never just struck him that way; he thought fleetingly that perhaps it was because he had never come across any rare, old wine. he ventured another glance. she was not young, and she wore glasses, behind which twinkled very bright eyes of a shade of brown. she had unpleasantly regular hair waves on her temples, and underneath the waves showed streaks of gray. also, she wore a black silk waist, and somebody's picture made into a brooch at her throat. further, andy dared not observe. it was enough for one glance. he looked again for the much-desired meat-pie. the strange lady ingratiatingly passed him the bread. "you're a cowboy, aren't you?" was the disconcerting question that accompanied the bread. "well, i--er--i punch cows," he admitted guardedly, his gaze elsewhere than on her face. "i _knew_ you were a cowboy, the moment you entered the door! i could tell by the tan and the straight, elastic walk, and the silk handkerchief knotted around your throat in that picturesque fashion. (oh, i'm older than you, and dare speak as i think!) i've read a great deal about cowboys, and i do admire you all as a type of free, great-hearted, noble manhood!" andy looked exactly as if someone had caught him at something exceedingly foolish. he tried to sugar his coffee calmly, and so sent it sloshing all over the saucer. "do you live near here?" she asked next, beaming upon him in the orthodox, motherly fashion. "yes, ma'am, not very near," he was betrayed into saying--and she might make what she could of it. he had not said "ma'am" before since he had gone to school. "oh, i've heard how you western folks measure distances," she teased. "about how many miles?" "about twenty." "i suppose that is not far, to you knights of the plains. at home it would be called a _dreadfully_ long journey. why, i have known numbers of old men and women who have never been so far from their own doors in their lives! what would you think, i wonder, of their little forty acre farms?" andy had been brought to his sixteenth tumultuous birthday on a half-acre in the edge of a good-sized town, but he did not say so. he shook his head vaguely and said he didn't know. andy green, however, was not famous for clinging ever to the truth. "you out here in this great, wide, free land, with the free winds ever blowing and the clouds--" "will you pass the butter, please?" andy hated to interrupt, but he was hungry. the strange lady passed the butter and sent with it a smile. "i have read and heard so much about this wild, free life, and my heart has gone out to the noble fellows living their lonely life with their cattle and their faithful dogs, lying beside their camp-fires at night while the stars stood guard--" andy forgot his personal embarrassment and began to perk up his ears. this was growing interesting. "--and i have felt how lonely they must be, with their rude fare and few pleasures, and what a field there must be among them for a great and noble work; to uplift them and bring into their lonely lives a broader, deeper meaning; to help them to help themselves to be better, nobler men and women--" "we don't have any lady cowpunchers out here," interposed andy mildly. the strange lady had merely gone astray a bit, being accustomed to addressing mothers' meetings and the like. she recovered herself easily. "nobler men, the bulwarks of our nation." she stopped and eyed andy archly. andy, having observed that her neck was scrawny, with certain cords down the sides that moved unpleasantly when she talked, tried not to look. "i wonder if you can guess what brings me out here, away from home and friends! can you guess?" andy thought of several things, but he could not feel that it would be polite to mention them. agent for complexion stuff, for instance, and next to that, wanting a husband. he shook his head again and looked at his potato. "you _can't guess_?" the tone was the one commonly employed for the encouragement, and consequent demoralization of, a primary class. andy realized that he was being talked down to, and his combativeness awoke. "well, away back in my home town, a woman's club has been thinking of all you lonely fellows, and have felt their hearts swell with a desire to help you--so far from home and mother's influence, with only the coarse pleasures of the west, and amid all the temptations that lie in wait--" she caught herself back from speech-making--"and they have sent _me_--away out here--to be your _friend_; to help you to help yourselves become better, truer men and--" she did not say women, though, poor soul, she came near it. "so, i am going to be your friend. i want to get in touch with you all, first; to win your confidence and teach you to look upon me in the light of a mother. then, when i have won your confidence, i want to organize a cowboys' mutual improvement and social society, to help you in the way of self-improvement and to resist the snares laid for homeless boys like you. don't you think i'm very--_brave_?" she was smiling at him again, leaning back in her chair and regarding him playfully over her glasses. "you sure are," andy assented, deliberately refraining from saying "yes, ma'am," as had been his impulse. "to come away out here--_all alone_--among all you wild cowboys with your guns buckled on and your wicked little mustangs--are you sure you won't shoot me?" andy eyed her pityingly. if she meant it, he thought, she certainly was wabbly in her mind. if she thought that was the only kind of talk he could savvy, then she was a blamed idiot; either way, he felt antagonistic. "the law shall be respected in your case," he told her, very gravely. she smiled almost as if she could see the joke; after which she became twitteringly, eagerly in earnest. "since you live near here, you must know the whitmores. miss whitmore came out here, two or three years ago, and married her brother's coachman, i believe--though i've heard conflicting stories about it; some have said he was an artist, and others that he was a jockey, or horse-trainer. i heard too that he was a cowboy; but miss whitmore certainly wrote about this young man driving her brother's carriage. however, she is married and i have a letter of introduction to her. the president of our club used to be a schoolmate of her mother. i shall stop with them--i have heard so much about the western hospitality--and shall get into touch with my cowboys from the vantage point of proximity. did you say you know them?" "i work for them," andy told her truthfully in his deep amazement, and immediately repented and wished that he had not been so virtuous. with andy, to wish was to do--given the opportunity. "then i can go with you out to their farm--ranchero! how nice! and on the way you can tell me all about yourself and your life and hopes--because i do want to get in touch with you all, you know--and i'll tell you all my plans for you; i have some _beau_tiful plans! and we'll be very good friends by the time we reach our destination, i'm sure. i want you to feel from the start that i am a true friend, and that i have your welfare very much at heart. without the confidence of my cowboys, i can do nothing. are there any more at home like you?" andy looked at her suspiciously, but it was so evident she never meant to quote comic opera, that he merely wondered anew. he struggled feebly against temptation, and fell from grace quite willingly. it isn't polite to "throw a load" at a lady, but then andy felt that neither was it polite for a lady to come out with the avowed intention of improving him and his fellows; it looked to him like butting in where she was not wanted, or needed. "yes, ma'am, there's quite a bunch, and they're pretty bad. i don't believe you can do much for 'em." he spoke regretfully. "do they--_drink_?" she asked, leaning forward and speaking in the hushed voice with which some women approach a tabooed subject. "yes ma'am, they do. they're hard drinkers. and they"--he eyed her speculatively, trying to guess the worst sins in her category--"they play cards--gamble--and swear, and smoke cigarettes and--" "all the more need of someone to help them overcome," she decided solemnly. "what you need is a coffee-house and reading room here, so that the young men will have some place to go other than the saloons. i shall see to that right away. and with the mutual improvement and social society organized and working smoothly, and a library of standard works for recreation, together with earnest personal efforts to promote temperance and clean-living, i feel that a _wonderful_ work can be done. i saw you drive into town, so i know you can take me out with you; i hope you are going to start soon. i feel very impatient to reach the field and put my sickle to the harvest." andy mentally threw up his hands before this unshakable person. he had meant to tell her that he had come on horseback, but she had forestalled him. he had meant to discourage her--head her off, he called it to himself. but there seemed no way of doing it. he pushed back his chair and rose, though he had not tasted his pie, and it was lemon pie at that. he had some faint notion of hurrying out of town and home before she could have time to get ready; but she followed him to the door and chirped over his shoulder that it wouldn't take her two minutes to put on her wraps. andy groaned. he tried--or started to try--holding out at rusty brown's till she gave up in despair; but it occurred to him that chip had asked him to hurry back. andy groaned again, and got the team. she did not wait for him to drive around to the hotel for her; possibly she suspected his intentions. at any rate, she came nipping down the street toward the stable just as he was hooking the last trace, and she was all ready and had a load of bags and bundles. "i'm not going to begin by making trouble for you," she twittered. "i thought i could just as well come down here to the wagon as have you drive back to the hotel. and my trunk did not come on the train with me, so i'm all ready." andy, having nothing in mind that he dared say to a lady, helped her into the wagon. at sundown or thereabouts--for the days were short and he had a load of various things besides care--andy let himself wearily into the bunk-house where was assembled the happy family. he merely grunted when they spoke to him, and threw himself heavily down upon his bunk. "for heaven's sake, somebody roll me a cigarette! i'm too wore out to do a thing, and i haven't had a smoke since dinner," he groaned, after a minute. "sick?" asked pink solicitously. "sick as a dog! water, water!" moaned andy. all at once he rolled over upon his face and shook with laughter more than a little hysterical, and to the questioning of the happy family gave no answer but howls. the happy family began to look at one another uneasily. "aw, let up!" happy jack bellowed. "you give a man the creeps just to listen at yuh." "i'm going to empty the water-bucket over yuh in a minute," pink threatened, "go get it, cal; it's half full." andy knew well the metal of which the happy family was made, and the night was cool for a ducking. he rolled back so that they could see his face, and struggled for calm. in a minute he sat up and merely gurgled. "well, say, i had to do something or die," he explained, gasping. "i've gone through a heap, the last few hours, and i was right where i couldn't do a thing. by gracious, i struck the ranch about as near bug-house as a man can get and recover. where's a cigarette?" "what you've gone through--and i don't give a cuss what it is--ain't a marker for what's going to happen if yuh don't loosen up on the history," said jack bates firmly. andy smoked hungrily while he surveyed the lot. "how calm and innocent yuh all look," he observed musingly, "with your hats on and saying words that's rude, and smoking the vile weed regardless, never dreaming what's going to drop, pretty soon quick. yuh make me think of a hymn-song my step-mother used to sing a lot, about 'they dreamed not of danger, those sinners of old, whom--" "hand me the water bucket," directed pink musically. "oh, well--take it from the shoulder, then; i was only trying to lead up to it gradual, but yuh _will_ have it raw. you poor, dear cowboys, that live your lonely lives watching over your cattle with your _faithful dogs_ and the stars for company, you're going to be _improved_. (you'll sure stand a lot of it, too!) a woman's relief club back east has felt the burden of your no-accountness and general orneriness, and has sent one of its leading members out here to reform yuh. you're going to be hazed into a cowboys' mutual improvement and social society, and quit smoking cigarettes and cussing your hosses and laying over rusty's bar when yuh ride into town; and for pleasure and recreation you're going to read tennyson's poems, and when yuh get caught out in a blizzard yuh'll be heeled with whittier's _snowbound_, pocket edition. emerson and browning and shakespeare and gatty" (andy misquoted; he meant goethe) "and all them stiffs is going to be set before yuh regular and in your mind constant, purging it of unclean thoughts, and grammar is going to be learnt yuh as a side-line. yuh--" "mama mine," broke in weary. "i have thought sometimes, when andy broke loose with that imagination uh his, that he'd gone the limit; but next time he always raises the limit out uh sight. he's like the good book says: he's prone to lie as the sparks fly-upward." andy gazed belligerently at the skeptical group. "i brought her out from town," he said doggedly, "and whilst i own up to having an imagination, she's stranger than fiction. she'd make the fellow that wrote "she" lay down with a headache. she's come out here to help us cowboys live nobler, better lives. she's going to learn yuh browning, darn yuh! and emerson and gatty. she said so. she's going to fill your hearts with love for dumb creatures, so when yuh get set afoot out on the range, or anything like that, yuh won't put in your time cussing the miles between you and camp; you'll have a pocket edition of 'much ado about nothing' to read, or the speech mark anthony made when he was running for office. or supposing yuh left 'em all in camp, yuh'll study nature. there's sermons in stones, she says. she's going to send for a pocket library that can easy be took on roundup--" "say, i guess that's about enough," interrupted pink restlessly. "we all admit you're the biggest liar that ever come west of the mississippi, without you laying it on any deeper." whereupon andy rose in wrath and made a suggestive movement with his fist. "if i was romancing," he declared indignantly, "i'd do a smoother job; when i do lie, i notice yuh all believe it--till yuh find out different. and by gracious yuh might do as much when i'm telling the truth! go up to the white house and see, darn yuh! if yuh don't find miss verbena martin up there telling the little doctor how her heart goes out to her dear cowboys and how she's going to get in touch with 'em and help 'em lead nobler, better lives, you can kick me all round the yard. and i hope, by gracious, she _does_ improve yuh! yuh sure do need it a lot." the happy family discussed the tale freely and without regard for the feelings of andy; they even became heated and impolite, and they made threats. they said that a liar like him ought to be lynched or gagged, and that he was a disgrace to the outfit. in the end, however, they decided to go and see, just to prove to andy that they knew he lied. and though it was settled that weary and pink should be the investigating committee, by the time they were halfway to the white house they had the whole happy family trailing at their heels. a light snow had begun to fall since dark, and they hunched their shoulders against it as they went. grouped uncomfortably just outside the circle of light cast through the unshaded window, they gazed silently in upon chip and the little doctor and j.g. whitmore, and upon one other; a strange lady in a black silk shirtwaist and a gold watch suspended from her neck by a chaste, black silken cord; a strange lady with symmetrical waves in her hair and gray on her temples, and with glasses and an eager way of speaking. she was talking very rapidly and animatedly, and the others were listening and stealing glances now and then at one another. once, while they watched, the little doctor looked at chip and then turned her face toward the window. she was biting her lips in the way the happy family had learned to recognize as a great desire to laugh. it all looked suspicious and corroborative of andy's story, and the happy family shifted their feet uneasily in the loose snow. they watched, and saw the strange lady clasp her hands together and lean forward, and where her voice had before come to them with no words which they could catch distinctly, they heard her say something quite clearly in her enthusiasm: "eight real cowboys _here_, almost within reach! i must see them before i sleep! i must get in touch with them at once, and show them that i am a true friend. come, mrs. bennett! won't you take me where they are and let me meet my boys? for they _are_ mine in spirit; my heart goes out to them--" the happy family waited to hear no more, but went straightway back whence they had come, and their going savored of flight. "mama mine! she's coming down to the bunkhouse!" said weary under his breath, and glanced back over his shoulder at the white house bulking large in the night. "let's go on down to the stable and roost in the hay a while." "she'll out-wind us, and be right there waiting when we come back," objected andy, with the wisdom gained from his brief acquaintance with the lady. "if she's made up her mind to call on us, there's no way under heaven to head her off." they halted by the bunk-house door, undecided whether to go in or to stay out in the open. "by golly, she don't improve _me_!" slim asserted pettishly. "i hate books like strychnine, and, by golly, she can't make me read 'em, neither." "if there's anything i do despise it's po'try," groaned cal emmett. "emerson and browning and shakespeare and _gatty_," named andy gloomily. whereat pink suddenly pushed open the door and went in as goes one who knows exactly what he is about to do. they followed him distressfully and silently. pink went immediately to his bunk and began pulling off his boots. "i'm going to bed," he told them. "you fellows can stay up and entertain her if yuh want to--_i_ won't!" they caught the idea and disrobed hastily, though the evening was young. irish blew out the lamp and dove under the blankets just as voices came faintly from up the hill, so that when chip rapped a warning with his knuckles on the door, there was no sound within save an artificial snore from the corner where lay pink. chip was not in the habit of knocking before he entered, but he repeated the summons with emphasis. "who's there-e?" drawled sleepily a voice--the voice of weary. "oh, i do believe they've retired!" came, in a perturbed feminine tone, to the listening ears of the happy family. "gone to bed?" cried chip gravely. "hours ago," lied andy fluently. "we're plumb wore out. what's happened?" "oh, don't disturb the poor fellows! they're tired and need their rest," came the perturbed tone again. after that the voices and the footsteps went up the hill again, and the happy family breathed freer. incidentally, pink stopped snoring and made a cigarette. going to bed at seven-thirty or thereabouts was not the custom of the happy family, but they stayed under the covers and smoked and discussed the situation. they dared not have a light, and the night was longer than they had ever known a night to be, for it was late before they slept. it was well that miss verbena martin could not overhear their talk, which was unchivalrous and unfriendly in the extreme. the general opinion seemed to be that old maid improvers would better stay at home where they might possibly be welcome, and that when the happy family wanted improving they would let her know. cal emmett said that he wouldn't mind, if they had only sent a young, pretty one. happy jack prophesied plenty of trouble, and boasted that she couldn't haul _him_ into no s'ciety. slim declared again that by golly, she wouldn't do no improving on _him_, and the others--weary and irish and pink and jack bates and andy--discussed ways and means and failed always to agree. when each one hoots derision at all plans but his own, it is easy guessing what will be the result. in this particular instance the result was voices raised in argument--voices that reached chip, grinning and listening on the porch of the white house--and tardy slumber overtaking a disgruntled happy family on the brink of violence. it was not a particularly happy family that woke to memory and a snowy sunday; woke late, because of the disturbing evening. when they spoke to one another their voices were but growls, and when they trailed through the snow to their breakfast they went in moody silence. they had just brightened a bit before patsy's sunday breakfast, which included hot-cakes and maple syrup, when the door was pushed quietly open and the little doctor came in, followed closely by miss martin; an apologetic little doctor, who seemed, by her very manner of entering, to implore them not to blame _her_ for the intrusion. miss martin was not apologetic. she was disconcertingly eager and glad to meet them, and pathetically anxious to win their favor. miss martin talked, and the happy family ate hurriedly and with lowered eyelids. miss martin asked questions, and the happy family kicked one another's shins under the table by way of urging someone to reply; for this reason there was a quite perceptible pause between question and answer, and the answer was invariably "the soul of wit"--according to that famous recipe. miss martin told them naively all about her hopes and her plans and herself, and about the distant woman's club that took so great an interest in their welfare, and the happy family listened dejectedly and tried to be polite. also, they did not relish the hot-cakes as usual, and patsy had half the batter left when the meal was over, instead of being obliged to mix more, as was usually the case. when they had eaten, the happy family filed out decorously and went hastily down to the stables. they did not say much, but they did glance over their shoulders uneasily once or twice. "the old girl is sure hot on our trail," pink remarked when they were safely through the big gate. "she must uh got us mixed up with some wild west show, in her mind. josephine!" "well, by golly, she don't improve _me_," slim repeated for about the tenth time. the horses were all fed and everything tidy for the day, and several saddles were being hauled down significantly from their pegs, when irish delivered himself of a speech, short but to the point. irish had been very quiet and had taken no part in the discussion that had waxed hot all that morning. "now, see here," he said in his decided way. "maybe it didn't strike you as anything but funny--which it sure is. but yuh want to remember that the old girl has come a dickens of a long ways to do us some good. she's been laying awake nights thinking about how we'll get to calling her something nice: angel of the roundup, maybe--you can't tell, she's that romantic. and right here is where i'm going to give the old girl the worth of her money. it won't hurt _us_, letting her talk wild and foolish at us once a week, maybe; and the poor old thing'll just be tickled to death thinking what a lot uh good she's doing. she won't stay long, and--well, i go in. if she'll feel better and more good to the world improving me, she's got my permission. i guess i can stand it a while." the happy family looked at him queerly, for if there was a black sheep in the flock, irish was certainly the man; and to have irish take the stand he did was, to say the least, unexpected. cal emmett blurted the real cause of their astonishment. "you'll have to sign the pledge, first pass," he said. "that's going to be the ante in _her_ game. how--" "well, i don't play nobody's hand, or stake anybody's chips, but my own," irish retorted, the blood showing under the tan on his cheeks. "and we won't das't roll a cigarette, even, by golly!" reminded slim. for miss martin, whether intentionally or not, had made plain to them the platform of the new society. irish got some deep creases between his eyebrows, and put back his saddle. "you can do as yuh like," he said, coldly. "i'm going to stay and go to meeting this afternoon, according to her invite. if it's going to make that poor old freak feel any better thinking she's a real missionary--" he turned and walked out of the stable without finishing the sentence, and the happy family stood quite still and watched him go. pink it was who first spoke. "i ain't the boy to let any long-legged son-of-a-gun like irish hit a gait i can't follow," he dimpled, and took the saddle reluctantly off toots. "if he can stand it, i guess i can." weary loosened his latigo. "if cadwolloper is going to learn poetry, i will, too," he grinned. "mama! it'll be good as a three-ringed circus! i never thought uh that, before. i couldn't miss it." "oh, well, if you fellows take a hand, i'll sure have to be there to see," andy decided. "two o'clock, did she say?" * * * * * "i hate to be called a quitter," pink remarked dispiritedly to the happy family in general; a harassed looking happy family, which sat around and said little, and watched the clock. in an hour they would be due to attend the second meeting of the m.i.s.s.--and one would think, from the look of them, that they were about to be hanged. "i hate to be called a quitter, but right here's where i lay 'em down. the rest of yuh can go on being improved, if yuh want to--darned if i will, though. i'm all in." "i don't recollect hearing anybody say we wanted to," growled jack bates. "irish, maybe, is still burning with a desire to be nice and chivalrous; but you can count me out. one dose is about all i can stand." "by golly, i wouldn't go and feel that foolish again, not if yuh paid me for it," slim declared. irish grinned and reached for his hat. "i done my damnettest," he said cheerfully. "i made the old girl happy once; now, one irish mallory is due to have a little joy coming his way. i'm going to town." "'break, break, break, on thy cold, gray crags, oh sea, and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that come over me.' "you will observe, gentlemen, the beautiful sentiment, the euphonious rhythm, the noble--" weary went down, still declaiming mincingly, beneath four irate bodies that hurled themselves toward him and upon him. "we'll break, break, break every bone in your body if you don't shut up. you will observe the beautiful sentiment of _that_ a while," cried pink viciously. "i've had the euphonious rhythm of my sleep broke up ever since i set there and listened at her for two hours. josephine!" irish stopped with his hand on the door knob. "i was the jay that started it," he admitted contritely. "but, honest, i never had a hunch she was plumb locoed; i thought she was just simply foolish. come on to town, boys!" such is the power of suggestion that in fifteen minutes the happy family had passed out of sight over the top of the grade; all save andy green, who told them he would be along after a while, and that they need not wait. he looked at the clock, smoked a meditative cigarette and went up to the white house, to attend the second meeting of the mutual improvement and social society. when he faced alone miss verbena martin, and explained that the other members were unavoidably absent because they had a grudge against a man in dry lake and had gone in to lynch him and burn the town, miss martin was shocked into postponing the meeting. andy said he was glad, because he wanted to go in and see the fight; undoubtedly, he assured her, there would be a fight, and probably a few of them would get killed off. he reminded her that he had told her right in the start that they were a bad lot, and that she would have hard work reforming them; and finally, he made her promise that she would not mention to anyone what he had told her, because it wouldn't be safe for him, or for her, if they ever got to hear of it. after that andy also took the trail to town, and he went at a gallop and smiled as he rode. miss martin reflected shudderingly upon the awful details of the crime, as hinted at by andy, and packed her trunk. it might be brave and noble to stay and work among all those savages, but she doubted much whether it were after all her duty. she thought of many ways in which she could do more real good nearer home. she had felt all along that these cowboys were an untrustworthy lot; she had noticed them glancing at one another in a secret and treacherous manner, all through the last meeting, and she was positive they had not given her that full confidence without which no good can be accomplished. that fellow they called happy looked capable of almost any crime; she had never felt quite safe in his presence. miss martin pictured them howling and dancing around the burning dwellings of their enemies, shooting every one they could see; miss martin had imagination, of a sort. but while she pictured the horrors of an indian massacre she continued to pack her suit-case and to consult often her watch. when she could do no more it occurred to her that she would better see if someone could take her to the station. fortunately for all concerned, somebody could. one might go further and say that somebody was quite willing to strain a point, even, in order to get her there in time for the next train. * * * * * the happy family was gathered in rusty brown's place, watching irish do things to a sheep-man from lonesome prairie, in a game of pool. they were just giving vent to a prolonged whoop of derision at the sheep-man's play, when a rig flashed by the window. weary stopped with his mouth wide open and stared; leaned to the window and craned to see more clearly. "mama mine!" he ejaculated incredulously. "i could swear i saw miss verbena in that rig, with her trunk, and headed towards the depot. feel my pulse, cadwolloper, and see if i'm normal." but pink was on his way to the back door, and from there climbed like a cat to the roof of the coal-house, where, as he knew from experience, one could see the trail to the depot, and the depot itself. "it's sure her," he announced. "chip's driving like hell, and the smoke uh the train's just coming around the bend from the big field. wonder what struck her so sudden?" he turned and looked down into the grinning face of andy green. "she was real insulted because you fellows played hookey," andy explained. "i tried to explain, but it didn't help none. i don't believe her heart went out to us like she claimed, anyhow." * * * * * happy jack, wild man. happy jack, over on the shonkin range, saw how far it was to the river and mopped the heat-crimsoned face of him with a handkerchief not quite as clean as it might have been. he hoped that the flying u wagons would be where he had estimated that they would be; for he was aweary of riding with a strange outfit, where his little personal peculiarities failed to meet with that large tolerance accorded by the happy family. he didn't think much of the shonkin crew; grangers and pilgrims, he called them disgustedly in his mind. he hoped the old man would not send him on that long trip with them south of the highwoods--which is what he was on his way to find out about. what happy jack was hoping for, was to have the old man--as represented by chip--send one of the boys back with him to bring over what flying u cattle had been gathered, together with happy's bed and string of horses. then he would ride with the happy family on the familiar range that was better, in his eyes, than any other range that ever lay outdoors--and the shonkin outfit could go to granny. (happy did not, however, say "granny"). he turned down the head of a coulee which promised to lead him, by the most direct route--if any route in the badlands can be called direct--to the river, across which, and a few miles up on suction creek, he confidently expected to find the flying u wagons. the coulee wound aimlessly, with precipitous sides that he could not climb, even by leading his horse. happy jack, under the sweltering heat of mid-june sunlight, once more mopped his face, now more crimson than ever, and relapsed into his habitual gloom. just when he was telling himself pessimistically that the chances were he would run slap out on a cut bank where he couldn't get down to the river at all, the coulee turned again and showed the gray-blue water slithering coolly past, with the far bank green and sloping invitingly. the horse hurried forward at a shuffling trot and thrust his hot muzzle into the delicious coolness. happy jack slipped off and, lying flat on his stomach, up-stream from the horse, drank deep and long, then stood up, wiped his face and considered the necessity of crossing. just at this point the river was not so wide as in others, and for that reason the current flowed swiftly past. not too swiftly, however, if one took certain precautions. happy jack measured mentally the strength of the current and the proper amount of caution which it would be expedient to use, and began his preparations; for the sun was sliding down hill toward the western skyline, and he wished very much to reach the wagons in time for supper, if he could. standing in the shade of the coulee wall, he undressed deliberately, folding each garment methodically as he took it off. when the pile was complete to socks and boots, he rolled it into a compact bundle and tied it firmly upon his saddle. stranger, his horse, was a good swimmer, and always swam high out of water. he hoped the things would not get very wet; still, the current was strong, and his characteristic pessimism suggested that they would be soaked to the last thread. so, naked as our first ancestor, he urged his horse into the stream, and when it was too deep for kicking--stranger was ever uncertain and not to be trusted too far--he caught him firmly by the tail and felt the current grip them both. the feel of the water was glorious after so long a ride in the hot sun, and happy jack reveled in the cool swash of it up his shoulders to the back of his neck, as stranger swam out and across to the sloping, green bank on the home side. when his feet struck bottom, happy jack should have waded also--but the water was so deliciously cool, slapping high up on his shoulders like that; he still floated luxuriously, towed by stranger--until stranger, his footing secure, glanced back at happy sliding behind like a big, red fish, snorted and plunged up and on to dry land. happy jack struck his feet down to bottom, stumbled and let go his hold of the tail, and stranger, feeling the weight loosen suddenly, gave another plunge and went careering up the bank, snorting back at happy jack. happy swore, waded out and made threats, but stranger, seeing himself pursued by a strange figure whose only resemblance to his master lay in voice and profanity, fled in terror before him. happy jack, crippling painfully on the stones, fled fruitlessly after, still shouting threats. then, as stranger, galloping wildly, disappeared over a ridge, he stood and stared stupidly at the place where the horse had last been seen. for the moment his mind refused to grasp all the horror of his position; he stepped gingerly over the hot sand and rocks, sought the shelter of a bit of overhanging bank, and sat dazedly down upon a rock too warm for comfort. he shifted uneasily to the sand beside, found that still hotter, and returned to the rock. he needed to think; to grasp this disaster that had come so suddenly upon him. he looked moodily across to the southern bank, his chin sunken between moist palms, the while the water dried upon his person. to be set afoot, down here in the badlands, away from the habitations of men and fifteen miles from the probable location of the flying u camp, was not nice. to be set afoot _naked_--it was horrible, and unbelievable. he thought of tramping, barefooted and bare-legged, through fifteen miles of sage-covered badlands to camp, with the sun beating down on his unprotected back, and groaned in anticipation. not even his pessimism had ever pictured a thing so terrible. he gazed at the gray-blue river which had caused this trouble that he must face, and forgetting the luxury of its coolness, cursed it venomously. little waves washed up on the pebbly bank, and glinted in the sun while they whispered mocking things to him. happy jack gave over swearing at the river, and turned his wrath upon stranger--stranger, hurtling along somewhere through the breaks, with all happy's clothes tied firmly to the saddle. happy jack sighed lugubriously when he remembered how firmly. a fleeting hope that, if he followed the trail of stranger, he might glean a garment or two that had slipped loose, died almost before it lived. happy jack knew too well the kind of knots he always tied. his favorite boast that nothing ever worked loose on his saddle, came back now to mock him with its absolute truth. the sun, dropping a bit lower, robbed him inch by inch of the shade to which he clung foolishly. he hunched himself into as small a space as his big frame would permit, and hung his hat upon his knees where they stuck out into the sunlight. it was very hot, and his position was cramped, but he would not go yet; he was still thinking--and the brain of happy jack worked ever slowly. in such an unheard-of predicament he felt dimly that he had need of much thought. when not even his hat could shield him from the sun glare, he got up and went nipping awkwardly over the hot beach. he was going into the next river-bottom--wherever that was--on the chance of finding a cow-camp, or some cabin where he could, by some means, clothe himself. he did not like the idea of facing the happy family in his present condition; he knew the happy family. perhaps he might find someone living down here next the river. he hoped so--for happy jack, when things were so bad they could not well be worse, was forced to give over the prediction of further evil, and pursue blindly the faintest whisper of hope. he got up on the bank, where the grass was kinder to his unaccustomed feet than were the hot stones below, and hurried away with his back to the sun, that scorched him cruelly. in the next bottom--and he was long getting to it--the sage brush grew dishearteningly thick. happy began to be afraid of snakes. he went slowly, stepping painfully where the ground seemed smoothest; he never could walk fifteen miles in his bare feet, he owned dismally to himself. his only hope lay in getting clothes. halfway down the bottom, he joyfully came upon a camp, but it had long been deserted; from the low, tumble-down corrals, and the unmistakable atmosphere of the place, happy jack knew it for a sheep camp. but nothing save the musty odor and the bare cabin walls seemed to have been left behind. he searched gloomily, thankful for the brief shade the cabin offered. then, tossed up on the rafters and forgotten, he discovered a couple of dried sheep pelts, untanned and stiff, almost, as shingles. still, they were better than nothing, and he grinned in sickly fashion at the find. realizing, in much pain, that some protection for his feet was an absolute necessity, he tore a pelt in two for sandals. much search resulted in the discovery of a bit of rotted rope, which he unraveled and thereby bound a piece of sheepskin upon each bruised foot. they were not pretty, but they answered the purpose. the other pelt he disposed of easily by tying the two front legs together around his neck and letting the pelt hang down his back as far as it would reach. there being nothing more that he could do in the way of self-adornment, happy jack went out again into the hot afternoon. at his best, happy jack could never truthfully be called handsome; just now, clothed inadequately in gray stetson hat and two meager sheepskins, he looked scarce human. cheered a bit, he set out sturdily over the hills toward the mouth of suction creek. the happy family would make all kinds of fools of themselves, he supposed, if he showed up like this; but he might not be obliged to appear before them in his present state of undress; he might strike some other camp, first. happy jack was still forced to be hopeful. he quite counted on striking another camp before reaching the wagons of the flying u. the sun slid farther and farther toward the western rim of tumbled ridges as happy jack, in his strange raiment, plodded laboriously to the north. the mantle he was forced to shift constantly into a new position as the sun's rays burned deep a new place, or the stiff hide galled his blistered shoulders. the sandals did better, except that the rotten strands of rope were continually wearing through on the bottom, so that he must stop and tie fresh knots, or replace the bit from the scant surplus which he had prudently brought along. till sundown he climbed toilfully up the steep hills and then scrambled as toilfully into the coulees, taking the straightest course he knew for the mouth of suction creek; that, as a last resort, while he watched keenly for the white flake against green which would tell of a tent pitched there in the wilderness. he was hungry--when he forgot other discomforts long enough to think of it. worst, perhaps, was the way in which the gaunt sage brush scratched his unclothed legs when he was compelled to cross a patch on some coulee bottom. happy jack swore a great deal, in those long, heat-laden hours, and never did he so completely belie the name men had in sarcasm given him. just when he was given over to the most gloomy forebodings, a white square stood out for a moment sharply against a background of pines, far below him in a coulee where the sun was peering fleetingly before it dove out of sight over a hill. happy jack--of a truth, the most unhappy jack one could find, though he searched far and long--stood still and eyed the white patch critically. there was only the one; but another might be hidden in the trees. still, there was no herd grazing anywhere in the coulee, and no jingle of cavvy bells came to his ears, though he listened long. he was sure that it was not the camp of the flying u, where he would be ministered unto faithfully, to be sure, yet where the ministrations would be mingled with much wit-sharpened raillery harder even to bear than was his present condition of sun-blisters and scratches. he thanked the lord in sincere if unorthodox terms, and went down the hill in long, ungraceful strides. it was far down that hill, and it was farther across the coulee. each step grew more wearisome to happy jack, unaccustomed as he was to using his own feet as a mode of travel. but away in the edge of the pine grove were food and raiment, and a shelter from the night that was creeping down on him with the hurried stealth of a mountain lion after its quarry. he shifted the sheepskin mantle for the thousandth time; this time he untied it from his galled shoulders and festooned it modestly if unbecomingly about his middle. feeling sure of the unfailing hospitality of the rangeland, be the tent-dweller whom he might, happy jack walked boldly through the soft, spring twilight that lasts long in montana, and up to the very door of the tent. a figure--a female figure--slender and topped by thin face and eyes sheltered behind glasses, rose up, gazed upon him in horror, shrieked till one could hear her a mile, and fell backward into the tent. another female figure appeared, looked, and shrieked also--and even louder than did the first. happy jack, with a squawk of dismay, turned and flew incontinently afar into the dusk. a man's voice he heard, shouting inquiry; another, shouting what, from a distance, sounded like threats. happy jack did not wait to make sure; he ran blindly, until he brought up in a patch of prickly-pear, at which he yelled, forgetting for the instant that he was pursued. somehow he floundered out and away from the torture of the stinging spines, and took to the hills. a moon, big as the mouth of a barrel, climbed over a ridge and betrayed him to the men searching below, and they shouted and fired a gun. happy jack did not believe they could shoot very straight, but he was in no mood to take chances; he sought refuge among a jumble of great, gray bowlders; sat himself down in the shadow and caressed gingerly the places where the prickly-pear had punctured his skin, and gave himself riotously over to blasphemy. the men below were prowling half-heartedly, it seemed to him--as if they were afraid of running upon him too suddenly. it came to him that they were afraid of him--and he grinned feebly at the joke. he had not before stopped to consider his appearance, being concerned with more important matters. now, however, as he pulled the scant covering of the pelt over his shoulders to keep off the chill of the night, he could not wonder that the woman at the tent had fainted. happy jack suspected shrewdly that he could, in that rig, startle almost any one. he watched the coulee wistfully. they were making fires, down there below him; great, revealing bonfires at intervals that would make it impossible to pass their line unseen. he could not doubt that some one was _cached_ in the shadows with a gun. there were more than two men; happy jack thought that there must be at least four or five. he would have liked to go down, just out of gun range, and shout explanations and a request for some clothes--only for the women. happy was always ill at ease in the presence of strange women, and he felt, just now, quite unequal to the ordeal of facing those two. he sat huddled in the shadow of a rock and wished profanely that women would stay at home and not go camping out in the badlands, where their presence was distinctly inappropriate and undesirable. if the men down there were alone, he felt sure that he could make them understand. seeing they were not alone, however, he stayed where he was and watched the fires, while his teeth chattered with cold and his stomach ached with the hunger he could not appease. till daylight he sat there unhappily and watched the unwinking challenge of the flames below, and miserably wished himself elsewhere; even the jibes of the happy family would be endurable, so long as he had the comfort afforded by the flying u camp. but that was miles away. and when daylight brought warmth and returning courage, he went so far as to wish the flying u camp farther away than it probably was. he wanted to get somewhere, and ask help from strangers rather than those he knew best. with that idea fixed in his mind, he got stiffly to his bruised feet, readjusted the sheepskin and began wearily to climb higher. when the sun tinged all the hilltops golden yellow, he turned and shook his fist impotently at the camp far beneath him. then he went on doggedly. standing at last on a high peak, he looked away toward the sunrise and made out a white speck on a grassy side-hill; beside it, a gray square moved slowly over the green. sheep, and a sheep camp--and happy jack, hater of sheep though he was, hailed the sight as a bit of rare good luck. his spirits rose immediately, and he started straight for the place. down in the next coulee--there were always coulees to cross, no matter in what direction one would travel--he came near running plump into three riders, who were irish mallory, and weary, and pink. they were riding down from the direction of the camp where were the women, and they caught sight of him immediately and gave chase. happy jack had no mind to be rounded up by that trio; he dodged into the bushes, and though they dug long, unmerciful scratches in his person, clung to the shelter they gave and made off at top speed. he could hear the others shouting at one another as they galloped here and there trying to locate him, and he skulked where the bushes were deepest, like a criminal in fear of lynching. luck, for once, was with him, and he got out into another brush-fringed coulee without being seen, and felt himself, for the present, safe from that portion of the happy family. thereafter he avoided religiously the higher ridges, and kept the direction more by instinct than by actual knowledge. the sun grew hot again and he hurried on, shifting the sheepskin as the need impressed. when at last he sighted again the sheep, they were very close. happy jack grew cautious; he crept down upon the unsuspecting herder as stealthily as an animal hunting its breakfast. herders sometimes carry guns--and the experience of last night burned hot in his memory. slipping warily from rock to rock, he was within a dozen feet, when a dog barked and betrayed his presence. the herder did not have a gun. he gave a yell of pure terror and started for camp after his weapon. happy jack, yelling also, with long leaps followed after. twice the herder looked over his shoulder at the weird figure in gray hat and flapping sheepskin, and immediately after each glance his pace increased perceptibly. still happy jack, desperate beyond measure, doggedly pursued, and his long legs lessened at each jump the distance between. from a spectacular viewpoint, it must have been a pretty race. the herder, with a gasp, dove into the tent; into the tent happy jack dove after him--and none too soon. the hand of the herder had almost clasped his rifle when the weight of happy bore him shrieking to the earthen floor. "aw, yuh locoed old fool, shut up, can't yuh, a minute?" happy jack, with his fingers pressed against the windpipe of the other, had the satisfaction of seeing his request granted at once. the shrieks died to mere gurgling. "what i want uh _you_," happy went on crossly, "ain't your lifeblood, yuh dam' swede idiot. i want some clothes, and some grub; and i want to borry that pinto i seen picketed out in the hollow, down there. now, will yuh let up that yelling and act white, or must i pound some p'liteness into yuh? say!" "by damn, ay tank yo' vas got soom crazy," apologized the herder humbly, sanity growing in his pale blue eyes. "ay tank--" "oh, i don't give a cuss what you _tank_," happy jack cut in. "i ain't had anything to eat sence yesterday forenoon, and i ain't had any clothes on sence yesterday, either. send them darn dogs back to watch your sheep, and get busy with breakfast! i've got a lot to do, t'-day. i've got to round up my horse and get my clothes that's tied to the saddle, and get t' where i'm going. get up, darn yuh! i ain't going t' eat yuh--not unless you're too slow with that grub." the herder was submissive and placating, and permitted happy jack to appropriate the conventional garb of a male human, the while coffee and bacon were maddening his hunger with their tantalizing odor. he seemed much more at ease, once he saw that happy jack, properly clothed, was not particularly fearsome to look upon, and talked volubly while he got out bread and stewed prunes and boiled beans for the thrice-unexpected guest. happy jack, clothed and fed, became himself again and prophesied gloomily: "the chances is, that horse uh mine'll be forty miles away and still going, by this time; but soon as i can round him up, i'll bring your pinto back. yuh needn't t' worry none; i guess i got all the sense i've ever had." once more astride a horse--albeit the pinto pony of a sheepherder--happy jack felt abundantly able to cope with the situation. he made a detour that put him far from where the three he most dreaded to meet were apt to be, and struck out at the pinto's best pace for the river at the point where he had crossed so disastrously the day before. having a good memory for directions and localities, he easily found the place of unhappy memory; and taking up stranger's trail through the sand from there, he got the general direction of his flight and followed vengefully after; rode for an hour up a long, grassy coulee, and came suddenly upon the fugitive feeding quietly beside a spring. the bundle of clothing was still tied firmly to the saddle, and at sight of it the face of happy jack relaxed somewhat from its gloom. when happy rode up and cast a loop over his head stranger nickered a bit, as if he did not much enjoy freedom while he yet bore the trappings of servitude. and his submission was so instant and voluntary that happy jack had not the heart to do as he had threatened many times in the last few hours--"to beat the hide off him." instead, he got hastily into his clothes--quite as if he feared they might again be whisked away from him--and then rubbed forgivingly the nose of stranger, and solicitously pulled a few strands of his forelock from under the brow-band. in the heart of happy jack was a great peace, marred only by the physical discomforts of much sun-blister and many deep scratches. after that he got thankfully into his own saddle and rode gladly away, leading the pinto pony behind him. he had got out of the scrape, and the happy family would never find it out; it was not likely that they would chance upon the swede herder, or if they did, that they would exchange with him many words. the happy family held itself physically, mentally, morally and socially far above sheepherders--and in that lay the safety of happy jack. it was nearly noon when he reached again the sheep camp, and the swede hospitably urged him to stay and eat with him; but happy jack would not tarry, for he was anxious to reach the camp of the flying u. a mile from the herder's camp he saw again on a distant hilltop three familiar figures. this time he did not dodge into shelter, but urged stranger to a gallop and rode boldly toward them. they greeted him joyfully and at the top of their voices when he came within shouting distance. "how comes it you're riding the pinnacles over here?" weary wanted to know, as soon as he rode alongside. "aw, i just came over after more orders; hope they send somebody else over there, if they want any more repping done," happy jack said, in his customary tone of discontent with circumstances. "say! yuh didn't see anything of a wild man, down next the river, did yuh?" put in pink. "aw, gwan! what wild man?" happy jack eyed them suspiciously. "honest, there's a wild man ranging around here in these hills," pink declared. "we've been mooching around all forenoon, hunting him. got sight of him, early this morning, but he got away in the brush." happy jack looked guilty, and even more suspicious. was it possible that they had recognized him? "the way we come to hear about him," weary explained, "we happened across some campers, over in a little coulee to the west uh here. they was all worked up over him. seems he went into camp last night, and like to scared the ladies into fits. he ain't got enough clothes on to flag an antelope, according to them, and he's about seven feet high, and looks more like a missing link than a plain, ordinary man. the one that didn't faint away got the best look at him, and she's ready to take oath he ain't more'n half human. they kept fires burning all night to scare him out uh the coulee, and they're going to break camp to-day and hike for home. they say he give a screech that'd put a crimp in the devil himself, and went galloping off, jumping about twenty feet at a lick. and--" "aw, gwan!" protested happy jack, feebly. "so help me josephine, it's the truth," abetted pink, round-eyed and unmistakably in earnest. "we wouldn't uh taken much stock in it, either, only we saw him ourselves, not more than two hundred yards off. he was just over the hill from the coulee where they were camped, so it's bound to be the same animal. it's a fact, he didn't have much covering--just something hung over his shoulders. and he was sure wild, for soon as he seen us he humped himself and got into the brush. we could hear him go crashing away like a whole bunch of elephants. it's a damn' shame he got away on us," pink sighed regretfully. "we was going to rope him and put him in a cage; we could sure uh made money on him, at two bits a look." happy jack continued to eye the three distrustfully. too often had he been the victim of their humor for him now to believe implicitly in their ignorance. it was too good to be real, it seemed to him. still, if by any good luck it _were_ real, he hated to think what would happen if they ever found out the truth. he eased the clothing cautiously away from his smarting back, and stared hard into a coulee. "it was likely some sheepherder gone clean nutty," mused irish. "well, the most uh them wouldn't have far to go," ventured happy jack, thinking of the swede. "what we ought to do," said pink, keen for the chase, "is for the whole bunch of us to come down here and round him up. wonder if we couldn't talk chip into laying off for a day or so; there's no herd to hold. i sure would like to get a good look at him." "somebody ought to take him in," observed irish longingly. "he ain't safe, running around loose like that. there's no telling what he might do. the way them campers read his brand, he's plumb dangerous to meet up with alone. it's lucky you didn't run onto him, happy." "well, i didn't," growled happy jack. "and what's more, i betche there ain't any such person." "don't call us liars to our faces, happy," weary reproved. "we told yuh, a dozen times, that we saw him ourselves. yuh might be polite enough to take our word for it." "aw, gwan!" happy jack grunted, still not quite sure of how much--or how little--they knew. while they discussed further the wild man, he watched furtively for the surreptitious lowering of lids that would betray their insincerity. when they appealed to him for an opinion of some phase of the subject, he answered with caution. he tried to turn the talk to his experiences on the shonkin range, and found the wild man cropping up with disheartening persistency. he shifted often in the saddle, because of the deep sunburns which smarted continually and maddeningly. he wondered if the boys had used all of that big box of carbolic salve which used to be kept in a corner of the mess-box; and was carbolic salve good for sun-blisters? he told himself gloomily that if there was any of it left, and if it were good for his ailment, there wouldn't be half enough of it, anyway. he estimated unhappily that he would need about two quarts. when they reached camp, the welcome of happy jack was overshadowed and made insignificant by the strange story of the wild man. happy jack, mentally and physically miserable, was forced to hear it all told over again, and to listen to the excited comments of the others. he was sick of the subject. he had heard enough about the wild man, and he wished fervently that they would shut up about it. he couldn't see that it was anything to make such a fuss about, anyway. and he wished he could get his hands on that carbolic salve, without having the whole bunch rubbering around and asking questions about something that was none of their business. he even wished, in that first bitter hour after he had eaten and while they were lying idly in the shady spots, that he was back on the shonkin range with an alien crew. it was perhaps an hour later that pink, always of an investigative turn of mind, came slipping quietly up through the rose bushes from the creek. the happy family, lying luxuriously upon the grass, were still discussing the latest excitement. pink watched his chance and when none but weary observed him jerked his head mysteriously toward the creek. weary got up, yawned ostentatiously, and sauntered away in the wake of pink. "what's the matter, cadwolloper?" he asked, when he was close enough. "seen a garter snake?" pink was notoriously afraid of snakes. "you come with me, and i'll show yuh the wild man," he grinned. "mama!" ejaculated weary, and followed stealthily where pink led. some distance up the creek pink signalled caution, and they crept like indians on hands and knees through the grass. on the edge of the high bank they stopped, and pink motioned. weary looked over and came near whooping at the sight below. he gazed a minute, drew back and put his face close to the face of pink. "cadwolloper, go get the bunch!" he commanded in a whisper, and pink, again signalling needlessly for silence, slipped hastily away from the spot. happy jack, secure in the seclusion offered by the high bank of the creek, ran his finger regretfully around the inside of the carbolic salve box, eyed the result dissatisfiedly, and applied the finger carefully to a deep cut on his knee. he had got that cut while going up the bluff, just after leaving the tent where had been the shrieking females. he wished there was more salve, and he picked up the cover of the box and painstakingly wiped out the inside; the result was disheartening. he examined his knee dolefully. it was beginning to look inflamed, and it was going to make him limp. he wondered if the boys would notice anything queer about his walk. if they did, there was the conventional excuse that his horse had fallen down with him--happy jack hoped that it would be convincing. he took up the box again and looked at the shining emptiness of it. it had been half full--not enough, by a long way--and maybe some one would wonder what had become of it. darn a bunch that always had to know everything, anyway! happy jack, warned at last by that unnamed instinct which tells of a presence unseen, turned around and looked up apprehensively. the happy family, sitting in a row upon their heels on the bank, looked down at him gravely and appreciatively. "there's a can uh wagon dope, up at camp," cal emmett informed him sympathetically. "aw--" happy jack began, and choked upon his humiliation. "i used to know a piece uh poetry about a fellow like happy," weary remarked sweetly. "it said _'he raised his veil, the maid turned slowly round_ _looked at him, shrieked, and fell upon the ground.'_ only, in this case," weary smiled blandly down upon him, "happy didn't have no veil." "aw, gwan!" adjured happy jack helplessly, and reached for his clothes, while the happy family chorused a demand for explanations. * * * * * a tamer of wild ones. when the days grow crisp at each end and languorous in the middle; when a haze ripples the skyline like a waving ribbon of faded blue; when the winds and the grasses stop and listen for the first on-rush of winter, then it is that the rangeland takes on a certain intoxicating unreality, and range-wild blood leaps with desire to do something--anything, so it is different and irresponsible and not measured by precedent or prudence. in days like that one grows venturesome and ignores difficulties and limitations with a fine disregard for probable consequences, a mental snapping of fingers. on a day like that, the happy family, riding together out of dry lake with the latest news in mind and speech, urged andy green, tamer of wild ones, to enter the rough-riding contest exploited as one of the features of the northern montana fair, to be held at great falls in two weeks. pink could not enter, because a horse had fallen with him and hurt his leg, so that he was picking the gentlest in his string for daily riding. weary would not, because he had promised his little schoolma'am to take care of himself and not take any useless risks; even the temptation of a two-hundred-dollar purse could not persuade him that a rough-riding contest is perfectly safe and without the ban. but andy, impelled by the leaping blood of him and urged by the loyal family, consented and said he'd try it a whirl, anyway. they had only ridden four or five miles when the decision was reached, and they straightway turned back and raced into dry lake again, so that andy might write the letter that clinched matters. then, whooping with the sheer exhilaration of living, and the exultation of being able to ride and whoop unhindered, they galloped back to camp and let the news spread as it would. in a week all chouteau county knew that andy green would ride for the purse, and nearly all chouteau county backed him with all the money it could command; certainly, all of it that knew andy green and had seen him ride, made haste to find someone who did not know him and whose faith in another contestant was strong, and to bet all the money it could lay hands upon. for andy was one of those mild-mannered men whose genius runs to riding horses which object violently to being ridden; one of those lucky fellows who never seems to get his neck broken, however much he may jeopardize it; and, moreover, he was that rare genius, who can make a "pretty" ride where other broncho-fighters resemble nothing so much as a scarecrow in a cyclone. andy not only could ride--he could ride gracefully. and the reason for that, not many knew: andy, in the years before he wandered to the range, had danced, in spangled tights, upon the broad rump of a big gray horse which galloped around a saw-dust ring with the regularity of movement that suggested a machine, while a sober-clothed man in the center cracked a whip and yelped commands. andy had jumped through blazing hoops and over sagging bunting while he rode--and he was just a trifle ashamed of the fact. also--though it does not particularly matter--he had, later in the performance, gone hurtling around the big tent dressed in the garb of an ancient roman and driving four deep-chested bays abreast. as has been explained, he never boasted of his circus experience; though his days in spangled tights probably had much to do with the inimitable grace of him in the saddle. the happy family felt to a man that andy would win the purse and add honor to the flying u in the winning. they were enthusiastic over the prospect and willing to bet all they had on the outcome. * * * * * the happy family, together with the aliens who swelled the crew to round-up size, was foregathered at the largest flying u corral, watching a bunch of newly bought horses circle, with much snorting and kicking up of dust, inside the fence. it was the interval between beef-and calf-roundups, and the witchery of indian summer held the range-land in thrall. andy, sizing up the bunch and the brands, lighted upon a rangy blue roan that he knew--or thought he knew, and the eyes of him brightened with desire. if he could get that roan in his string, he told himself, he could go to sleep in the saddle on night-guard; for an easier horse to ride he never had straddled. it was like sitting in grandma's pet rocking chair when that roan loosened his muscles for a long, tireless gallop over the prairie sod, and as a stayer andy had never seen his equal. it was not his turn to choose, however, and he held his breath lest the rope of another should settle over the slatey-black ears ahead of him. cal emmett roped a plump little black and led him out, grinning satisfaction; from the white saddle-marks back of the withers he knew him for a "broke" horse, and he certainly was pretty to look at. andy gave him but a fleeting glance. happy jack spread his loop and climbed down from the fence, almost at andy's elbow. it was his turn to choose. "i betche that there blue roan over there is a good one," he remarked. "i'm going to tackle him." andy took his cigarette from between his lips. "yuh better hobble your stirrups, then," he discouraged artfully. "i know that roan a heap better than you do." "aw, gwan!" happy, nevertheless, hesitated. "he's got a kind eye in his head; yuh can always go by a horse's eye." "can yuh?" andy smiled indifferently. "go after him, then. and say, happy: if yuh ride that blue roan for five successive minutes, i'll give yuh fifty dollars. i knew that hoss down on the musselshell; he's got a record that'd reach from here to dry lake and back." it was a bluff, pure and simple, born of his covetousness, but it had the desired effect--or nearly so. happy fumbled his rope and eyed the roan. "aw, i betche you're just lying," he hazarded; but, like many another, when he did strike the truth he failed to recognize it. "i betche--" "all right, rope him out and climb on, if yuh don't believe me." the tone of andy was tinged with injury. "there's fifty dollars--yes, by gracious, i'll give yuh a _hundred_ dollars if yuh ride him for five minutes straight." a conversation of that character, carried on near the top of two full-lunged voices, never fails in the range land to bring an audience of every male human within hearing. all other conversations and interests were immediately suspended, and a dozen men trotted up to see what it was all about. andy remained roosting upon the top rail, his rope coiled loosely and dangling from one arm while he smoked imperturbably. "oh, happy was going to rope out a sure-enough bad one for his night hoss, and out uh the goodness uh my heart, i put him wise to what he was going up against," he explained carelessly. "he acts like he has some thoughts uh doubting my word, so i just offered him a hundred dollars to ride him--that blue roan, over there next that crooked post. get_ a reserved seat right in front of the grand stand where all the big acts take_ place;" he sung out suddenly, in the regulation circus tone. "get-a-seat-right-in-front-where-happy-jack- the-wild-man-rides-the-bucking-broncho--go on, happy. don't keep the audience waiting. aren't yuh going to earn that hundred dollars?" happy jack turned half a shade redder than was natural. "aw, gwan. i never said i was going to do no broncho-busting ack. but i betche yuh never seen that roan before he was unloaded in dry lake." "what'll yuh bet i don't know that hoss from a yearling colt?" andy challenged, and happy jack walked away without replying, and cast his loop sullenly over the first horse he came to--which was _not_ the roan. chip, coming up to hear the last of it, turned and looked long at the horse in question; a mild-mannered horse, standing by a crooked corral post and flicking his ears at the flies. "do you know that roan?" he asked andy, in the tone which brings truthful answer. andy had one good point: he never lied except in an irresponsible mood of pure deviltry. for instance, he never had lied seriously, to an employer. "sure, i know that hoss," he answered truthfully. "did you ever ride him?" "no," andy admitted, still truthfully. "i never rode him but once myself, but i worked right with a lazy rep that had him in his string, down at the u up-and-down, two years ago. i know the hoss, all right; but i did lie when i told happy i knowed him from a colt. i spread it on a little bit thick, there." he smiled engagingly down at chip. "and he's a bad one, is he?" chip queried over his shoulder, just as he was about to walk away. "well," andy prevaricated--still clinging to the letter, if not to the spirit of truth. "he ain't a hoss i'd like to see happy jack go up against. i ain't saying, though, that he can't be _rode_. i don't say that about _any_ hoss." "is he any worse than glory, when glory is feeling peevish?" weary asked, when chip was gone and while the men still lingered. andy, glancing to make sure that chip was out of hearing, threw away his cigarette and yielded to temptation. "glory?" he snorted with a fine contempt. "why, glory's--a--_lamb_ beside that blue roan! why, that hoss throwed buckskin jimmy clean out of a corral--did yuh ever see buckskin jimmy ride? well, say, yuh missed a pretty sight, then; jimmy's a sure-enough rider. about the only animal he ever failed to connect with for keeps, is that same cow-backed hoss yuh see over there. happy says he's got a kind eye in his head--" andy stopped and laughed till they all laughed with him. "by gracious, happy ought to step up _on_ him, once, and see how _kind_ he is!" he laughed again until happy, across the corral saddling the horse he had chosen, muttered profanely at the derision he knew was pointed at himself. "why, i've seen that hoss--" andy green, once fairly started in the fascinating path of romance, invented details for the pure joy of creation. if he had written some of the tales he told, and had sold the writing for many dollars, he would have been famous. since he did not write them for profit, but told them for fun, instead, he earned merely the reputation of being a great liar. a significant mark of his genius lay in the fact that his inventions never failed to convince; not till afterward did his audience doubt. that is why the blue roan was not chosen in any of the strings, but was left always circling in the corral after a loop had settled. that is why the flying u boys looked at him askance as they passed him by. that is why, when a certain mr. coleman, sent by the board of directors to rake northern montana for bad horses, looked with favor upon the blue roan when he came to the flying u ranch and heard the tale of his exploits as interpreted--i should say created--by andy green. "we've got to have him," he declared enthusiastically. "if he's as bad as all that, he'll be the star performer at the contest, and make that two-hundred-dollar plum a hard one to pick. some of these gay boys have entered with the erroneous idea that that same plum is hanging loose, and all they've got to do is lean up against the tree and it'll drop in their mouths. we've got to have that roan. i'll pay you a good price for him, whitmore, if you won't let him go any other way. we've got a reporter up there that can do him up brown in a special article, and people will come in bunches to see a horse with that kind of a pedigree. is it green, here, that knows the horse and what he'll do? you're sure of him, are you, green?" andy took time to roll a cigarette. he had not expected any such development as this, and he needed to think of the best way out. all he had wanted or intended was to discourage the others from claiming the blue roan; he wanted him in his own string. afterwards, when they had pestered him about the roan's record, he admitted to himself that he had, maybe, overshot the mark and told it a bit too scarey, and too convincingly. under the spell of fancy he had done more than make the roan unpopular as a roundup horse; he had made him a celebrity in the way of outlaw horses. and they wanted him in the rough-riding contest! andy, perhaps, had never before been placed in just such a position. "are you sure of what the horse will do?" mr. coleman repeated, seeing that andy was taking a long time to reply. andy licked his cigarette, twisted an end and leaned backward while he felt in his pocket for a match. from the look of his face you never could have told how very uncomfortable he felt "naw," he drawled. "i ain't never sure of what _any_ hoss will do. i've had too much dealings with 'em for any uh that brand uh foolishness." he lighted the cigarette as if that were the only matter in which he took any real interest, though he was thinking fast. mr. coleman looked nonplussed. "but i thought--you said--" "what i said," andy retorted evenly, "hit the blue roan two years ago; maybe he's reformed since then; i dunno. nobody's rode him, here." he could not resist a sidelong glance at happy jack. "there was some talk of it, but it never come to a head." "yuh offered me a hundred dollars--" happy jack began accusingly. "and yuh never made no move to earn it, that i know of. by gracious, yuh all seem to think i ought to _mind_-read that hoss! i ain't seen him for two years. maybe so, he's a real wolf yet; maybe so, he's a sheep." he threw out both his hands to point the end of the argument--so far as he was concerned--stuck them deep into his trousers' pockets and walked away before he could be betrayed into deeper deceit. it did seem to him rather hard that, merely because he had wanted the roan badly enough to--er--exercise a little diplomacy in order to get him, they should keep harping on the subject like that. and to have coleman making medicine to get the roan into that contest was, to say the least, sickening. andy's private belief was that a twelve-year-old girl could go round up the milk-cows on that horse. he had never known him to make a crooked move, and he had ridden beside him all one summer and had seen him in all places and under all possible conditions. he was a dandy cow-horse, and dead gentle; all this talk made him tired. andy had forgotten that he himself had started the talk. coleman went often to the corral when the horses were in, and looked at the blue roan. later he rode on to other ranches where he had heard were bad horses, and left the roan for further consideration. when he was gone, andy breathed freer and put his mind to the coming contest and the things he meant to do with the purse and with the other contestants. "that diamond g twister is going t' ride," happy jack announced, one day when he came from town. "some uh the boys was in town and they said so. he can ride, too. i betche andy don't have no picnic gitting the purse away from _that_ feller. and coleman's got that sorrel outlaw uh the hs. i betche andy'll have to pull leather on that one." this was, of course, treason pure and simple; but happy jack's prophecies were never taken seriously. andy simply grinned at him. "put your money on the diamond g twister," he advised calmly. "i know him--he's a good rider, too. his name's billy roberts. uh course, i aim to beat him to it, but happy never does like to have a sure-thing. he wants something to hang his jaw down over. put your money on billy and watch it fade away, happy." "aw, gwan. i betche that there sorrel--" "i rode that there sorrel once, and combed his forelock with both spurs alternate," andy lied boldly. "he's pickings. take him back and bring me a real hoss." happy jack wavered. "well, i betche yuh don't pull down that money," he predicted vaguely. "i betche yuh git throwed, or something. it don't do to be too blame sure uh nothing." whereat andy laughed derisively and went away whistling. "i wish i was as sure uh living till i was a thousand years old, and able to ride nine months out of every year of 'em," he called back to happy. then he took up the tune where he had left off. for the days were still crisp at both ends and languorous in the middle, and wind and grasses hushed and listened for the coming of winter. and because of these things, and his youth and his health, the heart of andy green was light in his chest and trouble stood afar off with its face turned from him. it was but three days to the opening of the fair when coleman, returning that way from his search for bad horses, clattered, with his gleanings and three or four men to help drive them, down the grade to the flying u. and in the flying u coulee, just across the creek from the corrals, still rested the roundup tents for a space. for the shipping was over early and work was not urgent, and chip and the old man, in their enthusiasm for the rough-riding contest and the entry of their own man, had decided to take the wagons and crew entire to great falls and camp throughout the four days of the fair. the boys all wanted to go, anyway, as did everybody else, so that nothing could be done till it was over. it was a novel idea, and it tickled the humor of the happy family. the "rough string," as the bad horses were called, was corralled, and the men made merry with the roundup crew. diamond g men they were, loudly proclaiming their faith in billy roberts, and offering bets already against andy, who listened undisturbed and had very little to say. the happy family had faith in him, and that was enough. if everybody, he told them, believed that he would win, where would be the fun of riding and showing them? it was after their early supper that coleman came down to camp at the heels of chip and the old man. straightway he sought out andy like a man who has something on his mind; though andy did not in the least know what it was, he recognized the indefinable symptoms and braced himself mentally, half suspecting that it was something about that blue roan again. he was getting a little bit tired of the blue roan--enough so that, though he had chosen him for his string, he had not yet put saddle to his back, but waited until the roundup started out once more, when he would ride him in his turn. it was the blue roan, without doubt. coleman came to a stop directly in front of andy, and as directly came to the point. "look here, green," he began. "i'm shy on horses for that contest, and whitmore and bennett say i can have that roan you've got in your string. if he's as bad as you claim, i certainly must have him. but you seem to have some doubts of what he'll do, and i'd like to see him ridden once. your shingle is out as a broncho-peeler. will you ride him this evening, so i can size him up for that contest?" andy glanced up under his eyebrows, and then sidelong at the crowd. every man within hearing was paying strict attention, and was eyeing him expectantly; for broncho-fighting is a spectacle that never palls. "well, i can ride him, if yuh say so," andy made cautious answer, "but i won't gamble he's a bad hoss _now_--that is, bad enough to take to the falls. yuh don't want to expect--" "oh, i don't expect anything--only i want to see him ridden once. come on, no time like the present. if he's bad, you'll have to ride him at the fair, anyhow, and a little practice won't hurt you; and if he isn't, i want to know it for sure." "it's a go with me," andy said indifferently, though he secretly felt much relief. the roan would go off like a pet dog, and he could pretend to be somewhat surprised, and declare that he had reformed. bad horses do reform, sometimes, as andy and every other man in the crowd knew. then there would be no more foolish speculation about the cayuse, and andy could keep him in peace and have a mighty good cow-pony, as he had schemed. he smoked a cigarette while chip was having the horses corralled, and then led the way willingly, with twenty-five men following expectantly at his heels. unlike andy, they fully expected an impromptu exhibition of fancy riding. not all of them had seen andy atop a bad horse, and the diamond g men, in particular, were eager to witness a sample of his skill. the blue roan submitted to the rope, and there was nothing spectacular in the saddling. andy kept his cigarette between his lips and smiled to himself when he saw the saddle bunch hazed out through the gate and the big corral left empty of every animal but the blue roan, as was customary when a man tackled a horse with the record which he had given the poor beast. also, the sight of twenty-five men roosting high, their boot-heels hooked under a corral rail to steady them, their faces writ large with expectancy, amused him inwardly. he pictured their disappointment when the roan trotted around the corral once or twice at his bidding, and smiled again. "if you can't top him, green, we'll send for billy roberts. _he'll_ take off the rough edge and gentle him down for yuh," taunted a diamond g man. "don't get excited till the show starts," andy advised, holding the cigarette in his fingers while he emptied his lungs of smoke. just to make a pretence of caution, he shook the saddle tentatively by the horn, and wished the roan would make a little show of resistance, instead of standing there like an old cow, lacking only the cud, as he complained to himself, to make the resemblance complete. the roan, however, did lay back an ear when andy, the cigarette again in his lips, put his toe in the stirrup. "go after it, you weatherbeaten old saw-buck," he yelled, just to make the play strong, before he was fairly in the saddle. then it was that the happy family, heart and soul and pocket all for andy green and his wonderful skill in the saddle; with many dollars backing their belief in him and with voices ever ready to sing his praises; with the golden light of early sunset all about them and the tang of coming night-frost in the air, received a shock that made them turn white under their tan. "mama!" breathed weary, in a horrified half-whisper. and slim, goggle-eyed beside him, blurted, "well, by _golly_!" in a voice that carried across the corral. for andy green, tamer of wild ones (forsooth!) broncho-twister with a fame that not the boundary of chouteau county held, nor yet the counties beyond; andy green, erstwhile "andré de gréno, champion bare-back rider of the western hemisphere," who had jumped through blazing hoops and over sagging bunting while he rode, turned handsprings and done other public-drawing feats, was prosaically, unequivocally "piled" at the fifth jump! that he landed lightly on his feet, with the cigarette still between his lips, the roosting twenty-five quite overlooked. they saw only the first jump, where andy, riding loose and unguardedly, went up on the blue withers. the second, third and fourth jumps were not far enough apart to be seen and judged separately; as well may one hope to decide whether a whirling wheel had straight or crooked spokes. the fifth jump, however, was a masterpiece of rapid-fire contortion, and it was important because it left andy on the ground, gazing, with an extremely grieved expression, at the uninterrupted convolutions of the "dandy little cow-hoss." the blue roan never stopped so much as to look back. he was busy--exceedingly busy. he was one of those perverted brutes which buck and bawl and so keep themselves wrought up to a high pitch--literally and figuratively. he set himself seriously to throw andy's saddle over his head, and he was not a horse which easily accepts defeat. andy walked around in the middle of the corral, quite aimlessly, and watched the roan contort. he could not understand in the least, and his amazement overshadowed, for the moment, the fact that he had been thrown and that in public and before men of the diamond g. then it was that the men of the diamond g yelled shrill words of ironical sympathy. then it was that the happy family looked at one another in shamed silence, and to the taunts of the diamond gs made no reply. it had never occurred to them that such a thing could happen. had they not seen andy ride, easily and often? had they not heard from pink how andy had performed that difficult feat at the rocking r--the feat of throwing his horse flat in the middle of a jump? they waited until the roan, leaving the big corral looking, in the fast deepening twilight, like a fresh-ploughed field, stopped dejectedly and stood with his nose against the closed gate, and then climbed slowly down from the top rail of the corral, still silent with the silence more eloquent than speech in any known language. over by the gate, andy was yanking savagely at the latigo; and he, also, had never a word to say. he was still wondering how it had happened. he looked the roan over critically and shook his head against the riddle; for he had known him to be a quiet, dependable, all-round good horse, with no bad traits and an easy-going disposition that fretted at nothing. a high-strung, nervous beast might, from rough usage and abuse, go "bad"; but the blue roan--they had called him pardner--had never showed the slightest symptom of nerves. andy knew horses as he knew himself. that a horse like pardner should, in two years, become an evil-tempered past-master in such devilish pitching as that, was past belief. "i guess he'll do, all right," spoke coleman at his elbow. "i've seen horses pitch, and i will say that he's got some specialties that are worth exhibiting." then, as a polite way of letting andy down easy, he added, "i don't wonder you couldn't connect." "connect--_hell_!" it was andy's first realization of what his failure meant to the others. he left off wondering about the roan, and faced the fact that he had been thrown, fair and square, and that before an audience of twenty-five pairs of eyes which had seen rough riding before, and which had expected of him something better than they were accustomed to seeing. "i reckon billy roberts will have to work on that cayuse a while," fleered a diamond g man, coming over to them. "he'll gentle him down so that anybody--_even green_, can ride him!" andy faced him hotly, opened his mouth for sharp reply, and closed it. he had been "piled." nothing that he could say might alter that fact, nor explanations lighten the disgrace. he turned and went out the gate, carrying his saddle and bridle with him. "aw--and you was goin' t' ride in that contest!" wailed happy jack recriminatingly. "and i've got forty dollars up on yuh!" "shut up!" snapped pink in his ear, heart-broken but loyal to the last. "yuh going to blat around and let them diamond gs give yuh the laugh? hunt up something you can use for a backbone till they get out uh camp, for heaven's sake! andy's our man. so help me, josephine, if anybody goes rubbing it in where i can hear, he'll get his face punched!" "say, i guess we ain't let down on our faces, or anything!" sighed cal emmett, coming up to them. "i thought andy could ride! gee whiz, but it was fierce! why, _happy_ could make a better ride than that!" "by golly, i want t' have a talk with that there broncho-tamer," slim growled behind them. "i got money on him. is he goin t' ride for that purse? 'cause if he is, i ain't going a foot." these and other remarks of a like nature made up the clamor that surged in the ears of andy as he went, disgraced and alone, up to the deserted bunk-house where he need not hear what they were saying. he knew, deep in his heart, that he could ride that horse. he had been thrown because of his own unpardonable carelessness--a carelessness which he could not well explain to the others. he himself had given the roan an evil reputation; a reputation that, so far as he knew, was libel pure and simple. to explain now that he was thrown simply because he never dreamed the horse would pitch, and so was taken unaware, would simply be to insult their intelligence. he was not supposed, after mounting a horse like that, to be taken unaware. he might, of course, say that he had lied all along--but he had no intention of making any confession like that. even if he did, they would not believe him. altogether, it was a very unhappy young man who slammed his spurs into a far corner and kicked viciously a box he had stumbled over in the dusk. "trying to bust the furniture?" it was the voice of the old man at the door. "by gracious, it seems i can't bust _bronks_ no more," andy made rueful reply. "i reckon i'll just about have to bust the furniture or nothing." the old man chuckled and came inside, sought the box andy had kicked, and sat down upon it. through the open door came the jumble of many voices upraised in fruitless argument, and with it the chill of frost. the old man fumbled for his pipe, filled it and scratched a match sharply on the box. in the flare of it andy watched his kind old face with its fringe of grayish hair and its deep-graven lines of whimsical humor. "doggone them boys, they ain't got the stayin' qualities i give 'em credit for having," he remarked, holding up the match and looking across at andy, humped disconsolately in the shadows. "them diamond g men has just about got 'em on the run, right now. yuh couldn't get a hundred-t'-one bet, down there." andy merely grunted. "say," asked the old man suddenly. "didn't yuh kinda mistake that blue roan for his twin brother, pardner? this here cayuse is called weaver. i tried t' get hold of t'other one, but doggone 'em, they wouldn't loosen up. pardner wasn't for sale at no price, but they talked me into buying the weaver; they claimed he's just about as good a horse, once he's tamed down some--and i thought, seein' i've got some real _tamers_ on my pay-roll, i'd take a chance on him. i thought yuh knew the horse--the way yuh read up his pedigree--till i seen yuh mount him. why, doggone it, yuh straddled him like yuh was just climbing a fence! maybe yuh know your own business best--but didn't yuh kinda mistake him for pardner? they're as near alike as two bullets run in the same mold--as far as _looks_ go." andy got up and went to the door, and stood looking down the dusk-muffled hill to the white blotch which was the camp; listened to the jumble of voices still upraised in fruitless argument, and turned to the old man. "by gracious, that accounts for a whole lot," he said ambiguously. ii "i don't see," said cal emmett crossly, "what's the use uh this whole outfit trailing up to that contest. if i was chip, i'd call the deal off and start gathering calves. it ain't as if we had a man to ride for that belt and purse. ain't your leg well enough to tackle it, pink?" "no," pink answered shortly, "it ain't." "riding the rough bunch they've rounded up for that contest ain't going to be any picnic," weary defended his chum. "cadwolloper would need two good legs to go up against that deal." "i wish irish was here," pink gloomed. "i'd be willing to back him; all right. but it's too late now; he couldn't enter if he was here." a voice behind them spoke challengingly. "i don't believe it would be etiquette for one outfit to enter _two_ peelers. one's enough, ain't it?" the happy family turned coldly upon the speaker. it was slim who answered for them all. "i dunno as this outfit has got _any_ peeler in that contest. by golly, it don't look like it since las' night!" weary was gentle, as always, but he was firm. "we kinda thought you'd want to withdraw," he added. andy green, tamer of wild ones, turned and eyed weary curiously. one might guess, from telltale eyes and mouth, that his calmness did not go very deep. "i don't recollect mentioning that i was busy penning any letter uh withdrawal," he said. "i got my sights raised to that purse and that belt. i don't recollect saying anything about lowering 'em." "aw, gwan. i guess _i'll_ try for that purse, too! i betche i got as good a show as--" "sure. help yourself, it don't cost nothing. i don't doubt but what you'd make a real pretty ride, happy." andy's tone was deceitfully hearty. he did not sound in the least as if he would like to choke happy jack, though that was his secret longing. "aw, gwan. i betche i could make as purty a ride as we've saw--lately." happy jack did not quite like to make the thing too personal, for fear of what might happen after. "yuh mean last night, don't yuh?" purred andy. "well, by golly, i wish you'd tell us what yuh done it for!" slim cut in disgustedly. "it was nacherlay supposed you could ride; we got _money_ up on yuh! and then, by golly, to go and make a fluke like that before them diamond g men--to go and let that blue roan pile yuh up b'fore he'd got rightly started t' pitch--if yuh'd stayed with him till he got t' swappin' ends there, it wouldn't uh looked quite so bad. but t' go and git throwed down right in the start--by golly!" slim faced andy accusingly. "b'fore them diamond g men--and i've got money up, by golly!" "yuh ain't lost any money yet, have yuh?" andy inquired patiently. what andy felt like doing was to "wade into the bunch"; reason, however, told him that he had it coming from them, and to take his medicine, since he could not well explain just how it had happened. he could not in reason wonder that the faith of the happy family was shattered and that they mourned as lost the money they had already rashly wagered on the outcome of the contest. the very completeness of their faith in him, their very loyalty, seemed to them their undoing, for to them the case was plain enough. if andy could not ride the blue roan in their own corral, how was he to ride that same blue roan in great falls? or, if he could ride him, how could any sane man hope that he could win the purse and the belt under the stringent rules of the contest, where "riding on the spurs," "pulling leather" and a dozen other things were barred? so andy, under the sting of their innuendoes and blunt reproaches, was so patient as to seem to them cowed. "no, i ain't lost any yet, but by golly, i can see it fixin' to fly," slim retorted heavily. andy looked around at the others, and smiled as sarcastically as was possible considering the mood he was in. "it sure does amuse me," he observed, "to see growed men cryin' before they're hurt! by gracious, i expect t' make a stake out uh that fall! i can get long odds from them diamond gs, and from anybody they get a chance to talk to. i'm kinda planning," he lied boldly, "to winter in an orange grove and listen at the birds singing, after i'm through with the deal." "i reckon yuh can count on hearing the birds sing, all right," pink snapped back. "it'll be _tra-la-la_ for yours, if last night's a fair sample uh what yuh expect to do with the blue roan." pink walked abruptly away, looking very much like a sulky cherub. "i s'pose yuh're aiming to give us the impression that you're going to ride, just the same," said cal emmett. "i sure am," came brief reply. andy was beginning to lose his temper. he had expected that the happy family would "throw it into him," to a certain extent, and he had schooled himself to take their drubbing. what he had not expected was their unfriendly attitude, which went beyond mere disappointment and made his offence--if it could be called that--more serious than the occasion would seem to warrant. perhaps jack bates unwittingly made plain the situation when he remarked: "i hate to turn down one of our bunch; we've kinda got in the habit uh hanging together and backing each other's play, regardless. but darn it, we ain't millionaires, none of us--and gambling, it is a sin. i've got enough up already to keep me broke for six months if i lose, and the rest are in about the same fix. i ain't raising no long howl, andy, but you can see yourself where we're kinda bashful about sinking any more on yuh than what we have. maybe you can ride; i've heard yuh can, and i've seen yuh make some fair rides, myself. but yuh sure fell down hard last night, and my faith in yuh got a jolt that fair broke its back. if yuh done it deliberate, for reasons we don't know, for heaven's sake say so, and we'll take your word for it and forget your rep for lying. on the dead, andy, did yuh fall off deliberate?" andy bit his lip. his conscience had a theory of its own about truth-telling, and permitted him to make strange assertions at times. still, there were limitations. the happy family was waiting for his answer, and he knew instinctively that they would believe him now. for a moment, temptation held him. then he squared his shoulders and spoke truly. "on the dead, i hit the ground unexpected and inadvertant. i--" "if that's the case, then the farther yuh keep away from that contest the better--if yuh ask _me_." jack turned on his heel and followed pink. andy stared after him moodily, then glanced at the rest. with one accord they avoided meeting his gaze. "damn a bunch uh quitters!" he flared hotly, and left them, to hunt up the old man and chip--one or both, it did not matter to him. pink it was who observed the old man writing a check for andy. he took it that andy had called for his time, and when andy rolled his bed and stowed it away in the bunk-house, saddled a horse and rode up the grade toward town, the whole outfit knew for a certainty that andy had quit. before many hours had passed they, too, saddled and rode away, with the wagons and the cavvy following after--and they were headed for great falls and the fair there to be held; or, more particularly, the rough-riding contest to which they had looked forward eagerly and with much enthusiasm, and which they were now approaching gloomily and in deep humiliation. truly, it would be hard to find a situation more galling to the pride of the happy family. but andy green had not called for his time, and he had no intention of quitting; for andy was also suffering from that uncomfortable malady which we call hurt pride, and for it he knew but one remedy--a remedy which he was impatient to apply. because of the unfriendly attitude of the happy family, andy had refused to take them into his confidence, or to ride with them to the fair. instead, he had drawn what money was still placed to his credit on the pay-roll, had taken a horse and his riding outfit and gone away to dry lake, where he intended to take the train for great falls. in dry lake, however, he found that the story of his downfall had preceded him, thanks to the exultant men of the diamond g, and that the tale had not shrunk in the telling. dry lake jeered him as openly as it dared, and part of it--that part which had believed in him--was quite as unfriendly as was the happy family. to a man they took it for granted that he would withdraw from the contest, and they were not careful to conceal what they thought. andy found himself rather left alone, and he experienced more than once the unpleasant sensation of having conversation suddenly lag when he came near, and of seeing groups of men dissolve awkwardly at his approach. andy, before he had been in town an hour, was in a mood to do violence. for that reason he kept his plans rigidly to himself. when someone asked him if he had quit the outfit, he had returned gruffly that the flying u was not the only cow-outfit in the country, and let the questioner interpret it as he liked. when the train that had its nose pointed to the southwest slid into town, andy did not step on, as had been his intention. he remained idly leaning over the bar in rusty brown's place, and gave no heed. later, when the eastbound came schreeching through at midnight, it found andy green on the platform with his saddle, bridle, chaps, quirt and spurs neatly sacked, and with a ticket for havre in his pocket. so the wise ones said that they knew andy would never have the nerve to show up at the fair, after the fluke he had made at the flying u ranch, and those whose pockets were not interested considered it a very good joke. at havre, andy bought another ticket and checked the sack which held his riding outfit; the ticket had great falls printed on it in bold, black lettering. so that he was twelve hours late in reaching his original destination, and to avoid unwelcome discovery and comment he took the sleeper and immediately ordered his berth made up, that he might pass through dry lake behind the sheltering folds of the berth curtains. not that there was need of this elaborate subterfuge. he was simply mad clear through and did not want to see or hear the voice of any man he knew. besides, the days when he had danced in spangled tights upon the broad, gray rump of a galloping horse while a sober-clothed man in the middle of the ring cracked a whip and yelped commands, had bred in him the unconscious love of a spectacular entry and a dramatic finish. that is why he sought out the most obscure rooming house that gave any promise of decency and comfort, and stayed off central avenue and away from its loitering groups of range dwellers who might know him. that is why he hired a horse and rode early and alone to the fair grounds on the opening day, and avoided, by a roundabout trail a certain splotch of gray-white against the brown of the prairie, which he knew instinctively to be the camp of the flying u outfit, which had made good time and were located to their liking near the river. andy felt a tightening of the chest when he saw the familiar tents, and kicked his hired horse ill-naturedly in the ribs. it was all so different from what he had thought it would be. in those last two weeks, he had pictured himself riding vaingloriously through town on his best horse, with a new navajo saddle-blanket making a dab of bright color, and a new stetson hat dimpled picturesquely as to crown and tilted rakishly over one eye, and with his silver-mounted spurs catching the light; around him would ride the happy family, also in gala attire and mounted upon the best horses in their several strings. the horses would not approve of the street-cars, and would circle and back--and it was quite possible, even probable, that there would be some pitching and some pretty riding before the gaping populace which did not often get a chance to view the real thing. people would stop and gaze while they went clattering by, and he, andy green, would be pointed out by the knowing ones as a fellow that was going to ride in the contest and that stood a good chance of winning. for andy was but human, that he dreamed of these things; besides, does not the jumping through blazing hoops and over sagging bunting while one rides, whet insiduously one's appetite for the plaudits of the crowd? the reality was different. he was in great falls, but he had not ridden vaingloriously down central avenue surrounded by the happy family, and watched by the gaping populace. instead, he had chosen a side street and he had ridden alone, and no one had seemed to know or care who he might be. his horse had not backed, wild-eyed, before an approaching car, and he had not done any pretty riding. instead, his horse had scarce turned an eye toward the jangling bell when he crossed the track perilously close to the car, and he had gone "side-wheeling" decorously down the street--and andy hated a pacing horse. the happy family was in town, but he did not know where. andy kicked his horse into a gallop and swore bitterly that he did not care. he did not suppose that they gave him a thought, other than those impelled by their jeopardized pockets. and that, he assured himself pessimistically, is friendship! he tied the hired horse to the fence and went away to the stables and fraternized with a hump-backed jockey who knew a few things himself about riding and was inclined to talk unprofessionally. it was not at all as andy had pictured the opening day, but he got through the time somehow until the crowd gathered and the racing began. then he showed himself in the crowd of "peelers" and their friends, as unconcernedly as he might; and as unobtrusively. the happy family, he observed, was not there, though he met chip face to face and had a short talk with him. chip was the only one, aside from the old man, who really understood. billy roberts was there, and he greeted andy commiseratingly, as one speaks to the sick or to one in mourning; the tone made andy grind his teeth, though he knew in his heart that billy roberts wished him well--up to the point of losing the contest to him, which was beyond human nature. billy roberts was a rider and knew--or thought he knew--just how "sore" andy must be feeling. also, in the kindness of his heart he tried blunderingly to hide his knowledge. "going up against the rough ones?" he queried with careful carelessness, in the hope of concealing that he had heard the tale of andy's disgrace. "i sure am," andy returned laconically, with no attempt to conceal anything. billy roberts opened his eyes wide, and his mouth a little before he recovered from his surprise. "well, good luck to yuh," he managed to say, "only so yuh don't beat me to it. i was kinda hoping yuh was too bashful to get out and ride before all the ladies." andy, remembering his days in the sawdust ring, smiled queerly; but his heart warmed to billy roberts amazingly. they were leaning elbows on the fence below the grand stand, watching desultorily the endless preparatory manoeuvres of three men astride the hind legs of three pacers in sulkies. "this side-wheeling business gives me a pain," billy remarked, as the pacers ambled by for the fourth or fifth time. "i like _caballos_ that don't take all day to wind 'em up before they go. i been looking over our bunch. they's horses in that corral that are sure going to do things to us twenty peelers!" "by gracious, yes!" andy was beginning to feel himself again. "that blue hoss--uh course yuh heard how he got me, and heard it with trimmings--yuh may think he's a man-eater; but while he's a bad hoss, all right, he ain't the one that'll get yuh. yuh want t' watch out, billy, for that hs sorrel. he's plumb wicked. he's got a habit uh throwing himself backwards. they're keeping it quiet, maybe--but i've seen him do it three times in one summer." "all right--thanks. i didn't know that. but the blue roan--" "the blue roan'll pitch and bawl and swap ends on yuh and raise hell all around, but he can be rode. that festive bunch up in the reserve seats'll think it's awful, and that the hs sorrel is a lady's hoss alongside him, but a real rider can wear him out. but that sorrel--when yuh think yuh got him beat, billy, is when yuh want to watch out!" billy turned his face away from a rolling dustcloud that came down the home stretch with the pacers, and looked curiously at andy. twice he started to speak and did not finish. then: "a man can be a sure-enough rider, and get careless and let a horse pile him off him when he ain't looking, just because he knows he can ride that horse," he said with a certain diffidence. "by gracious, yes!" andy assented emphatically. and that was the nearest they came to discussing a delicate matter which was in the minds of both. andy was growing more at ease and feeling more optimistic every minute. three men still believed in him, which was much. also, the crowd could not flurry him as it did some of the others who were not accustomed to so great an audience; rather, it acted as a tonic and brought back the poise, the easy self-confidence which had belonged to one andré de gréno, champion bareback rider. so that, when the rough-riding began, andy's nerves were placidly asleep. at the corral in the infield, where the horses and men were foregathered, andy met slim and happy jack; but beyond his curt "hello" and an amazed "well, by golly!" from slim, no words passed. across the corral he glimpsed some of the others--pink and weary, and farther along, cal emmett and jack bates; but they made no sign if they saw him, and he did not go near them. he did not know when his turn would come to ride, and he had a horse to saddle at the command of the powers that were. coleman, the man who had collected the horses, almost ran over him. he said "hello, green," and passed on, for his haste was great. horse after horse was saddled and led perforce out into the open of the infield; man after man mounted, with more or less trouble, and rode to triumph or defeat. billy roberts was given a white-eyed little bay, and did some great riding. the shouts and applause from the grand stand rolled out to them in a great wave of sound. billy mastered the brute and rode him back to the corral white-faced and with beads of sweat standing thick on his forehead. "it ain't going to be such damn' easy money--that two hundred," he confided pantingly to andy, who stood near. "the fellow that gets it will sure have to earn it." andy nodded and moved out where he could get a better view. then coleman came and informed him hurriedly that he came next, and andy went back to his place. the horse he was to ride he had never seen before that day. he was a long-legged brown, with scanty mane and a wicked, rolling eye. he looked capable of almost any deviltry, but andy did not give much time to speculating upon what he would try to do. he was still all eyes to the infield where his predecessor was gyrating. then a sudden jump loosened him so that he grabbed the horn--and it was all over with that particular applicant, so far as the purse and the championship belt were concerned. he was out of the contest, and presently he was also back at the corral, explaining volubly--and uselessly--just how it came about. he appeared to have a very good reason for "pulling leather," but andy was not listening and only thought absently that the fellow was a fool to make a talk for himself. andy was clutching the stirrup and watching a chance to put his toe into it, and the tall brown horse was circling backwards with occasional little side-jumps. when it was quite clear that the horse did not mean to be mounted, andy reached out his hand, got a rope from somebody--he did not know who, though, as a matter of fact, it was pink who gave it--and snared a front foot; presently the brown was standing upon three legs instead of four, and the gaping populace wondered how it was done, and craned necks to see. after that, though the horse still circled backwards, andy got the stirrup and put his toe in it and went up so easily that the ignorant might think anybody could do it. he dropped the rope and saw that it was pink who picked it up. the brown at first did nothing at all. then he gave a spring straight ahead and ran fifty yards or so, stopped and began to pitch. three jumps and he ran again; stopped and reared. it was very pretty to look at, but happy jack could have ridden him, or slim, or any other range rider. in two minutes the brown was sulking, and it took severe spurring to bring him back to the corral. pitch he would not. the crowd applauded, but andy felt cheated and looked as he felt. pink edged toward him, but andy was not in the mood for reconciliation and kept out of his way. others of the happy family came near, at divers times and places, as if they would have speech with him, but he thought he knew about what they would say, and so was careful not to give them a chance. when the excitement was all over for that day he got his despised hired horse and went back to town with billy roberts, because it was good to have a friend and because they wanted to talk about the riding. billy did not tell andy, either, that he had had hard work getting away from his own crowd; for billy was kind-hearted and had heard a good deal, because he had been talking with happy jack. his sympathy was not with the happy family, either. on the second afternoon, such is effect of rigid winnowing, there were but nine men to ride. the fellow who had grabbed the saddle horn, together with ten others, stood among the spectators and made caustic remarks about the management, the horses, the nine who were left and the whole business in general. andy grinned a little and wondered if he would stand among them on the morrow and make remarks. he was not worrying about it, though. he said hello to weary, pink and cal emmett, and saddled a kicking, striking brute from up sweetgrass way. on this day the horses were wickeder, and one man came near getting his neck broken. as it was, his collar-bone snapped and he was carried off the infield on a stretcher and hurried to the hospital; which did not tend to make the other riders feel more cheerful. andy noted that it was the hs sorrel which did the mischief, and glanced meaningly across at billy roberts. then it was his turn with the striking, kicking gray, and he mounted and prepared for what might come. the gray was an artist in his line, and pitched "high, wide and crooked" in the most approved fashion. but andy, being also an artist of a sort, rode easily and with a grace that brought much hand-clapping from the crowd. only the initiated reserved their praise till further trial; for though the gray was not to say gentle, and though it took skill to ride him, there were a dozen, probably twice as many, men in the crowd who could have done as well. the happy family, drawn together from habit and because they could speak their minds more freely, discussed andy gravely among themselves. betting was growing brisk, and if their faith had not been so shaken they could have got long odds on andy. "i betche he don't win out," happy jack insisted with characteristic gloom. "yuh wait till he goes up agin that blue roan. they're savin' that roan till the las' day--and i betche andy'll git him. if he hangs on till the las' day." happy jack laughed ironically as he made the provision. "any you fellows got money yuh want to put up on this deal?" came the voice of andy behind them. they turned, a bit shamefaced, toward him. "aw, i betche--" began happy. "that's what i'm here for," cut in andy. "what i've got goes up--saddle, spurs--_all_ i've got. you've done a lot uh mourning, now here's a chance to break even on _me_. speak up." the happy family hesitated. "i guess i'll stay out," dimpled pink. "i don't just savvy your play, andy, and if i lose on yuh--why, it won't be the first time i ever went broke." "well, by golly, _i'll_ take a chance," bellowed slim, whose voice was ever pitched to carry long distances in a high wind. "i'll bet yuh fifty dollars yuh don't pull down that belt or purse. by golly, there's two or three men here that can _ride_." "there's only one that'll be the real star," smiled andy with unashamed egotism. "happy, how rich do _you_ want to get off me?" happy said a good deal and "betche" several things would happen--things utterly inconsistent with one another. in the end, andy pinned him down to twenty dollars against andy's silver-mounted spurs--which was almost a third more than the spurs were worth; but andy had no sympathy for happy jack and stuck to the price doggedly until happy gave in. jack bates advertised his lack of faith in andy ten dollars worth, and cal emmett did the same. irish, coming in on the afternoon train and drifting instinctively to the vicinity of the happy family, cursed them all impartially for a bunch of quitters, slapped andy on the back and with characteristic impetuosity offered a hundred dollars to anybody who dared take him up, that andy would win. and this after he had heard the tale of the blue roan and before they told him about the two rides already made in the contest. it is true that happy jack endeavored to expostulate, but irish glared at him in a way to make happy squirm and stammer incoherently. "i've heard all about it," irish cut in, "and i don't have to hear any more. i know a rider when i see one, and my money's on andy from start to finish. you make me sick. weary, have _you_ gone against our man?" the tone was a challenge in itself. weary grinned goodnaturedly. "i haven't pulled down any bets," he answered mildly, "and i haven't put up my last cent and don't intend to. i'm an engaged young man." he shrugged his shoulders to point the moral. "i sure do hope andy'll win out," he added simply. "_hope_? why, damn it, yuh _know_ he'll win!" stormed irish. men in their vicinity caught the belligerence of the tone and turned about, thinking there was trouble, and the happy family subsided into quieter discussion. in the end irish, discovering that andy had for the time being forsworn the shelter of the flying u tents, stuck by him loyally and forswore it also, and went with andy to share the doubtful comfort of the obscure lodging house. for irish was all or nothing, and to find the happy family publicly opposed--or at most neutral--to a flying u man in a rough-riding contest like this, incensed him much. the happy family began to feel less sure of themselves and a bit ashamed--though of just what, they were not quite clear, for surely they had reason a-plenty for doubting andy green. the last day found the happy family divided against itself and growing a bit venomous in its remarks. andy had not as yet done anything remarkable, except perhaps keep in the running when the twenty had been culled to three: billy roberts, andy and a man from the yellowstone valley, called gopher by his acquaintances. accident and untoward circumstances had thrown out the others--good riders all of them, or they would not have been there. happy jack proclaimed loudly in camp that andy was still in because andy had not had a real bad horse. "i seen coleman looking over the blue roan and talkin' to them guys that runs things; they're goin' t' put andy on him t-day, i betche--and we seen how he can _ride_ him! piled in a heap--" "not exactly," pink interrupted. "i seem to remember andy lighting on his feet; and he was smoking when he started, and smoking when he quit. it didn't strike me at the time, but that's kinda funny, don't yuh think?" so pink went back to his first faith, and the happy family straightway became loud and excited over the question of whether andy did really light upon his feet, or jumped up immediately, and whether he kept his cigarette or made a new one. the discussion carried them to the fair grounds and remained just where it started, so far as any amicable decision was concerned. now this is a fair and true report of that last day's riding: there being but the three riders, and the excitement growing apace, the rough-riding was put first on the program and men struggled for the best places and the best view of the infield. in the beginning, andy drew the hs sorrel and billy roberts the blue roan. gopher, the yellowstone man, got a sulky little buckskin that refused to add one whit to the excitement, so that he was put back and another one brought. this other proved to be the wicked-eyed brown which andy had ridden the first day. only this day the brown was in different mood and pitched so viciously that gopher lost control in the rapid-fire changes, and rode wild, being all over the horse and everywhere but on the ground. he did not pull leather, however though he was accused by some of riding on his spurs at the last. at any rate, andy and billy roberts felt that the belt lay between themselves, and admitted as much privately. "you've sure got to ride like a wild man if yuh beat me to it," grinned billy. "by gracious, i'm after it like a wolf myself," andy retorted. "yuh know how i'm fixed--i've just got to have it, bill." billy, going out to ride, made no reply except a meaning head-shake. and billy certainly rode, that day; for the blue roan did his worst and his best. to describe the performance, however, would be to invent many words to supply a dearth in the language. billy rode the blue roan back to the corral, and he had broken none of the stringent rules of the contest--which is saying much for billy. when andy went out--shot out, one might say--on the sorrel, the happy family considered him already beaten because of the remarkable riding of billy. when the sorrel began pitching the gaping populace, grown wise overnight in these things, said that he was _e-a-s-y_--which he was not. he fought as some men fight; with brain as well as muscle, cunningly, malignantly. he would stop and stand perfectly still for a few seconds, and then spring viciously whichever way would seem to him most unexpected; for he was not bucking from fright as most horses do but because he hated men and would do them injury if he could. when the crowd thought him worn out, so that he stood with head drooping all that andy would permit, then it was that andy grew most wary. it was as he had said. of a sudden, straight into the air leaped the sorrel, reared and went backward in a flash of red. but as he went, his rider slipped to one side, and when he struck the ground andy struck also--on his feet. "get up, darn yuh," he muttered, and when the sorrel gathered himself together and jumped up, he was much surprised to find andy in the saddle again. then it was that the hs sorrel went mad and pitched as he had never, even when building his record, pitched before. then it was that andy, his own temper a bit roughened by the murderous brute, rode as he had not ridden for many a day; down in the saddle, his quirt keeping time with the jumps. he was just settling himself to "drag it out of him proper," when one of the judges, on horseback in the field, threw up his hand. "get off!" he shouted, galloping closer. "that horse's got to be rode again to-day. you've done enough this time." so andy, watching his chance, jumped off when the sorrel stopped for a few seconds of breath, and left him unconquered and more murderous than ever. a man with a megaphone was announcing that the contest was yet undecided, and that green and roberts would ride again later in the afternoon. andy passed the happy family head in air, stopped a minute to exchange facetious threats with billy roberts, and went with irish to roost upon the fence near the judge's stand to watch the races. the happy family kept sedulously away from the two and tried to grow interested in other things until the final test. it came, when billy roberts, again first, mounted the hs sorrel, still in murderous mood and but little the worse for his previous battle. what he had done with andy he repeated, and added much venom to the repetition. again he threw himself backward, which billy expected and so got clear and remounted as he scrambled up. after that, the sorrel simply pitched so hard and so fast that he loosened billy a bit; not much, but enough to "show daylight" between rider and saddle for two or three high, crooked jumps. one stirrup he lost, rode a jump without it and by good luck regained it as it flew against his foot. it was great riding, and a gratifying roar of applause swept out to him when it was over. andy, saddling the blue roan, drew a long breath. this one ride would tell the tale, and he was human enough to feel a nervous strain such as had not before assailed him. it was so close, now! and it might soon be so far. a bit of bad luck such as may come to any man, however great his skill, and the belt would go to billy. but not for long could doubt or questioning hold andy green. he led the weaver out himself, and instinctively he felt that the horse remembered him and would try all that was in him. also, he was somehow convinced that the blue roan held much in reserve, and that it would be a great fight between them for mastery. when he gathered up the reins, the roan eyed him wickedly sidelong and tightened his muscles, as it were, for the struggle. andy turned the stirrup, put in his toe, and went up in a flash, warned by something in the blue roan's watchful eye. like a flash the blue roan also went up--but andy had been a fraction of a second quicker. there was a squeal that carried to the grand stand as the weaver, wild-eyed and with red flaring nostrils, pounded the wind-baked sod with high, bone-racking jumps; changed and took to "weaving" till one wondered how he kept his footing--more particularly, how andy contrived to sit there, loose-reined, firm-seated, riding easily. the roan, tiring of that, began "swapping ends" furiously and so fast one could scarce follow his jumps. andy, with a whoop of pure defiance, yanked off his hat and beat the roan over the head with it, yelling taunting words and contemptuous; and for every shout the weaver bucked harder and higher, bawling like a new-weaned calf. men who knew good riding when they saw it went silly and yelled and yelled. those who did not know anything about it caught the infection and roared. the judges galloped about, backing away from the living whirlwind and yelling with the rest. came a lull when the roan stood still because he lacked breath to continue, and the judges shouted an uneven chorus. "get down--the belt's yours"--or words to that effect. it was unofficial, that verdict, but it was unanimous and voiced with enthusiasm. andy turned his head and smiled acknowledgment. "all right--but wait till i tame this hoss proper! him and i've got a point to settle!" he dug in his spurs and again the battle raged, and again the crowd, not having heard the unofficial decision, howled and yelled approval of the spectacle. not till the roan gave up completely and owned obedience to rein and voiced command, did andy take further thought of the reward. he satisfied himself beyond doubt that he was master and that the weaver recognized him as such. he wheeled and turned, "cutting out" an imaginary animal from an imaginary herd; he loped and he walked, stopped dead still in two jumps and started in one. he leaned and ran his gloved hand forgivingly along the slatey blue neck, reached farther and pulled facetiously the roan's ears, and the roan meekly permitted the liberties. he half turned in the saddle and slapped the plump hips, and the weaver never moved. "why, you're an all-right little hoss!" praised andy, slapping again and again. the decision was being bellowed from the megaphone and andy, hearing it thus officially, trotted over to where a man was holding out the belt that proclaimed him champion of the state. andy reached out a hand for the belt, buckled it around his middle and saluted the grand stand as he used to do from the circus ring when one andré de grenó had performed his most difficult feat. the happy family crowded up, shamefaced and manfully willing to own themselves wrong. "we're down and ready to be walked on by the champion," weary announced quizzically. "mama mine! but yuh sure can ride." andy looked at them, grinned and did an exceedingly foolish thing, just to humiliate happy jack, who, he afterwards said, still looked unconvinced. he coolly got upon his feet in the saddle, stood so while he saluted the happy family mockingly, lighted the cigarette he had just rolled, then, with another derisive salute, turned a double somersault in the air and lighted upon his feet--and the roan did nothing more belligerent than to turn his head and eye andy suspiciously. "by gracious, maybe you fellows'll some day own up yuh don't know it all!" he cried, and led the weaver back into the corral and away from the whooping maniacs across the track. * * * * * andy, the liar andy green licked a cigarette into shape the while he watched with unfriendly eyes the shambling departure of their guest. "i believe the darned old reprobate was lyin' to us," he remarked, when the horseman disappeared into a coulee. "you sure ought to be qualified to recognize the symptoms," grunted cal emmett, kicking his foot out of somebody's carelessly coiled rope on the ground. "that your rope, happy? no wonder you're always on the bum for one. if you'd try tying it on your saddle--" "aw, g'wan. that there's andy's rope--" "if you look at my saddle, you'll find my rope right where it belongs," andy retorted. "i ain't sheepherder enough to leave it kicking around under foot. that rope belongs to his nibs that just rode off. when he caught up his horse again after dinner, he throwed his rope down while he saddled up, and then went off and forgot it. he wasn't easy in his mind--that jasper wasn't. i don't go very high on that hard-luck tale he told. i know the boy he had wolfing with him last winter, and he wasn't the kind to pull out with all the stuff he could get his hands on. he was an all-right fellow, and if there's been any rusty work done down there in the breaks, this shifty-eyed mark done it. he was lying--" somebody laughed suddenly, and another chuckle helped to point the joke, until the whole outfit was in an uproar; for of all the men who had slept under flying-u tents and eaten beside the mess-wagon, andy green was conceded to be the greatest, the most shameless and wholly incorrigible liar of the lot. "aw, yuh don't want to get jealous of an old stiff like that," pink soothed musically. "there ain't one of us but what knows you could lie faster and farther and more of it in a minute, with your tongue half-hitched around your palate and the deaf-and-dumb language barred, than any three men in chouteau county. don't let it worry yuh, andy." "i ain't letting it worry me," said andy, getting a bit red with trying not to show that the shot hit him. "when my imagination gets to soaring, i'm willing to bet all i got that it can fly higher than the rest of you, that have got brains about on a par with a sage-hen, can follow. when i let my fancy soar, i take notice the rest of yuh like to set in the front row, all right--and yuh never, to my knowledge, called it a punk show when the curtain rung down; yuh always got the worth uh your money, and then some. "but if yuh'd taken notice of the load that old freak was trying to throw into the bunch, you'd suspicion there was something scaley about it; there was, all right. i'd gamble on it." "from the symptoms," spoke weary mildly, rising to an elbow, "andy's about to erupt one of those wide, hot, rushing streams of melted imagination that bursts forth from his think-works ever so often. don't get us all worked up over it, andy; what's it going to be this time? a murder in the bad-lands?" andy clicked his teeth together, thought better of his ill-humor and made reply, though he had intended to remain dignifiedly silent. "yuh rung the bell, m'son--but it ain't any josh. by gracious, i mean it!" he glared at those who gurgled incredulously, and went on: "no, sir, you bet it ain't any josh with me _this_ time. that old gazabo had something heavy on his conscience--and knowing the fellow he had reference to, i sure believe he lied a whole lot when he said dan pulled out with all the stuff they'd got together, and went down river. maybe he went down river, all right--but if he did, it was most likely to be face-down. dan was as honest a boy as there is in the country, and he had money on him that he got mining down in the little rockies last summer. i know, because he showed me the stuff last fall when i met him in benton, and he was fixing to winter with this fellow that just left. "dan was kinda queer about some things, and one of 'em was about money. it never made any difference how much or how little he had, he always packed it in his clothes; said a bank had busted on him once and left him broke in the middle uh winter, and he wasn't going to let it happen again. he never gambled none, nor blowed his money any farther than a couple uh glasses uh beer once in a while. he was one uh these saving cusses--but he was honest; i know that for a fact. "so he had all this money on him, and went down there with this jasper, that he'd got in with somehow and didn't know much about, and they wolfed all winter, according to all accounts, and must uh made quite a stake, the way the bounty runs up, these days. and here comes this darned siwash, hiking out uh there fast as he can--and if he hadn't run slap onto us at this crossing, i'll gamble he'd never uh showed up at camp at all, but kept right on going. we didn't ask him no questions, did we? but he goes to all the pains uh telling us his tale uh woe, about how dan had robbed him and pulled out down river. "if that was the case, wouldn't he be apt to hike out after him and try and get back his stuff? and wouldn't--" "how much money did this friend uh yours have?" queried jack bates innocently. "well, when i seen him in benton, he had somewhere between six and seven hundred dollars. he got it all changed into fifty-dollar bills--" "oh, golly!" jack bates rolled over in disgust. "andy's losing his grip. why, darn yuh, if you was in a normal, lying condition, you'd make it ten thousand, at the lowest--and i've seen the time when you'd uh said fifty thousand; and you'd uh made us swallow the load, too! buck up and do a good stunt, andy, or else keep still. why, happy jack could tell that big a lie!" "aw, gwan!" happy jack rose up to avenge the insult. "yuh needn't compare me to andy green. i ain't a liar, and i can lick the darned son-of-a-gun that calls me one. i ain't, and yuh can't say i am, unless yuh lie worse'n andy." "calm down," urged weary pacifically. "jack said yuh _could_ lie; he didn't say--" "by gracious, you'd think i was necked up with a whole bunch uh george washingtons!" growled andy, half-indignantly. "and what gets me is, that i tell the truth as often as anybody in the outfit; oftener than some i could mention. but that ain't the point. i'm telling the truth now, when i say somebody ought to hike down to their camp and see what this old skunk has done with dan. i'd bet money you'd find him sunk in the river, or cached under a cut-bank, or something like that. if he'd kept his face closed i wouldn't uh give it a second thought, but the more i think uh the story he put up, the more i believe there's something wrong. he's made way with dan somehow, and--" "yes. sure thing," drawled pink wickedly. "let's organize a searching party and go down there and investigate. it's only about a three or four days' trip, through the roughest country the lord ever stood on end to cool and then forgot till it crumpled down in spots and got set that way, so he just left it go and mixed fresh mud for the job he was working on. andy'd lead us down there, and we'd find--" "his friend dan buried in a tomato can, maybe," supplied jack bates. "by golly, i'll bet yuh _could_ put friend dan into one," slim burst out. "by golly, _i_ never met up with no dan that packed fifty-dollar bills around in his gun-pocket--" "andy's telling the truth. he says so," reproved weary. "and when andy says a thing is the truth, yuh always know--" "it ain't." cal emmett finished the sentence, but weary paid no attention. "--what to expect. cadwolloper's right, and we ought to go down there and make a hunt for friend dan and his fifty-dollar bills. how many were there, did yuh say?" "you go to the devil," snapped andy, getting up determinedly. "yuh bite quick enough when anybody throws a load at yuh that would choke a rhinoscerous, but plain truth seems to be too much for the weak heads of yuh. i guess i'll have to turn loose and _lie_, so yuh'll listen to me. there _is_ something crooked about this deal--" "we all thought it sounded that way," weary remarked mildly. "and if yuh did go down to where them two wintered, you'd find out i'm right. but yuh won't, and that old cutthroat will get off with the murder--and the money." "don't he lie natural?" queried jack bates solemnly. that was too much. andy glared angrily at the group, picked up the wolfer's rope, turned on his heel and walked off to where his horse was tied; got on him and rode away without once looking back, though he knew quite well that they were watching every move he made. it did not help to smooth his temper that the sound of much laughing followed him as he swung into the trail taken by the man who had left not long before. where he went, that afternoon when for some reason sufficient for the foreman--who was chip bennett--the flying u roundup crew lay luxuriously snoring in the shade instead of riding hurriedly and hotly the high divides, no one but andy himself knew. they talked about him after he left, and told one another how great a liar he was, and how he couldn't help it because he was born that way, and how you could hardly help believing him. they recalled joyously certain of his fabrications that had passed into the history of the flying u, and wondered what josh he was trying to spring this time. "what we ought to do," advised cal, "is to lead him on and let him lie his darndest, and make out we believe him. and then we can give him the laugh good and plenty--and maybe cure him." "cure nothing!" exclaimed jack bates, getting up because the sun had discovered him, and going over to the mess-wagon where a bit of shade had been left unoccupied. "about the only way to cure andy of lying, is to kill him. he was working his way up to some big josh, and if yuh let him alone you'll find out what it is, all right. i wouldn't worry none about it, if i was you." to prove that he did not worry, jack immediately went to sleep. such being the attitude of the happy family, when andy rode hurriedly into camp at sundown, his horse wet to the tips of his ears with sweat, they sat up, expectancy writ large upon their faces. no one said anything, however, while andy unsaddled and came over to beg a belated supper from the cook; nor yet while he squatted on his heels beside the cook-tent and ate hungrily. he seemed somewhat absorbed in his thoughts, and they decided mentally that andy was a sure-enough good actor, and that if they were not dead next to him and his particular weakness, they would swallow his yarn whole--whatever it was. a blood-red glow was in the sky to the west, and it lighted andy's face queerly, like a vivid blush on the face of a girl. andy scraped his plate thoughtfully with his knife, looked into his coffee-cup, stirred the dregs absently and dipped out half a spoonful of undissolved sugar, which he swallowed meditatively. he tossed plate, cup and spoon toward the dishpan, sent knife and fork after them and got out his smoking material. and the happy family, grouped rather closely together and watching unobtrusively, stirred to the listening point. the liar was about to lie. "talk about a guilty conscience giving a man dead away," andy began, quite unconscious of the mental attitude of his fellows, and forgetting also his anger of the afternoon, "it sure does work out like that, sometimes. i followed that old devil, just out uh curiosity, to see if he headed for dry lake like he said he was going. _we_ didn't have any reason for keeping cases on him, or suspicioning anything--but he acted like we was all out on his trail, the fool! "i kinda had a hunch that if he had been up to any deviltry, it would show on him when he left here, and i was plumb right about it. he went all straight enough till he got down into black coulee; and right there it looked like he got kinda panicky and suspicious, for he turned square off the trail and headed up the coulee." "he must uh had 'em," weary commented, quite as if he believed. "yuh wait till i'm through," andy advised, still wholly unconscious of their disbelief. "yuh was all kinda skeptical when i told yuh he had a guilty conscience, but i was right about it, and come mighty near laying out on the range to-night with my toes pointing straight up, just because you fellows wouldn't--" "sun-stroke?" asked pink, coming closer, his eyes showing purple in the softened light. "no--yuh wait, now, till i tell yuh." whereupon andy smoked relishfully and in silence, and from the tail of his eye watched his audience squirm with impatience. "a man gets along a whole lot better without any conscience," he began at last, irrelevantly, "'specially if he wants to be mean. i trailed this jasper up the coulee and out on the bench, across that level strip between black coulee and dry spring gulch, and down the gulch a mile or so. he was fogging right along, and seemed as if he looked back every ten rods--i know he spotted me just as i struck the level at the head uh black coulee, because he acted different then. "i could see he was making across country for the trail to chinook, but i wanted to overhaul him and have a little casual talk about dan. i don't suppose yuh noticed i took his rope along; i wanted some excuse for hazing after him like that, yuh see." "uh course, such accommodating cusses as you wouldn't be none strange to him," fleered cal. "well, he never found out what i was after," sighed andy. "it wasn't my fault i didn't come up with him, and my intentions were peaceful and innocent. but do yuh know what happened? he got out uh sight down dry spring gulch--yuh know where that elephant-head rock sticks out, and the trail makes a short turn around it--that's where i lost sight of him. but he wasn't very far in the lead, and i was dead anxious to give him his rope, so i loped on down--" "you were taking long chances, old-timer; that's mighty rough going, along there," hinted chip, gravely. "sure, i was," andy agreed easily. "but yuh recollect, i was in a hurry. so i'd just rounded the elephant's head, when _bing!_ something spats the rock, just over my right shoulder, and my horse squatted down on his rump and said he'd gone far enough. i kinda felt the same way about it, so when he wheeled and humped himself back up the trail, i didn't argue none with him." there was silence so deep one could hear the saddle-bunch cropping the thick grasses along the creek. if this were true--this tale that andy was telling--the happy family, half tempted to believe, glanced furtively at one another. "aw, gwan!" it was the familiar, protesting croak of happy jack. "what did yuh turn tail for? why didn't yuh have it out with him?" the happy family drew a long breath, and the temptation to believe was pushed aside. "because my gun was rolled up in my bed," andy replied simply. "i ain't as brave as you are, happy. i ain't got the nerve to ride right up on a man that's scared plumb silly and pumping lead my way fast as he can work the lever on his rifle, and lick him with my fists till he howls, and then throw him and walk up and down his person and flap my wings and crow. it's awful to have to confess it, but i'm willing to run from any man that's shooting at me when i can't shoot back. i'd give a lot to be as brave as you are, happy." happy jack growled and subsided. "well, by golly, there's times when _we'd_ be justified in shooting yuh, but i don't see what _he'd_ want to do it for," objected slim. "guilty conscience, i told yuh," retorted andy. "he seen i was chasing him up, and i guess he thought it was somebody that had got next to what happened--lord, i wish i knew what did happen, down there in the breaks! boys," andy got up and stood looking earnestly down at them in the twilight, "you can't make me believe that there hasn't been a murder done! that fellow has been up to something, or he wouldn't be acting so damn' queer. and if it was just plain stealing, dan would sure be hot on his trail--because dan thought more of his money than most men do of their wives. it was about all he lived for, and he wasn't any coward. that old man never would get it off him without a big ruction, and if he did, dan would be right after him bigger'n a wolf. there's something wrong, you take my word." "what do yuh want us to do about it?" it was chip who asked the question, and his tone was quite calm and impersonal. andy looked at him reproachfully. "do? what is there to do, except go down there and see? if we can find that out, we can put the sheriff wise and let him do the rest. it sure does seem kinda tough, if a man can do a murder and robbery and get off with it, just because nobody cares enough about it to head him off." the happy family stirred uneasily. of course, it was all just a josh of andy's--but he was such a convincing liar! almost they felt guilty of criminal negligence that they did not at once saddle up and give chase to the murderer, who had tried to kill andy for following him, and who was headed for chinook after unnecessarily proclaiming himself bound for dry lake. "do you want the whole outfit to turn out?" asked chip calmly at last. "no-o--" "say, is it anywheres near that prehistoric castle you found once?" ping asked maliciously, unbelief getting strong hold of him again. andy turned toward him, scowling. "no, angel-child, it ain't," he snapped. "and you fellows can back up and snort all yuh darn please, and make idiots of yourselves. but yuh can't do any business making me out a hot-air peddler on _this_ deal. i stand pat, just where i stood at first, and it'll take a lot uh cackling to make me back down. that old devil _did_ lie about dan, and he did take a shot at me--" "he took yuh for a horse-thief, most likely," explained jack bates. "he didn't need no field glass to see you was a suspicious character, by golly," chortled slim. "he thought yuh was after what little your friend dan had overlooked, chances is," added cal emmett. "did the fog roll down and hide the horrible sight?" asked jack bates. that, and much more, brought about a distinct coldness between the happy family and one andy green, so that the sun went down upon andy's wrath, and rose to find it still bubbling hotly in the outraged heart of him. it was jack bates who precipitated an open war by singing an adapted version of "massa's in the cold, cold ground," just when they were eating breakfast. as an alleged musical effort it was bad enough, but as a personal insult it was worse. one hesitates to repeat the doggerel, even in an effort to be exact. however, the chorus, bellowed shamelessly by jack, was this: "down in the bad-lands, hear that awful sound. andy green is there a-weeping--" jack bates got no further than that, for andy first threw his plate at jack and then landed upon him with much force and venom, so that jack went backwards and waved long legs convulsively in the air, and the happy family stood around and howled their appreciation of the spectacle. when it dawned upon them that andy was very much in earnest, and that his fist was landing with unpleasant frequency just where it was most painful to receive it, they separated the two by main strength and argued loudly for peace. but andy was thoroughly roused and would have none of it, and hurled at them profanity and insulting epithets, so that more than jack bates looked upon him with unfriendly eyes and said things which were not calculated to smooth roughened tempers. "that's a-plenty, now," quelled chip, laying detaining hand upon the nearest, who happened to be andy himself. "you sound like a bunch of old women. what do you want to do the worst and quickest, andy?--and i don't mean killing off any of these alleged joshers, either." andy clicked his teeth together, swallowed hard and slowly unclenched his hands and grinned; but the grin was not altogether a pleasant one, and the light of battle still shone in the big, gray eyes of him. "you're the boss," he said, "but if yuh don't like my plans you'll just have one less to pay wages to. what i'm going to do is throw my saddle on my private horse and ride down into the bad-lands and see for myself how the cards lay. maybe it's awful funny to the rest of yuh, but i'm takin' it kinda serious, myself, and i'm going to find out how about it before i'm through. i can't seem to think it's a josh when some old mark makes a play like that fellow did, and tries to put a bullet into my carcass for riding the same trail he took. it's me for the bad-lands--and you can think what yuh damn' please about it." chip stood quite still till he was through, and eyed him sharply. "you better take old buck to pack your blankets and grub," he told him, in a matter-of-fact tone. "we'll be swinging down that way in two or three days; by next saturday you'll find us camped at the mouth of jump-off coulee, if nothing happens. that'll give you four days to prowl around. come on, boys--we've got a big circle ahead of us this morning, and it's going to be hot enough to singe the tails off our cayuses by noon." that, of course, settled the disturbance and set the official seal of approval upon andy's going; for chip was too wise to permit the affair to grow serious, and perhaps lose a man as good as andy; family quarrels had not been entirely unknown among the boys of the flying u, and with tact they never had been more than a passing unpleasantness. so that, although jack bates swore vengeance and nursed sundry bruised spots on his face, and though andy saddled, packed old buck with his blankets and meager camp outfit and rode off sullenly with no word to anyone and only a scowling glance or two for farewell, chip mounted and rode cheerfully away at the head of his happy family, worrying not at all over the outcome. "i've got half a notion that andy was telling the truth, after all," he remarked to weary when they were well away from camp. "it's worth taking a chance on, anyhow--and when he comes back things will be smooth again." when saturday came and brought no andy to camp, the happy family began to speculate upon his absence. when sunday's circle took them within twelve or fifteen miles of the camp in the bad-lands, pink suddenly proposed that they ride down there and see what was going on. "he won't be looking for us," he explained, to hide a secret uneasiness. "and if he's there we can find out what the josh is. if he ain't, we'll have it on him good and strong." "i betche andy just wanted a lay-off, and took that way uh getting it," declared happy jack pessimistically. "i betche he's in town right now, tearing things wide open and tickled to think he don't have to ride in this hot sun. yuh can't never tell what andy's got cached up his sleeve." "chip thinks he was talking on the level," weary mused. "maybe he was; as happy says, yuh can't tell." as always before, this brought the happy family to argument which lasted till they neared the deep, lonely coulee where, according to andy, "friend dan" had wintered with the shifty-eyed old man. "now, how the mischief do we get down?" questioned jack bates complainingly. "this is bound to be the right place--there's the cabin over there against the cottonwoods." "aw, come on back," urged happy jack, viewing the steep bluff with disfavor. "chances is, andy's in town right now. he ain't down--" "there's old buck, over there by the creek," pink announced. "i'd know him far as i could see him. let's ride around that way. there's sure to be a trail down." he started off, and they followed him dispiritedly, for the heat was something to remember afterwards with a shudder. "here's the place," pink called back to them, after some minutes of riding. "andy's horse is down there, too, but i don't see andy--" "chances is--" began happy jack, but found no one listening. it would be impossible to ride down, so they dismounted and prepared for the scramble. they could see buck, packed as if for the homeward trail, and they could see andy's horse, saddled and feeding with reins dragging. he looked up at them and whinnied, and the sound but accentuated the loneliness of the place. buck, too, saw them and came toward them, whinnying wistfully; but, though they strained eyes in every direction, they could see nothing of the man they sought. it was significant of their apprehension that not even happy jack made open comment upon the strangeness of it. instead, they dug bootheels deep where the slope was loose gravel, and watched that their horses did not slide down upon them; climbed over rocks where the way was barred, and prayed that horse and man might not break a leg. they had been over rough spots, and had climbed in and out of deep coulees, but never had they travelled a rougher trail than that. "my god! boys, look down there!" pink cried, when yet fifty perpendicular feet lay between them and the level below. they looked, and drew breath sharply. huddled at the very foot of the last and worst slope lay andy, and they needed no words to explain what had happened. it was evident that he had started to climb the bluff and had slipped and fallen to the bottom, and from the way he was lying--the happy family shut out the horror of the thought and hurried recklessly to the place. it was pink who, with a last slide and a stumbling recovery at the bottom, reached him first. it was jack bates who came a close second and helped to turn him--for he had fallen partly on his face. from the way one arm was crumpled back under him, they knew it to be broken. further than that they could only guess and hope. while they were feeling for heart-beats, the others came down and crowded close. pink looked up at them strainedly. "oh, for god's sake, some of yuh get water," he cried sharply. "what good do yuh think you're doing, just standing around?" "we ought to be hung for letting him come down here alone," weary repented. "it ain't safe for one man in this cursed country. where's he hurt, cadwolloper?" "how in hell do _i_ know?" anxiety ever sharpened the tongue of pink. "if somebody'd bring some water--" "happy's gone. and there ain't a drop uh whisky in the crowd! can't we get him into the shade? this damned sun is enough to--" "look out how yuh lift him, man! you ain't wrassling a calf, remember! you take his shoulder, jack--_easy_, yuh damned, awkward--" "here comes happy, with his hat full. don't slosh it all on at once! a little at a time's better. get some on his head." so with much incoherence and with everybody giving orders and each acting independently, they bore him tenderly into the shade of a rock and worked over him feverishly, their faces paler than his. when he opened his eyes and stared at them dully, they could have shouted for very relief. when he closed them again they bent over him solicitously and dripped more water from the hat of happy jack. and not one of them but remembered remorsefully the things they had said of him, not an hour before; the things they had said even when he was lying there alone and hurt--hurt unto death, for all they knew. when he was roused enough to groan when they moved him, however gently, they began to consider the problem of getting him to camp, and they cursed the long, hot miles that lay between. they tried to question him, but if he understood what they were saying he could not reply except by moaning, which was not good to hear. all that they could gather was that when they moved his body in a certain way the pain of it was unbearable. also, he would faint when his head was lowered, or even lifted above the level. they must guard against that if they meant to get him to camp alive. "we'll have to carry him up this cussed hill, and then--if he could ride at all, we might make it." "the chances is he'll die on the road," croaked happy jack tactlessly, and they scowled at him for voicing the fear they were trying to ignore. they had been trying not to think that he might die on the road, and they had been careful not to mention the possibility. as it was, no one answered. how they ever got him to the top of that heartbreaking slope, not one of them ever knew. twice he fainted outright. and happy jack, carefully bearing his hat full of water for just that emergency, slipped and spilled the whole of it just when they needed it most. at the last, it was as if they carried a dead man between them--jack bates and cal emmett it was who bore him up the last steep climb--and pink and weary, coming behind with all the horses, glanced fearfully into each other's eyes and dared not question. at the top they laid him down in the grass and swore at happy jack, because they must do something, and because they dared not face what might be before them. they avoided looking at one another while they stood helplessly beside the still figure of the man they had maligned. if he died, they would always have that bitter spot in their memory--and even with the fear of his dying they stood remorseful. of a sudden andy opened his eyes and looked at them with the light of recognition, and they bent eagerly toward him. "if--yuh could--on--my horse--i--i--could ride--maybe." much pain it cost him, they knew by the look on his face. but he was game to the last--just as they knew he would be. "yuh couldn't ride twister, yuh know yuh couldn't," pink objected gently. "but--if yuh could ride jack's horse--he's dead gentle, and we'd help hold yuh on. do you think yuh could?" andy moved his head uneasily. "i--i've got to," he retorted weakly, and even essayed a smile to reassure them. "i--ain't all--in yet," he added with an evident effort, and the happy family gulped sympathetically, and wondered secretly if they would have such nerve under like conditions. "it's going to be one hell of a trip for yuh," weary murmured commiseratingly, when they were lifting him into the saddle. of a truth, it did seem absolutely foolhardy to attempt it, but there was nothing else to do, unless they left him there. for no wagon could possibly be driven within miles of the place. andy leaned limply over the saddle-horn, his face working with the agony he suffered. somehow they had got him upon the horse of jack bates, but they had felt like torturers while they did it, and the perspiration on their faces was not all caused by heat. "my god, i'd rather be hung than go through this again," muttered cal, white under the tan. "i--" "i'll tackle--it now," gasped andy, with a pitiful attempt to sit straight in the saddle. "get on--boys--" reluctantly they started to obey, when the horse of jack bates gave a sudden leap ahead. many hands reached out to grasp him by the bridle, but they were a shade too late, and he started to run, with andy swaying in the saddle. while they gazed horrified, he straightened convulsively, turned his face toward them and raised a hand; caught his hat by the brim and swung it high above his head. "much obliged, boys," he yelled derisively. "i sure do appreciate being packed up that hill; it was too blamed hot to walk. say! if you'd gone around that bend, you'd uh found a good trail down. yuh struck about the worst place there is. so-long--i ain't all in yet!" he galloped away, while the happy family stared after him with bulging eyes. "the son-of-a-gun!" gasped weary weakly, and started for his horse. "darn yuh, you'll _be_ all in when we get hold of yuh!" screamed jack bates, and gave chase. it was when they were tearing headlong after him down the coulee's rim and into a shallow gully which seamed unexpectedly the level, that they saw his horse swerve suddenly and go bounding along the edge of the slope with andy "sawing" energetically upon the bit. "what trick's he up to now?" cried cal emmett resentfully, feeling that, in the light of what had gone before, andy could not possibly make a single motion in good faith. andy brought his horse under control and turned back to meet them, and the happy family watched him guardedly until they reached the gulley and their own horses took fright at a dark, shambling object that scuttled away down toward the coulee-head. andy was almost upon them before they could give him any attention. "did you see it?" he called excitedly. "it was a bear, and he was digging at something under that shelving rock. come on and let's take a look." "aw, gwan!" happy jack adjured crossly. he was thinking of all the water he had carried painstakingly in his hat, for the relief of this conscienceless young reprobate, and he was patently suspicious of some new trick. "well, by gracious!" andy rode quite close--dangerously close, considering the mood they were in--and eyed them queerly. "i sure must have a horrible rep, when yuh won't believe your own eyes just because i happen to remark that a bear is a bear. i'll call it a pinto hog, if it'll make yuh feel any better. and i'll say it wasn't doing any digging; only, i'm going down there and take a look. there's an odor--" there was, and they could not deny it, even though andy did make the assertion. and though they had threatened much that was exceedingly unpleasant, and what they would surely do to andy if they ever got him within reach, they followed him quite peaceably. they saw him get off his horse and stand looking down at something--and there was that in his attitude which made them jab spurs against their horses' flanks. a moment later they, too, were looking down at something, and they were not saying a word. "it's dan, all right," said andy at last, and his tone was hushed. "i hunted the coulee over--every foot of it--and looked up some of the little draws, and went along the river; but i couldn't find any trace of him. i never thought about coming up here. "look there. his head was smashed in with a rock or something--ugh! here, let me away, boys. this thing--" he walked uncertainly away and sat down upon a rock with his face in his hands, and what they could see of his face was as white as the tan would permit. somehow, not a man of them doubted him then. and not a man of them but felt much the same. they backed away and stood close to where andy was sitting. "you wouldn't believe me when i told yuh," he reproached, when the sickness had passed and he could lift his head and look at them. "you thought i was lying, and yuh made yourselves pretty blamed obnoxious to me--but i got even for _that_." there was much satisfaction in his tone, and the happy family squirmed. "yuh see, i was telling the truth, all right--and now i'm going to get even some more. i'm going to take--er--pink along for a witness, and notify the outfit that yuh won't be back for a day or two, and send word to the sheriff. and you jaspers can have the pleasure uh standing guard over--_that_." he shivered a little and turned his glance quickly away. "and i hope," he added maliciously, as he mounted his own horse, "you'll make jack bates stand an all-night guard by his high lonesome. he's sure got it coming to him!" with pink following close at his heels he rode away up the ridge. "say, there's grub enough on old buck to do yuh to-night," he called down to them, "in case chip don't send yuh any till to-morrow." he waved a subdued farewell and turned his face again up the ridge, and before they had quite decided what to do about it, he was gone. * * * * * "wolf! wolf!" andy green, of the flying u, loped over the grassy level and hummed a tune as he rode. the sun shone just warm enough to make a man feel that the world was good enough for him, and the wind was just a lazy, whispering element to keep the air from growing absolutely still and stagnant. there was blue sky with white, fluffy bits of cloud like torn cotton drifting as lazily as the wind, and there were meadow-larks singing and swaying, and slow-moving range cattle with their calves midway to weaning time. not often may one ride leisurely afar on so perfect a day, and while andy was a sunny-natured fellow at all times, on such a day he owned not a care. a mile farther, and he rode over a low shoulder of the butte he was passing, ambled down the long slope on the far side, crossed another rounded hill, followed down a dry creek-bed at the foot of it, sought with his eye for a practicable crossing and went headlong down a steep, twenty-foot bank; rattled the loose rocks in the dry, narrow channel and went forging up a bank steeper than the first, with creaking saddle-leather and grunting horse, and struck again easy going. "she slipped on me," he murmured easily, meaning the saddle. "i'm riding on your tail, just about; but i guess we can stand it the rest uh the why, all right." if he had not been so lazy and self-satisfied he would have stopped right there and reset the saddle. but if he had, he might have missed something which he liked to live over o' nights. he went up a gentle rise, riding slowly because of the saddle, passed over the ridge and went down another short slope. at the foot of the slope, cuddled against another hill, stood a low, sod-roofed cabin with rusty stove-pipe rising aslant from one corner. this was the spot he had been aiming for, and he neared it slowly. it was like a dozen other log cabins tucked away here and there among the foothills of the bear paws. it had an air of rakish hominess, as if it would be a fine, snuggy place in winter, when the snow and the wind swept the barren land around. in the summer, it stood open-doored and open-windowed, with all the litter of bachelor belongings scattered about or hanging from pegs on the wall outside. there was a faint trail of smoke from the rusty pipe, and it brought a grunt of satisfaction from andy. "he's home, all right. and if he don't throw together some uh them sour-dough biscuits uh his, there'll be something happen! hope the bean-pot's full. g'wan, yuh lazy old skate." he slapped the rein-ends lightly down the flanks of his horse and went at a trot around the end of the cabin. and there he was so utterly taken by surprise that he almost pulled his mount into a sitting posture. a young woman was stooping before the open door, and she was pouring something from a white earthen bowl into a battered tin pan. two waggle-tailed lambs--a black one and a white--were standing on their knees in their absorption, and were noisily drinking of the stuff as fast as it came within reach. andy had half a minute in which to gaze before the young woman looked up, said "oh!" in a breathless sort of way and retreated to the doorstep, where she stood regarding him inquiringly. andy, feeling his face go unreasonably red, lifted his hat. he knew that she was waiting for him to speak, but he could not well say any of the things he thought, and blurted out an utterly idiotic question. "what are yuh feeding 'em?" the girl looked down at the bowl in her hands and laughed a little. "rolled oats," she answered, "boiled very thin and with condensed cream added to taste. good morning." she seemed about to disappear, and that brought andy to his senses. he was not, as a rule, a bashful young man. "good morning. is--er--mr. johnson at home?" he came near saying "take-notice," but caught himself in time. take-notice johnson was what men called the man whom andy had ridden over to see upon a more or less trivial matter. "he isn't, but he will be back--if you care to wait." she spoke with a certain preciseness which might be natural or artificial, and she stood in the doorway with no symptoms of immediate disappearance. andy slid over a bit in the saddle, readjusted his hat so that its brim would shield his eyes from the sunlight, and prepared to be friendly. "oh, i'll wait," he said easily. "i've got all the time there is. would you mind if i smoked a cigarette?" "indeed, i was wishing you would," she told him, with surprising frankness. "i've so longed to see a dashing young cowboy roll a cigarette with deft, white fingers." andy, glancing at her startled, spilled much tobacco down the front of him, stopped to brush it away and let the lazy breeze snatch the tiny oblong of paper from between his unwatchful fingers. of course, she was joshing him, he thought uneasily, as he separated the leaves of his cigarette book by blowing gently upon them, and singled out another paper. "are yuh so new to the country that it's anything of a treat?" he asked guardedly. "yes, i'm new. i'm what you people call a pilgrim. don't you do it with one hand? i thought--oh, yes! you hold the reins between your firm, white teeth while you roll--" "lady, i never travelled with no show," andy protested mildly and untruthfully. _was_ she just joshing? or didn't she know any better? she looked sober as anything, but somehow her eyes kind of-- "you see, i know some things about you. those are chaps" (heavens! she called them the way they are spelled, without the soft sound of s!) "that you're wearing for--trousers" (andy blushed modestly. he was not wearing them "for trousers".), "and you've got jingling rowels at your heels, and those are taps--" "you're going to be shy a yard or two of calico if that black lamb-critter has his say-so," andy cut in remorselessly, and hastily made and lighted his cigarette while she was rescuing her blue calico skirt from the jaws of the black lamb and puckering her eyebrows over the chewed place. when her attention was once more given to him, he was smoking as unobtrusively as possible, and he was gazing at her with a good deal of speculative admiration. he looked hastily down at the lambs. "mary had _two_ little lambs," he murmured inanely. "they're not mine," she informed him, taking him seriously--or seeming to do so. andy had some trouble deciding just how much of her was sincere. "they were here when i came, and i can't take them back with me, so there's no use in claiming them. they'd be such a nuisance on the train--" "i reckon they would," andy agreed, "if yuh had far to go." "well, you can't call san jose _close_," she observed, meditatively. "it takes four days to come." "you're a long way from home. does it--are yuh homesick, ever?" andy was playing for information without asking directly how long she intended to stay--a question which had suddenly seemed quite important. also, why was she stopping here with take-notice johnson, away off from everybody? "seeing i've only been here four days, the novelty hasn't worn off yet," she replied. "but it does seem more like four weeks; and how i'll ever stand two months of it, not ever seeing a soul but father--" andy looked reproachful, and also glad. didn't she consider him a soul? and take-notice was her dad! to be sure, take-notice had never mentioned having a daughter, but then, in the range-land, men don't go around yawping their personal affairs. before take-notice returned, andy felt that he had accomplished much. he had learned that the young woman's name really was mary, and that she was a stenographer in a real-estate office in san jose, where her mother lived; that the confinement of office-work had threatened her with pulmonary tuberculosis (andy failed, at the moment, to recognize the disease which had once threatened him also, and wondered vaguely) and that the doctor had advised her coming to montana for a couple of months; that she had written to her father (it seemed queer to have anyone speak of old take-notice as "father") and that he had told her to "come a-running." she told andy that she had not seen her father for five years (andy knew that take-notice had disappeared for a whole winter, about that long ago, and that no one had discovered where he went) because he and her mother were "not congenial." he had dismounted, at her invitation, and had gone clanking to the doorstep and sat down--giving a furtive kick now and then at the black lamb, which developed a fondness for the leathern fringe on his chaps--and had eaten an orange which she had brought in her trunk all the way from san jose, and which she had picked from a tree which stood by her mother's front gate. he had nibbled a ripe olive--eating it with what andy himself would term "long teeth"--and had tried hard not to show how vile he found it. he had inspected two star-fishes which she had found last fourth-of-july at monterey and had dried; and had crumpled a withered leaf of bay in his hands and had smelled and nearly sneezed his head off; and had cracked and eaten four walnuts--also gathered from her mother's yard--and three almonds from the same source, and had stared admiringly at a note-book filled with funny marks which she called shorthand. between-whiles andy had told her his name and the name of the outfit he worked for; had explained what he meant by "outfit," and had drawn a large u in the dirt to show her what a flying u was, and had wanted to murder the black lamb which kept getting in his way and trying to eat the stick andy used for a pencil; had confessed that he did sometimes play cards for money, as do the cowboys in western stories, but assured her that he had never killed off any of his friends during any little disagreement. he had owned to drinking a glass of whisky now and then, but declared that it was only for snake bite and did not happen oftener than once in six months or so. yes, he had often had rattlers in his bed, but not to hurt. this is where he began to inspect the star-fishes, and so turned the conversation safely back to california and himself away from the temptation to revel in fiction. all of which took time, so that take-notice came before they quite felt a longing for his presence; and though the sun shone straight in the cabin door and so proved that it was full noon, there was no fire left in the stove and nothing in sight that was eatable save another ripe olive--which andy had politely declined--and two more almonds and an orange. a stenographer, with a fluffy pompadour that dipped distractingly at one side, and a gold watch suspended around the neck like a locket, and with sleeves that came no farther than the elbow and heels higher than any riding boot andy ever owned in his life, and with teeth that were very white and showed a glint of gold here and there, and eyes that looked at one with insincere gravity, and fingers with nails that shone--fingers that pinched red lips together meditatively--a stenographer who has all these entrancing attributes, andy discovered, may yet lack those housewifely accomplishments that make a man dream of a little home for two. so far as andy could see, her knowledge of cookery extended no farther than rolled oat porridge for the two lambs. take-notice it was who whittled shavings and started the fire without any comment upon the hour or his appetite; who went to the spring and brought water, half-filled the enameled teakettle which had large, bare patches where the enamel had been chipped off in the stress of baching, and sliced the bacon and mixed the "sour-dough" biscuits. to be sure, he had done those things for years and thought nothing of it; andy, also, had done those things, many's the time, and had thought nothing of it, either. but to do them while a young woman sits calmly by and makes no offer of help, but talks of many things, unconscious even of her world-old, feminine duties and privileges, that struck andy with a cold breath of disillusionment. he watched her unobtrusively while she talked. she never once seemed to feel that cooking belonged to woman, and as far as he could see take-notice did not feel so either. so andy mentally adjusted himself to the novelty and joyed in her presence. to show how successful was his mental adjustment, it is necessary merely to state one fact: where he had intended to stop an hour or so, he stayed the afternoon; ate supper there and rode home at sundown, his mind a jumble of sunny californian days where one may gather star-fishes and oranges, bay leaves and ripe olives at will, and of black and white lambs which always obtrude themselves at the wrong moment and break off little, intimate confidences about life in a real-estate office, perhaps; and of polished finger-nails that never dip themselves in dishwater--andy had come to believe that it would be neither right or just to expect them to do so common a thing. the season was what the range calls "between roundups," so that andy went straight to the ranch and found the happy family in or around the bunk-house, peacefully enjoying their before-bedtime smoke. andy, among other positive faults and virtues, did not lack a certain degree of guile. men there were at the flying u who would ride in haste if they guessed that a pompadoured young woman from california was at the end of the trail, and andy, knowing well the reputation he bore among them, set that reputation at work to keep the trail empty of all riders save himself. when someone asked him idly what had kept him so long, he gazed around at them with his big, innocent gray eyes. "why, i was just getting acquainted with the new girl," he answered simply and truthfully. truth being something which the happy family was unaccustomed to from the lips of andy green, they sniffed scornfully. "what girl?" demanded irish bluntly. "why, take-notice's girl. his young lady daughter that is visiting him. she's mighty nice, and she's got style about her, and she was feeding two lambs. her name," he added softly, "is mary." since no one had ever heard that take-notice had a daughter, the happy family could not be blamed for doubting andy. they did doubt, profanely and volubly. "say, did any of you fellows ever eat a ripe olive?" andy broke in, when he could make himself heard. "well," he explained mildly, when came another rift of silence in the storm-cloud of words, "when yuh ride over there, she'll likely give yuh one to try; but yuh take my advice and pass it up. i went up against one, and i ain't got the taste out uh my mouth yet. it's sure fierce." more words, from which andy gathered that they did not believe anything he said; that he was wasting time and breath, and that his imagination was weak and his lies idiotic. he'd better not let take-notice hear how he was taking his name in vain and giving him a daughter--and so on. "say, did yuh ever see a star-fish? funniest thing yuh ever saw, all pimply, and pink, and with five points to 'em. she's got two. when yuh go over, you ask her to let yuh see 'em." andy was in bed, then, and he spoke through the dusk toward the voices. what those voices had just then been saying seemed to have absolutely no effect upon him. "oh, dry up!" irish commanded impatiently. "nobody's thinking uh riding over there, yuh chump. what kind of easy marks do yuh think we are?" andy laughed audibly in his corner next the window. "say, you fellows do amuse me a lot. by gracious, i'll bet five dollars some of yuh take the trail over there, soon or late. i--i'll bet five dollars to _one_ that yuh do! the bet to hold good for--well, say six weeks. but yuh better not take me up, boys--especially irish, that ain't got a girl at present. yes, or _any_ of yuh, by gracious! it'll be a case for breach-uh-promise for any one uh yuh. say, she's a bird! got goldy hair, and a dimple in her chin and eyes that'd make a man--" with much reviling they accepted the wager, and after that andy went peacefully to sleep, quite satisfied for the time with the effect produced by his absolute truthfulness; it did not matter much, he told himself complacently, what a man's reputation might be, so long as he recognized its possibilities and shaped his actions properly. it is true that when he returned from dry lake, not many days after, with a package containing four new ties and a large, lustrous silk handkerchief of the proper, creamy tint, the happy family seemed to waver a bit. when he took to shaving every other day, and became extremely fastidious about his finger-nails and his boots and the knot in his tie, and when he polished the rowels of his spurs with patsy's scouring brick (which patsy never used) and was careful to dent his hat-crown into four mathematically correct dimples before ever he would ride away from the ranch, the happy family looked thoughtful and discussed him privately in low tones. but when andy smilingly assured them that he was going over to call on take-notice's girl, and asked them if they wouldn't like to come along and be introduced, and taste a ripe olive, and look at the star-fishes, and smell a crumpled leaf of bay, they backed figuratively from the wiles of him and asserted more or less emphatically he couldn't work _them_. then andy would grin and ride gaily away, and flying u coulee would see him no more for several hours. it was mere good fortune--from andy's viewpoint--that duty did not immediately call the happy family, singly or as a whole, to ride across the hills toward the cabin of take-notice johnson. without a legitimate excuse, he felt sure of their absence from the place, and he also counted optimistically upon their refusing to ask any one whom they might meet, if take-notice johnson had a daughter visiting him. four weeks do not take much space in a calendar, nor much time to live; yet in the four that came just after andy's discovery, he accomplished much, even in his own modest reckoning. he had taught the girl to watch for his coming and to stand pensively in the door with many good-bye messages when he said he must hit the trail. he had formed definite plans for the future and had promised her quite seriously that he would cut out gambling, and never touch liquor in any form--unless the snake was a _very_ big one and sunk his fangs in a vital spot, in which dire contingency mary absolved him from his vow. he had learned the funny marks that meant his name and hers in shorthand and had watched with inner satisfaction her efforts to learn how to fry canned corn in bacon grease, and to mix sour-dough biscuits that were neither yellow with too much soda nor distressfully "soggy" with too little, and had sat a whole, blissful afternoon in his shirtsleeves, while mary bent her blond pompadour domestically over his coat, sewing in the sleeve-linings that are prone to come loose and torment a man. to go back to the first statement, which includes all these things and much more, andy had, in those four weeks, accomplished much. but a girl may not live forever in that lonely land with only andy green to discover her presence, and the rumors which at first buzzed unheeded in the ears of the happy family, stung them at last to the point of investigation; so that on a sunday--the last sunday before the flying u wagons took again to the trailless range-land, irish and jack bates rode surreptitiously up the coulee half an hour after andy, blithe in his fancied security, had galloped that way to spend a long half-day with mary. if he discovered them they would lose a dollar each--but if they discovered a girl such as andy had pictured, they felt that it would be a dollar well lost. in the range-land many strange things may happen. irish and jack pulled up short when, off to their right, in a particularly, lonely part of that country, broken into seamed coulees and deep-scarred hills, they heard a faint halloo. with spurs pricking deep and frequent they hurried to the spot; looked down a grassy swale and saw andy lying full length upon the ground in rather a peculiar pose, while his horse fed calmly a rein-length away. they stopped and looked at him, and at each other; rode cautiously to within easy rifle shot and stopped again. "ain't yuh getting tired feelings kinda unseasonable in the day?" jack bates called out guardedly. "i--i'm hurt, boys," andy lifted his head to say, strainedly. "my hoss stepped in a hole, and i wasn't looking for it. i guess--my leg's broke." jack snorted. "that so? sure it ain't your neck, now? seems to me your head sets kinda crooked. better feel it and find out, while we go on where we're going." he half turned his horse up the hill again, resenting the impulse which had betrayed him a hand's breadth from the trail. andy waited a moment. then: "on the dead, boys, my leg's broke--like you'd bust a dry stick. come and see--for yourselves." "maybe--" irish began, uncertainly, in an undertone. andy's voice had in it a note of pain that was rather convincing. "aw, he's just trying to head us off. didn't i help pack him up that ungodly bluff, last spring, thinking he was going to die before we got him to the top--and him riding off and giving us the horse-laugh to pay for it? you can bite, if yuh want to; i'm going on. i sure savvy andy green." "come and look," andy begged from below. "if i'm joshing--" "you can josh and be darned," finished jack for him. "i don't pack you up hill more than once, old-timer. we're going to call on your mary-girl. when yuh get good and refreshed up, you can come and look on at me and irish acting pretty and getting a stand-in. so-long!" irish, looking back over his shoulder, saw andy raise his head and gaze after them; saw it drop upon his arms just before they went quite over the hill. the sight stuck persistently and unpleasantly in his memory. "yuh know, he _might_ be hurt," he began tentatively when they had ridden slowly a hundred yards or so. "he might. but he ain't. he's up to some game again, and he wouldn't like anything better than to have us ride down there and feel his bones. if you'd been along, that day in the bad-lands, you'd know the kind of bluff he can put up. why, we all thought sure he was going to die. he acted that natural we felt like we was packing a corpse at a funeral--and him tickled to death all the while at the load he was throwing! no sir, yuh don't see me swallowing no such dope as _that_, any more. when he gets tired uh laying there, he'll recover rapid and come on. don't yuh worry none about andy green; why, man, do yuh reckon any horse-critter could break _his_ leg--a rider like him? he knows more ways uh falling off a horse without losing the ashes off his cigarette than most men know how to--how to punish grub! andy green _couldn't_ get hurt with a horse! if he could, he'd uh been dead and playing his little harp long ago." such an argument was more convincing than the note of pain in the voice of andy, so that irish shook off his uneasiness and laughed at the narrow escape he'd had from being made a fool. and speedily they forgot the incident. it was take-notice who made them remember, when they had been an hour or so basking themselves, so to speak, in the smiles of mary. they had fancied all along that she had a curiously expectant air, and that she went very often to the door to see what the lambs were up to--and always lifted her eyes to the prairie slope down which they had ridden and gazed as long as she dared. they were not dull; they understood quite well what "lamb" it was that held half the mind of her, and they were piqued because of their understanding, and not disposed to further the cause of the absent. therefore, when take-notice asked casually what had become of andy, jack bates moved his feet impatiently, shot a sidelong glance at the girl (who was at that moment standing where she could look out of the window) and laughed unpleasantly. "oh, andy's been took again with an attack uh bluff," he answered lightly. "he gets that way, ever so often, you know. we left him laying in a sunny spot, a few miles back, trying to make somebody think he was hurt, so they'd pack him home and he'd have the laugh on them for all summer." "wasn't he hurt?" the girl turned suddenly and her voice told how much it meant to her. but jack was not sympathetic. "no, he wasn't hurt. he was just playing off. he got us once, that way, and he's never given up the notion that he could do it again. we may be easy, but--" "i don't understand," the girl broke in sharply. "do you mean that he would deliberately try to deceive you into believing he was hurt, when he wasn't?" "miss johnson," jack replied sorrowfully, "he would. he would lose valuable sleep for a month, studying up the smoothest way to deceive. i guess," he added artfully, and as if the subject was nearly exhausted, "yuh don't know mr. green very well." "i remember hearing about that job he put up on yuh," take-notice remarked, not noticing that the girl's lips were opened for speech, "yuh made a stretcher, didn't yuh, and--" "no--he told it that way, but he's such a liar he couldn't tell the truth if he wanted to. we found him lying at the bottom of a steep bluff, and he appeared to be about dead. it looked as if he'd slipped and fallen down part way. so we packed water and sloshed in his face, and he kinda come to, and then we packed him up the bluff--and yuh know what the bad-lands is like, take-notice. it was unmerciful hot, too, and we like to died getting him up. at the top we laid him down and worked over him till we got him to open his eyes, and he could talk a little and said maybe he could ride if we could get him on a horse. the--he made us _lift_ him into the saddle--and considering the size of him, it was something of a contract--and then he made as if he couldn't stay on, even. but first we knew he digs in the spurs, yanks off his hat and lets a yell out of him you could hear a mile, and says: 'much obliged, boys, it was too blamed hot to walk up that hill,' and off he goes." take-notice stretched his legs out before him, pushed his hands deep down in his trousers' pockets, and laughed and laughed. "that was sure one on you," he chuckled. "andy's a hard case, all right." but the girl stood before him, a little pale and with her chin high. "father, how can you think it's funny?" she cried impatiently. "it seems to me--er--i think it's perfectly horrid for a man to act like that. and you say, mr. bates, that he's out there _now_"--she swept a very pretty hand and arm toward the window--"acting the same silly sort of falsehood?" "i don't know where he is _now_," jack answered judicially. "that's what he was doing when we came past." she went to the door and stood looking vaguely out at nothing in particular, and irish took the opportunity to kick jack on the ankle-bone and viciously whisper, "yuh damned chump!" but jack smiled serenely. irish, he reflected, had not been with them that day in the bad-lands, and so had not the same cause for vengeance. he remembered that irish had laughed, just as take-notice was laughing, when they told him about it; but jack had never been able to see the joke, and his conscience did not trouble him now. more they said about andy green--he and take-notice, with irish mostly silent and with the girl extremely indignant at times and at others slightly incredulous, but always eager to hear more. more they said, not with malice, perhaps, for they liked andy green, but with the spirit of reminiscence strong upon them. many things that he had said and done they recalled and laughed over--but the girl did not laugh. at sundown, when they rode away, she scribbled a hasty note, put it in an envelope and entrusted it to irish for immediate delivery to the absent and erring one. then they rode home, promising each other that they would sure devil andy to death when they saw him, and wishing that they had ridden long ago to the cabin of take-notice. it was not pleasant to know that andy green had again fooled them completely. none at the ranch had seen andy, and they speculated much upon the nature of the game he was playing. happy jack wanted to bet that andy really had broken his leg--but that was because he had a present grievance against irish and hated to agree with anything he said. but when they went to bed, the happy family had settled unanimously upon the theory that andy had ridden to dry lake, and would come loping serenely down the trail next day. irish did not know what time it was when he found himself sitting up in bed listening, but he discovered pink getting quietly into his clothes. irish hesitated a moment, and then felt under his pillow for his own garments--long habit had made him put them there--and began to dress. "i guess i'll go along with yuh," he whispered. "yuh can if yuh want to," pink answered ungraciously. "but yuh needn't raise the long howl if--" "hold on, boys; my ante's on the table," came guardedly from weary's bunk, and there was a soft, shuffling sound as of moving blankets; the subdued scrape of boots pulled from under bunks, and the quiet searching for hats and gloves. there was a clank of spur-chains, the faint squeal of a hinge gone rusty, a creak of a loose board, and then the three stood together outside under the star-sprinkle and avoided looking at one another. without a word they went down the deep-worn path to the big gate, swung it open and headed for the corral where slept their horses. "if them bone-heads don't wake up, nobody'll be any the wiser--and it's a lovely night for a ramble," murmured weary, consoling himself. "well, i couldn't sleep," irish confessed, half defiantly. "i expect it's just a big josh, but--it won't do any hurt to make sure." "yuh all think andy green lives to tell lies," snapped pink, throwing the saddle on his horse with a grunt at the weight of it. the horse flinched away from its impact, and pink swore at it viciously. "yuh might uh gone down and made sure, anyhow," he criticised. "well, i was going to; but jack said--" irish stooped to pick up the latigo and did not finish. "but i can't get over the way his head dropped down on his arms, when we were riding out uh sight. as if--oh, hell! if it was a josh, i'll just about beat the head off him for spoiling my sleep this way. get your foot off that rein, yuh damned, clumsy bench!" this last to his horse. they rode slowly away from the ranch and made the greater haste when the sound of their galloping could not reach the dulled ears of those who slept. they did not talk much, and when they did it was to tell one another what great fools they were--but even in the telling they urged their horses to greater speed. "well," pink summed up at last, "if he's hurt, out here, we're doing the right thing; and if he ain't, he won't be there to have the laugh on us; so it's all right either way." there was black shadow in the grassy swale where they found him. his horse had wandered off and it was only the sure instinct of irish that led them to the spot where he lay, a blacker shadow in the darkness that a passing cloud had made. just at first they thought him dead, but when they lifted him he groaned and then spoke. "it's one on me, this time," he said, and the throat of irish pinched achingly together at the sound of his voice, which had in it the note of pain he had been trying to forget. after that he said nothing at all, because he was a senseless weight in their arms. at daylight irish was pounding vehemently the door of the white house and calling for the little doctor. andy lay stretched unconscious upon the porch beside him, and down in the bunk-house the happy family was rubbing eyes and exclaiming profanely at the story pink was telling. "and here," finished irish a couple of hours later, when he was talking the thing over with the little doctor, "here's a note take-notice's girl gave me for him. i don't reckon there's any good news in it, so maybe yuh better hold it out on him till he's got over the fever. i guess we queered andy a lot--but i'll ride over, soon as i can, and fix it up with her and tell her he broke his leg, all right. maybe," he finished optimistically, "she'll come over to see him." irish kept his word, though he delayed until the next day; and the next day it was too late. for the cabin of take-notice was closed and empty, and the black lamb and the white were nosing unhappily their over-turned pan of mush, and bleating lonesomely. irish waited a while and started home again; rode into the trail and met bert rogers, who explained: "take-notice was hauling his girl, trunk and all, to the depot," he told irish. "i met 'em just this side the lane. they aimed to catch the afternoon train, i reckon. she was going home, take-notice told me." so irish rode thoughtfully back to the ranch and went straight to the white house where andy lay, meaning to break the news as carefully as he knew how. andy was lying in bed looking big-eyed at the ceiling, and in his hand was the note. he turned his head and glanced indifferently at irish. "yuh sure made a good job of it, didn't yuh?" he began calmly, though it was not the calm which meant peace. "i was just about engaged to that girl. if it'll do yuh any good to know how nice and thorough yuh busted everything up for me, read that." he held out the paper, and irish turned a guilty red when he took it. "mr. green: i have just been greatly entertained with the history of your very peculiar deeds and adventures, and i wish to say that i have discovered myself wholly lacking the sense of humor which is necessary to appreciate you. "as i am going home to-morrow, this is my only opportunity of letting you know how thoroughly i detest falsehood in _any_ form. yours truly, "mary edith johnson." "ain't yuh proud?" andy inquired in a peculiar, tired voice. "maybe i'm a horrible liar, all right--but i never done anybody a dirty trick like that." irish might have said it was jack bates who did the mischief, but he did not. "we never knew it was anything serious," he explained contritely. "on the dead, i'm sorry--" "and that does a damned lot uh good--if she's gone!" andy cut in, miserably. "oh, she's gone, all right. she went to-day," murmured irish, and went out and shut the door softly behind him. * * * * * fool's gold. andy green, unshaven as to face and haggard as to eyes, leaned upon his stout, willow stick and looked gloomily away to the west. he was a good deal given to looking to the west, these days when a leg new-healed kept him at the ranch, though habit and inclination would have sent him riding fast and far over prairies untamed. inaction comes hard when a man has lived his life mostly in the open, doing those things which keep brain and muscle keyed alike to alertness and leave no time for brooding. if andy had not broken his leg but had gone with the others on roundup, he would never have spent the days glooming unavailingly because a girl with a blond pompadour and teasing eyes had gone away and taken with her a false impression of his morals, and left behind her the sting of a harsh judgment against which there seemed no appeal. as it was, he spent the time going carefully over his past in self-justification, and in remembering every moment that he had spent with mary johnson in those four weeks when she stayed with her father and petted the black lamb and the white. in his prejudiced view, he had never done anything to make a girl hate him. he had not always told the truth--he would admit that with candid, gray eyes looking straight into your own--but he had never lied to harm a man, which, it seemed to him, makes all the difference in the world. if he could once have told her how he felt about it, and showed her how the wide west breeds wider morals--he did not quite know how you would put these things, but he felt them very keenly. he wanted to make her feel the difference; to see that little things do not count in a man's life, after all, except when they affect him as a man when big things are wanted of him. a little cowardice would count, for instance, because it would show that the man would fail at the test; but a little lie? just a harmless sort of lie that was only a "josh" and was taken as such by one's fellows? andy was not analytic by nature, and he would have stumbled vaguely among words to explain his views, but he felt very strongly the injustice of the girl's condemnation, and he would scarcely speak to jack bates and irish when they came around making overtures for peace and goodwill. "if she hadn't gone home so sudden, i could uh squared it all right," he told the little doctor, whenever her sympathetic attitude won him to speech upon the subject. "yes, i believe you could," she would agree cheeringly. "if she's the right sort, and cared, you could." "she's the right sort--i know that," andy would assert with much decision, though modesty forbade his telling the little doctor that he was also sure she cared. she did care, if a girl's actions count for anything, or her looks and smiles. of course she cared! else why did she rush off home like that, a good month before she had intended to go? they had planned that andy would get a "lay-off" and go with her as far as butte, because she would have to wait there several hours, and andy wanted to take her out to the columbia gardens and see if she didn't think they were almost as nice as anything california could show. then she had gone off without any warning because jack bates and irish had told her a lot of stuff about him, andy; if that didn't prove she cared, argued andy to himself, what the dickens would you want for proof? it was from thinking these things over and over while he lay in bed, that andy formed the habit of looking often towards the west when his hurt permitted him to hobble around the house. and when a man looks often enough in any direction, his feet will, unless hindered by fate itself, surely follow his gaze if you give them time enough. it was the excursion rates advertised in a great falls paper that first put the idea consciously into the brain of andy. they seemed very cheap, and the time-limit was generous, and--san jose was not very far from san francisco, the place named in the advertisement; and if he could only see the girl and explain--it would be another month before he would be able to work, anyway, and--a man might as well get rid of a hundred or so travelling, as to sit in a poker game and watch it fade away, and he would really get more out of it. anyhow, nobody need know where he had gone. they could think he was just going to butte. and he didn't give a darn if they did find it out! he limped back into the house and began inspecting, with much dissatisfaction, his wardrobe. he would have to stake himself to new clothes--but he needed clothes, anyway, that fall. he could get what he wanted in butte, while he waited for the train to ogden. now that andy had made up his mind to go, he was in a great hurry and grudged the days, even the hours, that must pass before he could see mary edith johnson. not even the little doctor knew the truth, when andy appeared next morning dressed for his journey, ate a hasty and unsatisfactory breakfast and took the old man to one side with elaborate carelessness and asked for a sum that made the old man blink. but no man might have charge of the happy family for long without attaining that state of mental insulation which renders a shock scientifically impossible. the old man wrote a check, twisted his mouth into a whimsical knot and inquired mildly: "what's the brand of devilment this time, and how long's it going to take yuh?" with a perceptible emphasis on the word _this_. for probably the first time in his life andy blushed and stammered over a lie, and before he had got out more than two words, the old man seemed to understand the situation quite thoroughly. he said "oh, i see. well, git a round-trip ticket and be dead sure yuh don't out-stay the limit." he took out his pipe and filled it meditatively. andy blushed again--six weeks indoors had lightened the tan on his face so that his blushes showed very plainly--and made desperate denial. "i'm only going up to butte. but a fellow can't have any kind of a time there without a fair-sized roll, and--i'll be back in two or three weeks--soon as my leg's mended thorough. i--" "get along with yuh!" growled the old man, though his eyes twinkled. "doggone it, don't yuh lie to _me_. think i was shipped in on the last train? a man don't git red in the face when he's just merely headed for butte. why, doggone yuh--" the last words had to serve for a farewell, because andy was limping away as fast as he could, and did not come back to the house again. he did not even tell the little doctor good-by, though it was fifteen minutes before john wedum, the ranchhand, had the team ready to drive andy to town, and he was one of the little doctor's most loyal subjects. * * * * * andy walked haltingly down a palm-shaded street in san jose and wondered just what would be the best and quickest way in which to find mary edith johnson. three ways were open to him: he could hunt up all the johnsons in town--there were three full pages of them in the directory, as he remembered with a sigh--and find out which one was the right one; but san jose, as he had already discovered, was not a village, and he doubted if he could stand the walking. he could visit all the real estate offices in town--and he was just beginning to realize that there were almost as many real estate offices as there were johnsons. and he could promenade the streets in the hope of meeting her. but always there was the important fact to face--the fact that san jose is not a village. he came upon a particularly shady spot and a bench placed invitingly. andy sat down, eased the new-healed leg out before him and rolled a cigarette. "this is going to be some different from hunting a stray on the range," he told himself, with an air of deliberate cheerfulness. "if i could get out and scurrup around on a hoss, and round her up that way--but this footing it all over town is what grinds me." he drew a match along the under side of the bench and held the blaze absently to the cigarette. "there was one thing--she told about an orange tree right beside her mother's front gate, maybe--" he looked around him hopefully. just across the street was a front gate, and beside it an orange tree; he knew because there were ripe oranges hanging upon it. he started to rise, his blood jumping queerly, sat down again and swore. "every darned gate in town, just about, has got an orange tree stuck somewhere handy by. i remember 'em now, damn 'em!" three cigarettes he smoked while he sat there. when he started on again his face was grimly set toward the nearest business street. at the first real-estate sign he stopped, pulled together his courage, and went in. a girl sat in a corner of the room before a typewriter. andy saw at a glance that her hair was too dark; murmured something and backed out. at the next place, a man was crumpled into a big chair, reading a paper. behind a high desk a typewriter clicked, but andy could not see the operator without going behind the railing, and he hesitated. "looking for a snap?" asked the man briskly, coming up from his crumpled state like a spring. "well, i was looking--" "now, here. it may not be what you want, but i'm just going to show you this proposition and see what you think of it. it ain't going to last--somebody's goin' to snap it up before you know it. now, here--" it was half an hour before andy got away from that office, and he had not seen who was running the machine behind the desk, even then. he had, however, spoken rather loudly and had informed the man that he was from montana, with no effect whatever upon the clicking. he had listened patiently to the glowing description of several "good buys," and had escaped with difficulty within ten minutes after hearing the unseen typist addressed as "fern." at the third place he merely looked in at the door and retreated hastily when the agent, like a spider on the watch, started forward. when he limped into the office of his hotel at six o'clock, andy was ready to swear that every foot of land in california was for sale, and that every man in san jose was trying his best to sell it and looked upon him, andy green, as a weak-minded millionaire who might be induced to purchase. he had not visited all the places where they kept bulletin-boards covered with yellowed placards abounding in large type and many fat exclamation points and the word only with a dollar mark immediately after. all? he had not visited half of them, or a third! that night he dreamed feverishly of "five-room, modern cottages with bath," and of "only $ . down and balance payable monthly," and of ten-acre "ranches" and five-acre "ranches"--he who had been used to numbering acres by the thousand and to whom the word "ranch" meant miles of wire fencing and beyond that miles of open! it took all the longing he felt for mary johnson to drive him out the next morning and to turn his face toward those placarded places which infested every street, but he went. he went with eyes that glared hostility at every man who said "buy," and with chin set to stubborn purpose. he meant to find mary edith johnson, and he meant to find her without all california knowing that he was looking for her. not once had he mentioned her name, or showed that he cared whether there was a typewriter in the office or whether it was a girl, man or chinaman who clicked the keys; and yet he knew exactly how every girl typist had her hair dressed, and what was the color of her eyes. at two o'clock, andy stopped suddenly and stared down at a crack in the pavement, and his lips moved in muttered speech. "she's worked three years in one of them places--and she 'thoroughly detests falsehood in _any_ form'! hell!" is exactly what he was saying out loud, on one of the busiest streets in san jose. a policeman glanced at him, looked again and came slowly toward him. andy took the hint and moved on decorously to the next bulletin-board, but the revelation that had come to him there in the street dulled somewhat his alertness, so that he came near committing himself to the purchase of one of those ubiquitous "five-room, modern cottages with bath" before he realized what he was doing and fled to the street again, on the pretense that he had to catch the car which was just slowing down for that crossing. he boarded the car, though he had no idea of where it was going, and fished in his pocket for a nickel. and just when he was reaching up from the step where he stood clinging--reaching over the flower-piled hat of a girl, to place the nickel in the outstretched palm of the conductor, he heard for the first time in many weeks the name of mary johnson. a girl at his elbow was asking the other: "what'n the world's become of mary johnson? she wasn't to the dance last night, and it's the first one--" andy held his breath. "oh, mame quit her place with kelly and gray, two weeks ago. she's gone to santa cruz and got a place for the summer. her and lola parsons went together, and--" andy took advantage of another crossing, and dropped off. he wanted to find out when the next train left for santa cruz. it never occurred to him that there might be two mary johnsons in the world, which was fortunate, perhaps; he wasted no time in hesitation, and so, within twenty minutes, he was hearing the wheels of a fast train go _clickety-click, clickety-click_ over the switches in the suburbs of san jose, and he was asking the conductor what time the train would reach santa cruz, and was getting snubbed for his anxiety. santa cruz, when he did reach it, seemed, on a superficial examination, to be almost as large as san jose, and the real-estate offices closer together and even more plentifully supplied with modern cottages and bath--and the heart of him sank prophetically. for the first time since he dropped off the street-car in san jose, it seemed to him that mary johnson was quite as far off, quite as unattainable as she had ever been. he walked slowly up pacific avenue and watched the hurrying crowds, and wondered if chance would be kind to him; if he should meet her on the street, perhaps. he did not want to canvass all the real-estate offices in town. "it would take me till snow flies," he murmured dispiritedly, forgetting that here was a place where snow never flew, and sought a hotel where they were not "full to the eaves" as two complacent clerks had already told him. at supper, he made friends with a genial-voiced insurance agent--the kind who does not insist upon insuring your life whether you want it insured or not. the agent told andy to call him jack and use him good and plenty--perhaps because something wistful and lonely in the gray eyes of andy appealed to him--and andy took him at his word and was grateful. he discovered what day of the week it was: saturday, and that on the next day santa cruz would be "wide-open" because of an excursion from sacramento. jack offered to help him lose himself in the crowd, and again andy was grateful. for the first time since leaving the flying u he went to bed feeling not utterly alone and friendless, and awoke pleasantly expectant. friend jack was to pilot him down to the casino at eleven, and he had incidentally made one prediction which stuck closely to andy, even in his sleep. jack had assured him that the whole town would be at the beach; and if the whole town were at the beach, why then, mary would surely be somewhere in the crowd. and if she were in the crowd--"if she's there, i'll sure get a line on her before night," andy told himself, with much assurance. "a fellow that's been in the habit of cutting any certain brand of critter out of a big herd ought to be able to spot his girl in a crowd"--and he hummed softly while he dressed. the excursion train was already in town, and the esplanade was, looking down from beach hill, a slow-moving river of hats, with splotches of bright colors and with an outer fringe of men and women. "that's a good-sized trail-herd uh humans," andy remarked, and the insurance agent laughed appreciatively. "you wait till you see them milling around on the board walk," he advised impressively. "if you happen to be looking for anybody, you'll realize that there's some people scattered around in your vicinity. i had a date with a girl, down here one sunday during the season, and we hunted each other from ten in the morning till ten at night and never got sight of each other." andy gave him a sidelong, suspicious glance, but friend jack was evidently as innocent as he looked, and so andy limped silently down the hill to the casino and wondered if fate were going to cheat him at the last moment. once in the crowd, it was as jack had told him it would be. he could not regard the moving mass of humanity as individuals, though long living where men are few had fixed upon him the habit. now, although he observed far more than did jack, he felt somewhat at a loss; the realization that mary johnson might pass him unrecognized troubled him greatly. it did not once occur to him that he, with his gray stetson hat and his brown face and keen eyes and tall, straight-backed figure, looked not at all like the thousands of men all around him, so that many eyes turned to give him another glance when he passed. mary johnson must be unobserving in the extreme if she failed to know him, once she glimpsed him in the crowd. somewhere near one o'clock he lost jack completely, and drifted aimlessly alone. jack had been hailed by a friend, had stopped for a minute to talk, and several hundred men, women and children had come between him and andy, pushing and crowding and surging, because a band had started playing somewhere. andy got down the steps and out upon the sand, and jack was thereafter but a memory. he found the loose sand hard walking with his lame leg, and almost as crowded as the promenade, and as he stood for a minute looking up at the board walk above him, it occurred to him that if he could get somewhere and stay there long enough, every human being at the casino would eventually pass by him. he went up the steps again and worked his way along the edge of the walk until he found a vacant spot on the railing and sat grimly down upon it to wait. many cigarettes he smoked while he roosted there, watching until the eyes of him ached with the eternal panorama of faces that were strange. many times he started eagerly because he glimpsed a fluffy, blond pompadour with blue eyes beneath, and fancied for an instant that it was mary. then, when he was speculating upon the advisability of following the stream of people that flowed out upon the pleasure pier, mary passed by so close that her skirt brushed his toes; passed him by, and he sat there like a paralytic and let her go. and in the heart of him was a queer, heavy throb that he did not in the least understand. she was dressed in blue linen with heavy, white lace in patches here and there, and she had a big, white hat tilted back from her face and a long white plume drooping to one shoulder. another girl was with her, and a man--a man with dented panama hat and pink cheeks and a white waistcoat and tan shoes; a man whom andy suddenly hated most unreasonably. when they were all but lost in the crowd, andy got down, gripped his cane vindictively and followed. after all, the man was walking beside the other girl, and not beside mary--and the reflection brought much solace. with the nodding, white feather to guide him, he followed them down the walk, lost them for a second, saw them turn in at the wide-open doors of the natatorium, saw them pause there, just inside. then a huge woman pushed before him, stood there and narrowed his range of vision down to her own generous hat with its huge roses, and when he had edged past her the three were gone. andy waited, comforted by the knowledge that they had not come out, until the minutes passed his patience and he went in, searched the gallery unavailingly, came out again and wandered on dispiritedly to the pleasure pier. there, leaning over the rail, he saw her again almost beneath him in the sand, scantily clad in a bathing suit. the man, still more scantily clad, was trying to coax her into the water and she was hanging back and laughing a good deal, with an occasional squeal. andy leaned rather heavily upon the railing and watched her gloweringly, incredulously. custom has much to do with a man's (or a woman's) idea of propriety, and one andrew green had for long been unaccustomed to the sight of nice young women disporting themselves thus in so public a place. he could not reconcile it with the girl as he had known her in her father's cabin, and he was not at all sure that he wanted to do so. he was just turning gloomily away when she glanced up, saw him and waved her hand. "hello, andy," she called gaily. "come on down and take a swim, why don't you?" andy, looking reproachfully into her upturned face, shook his head. "i can't," he told her. "i'm lame yet." it was not at all what he had meant to say, any more than this was the meeting he had dreamed about. he resented both with inner rage. "oh. when did you come?" she asked casually, and was whisked away by the man before andy could tell her. the other girl was there also, and the three ran gleefully down to meet a roller larger than the others had been; met it, were washed, with much screaming and laughter, back to shore and stood there dripping. andy glared down upon them and longed for the privilege of drowning the fellow. "we're going up into the plunge," called mary. "come on. i'll see you, when i come out." they scampered away, and he, calling himself many kinds of fool, followed. in the plunge, andy was still more at a disadvantage, for since he was a spectator, a huge sign informed him that he must go up stairs. he went up with much difficulty into the gallery, found himself a seat next the rail and searched long for mary among the bathers below. he would never have believed that he would fail to know her at sight, but with fifty women, more or less, dressed exactly alike and with ugly rubber caps pulled down to eyebrows and ears, recognition must necessarily be slow. while he leaned and stared, an avalanche of squeals came precipitately down the great slide; struck the water and was transformed to gurgling screams, and then heads came bobbing to the surface--three heads, and one of them was mary's. she swept the water from her eyes, looked up and saw him, waved her hand and scrambled rather ungracefully over the rail in her wet, clinging suit. the others followed, the man trotting at her heels and calling something after her. andy, his brows pulled down over unhappy eyes, glared fixedly up at the top of the slide. in a minute they appeared, held gesticulating counsel, wavered and came down together, upon their stomachs. the strange girl was in the lead, with mary next holding to the girl's feet. behind her slid the man, gripping tightly the ankles of mary. andy's teeth set savagely together, though he saw that others were doing exactly the same; old women, young women, girls, men and boys came hurtling down the big slide, singly, in couples, in three and fours. the spectacle began to fascinate him, so that for a minute or two he could forget mary and the man. there was a roar of voices, the barking as of seals, screams, laughter and much splashing. men and women dove from the sides like startled frogs into a pond; they swam, floated and stood panting along the walls; swung from the trapeze (andy, remembering his career with the circus, when he was "andré de gréno," champion bareback rider of the western hemisphere, wished that his leg was well so that he could show them a few things about that trapeze business) and troubled the waters with much splashing. he could not keep mary always in view, but when he did get sight of her she seemed to be having a very good time, and not to be worrying in the least about him and his sins. twice andy green half rose from his seat, meaning to leave the plunge, the casino and the whole merry-making crowd; but each time he settled back, telling himself that he hated a quitter, and that he guessed he'd buy a few more chips and stay in the game. it seemed a long time before mary finally emerged in the blue linen and the white hat, but andy was waiting doggedly at the entrance and took his place beside her, forcing the man to walk beside the girl whom mary introduced as lola parsons. the man's name was roberts, but the girls called him freddie, and he seemed composed mostly of a self-satisfied smile and the latest fad in male attire. andy set himself to the task of "cutting mary out of the main herd" so that he might talk with her. thus it happened that, failing a secluded spot in the immediate neighborhood of the casino, which buzzed like a disturbed hive of gigantic bees, mary presently found herself on a car that was clanging its signal of departure, and there was no sign of freddie and lola parsons. "we lost 'em, back there," andy told her calmly when she inquired. "and as to where we're going, i don't know; as far as this lightning-wagon will take us." "this car goes clear out to the cliffs," mary said discouragingly. "all right. we're going out to the cliffs, then," andy smiled blandly down upon the nodding, white feather in her hat. "but i promised lola and freddie--" "oh, that's all right. i'll take the blame. were yuh surprised to see me here?" "why should i be? everybody comes to santa cruz, sooner or later." "i came sooner," said andy, trying to meet her eye. he wanted to bring the conversation to themselves, so that he might explain and justify himself, and win forgiveness for his sins. while they walked along the cliffs he tried, and going home he had not given up the attempt. but afterward, when he could sit down quietly and think, he was forced to admit that he had not succeeded very well. it seemed to him that, while mary still liked him and was quite ready to be friends, she had forgotten just why she had so suddenly left montana. she was sorry he had broken his leg, but in the same breath, almost, she told him of such a narrow escape that freddie had last week, when an auto nearly ran him down. andy regretted keenly that it had not. he had mentioned irish and jack bates, meaning to refute the tales they had told of him, and she had asked about the black lamb and the white, and then had told him that he must go out to the whistling buoy and see the real whale they had anchored out there, and related with much detail how freddie had taken her and lola out, and how the water was so rough she got seasick, and a wave splashed over and ruined freddie's new summer suit, that spotted dreadfully; it wasn't, she remarked, a durable color. she hoped andy would stay a month or two, though the "season" was about over. she knew he would just love the plunge and the surf-bathing, and there was going to be a boomers' barbacue up at the big trees in two weeks--and it would seem like home to him, seeing a cow roasted whole! she did love montana, and she hoped he brought his chaps and spurs along, for she had told lola so much about him, and she wanted lola to see him in his wild west clothes. all this should have pleased andy very much. she had not grown cold, and her eyes were quite as teasing and her smiles as luring as before. she did not even lay personal claim to freddie, that he should be jealous. when she spoke of freddie, his name was linked with lola parsons, and andy could not glean that she had ever gone anywhere alone with him. she had seemed anxious that he should enjoy his vacation to the limit, and had mentioned three or four places that he must surely see, and informed him three times that she was "off" at five every evening, and could show him around. they had dined together at a café, and had gone back to the casino for the band concert, and they had not been interrupted by meeting lola parsons and freddie, and she had given him a very cordial good-night when they parted on the steps of her boarding house at eleven. so there was absolutely no reason for the mood andy was in when he accepted his key from the hotel clerk and went up to his room. for a man who has traveled more than a thousand miles in search of the girl he had dreamed of o'nights, and who had found her and had been properly welcomed, he was distinctly gloomy. he sat down by the open window and smoked four cigarettes, said "damn freddy!" three times and with added emphasis each time, though he knew very well that freddie had nothing to do with it, and then went to bed. in the morning he felt better, and went out by himself to the cliffs where they had been before, and sat down on a hummock covered with short grass, and watched the great unrest of the ocean, and wondered where the flying u wagons would be camping, that night. somehow, the wide reach of water reminded him of the prairie; the rolling billows were like many, many cattle milling restlessly in a vast herd and tossing white heads and horns upward. below him, the pounding surf was to him the bellowing of a thirsty herd corralled. "this is sure all right," he approved, rousing a little. "it's almost as good as sitting up on a pinnacle and looking out over the range. if i had a good hoss, and my riding outfit, and could get out there and go to work cutting-out them white-caps and hazing 'em up here on a run, it wouldn't be so poor. by gracious, this is worth the trip, all right." it never occurred to andy that there was anything strange in the remark, or that he sat there because it dulled the heavy ache that had been his since yesterday--the ache of finding what he had sought, and finding with it disillusionment. till hunger drove him away he stayed, and his dreams were of the wide land he had left. when he again walked down pacific avenue the hall clock struck four, and after he had eaten he looked up at it and saw that it lacked but fifteen minutes of five. "i'm supposed to meet her when she quits work," he remembered, "and lola and freddie will go to the plunge with us." he stopped and stared in at the window of a curio store. "say, that's a dandy navajo blanket," he murmured. "it would be out-uh-sight for a saddle blanket." he started on, hesitated and went back. "i've got time enough to get it," he explained to himself. he went in, bought the blanket and two mexican _serapes_ that caught his fancy, tucked the bundle under his arm and started down the street toward the office where mary worked. it was just two minutes _to five_. he got almost to the door--so near that his toe struck against a corner of the belabelled bulletin board--when a sudden revulsion swept his desires back like a huge wave. he stood a second irresolutely and then turned back. "aw--hell! what's the use?" he muttered. the clock was just on the last stroke of five when he went up to the clerk in his hotel. "say, when does the next train pull out?--i don't give a darn in what direction," he wanted to know. when the clerk told him seven-thirty, he grinned and became undignifiedly loquacious. "i want to show yuh a couple of dandy _serapes_ i just glommed, down street," he said, and rolled the bundle open upon the desk. "ain't they a couple uh beauts? i got 'em for two uh my friends; they done me a big favor, a month or two ago, and i wanted to kinda square the deal. that's why i got 'em just alike. yes, you bet they're peaches; yuh can't get 'em like this in montana. the boys'll sure appreciate 'em." he retied the bundle, took his room-key from the hand of the smiling clerk and started up the stairway, humming a tune under his breath as he went. at the first turn he stopped and looked back. "send the bell-hop up to wake me at seven," he called down to the clerk. "i'm going to take a much-needed nap--and it'll be all your life's worth to let me miss that train!" * * * * * lords of the pots and pans the camp of the flying u, snuggled just within the wide-flung arms of an unnamed coulee with a pebbly-bottomed creek running across its front, looked picturesque and peaceful--from a distance. disenchantment lay in wait for him who strayed close enough to hear the wrangling in the cook-tent, however, or who followed slim to where he slumped bulkily down into the shade of a willow fifty yards or so from camp--a willow where pink, weary, andy green and irish were lying sprawled and smoking comfortably. slim grunted and moved away from a grass-hidden rock that was gouging him in the back. "by golly, things is getting pretty raw around this camp," he growled, by way of lifting the safety-valve of his anger. "i'd like to know when that darned grub-spoiler bought into the outfit, anyhow. he's been trying to run it to suit himself all spring--and if he keeps on, by golly, he'll be firing the wagon-boss and giving all the orders himself!" it would seem that sympathy should be offered him; as if the pause he made plainly hinted that it was expected. andy green rolled over and sent him a friendly glance just to hearten him a bit. "we were listening to the noise of battle," he observed, "and we were going over, in a minute, to carry off the dead. you had a kinda animated discussion over something, didn't yuh?" andy was on his good behavior, as he had been for a month. his treatment of his fellows lately was little short of angelic. his tone soothed slim to the point where he could voice his woe. "well, by golly, i guess he knows what i think of him, or pretty near. i've stood a lot from patsy, off and on, and i've took just about all i'm going to. it's got so yuh can't get nothing to eat, hardly, when yuh ride in late, unless yuh fight for it. why, by golly, i caught him just as he was going to empty out the coffee-boiler--and he knew blamed well i hadn't eat. he'd left everything go cold, and he was packing away the grub like he was late breaking camp and had a forty mile drive before dinner, by golly! i just did save myself some coffee, and that was all--but it was cold as that creek, and--" habit impelled him to stop there long enough to run his tongue along the edge of a half-rolled cigarette, and accident caused his eyes to catch the amused quirk on the lips of pink and irish, and the laughing glance they exchanged. possibly if he could have looked in all directions at the same time he would have been able to detect signs of mirth on the faces of the others as well; for slim's grievances never seemed to be taken seriously by his companions--which is the price which one must pay for having a body shaped like santa claus and a face copied after our old friend in the moon. "well, by golly, maybe it's funny--but i took notice yuh done some yowling, both uh yuh, the other day when yuh didn't get no pie," he snorted, lighting his cigarette with unsteady fingers. "we wasn't laughing at that," lied pink pacifically. "and then, by golly, the old devil lied to me and said there wasn't no pie left," went on slim complainingly, his memory stirred by the taunt he had himself given. "but i wouldn't take his word for a thing if i knew it was so; i went on a still-hunt around that tent on my own hook, and i found a pie--a _whole pie_, by golly!--cached away under an empty flour-sack behind the stove! that," he added, staring, round-eyed, at the group, "that there was right where me and patsy mixed. the lying old devil said he never knew a thing about it being there at all." pink turned his head cautiously so that his eyes met the eyes of andy green. the two had been at some pains to place that pie in a safe place so that they might be sure of something appetizing when they came in from standing guard that night, but neither seemed to think it necessary to proclaim the fact and clear patsy. "i'll bet yuh didn't do a thing to the pie when yuh did find it?" pink half questioned, more anxious than he would have owned. "by golly, i eat the whole thing and i cussed patsy between every mouthful!" boasted slim, almost in a good-humor again. "i sure got the old boy stirred up; i left him swearin' dutch cuss-words that sounded like he was peevish. but i'll betche he won't throw out the coffee till i've had what i want after this, by golly!" "happy jack is out yet," weary observed after a sympathetic silence. "you oughtn't to have put patsy on the fight till everybody was filled up, slim. happy's liable to go to bed with an empty tummy, if yuh don't ride out and warn him to approach easy. listen over there!" from where they lay, so still was the air and so incensed was patsy, they could hear plainly the rumbling of his wrath while he talked to himself over the dishwashing. when he appeared at the corner of the tent or plodded out toward the front of the wagon, his heavy tread and stiff neck proclaimed eloquently the mood he was in. they watched and listened and were secretly rather glad they were fed and so need not face the storm which slim had raised; for patsy thoroughly roused was very much like an angry bull: till his rage cooled he would charge whoever approached him, absolutely blind to consequences. "well, i ain't going to put nobody next," slim asserted. "happy's got to take chances, same as i did. and while we're on the subject, patsy was on the prod before i struck camp, or he wouldn't uh acted the way he done. somebody else riled him up, by golly--i never." "well, you sure did put the finishing touches to him," contended irish, guiltily aware that he himself was originally responsible; for patsy never had liked irish very well because of certain incidents connected with his introduction to weary's double. patsy never could quite forget, though he might forgive, and resentment lay always close to the surface of his mood when irish was near. happy jack, hungry and quite unconscious that he was riding straight into the trail of trouble, galloped around a ragged point of service-berry bushes, stopped with a lurch at the prostrate corral and unsaddled hastily. those in the shade of the willow watched him, their very silence proclaiming loudly their interest. they might have warned him by a word, but they did not; for happy jack was never eager to heed warnings or to take advice, preferring always to abide by the rule of opposites. stiff-legged from long riding, the knees of his old, leather chaps bulging out in transient simulation of bowed limbs, he came clanking down upon the cook-tent with no thought but to ease his hunger. those who watched saw him stoop and thrust his head into the tent, heard a bellow and saw him back out hastily. they chuckled unfeelingly and strained ears to miss no word of what would follow. "aw, gwan!" happy jack expostulated, not yet angry. "i got here quick as i could--and _i_ ain't heard nothing about no new laws uh getting here when the whistle blows. gimme what there is, anyhow." some sentences followed which, because of guttural tones and german accent emphasized by excitement, were not quite coherent to the listeners. however, they did not feel at all mystified as to his meaning--knowing patsy as they did. "aw, come off! somebody must uh slipped yuh a two-gallon jug uh something. i've rode the range about as long as you've cooked on it, and i never knowed a man to go without his supper yet, just because he come in late. i betche yuh dassent stand and say that before chip, yuh blamed old dutch--" just there, happy jack dodged and escaped getting more than a third of the basin of water which came splashing out of the tent. the group under the willows could no longer lie at ease while they listened; they jumped up and moved closer, just as a crowd always does surge nearer and nearer to an exciting centre. they did not, however, interfere by word or deed. "if yuh wasn't just about ready t' die of old age and general cussedness," stormed happy jack, "i'd just about kill yuh for that." this, however, is a revised version and not intended to be exact. "i want my supper, and i want it blame quick, too, or there'll be a dead dutchman in camp. no, yuh don't! you git out uh that tent and lemme git in, or--" happy jack had the axe in his hand by then, and he swung it fearsomely and permitted the gesture to round out his sentence. perhaps there would have been something more than words between them, for even a happy jack may be goaded too far when he is hungry; but chip, who had been washing out some handkerchiefs down by the creek, heard the row and came up, squeezing a ball of wet muslin on the way. he did not say much when he arrived, and he did not do anything more threatening than hang the handkerchiefs over the guy-ropes to dry, tying the corners to keep the wind from whipping them away up the coulee, but the result was satisfying--to happy jack, at least. he ate and was filled, and patsy retired from the fray, sullenly owning defeat for that time at least. he went up the creek out of sight from camp, and he stayed there until the dusk was so thick that his big, white-aproned form was barely distinguishable in the gloom when he returned. at daylight he was his old self, except that he was perhaps a trifle gruff when he spoke and a good deal inclined to silence, and harmony came and abode for a season with the flying u. patsy had for years cooked for jim whitmore and his "outfit"; so many years it was that memory of the number was never exact, and even the old man would have been compelled to preface the number with a few minutes of meditation and a "lemme see, now; patsy's been cooking for me--eighty-six was that hard winter, and he come the spring--no, the fall before that. i know because he like to froze before we got the mess-house chinked up good--i'll be doggoned if patsy ain't gitting _old_!" that was it, perhaps: patsy was getting old. and old age does not often sweeten one's temper, if you notice. those angelic old men and old ladies have nearly all been immortalized in stories and songs, and the unsung remainder have nerves and notions and rheumatism and tongues sharpened by all the disappointments and sorrows of their long lives. patsy never had been angelic; he had always been the victim of more or less ill-timed humor on the part of the happy family, and the victim of hunger-sharpened tempers as well. he had always grumbled and rumbled dutch profanity when they goaded him too hard, and his amiability had ever expressed itself in juicy pies and puddings rather than in words. on this roundup, however, he was not often amiable and he was nearly always rumbling to himself. more than that, he was becoming resentful of extra work and bother and he sometimes permitted his resentment to carry him farther than was wise. to quarrel with patsy was rapidly becoming the fashion, and to gossip about him and his faults was already a habit; a habit indulged in too freely, perhaps, for the good of the camp. isolation from the world brings small things into greater prominence than is normally their due, and large troubles are born of very small irritations. for two days there was peace of a sort, and then big medicine, having eaten no dinner because of a headache, rode into camp about three o'clock and headed straight for the mess-wagon, quite as if he had a right that must not be questioned. custom did indeed warrant him in lunching without the ceremony of asking leave of the cook, for patsy even in his most unpleasant moods had never until lately tried to stop anyone from eating when he was hungry. on this day, however, big medicine unthinkingly cut into a fresh-baked pie set out to cool. there were other pies, and in cutting one big medicine was supported by precedent; but patsy chose to consider it an affront and snatched the pie from under big medicine's very nose. "you fellers vot iss always gobbling yet, you iss quit it alreatty!" rumbled patsy, bearing the pie into the tent with big medicine's knife still lying buried in the lately released juice. "i vork und vork mine head off keeping you fellers filled oop tree times a day alreatty; i not vork und vork to feed you effery hour, py cosh. you go mitout till supper iss reaty for you yet." big medicine, his frog-like eyes standing out from his sun-reddened face, stared agape. "well, by cripes!" he hesitated, looking about him; but whether his search was for more pie or for moral support he did not say. truth to tell, there was plenty of both. he reached for another pie and another knife, and he grinned his wide grin at irish, who had just come up. "dutchy's trying to run a whizzer," he remarked, cutting a defiant gash clean across the second pie. "what do yuh know about that?" "he's often took that way," said irish soothingly. "you don't want all that pie--give me about half of it." big medicine, his mouth too full for coherent utterance, waved his hand and his knife toward the shelf at the back of the mess-wagon where three more pies sat steaming in the shade. "help yourself," he invited juicily when he could speak. those familiar with camp life in the summer have perhaps observed the miraculous manner in which a million or so "yellow-jackets" will come swarming around when one opens a can of fruit or uncovers the sugar jar. it was like that. irish helped himself without any hesitation whatever, and he had not taken a mouthful before happy jack, weary and pink were buzzing around for all the world like the "yellow-jackets" mentioned before. patsy buzzed also, but no one paid the slightest attention until the last mouthful of the last pie was placed in retirement where it would be most appreciated. then weary became aware of patsy and his wrath, and turned to him pacifically. "oh, yuh don't want to worry none about the pie," he smiled winningly at him. "mamma! how do you expect to keep pies around this camp when yuh go right on making such good ones? yuh hadn't ought to be such a crackajack of a cook, patsy, if you don't want folks to eat themselves sick." if any man among them could have soothed patsy, weary would certainly have been the man; for next to chip he was patsy's favorite. to say that he failed is only one way of making plain how great was patsy's indignation. "aw, yuh made 'em to be eat, didn't yuh?" argued happy jack. "what difference does it make whether we eat 'em now or two hours from now?" patsy tried to tell them the difference. he called his hands and his head to help his rage-tangled tongue and he managed to make himself very well understood. they did not argue the fine point of gastronomic ethics which he raised, though they felt that his position was not unassailable and his ultimate victory not assured. instead, they peered into boxes and cans which were covered, gleaned a whole box of seeded raisins and some shredded cocoanut just to tease him and retired to wrangle ostentatiously over their treasure trove in the shade of the bed-tent, leaving patsy to his anger and his empty tins. other men straggled in, drifted with the tide of their appetites to the cook-tent, hovered there briefly and retired vanquished and still hungry. they invariably came over to the little group which was munching raisins and cocoanut and asked accusing questions. what was the matter with patsy? who had put him on the fight like that? and other inquiries upon the same subject. just because they were all lying around camp with nothing to do but eat, patsy was late with his supper that night. it would seem that he dallied purposely and revengefully, and though the happy family flung at him taunts and hurry-up orders, it is significant that they shouted from a distance and avoided coming to close quarters. just how and when they began their foolish little game of imitation broncho-fighting does not matter. when work did not press and red blood bubbled they frequently indulged in "rough-riding" one another to the tune of much taunting and many a "bet yuh can't pitch _me_ off!" before supper was called they were hard at it and they quite forgot patsy. "i'll give any man a dollar that can ride me straight up, by cripes!" bellowed big medicine, going down upon all fours by way of invitation. "easy money, and mine from the start!" retorted irish and immediately straddled big medicine's back. horses and riders pantingly gave over their own exertions and got out of the way, for big medicine played bronk as he did everything else: with all his heart and soul and muscles, and since he was strong as a bull, riding him promised much in the way of excitement. "yuh can hold on by my collar, but if yuh choke me down i'll murder yuh in cold blood," he warned irish before he started. "and don't yuh dig your heels in my ribs neither, or i'm liable to bust every bone yuh got to your name. i'm ticklish, by cripes!" "i'll ride yuh with my arms folded if yuh say so," irish offered generously. "move, you snail!" he struck big medicine spectacularly with his hat, yelled at the top of his voice and the riding began immediately and tumultuously. it is very difficult to describe accurately and effectively the evolutions of a horse when he "pitches" his worst and hardest. it is still more difficult to set down in words the gyrations of a man when he is playing that he is a broncho and is trying to dislodge the fellow upon his back. big medicine reared and kicked and bellowed and snorted. he came down upon a small "pin-cushion" cactus and was obliged to call a recess while he extracted three cactus spines from his knee with his smallest knife-blade and some profanity. he rolled down his trousers' leg, closed his knife and tossed it to pink for fear he might lose it, examined critically a patch of grass to make sure there were no more cacti hidden there and bawled: "come on, now, i'll sure give yuh a run for your money _this_ time, by cripes!" and began all over again. how human muscles can bear the strain he put upon his own must be always something of a mystery. he described curves in the air which would sound incredible; he "swapped ends" with all the ease of a real fighting broncho and came near sending irish off more than once. insensibly he neared the cook-tent, where patsy so far forgot himself as to stand just without the lifted flap and watch the fun with sour interest. "ah-h _want_ yuh!" yelled big medicine, quite purple but far from surrender, and gave a leap. "go _get_ me!" shouted irish, whipping down the sides of his mount with his hat. big medicine answered the taunt by a queer, twisted plunge which he had saved for the last. it brought irish spread-eagling over his head, and it landed him fairly in the middle of patsy's great pan of soft bread "sponge"--and landed him upon his head into the bargain. irish wriggled there a moment and came up absolutely unrecognizable and a good deal dazed. big medicine rolled helplessly in the grass, laughing his big, bellowing laugh. it was straight into that laugh and the great mouth from where it issued, that patsy, beside himself with rage at the accident, deposited all the soft dough which was not clinging to the head and face of irish. he was not content with that. while the happy family roared appreciation of the spectacle, patsy returned with a kettle of meat and tried to land that neatly upon the dough. "py cosh, if dat iss der vay you wants your grub, py cosh, dat iss der vay you gets it alreatty!" he brought the coffee-boiler and threw that also at the two, and followed it with a big basin of stewed corn. irish, all dough as he was, went for him blindly and grappled with him, and it was upon this turbulent scene which chip looked first when he rode up. the happy family crowded around him gasping and tried to explain. "they were doing some rough-riding--" "by golly, patsy no business to set his bread dough on the ground!" "he's throwed away all the supper there is, and i betche--" "mamma! yuh sure missed it, chip. you ought--" "by cripes, if that dutch--" "break away there, irish!" shouted chip, dismounting hurriedly. "has it got so you must fight an old man like that?" "py cosh, _i'll_ fight mit him alreatty! i'll fight mit any mans vat shpoils mine bread. maybe i'm old yet but i ain't dead yet und i could fight--" the words came disjointedly, mere punctuation points to his wild sparring. it was plain that irish, furious though he was, was trying not to hurt patsy very much; but it took four men to separate them for all that. when they had dragged irish perforce down to the creek by which they had camped, and had yelled to big medicine to come on and feed the fish, quiet should have been restored--but it was not. patsy was, in american parlance, running amuck. he was jumbling three languages together into an indistinguishable tumult of sound and he was emptying the cook-tent of everything which his stout, german muscles could fling from it. not a thing did he leave that was eatable and the dishes within his reach he scattered recklessly to all the winds of heaven. when one venturesome soul after another approached to calm him, he found it expedient to duck and run to cover. patsy's aim was terribly exact. the happy family, under cover or at a safe distance from the hurtling pans, cans and stove wood, caressed sundry bumps and waited meekly. irish and big medicine, once more disclosing the features god had given them, returned by a circuitous route and joined their fellows. "look at 'em over there--he's emptying every grain uh rolled oats on the ground!" happy jack was a "mush-fiend." "somebody better go over and stop 'im--" "you ain't tied down," suggested cal emmett rather pointedly, and happy jack said no more. chip, usually so incisively clear as to his intentions and his duties, waited irresolutely and dodged missiles along with the rest of them. when patsy subsided for the very good reason that there was nothing else which he could throw out, chip took the matter up with him and told him quite plainly some of the duties of a cook, a few of his privileges and all of his limitations. the result, however, was not quite what he expected. patsy would not even listen. "py cosh, i not stand for dose poys no more," he declared, wagging his head with its shiny crown and the fringe of grizzled hair around the back. "i not cook grub for dat irish und dat big medicine und happy jack und all dose vat cooms und eats mine pies und shpoils mine pread und makes deirselves fools all der time. if dose fellers shtay on dis camp i quits him alreatty." to make the bluff convincing he untied his apron, threw it spitefully upon the ground and stamped upon it clumsily, like a maddened elephant. "well, quit then!" chip was fast losing his own temper, what with the heat and his hunger and a general distaste for camp troubles. "this jangling has got to stop right here. we've had about enough of it in the last month. if you can't cook for the outfit peaceably--" he did not finish the sentence, or if he did the distance muffled the words, for he was leading his horse back to the vicinity of the rope corral that he might unsaddle and turn him loose. he heard several voices muttering angrily, but his wrath was ever of the stiff-necked variety so that he would not look around to see what was the matter. the tumult grew, however, until when he did turn he saw patsy stalking off across the prairie with his hat on and his coat folded neatly over his arm, and irish and big medicine fighting wickedly in the open space between the two tents. he finished unsaddling and then went stalking over to quell this latest development. "they're trying to find out who was to blame," weary informed him when he was quite close. "bud hasn't got much tact: he called irish a dough-head. irish didn't think it was true humor, and he hit bud on the nose. he claims that bud pitched him into that dishpan uh dough with malice aforethought. better let 'em argue the point to a finish, now they're started. it's black eyes for the peacemaker--you believe _me_." while the dusk folded them close and the nighthawks swooped from afar, the happy family gathered round and watched them fight. chip and weary thoughtfully went into the bed-tent and got the guns which were stowed away in the beds of the combatants, so that when their anger reached the killing point they must let it bubble harmlessly until the fires which fed it went cold. which was exceeding wise of the two, for big medicine and irish did get to that very point and raged all over the camp because they could not shoot each other. the hottest battle must perforce end sometime, and so the camp of the flying u did at last settle into some semblance of calm. irish rolled his bed, saddled a horse and rode off toward town, quite as if he were going for good and all. big medicine went down to the creek for the second time that evening to wash away the marks of strife, and when he returned he went straight to bed without a word to anyone. patsy was gone, no man knew whither, and the cook-tent was as nearly wrecked as might be. "makes me think uh that time we had the ringtailed tiger in camp," sighed andy green, shaking sand out of the teakettle so that it could be refilled. "by golly, i'd ruther have a whole band uh tagers than this fighting bunch," slim affirmed earnestly. slim was laboring sootily with the stove-pipe which patsy had struck askew with a stick of wood. outside, happy jack was protesting in what he believed to be an undertone against being installed in patsy's place. "aw, that's always the way! anything comes up, it's 'happy, you git in and rustle some chuck.' _i_ ain't no cook--or if i be they might pay me cook's wages. i betche there ain't another man in camp would stand for it. somebody's got to take that bacon down to the creek and wash it off, if yuh want any meat for supper. there ain't no time to boil beef. if i'd a been boss uh this outfit, i betche no blame cook on earth would uh made rough-house like patsy done." but no one paid the slightest attention to happy jack, having plenty to think of and to do before they slept. not even the sun, when it shone again, could warm their hearts to a joy in living. happy jack cooked the breakfast, but his coffee was weak and his biscuits "soggy," and patsy had managed to make the butter absolutely uneatable with sand; also they were late and chip was surly over the double loss of cook and cowboy. happy jack packed food and dishes in much the same spirit which patsy had shown the night before, climbed sullenly to the high seat, gathered up the reins of the four restive horses, released the brake and let out a yell surcharged with all the bitterness bottled within his soul. _he_ had not done anything to precipitate the trouble. beyond eating half a pie he had been an innocent spectator, not even taking part in the rough-riding. yet here he was, condemned to the mess-wagon quite as if he were to blame for patsy's leaving. the eyes of happy jack gazed gloomily upon the world, and his driving seemed a reckless invitation to disaster. "i betche i'll make 'em good and sick uh _my_ cooking!" he plotted while he went rattling and bumping over the untrailed prairie. he succeeded so well that two days later chip gave a curt order or two and headed his wagons, horses and his lean-stomached bunch of riders for dry lake, passing by even the flying u coulee in his haste. just outside the town, upon the creek which saves the inhabitants from dying of thirst or _delirium tremens_, he left the wagons with happy jack, slim and one alien to set up camp and rode dust-dogged to the little, red depot. the telegram which went speeding to great falls and to a friend there was brief, but it was eloquent and not quite flattering to happy jack. it read like this: "john g. scott, "the palace, great falls. "for god's sake send me a cook by return train; must deliver goods or die hard. "bennett, flying u." whether the cook must die hard, or whether he meant the friend, chip did not trouble to make plain. telegrams are bound by such rigid limitations, and he had gone over the ten-word rate as it was. but he told weary to receive the cook, be he white or black, have him restock the mess-wagon to his liking and then bring the outfit to the ranch, when chip would again take it in hand. he said that he was going home to get a square meal, and he mentioned happy jack along with several profane words. "johnny scott will send a cook, and a good one,"; he added hopefully. "johnny never threw down a friend in his life and he never will. and say, weary, if he wires, you collect the message and act accordingly. i'm going to have a decent supper, to-night!" he was riding a good horse and there was no reason why he should be late in arriving, especially if he kept the gait at which he left town. in two hours weary, pink and andy green were touching hat-brims over a telegram from johnny scott--a telegram which was brief as chip's, and more illuminating: "chip bennett, "dry lake. "kidnaped park hotel chef best cook in town will be on next train. j.g. scott." "sounds good," mused andy, reading it for the fourth time. "but there's thirteen words in that telegram, if yuh notice." "i wish yuh wouldn't try to butt in on happy jack's specialty," weary remonstrated, folding the message and slipping it inside the yellow envelope. "if this is the same jasper that cooked there a month ago, we're going to eat ourselves plumb to death; a better meal i never laid away inside me than the one i got at the park hotel when i was up there last time. come on over to the hotel and eat; their chuck isn't the best in the world, but it could be a lot worse and still beat happy jack to a jelly." part two the whole happy family--barring happy jack, who was sulking in camp because of certain things which had been said of his cooking and which he had overheard--clanked spurs impatiently upon the platform and waited for the arrival of the train from the west. when at last it snorted into town and nosed its way up to the platform they bunched instinctively and gazed eagerly at the steps which led down from the smoker. a slim little man in blue serge, a man with the complexion of a strip of rawhide and the mustache of a third-rate orchestra leader, felt his way gingerly down by the light of the brakeman's lantern, hesitated and then came questioningly toward them, carrying with some difficulty a bulky suitcase. "it's him, all right," muttered pink while they waited. the little man stopped apologetically before the group, indistinct in the faint light from the office window. already the train was sliding away into the dark. "pardon," he apologized. "i am looking for the u fich flies." "this is it," weary assured him gravely. "we'll take yuh right on out to camp. pretty dark, isn't it? let me take your grip--i know the way better than you do." weary was not in the habit of making himself a porter for any man's accommodation, but the way back to where they had left the horses was dark, and the new cook was very small and slight. they filed silently back to rusty brown's place, invited the cook in for a drink and were refused with soft-voiced regret and the gracious assurance that he would wait outside for them. weary it was, and pink to bear him company, who piloted the stranger out to camp and showed him where he might sleep in patsy's bed. patsy had left town, the happy family had been informed, with the declaration often repeated that he was "neffer cooming back alreatty." he had even left behind him his bed and his clothes rather than meet again any member of the flying u outfit. "we'd like breakfast somewhere near sunrise," weary told the cook at parting. "soon as the store opens in the morning, we'll drive in and you can stock up the wagon; we're pretty near down to cases, judging from the meals we have been getting lately. hope yuh make out all right." "i will do very nicely, i thank you," smiled the new cook in the light of the lantern which stood upon the fireless cook-stove. "i wish you good-night, gentlemen, and sweet dreams of loved ones." "say, he's a polite son-of-a-gun," pink commented when they were riding back to town. "'the u fich flies'--that's a good one! what is he, do you thing? french?" "he's liable to be most anything, and i'll gamble he can build a good dinner for a hungry man. that's the main point," said weary. at daybreak weary woke and heard him humming a little tune while he moved softly about the cook-tent and the mess-wagon, evidently searching mostly for the things which were not there, to judge from stray remarks which interrupted the love song. "rolled oat--i do not find him," he heard once. and again: "where the clean towels they are, that i do not discover." weary smiled sleepily and took another nap. the cook's manner of announcing breakfast was such that it awoke even jack bates, notoriously a sleepy-head, and cal emmett who was almost as bad. instead of pounding upon a pan and lustily roaring "_grub-pi-i-ile!_" in the time-honored manner of roundup cooks, he came softly up to the bed-tent, lifted a flap deprecatingly and announced in a velvet voice: "breakfast is served, gentlemen." andy green, whose experiences had been varied, sat up and blinked at the gently swaying flap where the cook had been standing. "say, what we got in camp?" he asked curiously. "a butler?" "by golly, that's the way a cook _oughta_ be!" vowed slim, and reached for his hat. they dressed hastily and trooped down to the creek for their morning ablutions, and hurried back to the breakfast which waited. the new cook was smiling and apologetic and anxious to please. the happy family felt almost as if there were a woman in camp and became very polite without in the least realizing that they were not behaving in the usual manner, or dreaming that they were unconsciously trying to live up to their chef. "the breakfast, it is of a lacking in many things fich i shall endeavor to remedy," he assured them, pouring coffee as if he were serving royalty. he was dressed immaculately in white cap and apron, and his mustache was waxed to a degree which made it resemble a cat's whiskers. the happy family tasted the coffee and glanced eloquently at one another. it was better than patsy's coffee, even; and as for happy jack-- there were biscuits, the like of which they never had tasted before. the bacon was crisp and delicately brown and delicious, the potatoes cooked in a new and enticing way. the happy family showed its appreciation as seemed to them most convincing: they left not a scrap of anything and they drank two cups of coffee apiece when that was not their habit. later, they hitched the four horses to the mess-wagon, learned that the new cook, though he deeply regretted his inefficiency, did not drive anything. "the small burro," he explained, "i ride him, yes, and also the automobile drive i when the way is smooth. but the horses i make not acquainted with him. i could ride upon the elevated seat, yes, but to drive the quartet i would not presume." "happy, you'll have to drive," said weary, his tone a command. "aw, gwan!" happy jack objected, "he rode out here all right last night--unless somebody took him up in front on the saddle, which i hain't heard about nobody doing. a cook's supposed to do his own driving. i betche--" weary went close and pointed a finger impressively. "happy, you _drive_," he said, and happy jack turned without a word and climbed glumly up to the seat of the mess-wagon. "well, are yuh coming or ain't yuh?" he inquired of the cook in a tone surcharged with disgust. "if you will so kindly permit, it give me great pleasure to ride with you and to make better friendship. it now occurs to me that i have not yet introduce. gentlemen, jacques i have the honor to be name. i am delighted to meet you and i hope for pleasant association." the bow he gave the group was of the old school. big medicine grinned suddenly and came forward. "honest to grandma, i'm happy to know yuh!" he bellowed, and caught the cook's hand in a grip that sent him squirming upon his toes. "these here are my friends: happy jack up there on the wagon, and slim and weary and pink and cal and jack bates and andy green--and there's more scattered around here, that don't reely count except when it comes to eating. we like you, by cripes, and we like your cookin' fine! now, you amble along to town and load up with the best there is--huh?" it occurred to him that his final remarks might be construed as giving orders, and he glanced at weary and winked to show that he meant nothing serious. "so long, jakie," he added over his shoulder and went to where his horse waited. jacques--ever afterward he was known as "jakie" to the flying u--clambered up the front wheel and perched ingratiatingly beside happy jack, and they started off behind the riders for the short mile to dry lake. immediately he proceeded to win happy from his glum aloofness. "i would say, mr. happy, that i should like exceeding well to be friends together," he began purringly. "so superior a gentleman must win the admiration of the onlooker and so i could presume to question for advisement. i am experience much dexterity for cooking, yes, but i am yet so ignorant concerning the duties pertaining to camp. if the driving of these several horses transpire to pertain, i will so gladly receive the necessary instruction and endeavor to fulfil the accomplishment. yes?" happy jack, more in stupefaction at the cook's vocabulary than anything else, turned his head and took a good look at him. and the trustful smile of jakie went straight to the big, soft heart of him and won him completely. "aw, gwan," he adjured gruffly to hide his surrender. "i don't mind driving for yuh. it ain't that i was kicking about." "i thank you for the so gracious assurement. if i transgress not too greatly, i should like for inquire what is the chuck for which i am told to fill the wagon. i do not," he added humbly, "understand yet all the language of your so glorious country, for fich i have so diligently study the books. words i have not yet assimilated completely, and the word chuck have yet escape my knowledge." "chuck," grinned happy jack, "is grub." "chuck, it is grub," repeated jakie thoughtfully. "and grub, that is--yes?" happy jack struggled mentally with the problem. "well, grub is grub; all the stuff yuh eat is grub. meat and flour and coffee and--" "ah, the light it dawns!" exclaimed jakie joyously. "grub it is the supply of provision fich i must obtain for camping, yes? i thank you so graciously for the information; because," he added a bit wistfully, "that little word chuck she annoy me exceeding and make me for not sleep that i must grasp the meaning fich elude. i am now happy that i do not make the extensive blunder for one small word fich i apprehend must be a food fich i must buy and perhaps not to understand the preparation of it. yes? it is the excellent jest at the expense of me." "there ain't much chuck in camp," happy observed helpfully, "so yuh might as well start in and get anything yuh want to cook. the outfit is good about one thing they don't never kick on the stuff yuh eat. the cook always loads up to suit himself, and nobody don't ask questions or make a holler--so long as there's plenty and it's good." jakie listened attentively, twisting his mustache ends absently. "it is simply that i purchase the supplies fich i shall choose for my judgment," he observed, to make quite sure that he understood. "i am to have _carte blanche_, yes?" "sure, if yuh want it," said happy jack. "only they might not keep it here. yuh can't get _everything_ in a little place like this." it is only fair to happy jack to state that he would have understood the term if he had seen it in print. it was the pronunciation which made the words strange to him. jakie looked puzzled, but being the soul of politeness he made no comment--perhaps because happy jack was at that moment bringing his four horses to a reluctant stand at the wide side-door of the store. "the horses, they are of the vivacious temperament, yes?" jakie had scrambled from the seat to within the door and was standing there smiling appreciatively at the team. "aw, they're all right. you go on in--i guess weary's there. if he ain't, you go ahead and get what yuh want. i'll be back after awhile." thirst was calling happy jack; he heeded the summons and disappeared, leaving the new cook to his own devices. so, it would seem, did every other member of the flying u. weary had been told that miss satterly was in town, and he forgot all about jakie in his haste to find her. no one else seemed to feel any responsibility in the matter, and the store clerks did not care what the flying u outfit had to eat. for that reason the chuck-wagon contained in an hour many articles which were strange to it, and lacked a few things which might justly be called necessities. "say, you fellows are sure going to live swell," one of the clerks remarked, when happy jack finally returned. "where did yuh pick his nibs? ain't he a little bit new and shiny?" "aw, he's all right," happy jack defended jealously. "he's a real _chaff_, and he can build the swellest meals yuh ever eat. patsy can't cook within a mile uh him. and _clean_--i betche _he_ don't keep his bread-dough setting around on the ground for folks to tromp on." which proves how completely jakie had subjugated happy jack. that night--nobody but the horse-wrangler and happy jack had shown up at dinner-time--the boys of the flying u dined luxuriously at their new-made camp upon the creek-bank at the home ranch, and ate things which they could not name but which pleased wonderfully their palates. there was a salad to tempt an epicure, and there was a pudding the like of which they had never tasted. it had a french name which left them no wiser than before asking for it, and it looked, as pink remarked, like a snowbank with the sun shining on it, and it tasted like going to heaven. "it makes me plumb sore when i think of all the years i've stood for patsy's slops," sighed cal emmett, rolling over upon his back because he was too full for any other position--putting it plainly. "by golly, i never knowed there was such cookin' in the world," echoed slim. "why, even mis' bixby can't cook that good." "the countess had ought to come down and take a few lessons," declared jack bates emphatically. "i'm going to take up some uh that pudding and ask her what she thinks of it." "yuh can't," mourned happy jack. "there ain't any left--and i never got more'n a taste. next time, i'm going to tell jakie to make it in a wash tub, and make it full; with some uh you gobblers in camp--" he looked up and discovered the little doctor approaching with chip. she was smiling a friendly welcome, and she was curious about the new cook. by the time she had greeted them all and had asked all the questions she could think of and had gone over to meet jakie and to taste, at the urgent behest of the happy family, a tiny morsel of salad which had been overlooked, it would seem that the triumph of the new cook was complete and that no one could possibly give a thought to old patsy. the little doctor, however, seemed to regret his loss--and that in the face of the delectable salad and the smile of jakie. "i do think it's a shame that patsy left the way he did," she remarked to the happy family in general, being especially careful not to look toward big medicine. "the poor old fellow _walked_ every step of the way to the ranch, and claude"--that was chip's real name--"says it was twenty-five or six miles. he was so lame and he looked so old and so--well, friendless, that i could have _cried_ when he came limping up to the house! he had walked all night, and he got here just at breakfast time and was too tired to eat. "i dosed him and doctored his poor feet and made him go to bed, and he slept all that day. he wanted to start that night for dry lake, but of course we wouldn't let him do that. he was wild to leave, however, so j.g. had to drive him in the next day. he went off without a word to any of us, and he looked so utterly dejected and so--so _old_. claude says he acted perfectly awful in camp, but i'm sure he was sorry for it afterwards. j.g. hasn't got over it yet; i believe he has taken it to heart as much as patsy seemed to do. he's had patsy with him for so long, you see--he was like one of the family." she stopped and regarded the happy family a bit anxiously. "this new cook is a very nice little man," she added after a minute, "but after all, he isn't patsy." the happy family did not answer, and they refrained from looking at one another or at the little doctor. at last big medicine brought his big voice into the awkward silence. "honest to grandma, mrs. chip," he said earnestly, "i'd give a lot right now to have old patsy back--er--just to have _around_, if it made him feel bad to leave. i reckon maybe that was my fault: i hadn't oughta pitched quite so hard, and i had oughta looked where i was throwin' m' rider. i reelize that no cook likes to have a fellow standin' on his head in a big pan uh bread-sponge, on general principles if not on account uh the bread. uh course, we've all knowed old patsy to take just about as great liberties himself with his sponge--but we've got to recollect that it was _his_ dough, by cripes, and that pipe ashes ain't the same as a fellow takin' a shampoo in the pan. no, i reelize that i done wrong, and i'm willin' to apologize for it right here and now. at the same time," he ended dryly, "i will own that i'm dead stuck on little jakie, and i'd ruther ride for the flying u and eat jakie's grub than any other fate i can think of right now. whilst i'm sorry for what i done, yuh couldn't pry me loose from jakie with a stick uh dynamite--and that's a fact, mrs. chip." the little doctor laughed, pushed back her hair in the way she had, glanced again at the unresponsive faces of the original members of the happy family and gave up as gracefully as possible. "oh, of course patsy's an old crank, and jakie's a waxed angel," she surrendered with a little grimace. "you think so now, but that's because you are being led astray by your appetites, like all men. you just wait: you'll be _homesick_ for a sight of that fat, bald-headed, cranky old patsy bouncing along on the mess-wagon and swearing in dutch at his horses, before you're through. if you're not so completely gone over to jakie that you will eat nothing but what he has cooked, come on up to the house. the countess is making a twogallon freezer of ice-cream for you, and she has a big pan of angel cake to go with it! you don't deserve it--but come along anyway." which was another endearing way of the little doctor's--the way of sweetening all her lectures with something very nice at the end. the happy family felt very much ashamed and very sorry that they could not feel kindly toward patsy, even to please the little doctor. they sincerely wanted to please her and to have her unqualified approval; but wanting patsy back, or feeling even the slightest regret that he was gone, seemed to them a great deal too much to ask of them. since this is a story of cooks and of eating, one may with propriety add, however, that the invitation to ice cream and angel cake, coming though it did immediately after that wonderful supper of jakie's, was accepted with alacrity and their usual thoroughness of accomplishment; not for the world would they have offended the little doctor by declining so gracious an invitation--the graciousness being manifested in her smile and her voice rather than in the words she spoke--leaving out the enchantment which hovers over the very name of angel cake and ice cream. the happy family went to bed that night as complacently uncomfortable as children after a christmas dinner. not often does it fall to the lot of a cowboy to have served to him stuffed olives and lobster salad with mayonnaise dressing, french fried potatoes and cream puffs from the mess-tent of a roundup outfit. during the next week it fell to the lot of the happy family, however. when the salads and the cream puffs disappeared suddenly and the smile of jakie became pensive and contrite, the happy family, acting individually but unanimously, made inquiries. "it is that i no more possess the fresh vegetables, nor the eggs, gentlemen," purred jakie. "many things of a deliciousness must i now abstain because of the absence of two, three small eggs! but see, one brief arrival in the small town would quickly remedy, yes? it is that we return with haste that i may buy more of the several articles for fich i require?" he spread his small hands appealingly. "by golly, _patsy_ never had no eggs--" began slim traitorously. "aw, gwan! patsy never fed yuh like jakie does, neither!" happy jack was heart and soul the slave of the chef. "if chip don't care, i'll ride over to nelson's and git some eggs. jakie said he'd make some more uh that pudding if he had some. it ain't but six or seven miles." "should you but obtain the juvenile hen, yes, i should be delighted to serve the chicken salad for luncheon. it is the great misfortune that the fresh vegetable are not obtain, but i will do the best and substitute with a cleverness fich will conceal the defect--yes?" jakie's caps and aprons had lost their first immaculate freshness, but his manner was as royally perfect as ever and his smile as wistfully friendly. "well, i'll ask chip about it," happy jack yielded. eggs and young chickens were of a truth strange to a roundup in full blast, but so was a chef like jakie, and so were the salads, stuffed olives and cream puffs; and the white caps and the waxed mustache and the beautiful flow of words and the smile. the happy family was in no condition, mentally or digestively, to judge impartially. a month ago they would have whooped derision at the suggestion of riding anywhere after fresh eggs and "juvenile hens," but now it seemed to them very natural and very necessary. so much for the demoralization of expert cookery and white caps and a smile. chip also seemed to have fallen under the spell. it may have been that the heavenly peace which wrapped the flying u was, in his mind, too precious to be lightly disturbed. at any rate he told happy jack briefly to "go ahead, if you want to," and so left unobstructed the path to the chicken salad and cream puffs. happy jack wiped his hands upon an empty flour sack, rolled down his shirtsleeves and hurried off to saddle a horse. happy jack did not realize that he was doing two thirds of the work about the cook-tent, but that was a fact. because jakie could not drive the mess-wagon team, happy jack had been appointed his assistant. as assistant he drove the wagon from one camping place to another, "rustled" the wood, peeled the potatoes, tended fires and washed dishes, and did the thousand things which do not require expert hands, and which, in time of stress, usually falls to the horse-wrangler. jakie was ever smiling and always promising, in his purring voice, to cook something new and delicious, and left with the leisure which happy's industry gave him, he usually kept his promise. "now, mr. happy," he would smile, "i am agreeable to place the confidence in your so gracious person that you prepare the potatoes, yes? and that you attend to the boiling of meat and the unpacking and arrangement of those necessary furnishings for fich you possess the great understanding. and i shall prepare the so delicious dessert of the floating island, what you call in america. yes? our friends will have the so delightful astonishment when they arrive. they shall exclaim and partake joyously, is it not? and for your reward, mr. happy, i shall be so pleased to set aside a very extensive portion of the delicious floating island, so that you can eat no more except you endanger your handsome person from the bursting. yes?" and oh, the smile of him! a man of sterner stuff than happy jack would have fallen before such guile and would have labored willingly--nay, gladly in the service of so delightful a diplomat as jakie. except for that willing service, jakie would have been quite overwhelmed by the many and peculiar duties of a roundup cook. he would have been perfectly helpess before the morning and noon packing of dishes and food, and the skilful haste necessary to unpack and prepare a meal for fifteen ravenous appetites within the time limit would have been utterly impossible. jakie was a chef, trained to his profession in well-appointed kitchens and with assistance always at hand; which is a trade apart from cooking for a roundup crew. happy jack, in the fulness of time, returned with the eggs. that is, he returned with six eggs and a quart or two of a yellowish mixture thickly powdered with shell. he took the pail to jakie and he saw the seraphic smile fade from his face and an unpleasant glitter creep into his eyes. "it is the omelet fich you furnish, yes? the six eggs, they will not make the pudding. the omelet--i do not perceive yet the desirableness of the omelet. and the juvenile hen--yes?" "aw, they wouldn't sell no chickens." happy jack's face had gone long and scarlet before the patent displeasure of the other. "and my horse was scared uh the bucket and pitched with me." jackie looked again into the pail, felt gingerly the yellow mess and discovered one more egg which retained some semblance of its original form. "the misfortune distresses me," he murmured. "it is that you return hastily, mr. happy, and procure other eggs fich you will place unbroken in my waiting hands, yes?" happy jack mopped his forehead and glanced at the sun, burning hotly down upon the prairie. they had made a short move that day and it was still early. but the way to nelson's and back had been hot and tumultuous and he was tired. for the first time since his abject surrender to the waxed smile, happy jack chafed a bit under the yoke of voluntary servitude. "aw, can't yuh cook something that don't take so many eggs?" he asked in something like his old, argumentative tone. the unpleasant glitter in the eyes of jakie grew more pronounced; grew even snaky, in the opinion of happy jack. "it is that i am no more permitted the privilege of preparing the food for fich i have the judgment, yes?" his voice purred too much to be convincing. "it is that i am no more the chef to be obeyed by my servant?" "aw, gwan! i ain't anybody's servant that i ever heard of!" happy jack felt himself bewilderedly slipping from his loyalty. what had come over jakie, to act like this? he walked away to where there was some shade and sat down sullenly. jakie's servant, was he? well! "the darned little greasy-faced runt," he mumbled rebelliously, and immediately felt the better for it. two cigarettes brought coolness and calm. happy jack wanted very much to lie there and take a nap, but his conscience stirred uneasily. the boys were making a long circle that day and would come in with the appetites--and the tempers--of wolves. it occurred to happy jack that their appetites were much keener than they had ever been before, and he sat there a little longer while he thought about it; for happy jack's mind was slow and tenacious, and he hated to leave a new idea until he had squeezed it dry of all mystery. he watched jakie moving in desultory fashion about the tent--but most of the time jakie stayed inside. "i betche the boys ain't gitting enough old stand-by-yuh chuck," he decided at length. "floatin' island and stuffed olives--for them that likes stuffed olives--and salad and all that junk _tastes_ good--but i betche the boys need a good feed uh beans!" which certainly was brilliant of happy jack, even if it did take him a full hour to arrive at that conclusion. he got up immediately and started for the cook-tent. "say, jakie," he began before he was inside, "ain't there time enough to boil a pot uh beans if i make yuh a good fire? i betche the boys would like a good feed--" "a-a-hh!" happy jack insisted afterward that it sounded like the snarling of a wolf over a bone. "is it that you come here to give the orders? is it that you _insult_?" followed a torrent of molten french, as it were. followed also jakie, with the eyes of a snake and the toothy grin of a wild animal and with a knife which happy jack had never seen before; a knife which caught the sunlight and glittered horridly. happy jack backed out as if he had inadvertently stirred a nest of hornets. jakie almost caught him before he took to his heels. happy never waited to discover what the new cook was saying, or whether he was following or remaining at the tent. he headed straight for the protection of the horse-wrangler, who watched his cavvy not far away, and his face was the color of stale putty. the horse-wrangler saw him coming and came loping up to meet him. "what's eating yuh, happy?" he inquired inelegantly. "jakie--he's gone nutty! he come at me with a knife, and he'd uh killed me if i'd stayed!" happy jack pantingly recovered himself. "i didn't have no time ta git my gun," he added in a more natural tone, "or i'd uh settled him pretty blame quick. so i come out to borrow yourn. i betche _i'll_ have the next move." the horse-wrangler grinned heartlessly. "i reckon he's about half shot," he said, sliding over in the saddle and getting out the inevitable tobacco sack and papers. "old pete williams rode past while you were gone, loaded to the guards and with a bottle uh whisky in each saddle-pocket and two in his coat. he gave me a drink, and then he went on and stopped at camp. he was hung up there for quite a spell, i noticed. i didn't _see_ him pass any uh the vile liquor to little jakie, but--" he twirled a blackened match stub in his fingers and then tossed it from him. "aw, gwan! jakie wouldn't touch nothing when he was in town," happy jack objected. "i betche he's gone crazy, or else--" "well," interrupted the horse-wrangler, "i've told yuh what i know and all i know. take it or leave it." he rode back to turn the lead-horse from climbing a ridge where he did not want the herd to follow. he did not lend happy jack his gun, and for that reason--perhaps--jakie remained alive and unpunctured until the first of the riders came loping in to camp. the first riders happened to be pink and big medicine. they were met by a tearful, contrite jakie--a jakie who seemed much inclined to weeping upon their shirt-fronts and to confessing all his sins, particularly the sin of trying to carve happy jack. that perturbed gentleman made his irate appearance as soon as he found that reinforcements had arrived. big medicine disengaged himself from the clinging arms of the chef, sniffed suspiciously and wiped away the tears from his vest. "well, say," he bellowed in his usual manner of trying to make all chouteau county hear what he had to say, "i ain't t' blame if he got away on yuh. yuh hadn't ought to uh done it--or else yuh oughta made a clean job of it sos't we could hang yuh proper. supper ready?" "it is that the supply of eggs is inadequate," wept jakie, steadying himself against the tent-pole while he wiped his eyes upon his apron. "because of it i could not prepare the floating island--and without the dessert i have not the heart to prepare the dinner, yes? it is that i am breaking of the heart that i assail the good friend of me. oh, mr. happy, it is that i crave pardon!" happy jack came near taking to his heels again when he saw jakie start for him; he did back up hastily, and his evident reluctance to embrace and forgive started afresh the tears of remorse. jakie wailed volubly and, catching pink unaware, he wept upon his bosom. others came riding in, saw the huddle before the mess-tent and came up to investigate. with every fresh arrival jakie began anew his confession that he had attempted to murder his good friend, mr. happy, and with every confession he wept more copiously than before. the happy family tacitly owned itself helpless. a warlike cook they could deal with. a lazy cook they could kick into industry. a weeping, wailing, conscience-stricken cook, a cook who steadfastly refused to be comforted, was an absolutely new experience. they told him to buck up, found that he only broke out anew, threatened, cajoled and argued. jakie clung to whoever happened to be within reach and mixed the english language unmercifully. "happy, you'll have to forgive him," said weary at last. "go tell him yuh don't feel hard towards him. we want some supper." "aw, gwan. i _ain't_ forgive him, and i never will. i--" big medicine stepped into the breach. with his face contorted into a grin to crimple one's spine, with a voice to make one's knees buckle, he went up to happy jack and thrust that horrible grin into happy's very face. "by cripes, you forgive jakie, and you do it quick!" he thundered. "think you're going to ball up the eating uh the whole outfit whilst you stand around acting haughty? why, by cripes, i've killed men in the coconino county for _half_ what you're doing! you'll wish, by cripes, that jakie _had_ slit your hide; you'll consider that woulda been an easy way out, before i git half through with yuh. you walk right up and shake hands with him, and you tell him that yuh love him to death and are his best friend and always will be! yuh _hear_ me?" happy jack heard. the happy family considerately moved aside and left him a clear path, and they looked on without a word while he took jakie's limp hand, muttered tremulously, "aw, fergit it, jakie. i know yuh didn't mean nothing by it, and i forgive yuh," and backed away again. jakie wept, this time with gratitude. they got him inside a tent, unrolled his bed and persuaded him to lie down upon it. they searched the mess-box, found all that was left of a quart bottle of whisky, took it outside and divided it gravely and appreciatively among themselves. there was not much to divide. happy jack took charge of the pots and pans, with the whole happy family to help him hurry supper, while jakie forgot his woes in sleep and the sun set upon a quiet camp. next morning, jakie was up and cooking breakfast at the appointed time, and the camp felt that the incident of the evening before might well be forgotten. the coffee was unusually good that morning, even for jakie. he was subdued, was jakie, and his soft, brown eyes were humble whenever they met the eyes of happy jack. his smile was infrequent and fleeting, and his voice more deprecating than ever. aside from these minor changes everything seemed the same as before the sheepmen had stopped at camp. that afternoon, however, came an aftermath in the shape of happy jack galloping wildly out to where the others were holding a herd and "cutting out." he was due to come and help, so nobody paid any attention to his haste, though it was his habit to take his time. he shot recklessly by the outer fringes of the "cut" and yelled in a way to stampede the whole bunch. "jakie's _dying_," he shouted, wild-eyed. "he's drunk up all the lemon extract and most uh the v'nilla before i could stop him!" chip and weary, riding in hot haste to the camp, found that it was true as far as the drinking was concerned. jakie was stretched upon his back breathing unpleasantly, and beside him were two flat bottles of half-pint size, one empty and the other very nearly so; the tent and jakie's breath reeked of lemon and vanilla. chip sent back for help. for the second time the flying u roundup was brought to an involuntary pause because of its cook. there was but one thing to do, and chip did it. he broke camp, loaded jakie into the bed-wagon, and headed at a gallop for dry lake in an effort to catch the next train for great falls. whether he sent jakie to the hospital or to the undertaker was a question he did not attempt to answer; one thing was certain, however, that he must send him to one of those places as soon as might be. that night, just before the train arrived, he sent another telegram to johnny scott at rush rates. he said simply: "send another cook immediately this one all in am returning him in baggage coach this train. "c. bennett." just after midnight he went to the station and received an answer, which is worth repeating: "c. bennett, dry lake: supply cooks running low am sending only available don't kill this one or may have to go without season on cooks closed fine attached to killing, running with dogs or keeping in captivity this one drunk look for him in pullman have bribed porter. j.g. scott." it was sent collect, which accounts perhaps for the facetious remarks which it contained. it was morning when that train arrived, because it was behind time for some reason, but chip, weary, pink and big medicine were at the depot to meet it. the new cook having been reported drunk, they wanted to make sure of getting him off the train in case he proved unruly. they were wise in the ways of intoxicated cooks. they ran to the steps of the only pullman on the train and were met by the grinning porter. "yas sah, he's in dah--but ah cyan't git 'im off, sah, to save mah soul," he explained toothily. "ah put 'im next de front end, sah, but he's went to sleep and ah cyan't wake 'em up, an' ah cyan't tote 'em out nohow. seems lak he weighs a ton!" "by cripes, _we'll_ tote him out," declared big medicine, pushing ahead of chip in his enthusiasm. "you hold the train, and we'll git 'im. show us the bunk." the porter pointed out the number and retreated to the steps that he might signal the conductor. the four pushed up through the vestibule and laid hold upon the berth curtains. "mamma!" ejaculated weary in a stunned tone. "look what's in here, boys!" they thrust forward their heads and peered in at the recumbent form. "honest to grandma--it's old patsy!" the voice of big medicine brought heads out all along down the car. "come out uh that!" four voices made up the chorus, and patsy opened his eyes reluctantly. "py cosh, i not cook chuck for you fellers ven i'm sick," he mumbled dazedly. "come out uh that, you damned dutch belly-robber!" bawled big medicine joyously, and somewhere behind a curtain a feminine shriek was heard at the shocking sentence. four pairs of welcoming hands laid hold upon patsy; four pairs of strong arms dragged him out of the berth and through the narrow aisle to the platform. the conductor, the head brakeman and the porter were chafing there, and they pulled while the others pushed. so patsy was deposited upon the platform, grumbling and only half sober. "anyway, we've got him back," weary remarked with much satisfaction the next day when they were once more started toward the range land. "when irish blows in again, we'll be all right." "by cripes, yuh just give me a sight uh that irish once, and he'll _come_, if i have to rope and drag 'im!" big medicine took his own way of intimating that he held no grudge. "did yuh hear what patsy said, by cripes, when he was loading up the chuck-wagon at the store? he turned in all that oil and them olives and _anchovies_, yuh know, and he told tom t' throw in about six cases uh blueberries. i was standin' right handy by, and he turns around and scowls at me and says: 'py cosh, der vay dese fellers eats pie mit derselves, i have to fill oop der wagon mit pie fruit alreatty!' and then the old devil turns around with his back to me, but yuh can skin me for a coyote if i didn't ketch a grin on 'is face!" they turned and looked back to where patsy, seated high upon the mess-wagon, was cracking his long whip like pistol shots and swearing in dutch at his four horses as he came bouncing along behind them. "well, there's worse fellers than old patsy," slim admitted ponderously. "i don't want no more jakie in mine, by golly." "i betche jakie cashes in, with all that lemon in him," prophesied happy jack with relish. "dirty little dago--it'd serve him right. patsy wouldn't uh acted like that in a thousand years." they glanced once more behind them, as if they would make sure that the presence of patsy was a reality. then, with content in their hearts, they galloped blithely out of the lane and into the grassy hills. the end. * * * * * _what the critics say of_ chip of the flying u. by m. bower. * * * * * "'chip' is all right. better than 'the virginian.'" --_brooklyn eagle_. "the name of b.m. bower will stand for something readable in the estimation of every man, and most every woman, who reads this fine new story of montana ranch and its dwellers."--_publisher & retailer_. "its qualities and merit can be summed up in the brief but sufficient statement that it is thoroughly delightful." --_albany times-union_. "for strength of interest, vivid description, clever and convincing character, drawing and literary merit it is the surprise of the year." --_walden's stationer and printer_. "it is an appealing story told in an active style which fairly sparkles in reproducing the atmosphere of the wild and woolly west. it is consistently forceful and contains a quantity of refreshing comedy." --_philadelphia press_. "bound to stand among the famous novels of the year." --_baltimore american_. "'the virginian' has found many imitators, but few authors have come as near duplicating owen wister's magnetic hero as has b.m. bower, 'chip of the flying u.'"--_philadelphia item_. "b.m. bower has portrayed but few characters, but these he has pictured with the strong and yet delicate stroke of a true master. the atmosphere of the west is perfect; one sees and feels the vibrant, vital life of the ranch activities all through the telling of the story." --_cincinnati times-star_. "it brims over with humor showing the bright and laughing side of ranch life. it is a story which will delightfully entertain the reader." --_portland journal_. "the story contains strength of interest, vivid descriptions, clever and convincing character drawing and literary merits, and the author lays on the colors with a master's touch."--_albany evening journal_. mo, cloth bound, color illustrations, $. g.w. dillingham co., publishers, new york * * * * * what the critics say of the range dwellers. by b.m. bower. "a clever and humorous story, delightfully clean and wholesome, and possessing enough of the dramatic and dangerous element to keep the imagination excited to the end."--_the nashville american_. "a bright, jolly, entertaining yarn without a dull page."--_the chicago inter-ocean_. "one of the most charming and appealing of all western novels. there is action and vivacity at all times, and the reader's interest never sways for an instant. the story is admirably written and runs along smoothly at all times."--_philadelphia press_. "here are every day, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist, spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship in the far west which make easy reading. mr. bower knows his wild west intimately and writes of it entertainingly."--_des moines register and leader_. "told with a good deal of humor and a lot of unusual spirit. a very clever book--one that has more atmosphere than usual, and which can be picked up at any time to fill a long felt want for excitement." --_philadelphia inquirer_. "a tale to set the blood tingling. it is a story of the west, with the scene laid on a montana cattle ranch. a story well told and a story worth reading."--_st. louis republic_. "mr. bower has portrayed but few characters, but these he has pictured with the strong and yet delicate stroke of a true master. the atmosphere of the west is perfect; one sees and feels the vibrant vital life of the ranch activities all through the telling of the story."--_pittsburgh dispatch_. "has many stirring situations and exciting incidents illustrative of existence in the open."--_boston budget-beacon_. "the book is vigorous, with the bracing open air of the far west."--_rochester herald_. _ mo, cloth bound_ _beautiful color illustrations by charles m. russell, $ . _ g.w. dillingham co., publishers, new york * * * * * raw gold by bertrand w. sinclair * * * * * "this is a stirring story of the canadian northwest and the northwest mounted police. the unwritten history of this wonderful and intrepid body of men must be a long way from the dry-as-dust histories on the shelves. it is an open question if people do not get more real history in a clear, clean-cut tale of this kind, with its strong character portrayal and its vivid local coloring, than could be obtained in any other way." --_st. louis times_. "action enough to thrill the dullest sort of reader." --_albany times-union_. "the delineation of characters in this tale of the northwest mounted police is splendidly portrayed. they are flesh-and-blood personalities. there is something of mystery, bits of sharp action, color, description, life. a well-told story." --_pittsburg dispatch_. "the story is sensational, but is full of animation. scenes shift rapidly and the actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. the love theme runs through it all and pleasantly." --_chicago tribune_. "it is strong, virile, captivating and well told." --_denver republican_. "a rattling good story. there is sentiment of the kind that fits with the open sky and life in the saddle, and the whole story moves with a swing and reality that are refreshing in the extreme."--_new york times_. "wild, indeed, is the west pictured by mr. sinclair." --_boston transcript_. "the tale, rapid in action and clearly told, is one of the best written on the canadian west."--_louisville courier-journal_. _ mo, cloth bound, illustrated, $ . ._ * * * * * g.w. dillingham co., publishers, new york * * * * * wyoming _a story of the outdoor west_ by william macleod raine _author of "ridgeway of montana," "a daughter of raasay," etc._ * * * * * in this vivid story the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings to us the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. it is the kind of book one reads at a sitting far into the night. a young woman, fresh from the conventional east, drives her motor car into an absorbing adventure which is the first of a series of dramatic events that tread upon each other's heels and grow more intense and thrilling from page to page. the gallant vagabond, ned bannister, who enthralls the heroine's fancy, against her will, is reputed to be a lawless desperado of the worst type. yet the reader joins with the wholly delightful young heroine in yielding him full sympathy. how the mystery is solved to the satisfaction of all is one of the pleasures that must be reserved for a reading. the characters each and all are drawn with masterly vigor and help forward the swift movement of the plot. _ mo. illustrated. cloth bound, $ . ._ * * * * * g.w. dillingham company publishers new york * * * * * what they say about ridgway of montana by william macleod raine * * * * * "to-day i had it out with 'ridgway.' i opened the book and i did not lay it down till i had raced eagerly through it. i find it a story with many elements of power in its treatment of plot and personality. the men are all well-marked types. the women are all possible and pleasant beings. the story gives dramatically the inner life of a mining camp. the atmosphere of wild nature and primeval human passion is well sustained. the exuberance of detail and suggestion, the easy drawing of character, the fine massing of effects, all show a strength and fire in the author which ought to give us a line of good books from his pen in the coming days." --edwin markham, in _the new york american_. "whatever else the reader of this novel may say, he certainly will be forced to admit that it is highly interesting. mr. raine is not only skillful in devising incidents which compel unwearied attention; he also has the rarer and finer craftsmanship which enables him to create characters that have a high degree of personal charm."--_boston transcript_. "a story engrossing all the way through."--_new york world_. "it is a real pleasure to pick up a book like this one. to use an old phrase, the story is one which can hardly be put down." --_minneapolis tribune_. "the action starts with the first line, and there is no suspension until the last word is written. it is a story of thrilling situations, busy people and stirring times. once started to read it there is no quitting the book."--_denver republican_. "full of action and written with remarkable vigor." --_charleston news and courier_. "mr. raine's experience as a newspaper man has stood him in good stead. he knows the corrupt workings of politicians, the venality of biased courts, the weakness of the human heart when tempted by gold. more, he knows the details by which all these are made manifest in unjust laws, unfair verdicts and treachery to one's best friends." --_denver post_. "the political contest, the love scenes, and the character drawing give this story of life in the mining country great strength and charm."--_pittsburg dispatch_. "western stories are always in demand, and of these william macleod raine is the most popular and successful writer. this is an exceptionally entertaining book."--_albany times-union_. _ mo. cloth bound. illustrated, $ . _ * * * * * g.w. dillingham co., publishers, new york that girl montana by marah ellis ryan author of told in the hills, the bondwoman, a flower of france, etc. new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america copyright, , by rand. mcnally & company. that girl montana. prologue. "that girl the murderer of a man--of lee holly! that pretty little girl? bosh! i don't believe it." "i did not say she killed him; i said she was suspected. and even though she was cleared, the death of that renegade adds one more to the mysteries of our new west. but i think the mere suspicion that she did it entitles her to a medal, or an ovation of some sort." the speakers were two men in complete hunting costume. that they were strangers in the northwest was evidenced by the very lively interest they took in each bit of local color in landscape or native humanity. of the latter, there was a most picturesque variety. there were the northern red men in their bright blankets, and women, too, with their beadwork and tanned skins for sale. a good market-place for these was this spot where the kootenai river is touched by the iron road that drives from the lakes to the pacific. the road runs along our northern boundary so close that it is called the "great northern," and verily the land it touches is great in its wildness and its beauty. the two men, with their trophies of elk-horn and beaver paws, with their scarred outfit and a general air of elation gained from a successful "outing," tramped down to the little station after a last lingering view toward far hunting grounds. while waiting for the train bound eastward, they employed their time in dickering with the indian moccasin-makers, of whom they bought arrows and gaily painted bows of ash, with which to deck the wall of some far-away city home. while thus engaged, a little fleet of canoes was sighted skimming down the river from that greater wilderness of the north, penetrated at that time only by the prospector, or a chance hunter; for the wealth of gold in those high valleys had not yet been more than hinted at, and the hint had not reached the ears of the world. even the indians were aroused from their lethargy, and watched with keen curiosity the approaching canoes. when from the largest there stepped forth a young girl--a rather remarkable-looking young girl--there was a name spoken by a tall indian boatman, who stood near the two strangers. the indians nodded their heads, and the name was passed from one to the other--the name 'tana--a soft, musical name as they pronounced it. one of the strangers, hearing it, turned quickly to a white ranchman, who had a ferry at that turn of the river, and asked if that was the young girl who had helped locate the new gold find at the twin springs. "likely," agreed the ranchman. "word came that she was to cut the diggings and go to school a spell. a mr. haydon, who represents a company that's to work the mine, sent down word that a special party was to go east over the road from here to-day; so i guess she's one of the specials. she came near going on a special to the new jerusalem, she did, not many days ago. i reckon you folks heard how lee holly--toughest man in the length of the columbia--was wiped off the living earth by her last week." "we heard she was cleared of it," assented the stranger. "yes, so she was, so she was--cleared by an alibi, sworn to by dan overton. you don't know dan, i suppose? squarest man you ever met! and he don't have to scratch gravel any more, either, for he has a third interest in that twin spring find, and it pans out big. they say the girl sold her share for two hundred thousand. she doesn't look top-heavy over it, either." and she did not. she walked between two men--one a short, rather pompous elderly man, who bore a slight resemblance to her, and whom she treated rather coolly. "of course i am not tired," she said, in a strong, musical voice. "i have been brought all the way on cushions, so how could i be? why, i have gone alone in a canoe on a longer trail than we floated over, and i think i will again some day. max, there is one thing i want in this world, and want bad; that is, to get mr. haydon out on a trip where we can't eat until we kill and cook our dinner. he doesn't know anything about real comfort; he wants too many cushions." the man she called max bent his head and whispered something to her, at which her face flushed just a little and a tiny wrinkle crept between her straight, beautiful brows. "i told you not to say pretty things that way, just because you think girls like to hear them. i don't. maybe i will when i get civilized; but mr. haydon thinks that is a long ways ahead, doesn't he?" the wrinkle was gone--vanished in a quizzical smile, as she looked up into the very handsome face of the young fellow. "so do i," he acknowledged. "i have a strong desire, especially when you snub me, to be the man to take you on a lone trail like that. i will, too, some day." "maybe you will," she agreed. "but i feel sorry for you beforehand." she seemed a tantalizing specimen of girlhood, as she stood there, a slight, brown slip of a thing, dressed in a plain flannel suit, the color of her golden-brown short curls. in her brown cloth hat the wings of a redbird gleamed--the feathers and her lips having all there was of bright color about her; for her face was singularly colorless for so young a girl. the creamy skin suggested a pale-tinted blossom, but not a fragile one; and the eyes--full eyes of wine-brown--looked out with frank daring on the world. but for all the daring brightness of her glances, it was not a joyous face, such as one would wish a girl of seventeen to possess. a little cynical curve of the red mouth, a little contemptuous glance from those brown eyes, showed one that she took her measurements of individuals by a gauge of her own, and that she had not that guileless trust in human nature that is supposed to belong to young womanhood. the full expression indicated an independence that seemed a breath caught from the wild beauty of those northern hills. her gaze rested lightly on the two strangers and their trophies of the chase, on the careless ferryman, and the few stragglers from the ranch and the cabins. these last had gathered there to view the train and its people as they passed, for the ties on which the iron rails rested were still of green wood, and the iron engines of transportation were recent additions to those lands of the far north, and were yet a novelty. over the faces of the white men her eyes passed carelessly. she did not seem much interested in civilized men, even though decked in finer raiment than was usual in that locality; and, after a cool glance at them all, she walked directly past them and spoke to the tall indian who had first uttered her name to the others. his face brightened when she addressed him; but their words were low, as are ever the words of an indian in converse, low and softly modulated; and the girl did not laugh in the face of the native as she had when the handsome young white man had spoken to her in softened tones. the two sportsmen gave quickened attention to her as they perceived she was addressing the indian in his own language. many gestures of her slim brown hands aided her speech, and as he watched her face, one of the sportsmen uttered the impulsive exclamation at the beginning of this story. it seemed past belief that she could have committed the deed with which her name had been connected, and of which the kootenai valley had heard a great deal during the week just passed. that it had become the one topic of general interest in the community was due partly to the personality of the girl, and partly to the fact that the murdered man had been one of the most notorious in all that wild land extending north and west into british columbia. looking at the frank face of the girl and hearing her musical, decided tones, the man had a reasonable warrant for deciding that she was not guilty. "she is one of the most strongly interesting girls of her age i have ever seen," he decided. "girls of that age generally lack character. she does not; it impresses itself on a man though she never speak a word to him. wish she'd favor me with as much of her attention as she gives that hulking redskin." "it's a 'case,' isn't it?" asked his friend. "you'll be wanting to use her as a centerpiece for your next novel; but you can't make an orthodox heroine of her, for there must have been some reason for the suspicion that she helped him 'over the range,' as they say out here. there must have been something socially and morally wrong about the fact that he was found dead in her cabin. no, harvey; you'd better write up the inert, inoffensive red man on his native heath, and let this remarkable young lady enjoy her thousands in modest content--if the ghosts let her." "nonsense!" said the other man, with a sort of impatience. "you jump too quickly to the conclusion that there must be wrong where there is suspicion. but you have put an idea into my mind as to the story. if i can ever learn the whole history of this affair, i will make use of it, and i'm not afraid of finding my pretty girl in the wrong, either." "i knew from the moment we heard who she was that your impressionable nature would fall a victim, but you can't write a story of her alone; you will want your hero and one or two other people. i suppose, now, that very handsome young fellow with the fastidious get-up will about suit you for the hero. he does look rather lover-like when he addresses your girl with the history. will you pair them off?" "i will let you know a year from now," returned the man called harvey. "but just now i am going to pay my respects to the very well-fed looking elderly gentleman. he seems to be the chaperon of the party. i have acquired a taste for trailing things during our thirty days hunt in these hills, and i'm going to trail this trio, with the expectation of bagging a romance." his friend watched him approach the elder gentleman, and was obviously doubtful of the reception he would get, for the portly, prosperous-looking individual did not seem to have been educated in that generous western atmosphere, where a man is a brother if he acts square and speaks fair. conservatism was stamped in the deep corners of his small mouth, on the clean-shaven lips, and the correctly cut side-whiskers that added width to his fat face. but the journalist proper, the world over, is ever a bit of a diplomat. he has won victories over so many conservative things, and is daunted by few. when harvey found himself confronted by a monocle through which he was coolly surveyed, it did not disturb him in the least (beyond making it difficult to retain a grave demeanor at the lively interest shown by the indians in that fashionable toy). "yes, sir--yes, sir; i am t. j. haydon, of philadelphia," acknowledged he of the glass disc, "but i don't know you, sir." "i shall be pleased to remedy that if you will allow me," returned the other, suavely, producing a card which he offered for examination. "you are, no doubt, acquainted with the syndicate i represent, even if my name tells you nothing. i have been hunting here with a friend for a month, and intend writing up the resources of this district. i have a letter of introduction to your partner, mr. seldon, but did not follow the river so far as to reach your works, though i've heard a good deal about them, and imagine them interesting." "yes, indeed; very interesting--very interesting from a sportsman's or mineralogist's point of view," agreed the older man, as he twirled the card in a disturbed, uncertain way. "do you travel east, mr.--mr. harvey? yes? well, let me introduce mr. seldon's nephew--he's a new yorker--max lyster. wait a minute and i'll get him away from those beastly indians. i never can understand the attraction they have for the average tourist." but when he reached lyster he said not a word of the despised reds; he had other matters more important. "here, max! a most annoying thing has happened," he said, hurriedly. "those two men are newspaper fellows, and one is going east on our train. worse still--the one knows people i know. gad! i'd rather lose a thousand dollars than meet them now! and you must come over and get acquainted. they've been here a month, and are to write accounts of the life and country. that means they have been here long enough to hear all about 'tana and that holly. do you understand? you'll have to treat them well,--the best possible--pull wires even if it costs money, and fix it so that a record of this does not get into the eastern papers. and, above and beyond everything else, so long as we are in this depraved corner of the country, you must keep them from noticing that girl montana." the young man looked across at the girl, and smiled doubtfully. "i'm willing to undertake any possible thing for you," he said; "but, my dear sir, to keep people from noticing 'tana is one of the things beyond my power. and if she gives notice to all the men who will notice her, i've an idea jealousy will turn my hair gray early. but come on and introduce your man, and don't get in a fever over the meeting. i am so fortunate as to know more of the journalistic fraternity than you, and i happen to be aware that they are generally gentlemen. therefore, you'd better not drop any hints to them of monetary advantages in exchange for silence unless you want to be beautifully roasted by a process only possible in printer's ink." the older man uttered an exclamation of impatience, as he led his young companion over to the sportsmen, who had joined each other again; and as he effected the introduction, his mind was sorely upset by dread of the two gentlemanly strangers and 'tana. 'tana was most shamelessly continuing her confidences with the tall indian, despite the fact that she knew it was a decided annoyance to her principal escort. altogether the evening was a trying one to mr. t. j. haydon. the sun had passed far to the west, and the shadows were growing longer under the hills there by the river. clear, red glints fell across the cool ripples of the water, and slight chill breaths drifted down the ravines and told that the death of summer was approaching. some sense of the beauty of the dying october day seemed to touch the girl, for she walked a little apart and picked a spray of scarlet maple leaves and looked from them to the hills and the beautiful valley, where the red and the yellow were beginning to crowd out the greens. yes, the summer was dying--dying! other summers would come in their turn, but none quite the same. the girl showed all the feeling of its loss in her face. in her eyes the quick tears came, as she looked at the mountains. the summer was dying; it was autumn's colors she held in her hand, and she shivered, though she stood in the sunshine. as she turned toward the group again, she met the eyes of the stranger to whom max was talking. he seemed to have been watching her with a great deal of interest, and her hand was raised to her eyes, lest a trace of tears should prove food for curiosity. "it was to one of akkomi's relations i was talking," she remarked to mr. haydon, when he questioned her. "his little grandson is sick, and i would like to send him something. i haven't money enough in my pocket, and wish you would get me some." after taking some money out of his purse for her, he eyed the tall savage with disfavor. "he'll buy bad whisky with it," he grumbled. "no, he will not," contradicted the girl. "if a person treats these indians square, he can trust them. but if a lie is told them, or a promise broken--well, they get even by tricking you if they can, and i can't say that i blame them. but they won't trick me, so don't worry; and i'm as sure the things will go to that little fellow safely as though i took them." she was giving the money and some directions to the indian, when a word from a squaw drew her attention to the river. a canoe had just turned the bend not a quarter of a mile away, and was skimming the water with the swiftness of a swallow's dart. only one man was in it, and he was coming straight for the landing. "some miner rushing down to see the train go by," remarked mr. haydon; but the girl did not answer. her face grew even more pale, and her hands clasped each other nervously. "yes," said the indian beside her, and nodded to her assuringly. then the color swept upward over her face as she met his kindly glance, and drawing herself a little straighter, she walked indifferently away. the stolid red man did not look at all snubbed; he only pocketed the money she had given him, and looked after her with a slight smile, accented more by the deepening wrinkles around his black eyes than by any change about the lips. then there was a low rumbling sound borne on the air, and as the muffled whistle of the unseen train came to them from the wilderness to the west, with one accord the indians turned their attention to their wares, and the white people to their baggage. when the train slowed up mr. haydon, barely waiting for the last revolution of the wheels, energetically hastened the young girl up the steps of the car nearest them. "what's the hurry?" she asked, with a slight impatience. "i think," he replied quickly, "there is but a short stop made at this station, and as there are several vacant seats in this car, please occupy one of them until i have seen the conductor. there may be some changes made as to the compartments engaged for us. until that is decided, will you be so kind as to remain in this coach?" she nodded rather indifferently, and looked around for max. he was gathering up some robes and satchels when the older man joined him. "we are not going to make the trip to chicago in the car with those fellows if it can be helped, max," he insisted, fussily; "we'll wait and see what car they are booked for, and i'll arrange for another. sorry i did not get a special, as i first intended." "but see here; they are first-class fellows--worth one's while to meet," protested max; but the other shook his head. "look after the baggage while i see the conductor. 'tana is in one of the cars--don't know which. we'll go for her when we get settled. now, don't argue. time is too precious." and 'tana! she seated herself rather sulkily, as she was told, and looked at once toward the river. the canoe was landing, and the man jumped to the shore. with quick, determined strides, he came across the land to the train. she tried to follow him with her eyes, but he crossed to the other side of the track. there was rather a boisterous party in the car--two men and two women. one of the latter, a flaxen-haired, petite creature, was flitting from one side of the car to the other, making remarks about the indians, admiring particularly one boy's beaded dress, and garnishing her remarks with a good deal of slang. "say, chub! that boy's suit would be a great 'make-up' for me in that new turn--the jig, you know; new, too. there isn't a song-and-dance on the boards done with indian make-up. knock them silly in the east, where they don't see reds. now sing out, and tell me if it wouldn't make a hit." "aw, goldie, give us a rest on shop talk," growled the gentleman called chub. "if you'd put a little more ginger into the good specialty you have, instead of depending on wardrobe, you'd hit 'em hard enough. it ain't plans that count, girlie--it's work." the "girlie" addressed accepted the criticism with easy indifference, and her fair, dissipated face was only twisted in a grimace, while she held one hand aloft and jingled the bangles on her bracelets as though poising a tambourine. "better hustle yourself into the smoker again, chubby dear. it will take a half-dozen more cigars to put you in your usual sweet frame of mind. run along now. ta-ta!" the other woman seemed to think their remarks very witty, especially when chub really did arise and make his way toward the smoker. goldie then went back to the window, where the indians were to be seen. the quartet were, to judge by their own frank remarks, a party of variety singers and dancers who had been doing the pacific circuit, and were now booked for some eastern houses, of which they spoke as "solid." some of the passengers had got out and were buying little things from the indians, as souvenirs of the country. 'tana saw mr. haydon among them, in earnest conversation with the conductor; saw max, with his hand full of satchels, suddenly reach out the other hand with a great deal of heartiness and meet the man of the canoe. he was not so handsome a man as max, yet would have been noticeable anywhere--tall, olive-skinned, and dark-haired. his dress had not the fashionable cut of the young fellow he spoke to. but he wore his buckskin jacket with a grace that bespoke physical strength and independence; and when he pushed his broad-brimmed gray hat back from his face, he showed a pair of dark eyes that had a very direct glance. they were serious, contemplative eyes, that to some might look even moody. "there is a fellow with a great figure," remarked the other woman of the quartet; "that fellow with the sombrero; built right up from the ground, and looks like a picture; don't he, charlie?" "i can't see him," complained goldie, "but suppose it's one of the ranchmen who live about here." then she turned and donated a brief survey to 'tana. "do you live in this region?" she asked. after a deliberate, contemptuous glance from the questioner's frizzed head to her little feet, 'tana answered: "no; do you?" with this curt reply, she turned her shoulder very coolly on the searcher for information. vexation sent the angry blood up into the little woman's face. she looked as though about to retort, when a gentleman who had just taken possession of a compartment, and noted all that had passed, came forward and addressed our heroine. "until your friends come in, will you not take my seat?" he asked, courteously. "i will gladly make the exchange, or go for mr. lyster or mr. haydon, if you desire it." "thank you; i will take your seat," she agreed. "it is good of you to offer it." "say, folks, i'm going outside to take in this free wild west show," called the variety actress to her companions. "come along?" but they declined. she had reached the platform alone, when, coming toward the car, she saw the man of the sombrero, and shrank back with a gasp of utter dismay. "oh, good heaven!" she muttered, and all the color and bravado were gone from her face, as she shrank back out of his range of vision and almost into the arms of the man harvey, who had given the other girl his seat. "what's up?" he asked, bluntly. she only gave a muttered, unintelligible reply, pushed past him to her own seat, where her feather-laden hat was donned with astonishing rapidity, a great cloak was thrown around her, and she sank into a corner, a huddled mass of wraps and feathers. any one could have walked along the aisle without catching even a glimpse of her flaxen hair. 'tana and the stranger exchanged looks of utter wonder at the lightning change effected before their eyes. at that moment a tap-tap sounded on the window beside 'tana, and, looking around, she met the dark eyes of the man with the sombrero gazing kindly upward at her. the people were getting aboard the train again--the time was so short--so short! and how can one speak through a double glass? the fingers were all unequal to the fastening of the window, and she turned an imploring, flushed face to the helpful stranger. "can you--oh, will you, please?" she asked, breathlessly. "thank you, i'm very much obliged." then the window was raised, and her hand thrust out to the man, who was bareheaded now, and who looked very much as though he held the wealth of the world when he clasped only 'tana's fingers. "oh, it is you, is it?" she asked, with a rather lame attempt at careless speech. "i thought you had forgotten to say good-by to me." "you knew better," he contradicted. "you knew--you know now it wasn't because i forgot." he looked at her moodily from under his dark brows, and noticed the color flutter over her cheek and throat in an adorable way. she had drawn her hand from him, and it rested on the window--a slim brown hand, with a curious ring on one finger--two tiny snakes whose jeweled heads formed the central point of attraction. "you said you would not wear that again. if it's a hoodoo, as you thought, why not throw it away?" he asked. "oh--i've changed my mind. i need to wear it so that i will be reminded of something--something important as a hoodoo," she said, with a strange, bitter smile. "give it back to me, 'tana," he urged. "i will--no--max will have something much prettier for you. and listen, my girl. you are going away; don't ever come back; forget everything here but the money that will be yours for the claim. do you understand me? forget all i said to you when--you know. i had no right to say it; i must have been drunk. i--i lied, anyway." "oh, you lied, did you?" she asked, cynically, and her hands were clasped closely, so close the ring must have hurt her. he noticed it, and kept his eyes on her hand as he continued, doggedly: "yes. you see, little girl, i thought i'd own up before you left, so you wouldn't be wasting any good time in being sorry about the folks back here. it wasn't square for me to trouble you as i did. and--i lied. i came down to say that." "you needn't have troubled yourself," she said, curtly. "but i see you can tell lies. i never would have believed it if i hadn't heard you. but i guess, after all, i will give you the ring. you might want it to give to some one else--perhaps your wife." the bell was ringing and the wheels began slowly to revolve. she pulled the circlet from her finger and almost flung it at him. "'tana!" and all of keen appeal was in his voice and his eyes, "little girl--good-by!" but she turned away her head. her hand, however, reached out and the spray of autumn leaves fluttered to his feet where the ring lay. then the rumble of the moving train sounded through the valley, and the girl turned to find max, mr. haydon and a porter approaching, to convey her to the car ahead. mr. haydon's face was a study of dismay at the sight of mr. harvey closing the window and showing evident interest in 'tana's comfort. "so dan did get down to see you off, 'tana?" observed max, as he led her along the aisle. "dear old fellow! how i did try to coax him into coming east later; but it was of no use. he gave me some flowers for you--wild beauties. he never seemed to say much, 'tana, but i've an idea you'll never have a better friend in your life than that same old dan." mr. harvey watched their exit, and smiled a little concerning mr. haydon's evident annoyance. he watched, also, the flaxen-haired bundle in the corner, and saw the curious, malignant look with which she followed 'tana, and to his friend he laughed over his triumph in exchanging speech with the pretty, peculiar girl in brown. "and the old party looked terribly fussy over it. in fact, i've about sifted out the reason. he imagines me a newspaper reporter on the alert for sensations. he's afraid his stupidly respectable self may be mentioned in a newspaper article concerning this local tragedy they all talk about. why, bless his pocket-book! if i ever use pen and ink on that girl's story, it will not be for a newspaper article." "then you intend to tell it?" asked his friend. "how will you learn it?" "i do not know yet. the 'how' does not matter; i'll tell you on paper some day." "and write up that handsome lyster as the hero?" "perhaps." then a bend of the road brought them again in sight of the river of the kootenais. here and there the canoes of the indians were speeding across at the ferry. but one canoe alone was moving north; not very swiftly, but almost as though drifting with the current. using his field-glass, harvey found it was as he had thought. the occupant of the solitary canoe was the tall man whose dark face had impressed the theatrical lady so strongly. he was not using the paddle, and his chin was resting on one clenched hand, while in the other he held something to which he was giving earnest attention. it was a spray of bright-colored leaves, and the watcher dropped his glass with a guilty feeling. "he brings her flowers, and gets in return only dead leaves," harvey thought, grimly. "i didn't hear a word he said to her; but his eyes spoke strongly enough, poor devil! i wonder if she sees him, too." and all through the evening, and for many a day, the picture remained in his mind. even when he wrote the story that is told in these pages, he could never find words to express the utter loneliness of that life, as it seemed to drift away past the sun-touched ripples of water into that vast, shadowy wilderness to the north. chapter i. a strange girl. "well, by the help of either her red gods or devils, she can swim, anyway!" this explosive statement was made one june morning on the banks of the kootenai, and the speaker, after a steady gaze, relinquished his field-glass to the man beside him. "can she make it?" he asked. a grunt was the only reply given him. the silent watcher was too much interested in the scene across the water. shouts came to them--the yells of frightened indian children; and from the cone-shaped dwellings, up from the water, the indian women were hurrying. one, reaching the shore first, sent up a shrill cry, as she perceived that, from the canoe where the children played, one had fallen over, and was being swept away by that swift-rushing, chill water, far out from the reaching hands of the others. then a figure lolling on the shore farther down stream than the canoe sprang erect at the frightened scream. one quick glance showed the helplessness of those above, and another the struggling little form there in the water--the little one who turned such wild eyes toward the shore, and was the only one of them all who was not making some outcry. the white men, who were watching from the opposite side, could see shoes flung aside quickly; a jacket dropped on the shore; and then down into the water a slight figure darted with the swiftness of a kingfisher, and swam out to the little fellow who had struggled to keep his head above water, but was fast growing helpless in the chill of the mountain river. then it was that mr. maxwell lyster commented on the physical help lent by the gods of the red people, as the ability of any female to swim thus lustily in spite of that icy current seemed to his civilized understanding a thing superhuman. of course, bears and other animals of the woods swam it at all seasons, when it was open; but to see a woman dash into it like that! well, it sent a shiver over him to think of it. "they'll both get chilled and drop to the bottom!" he remarked, with irritated concern. "of course there are enough of the red vagabonds in this new el dorado of yours, without that particular squaw. but it would be a pity that so plucky a one should be translated." then a yell of triumph came from the other shore. a canoe had been loosened, and was fairly flying over the water to where the child had been dragged to the surface, and the rescuer was holding herself up by the slow efforts of one arm, but could make no progress with her burden. "that's no squaw!" commented the other man, who had been looking through the glass. "why, dan!" "it's no squaw, i tell you," insisted the other, with the superior knowledge of a native. "thought so the minute i saw her drop the shoes and jacket that way. she didn't make a single indian move. it's a white woman!" "queer place for a white woman, isn't it?" the man called dan did not answer. the canoe had reached that figure in the water and the squaw in it lifted the now senseless child and laid him in the bottom of the light craft. a slight altercation seemed going on between the woman in the water and the one in the boat. the former was protesting against being helped on board--the men could see that by their gestures. she finally gained her point, for the squaw seized the paddle and sent the boat shoreward with all the strength of her brown arms, while the one in the water held on to the canoe and was thus towed back, where half the indian village had now swarmed to receive them. "she's got sand and sense," and dan nodded his appreciation of the towing process; "for, chilled as she must be, the canoe would more than likely have turned over if she had tried to climb into it. look at the pow-wow they are kicking up! that little red devil must count for big stakes with them." "but the woman who swam after him. see! they try to stand her on her feet, but she can't walk. there! she's on the ground again. i'd give half my supper to know if she has killed herself with that ice-bath." "maybe you can eat all your supper and find out, too," observed the other, with a shrug of his shoulders, and a quizzical glance at his companion, "unless even the glimpse of a petticoat has chased away your appetite. you had better take some advice from an old man, max, and swear off approaching females in this country, for the specimens you'll find here aren't things to make you proud they're human." "an old man!" repeated mr. lyster with a smile of derision. "you must be pretty near twenty-eight years old--aren't you, dan? and just about five years older than myself. and what airs you do assume in consequence! with all the weight of those years," he added, slowly, "i doubt, mr. dan overton, if you have really _lived_ as much as i have." one glance of the dark eyes was turned on the speaker for an instant, and then the old felt hat again shaded them as he continued watching the group on the far shore. the swimmer had been picked up by a stalwart indian woman, and was carried bodily up to one of the lodges, while another squaw--evidently the mother--carried the little redskin who had caused all the commotion. "i suppose, by living, you mean the life of settlements--or, to condense the question still more, the life of cities," continued overton, stretching himself lazily on the bank. "you mean the life of a certain set in one certain city--new york, for instance," and he grinned at the expression of impatience on the face of the other. "yes, i reckon new york is about the one, and a certain part of the town to live in. a certain gang of partners, who have a certain man to make their clothes and boots and hats, and stamp his name on the inside of them, so that other folks can see, when you take off your coat, or your hat, or your gloves, that they were made at just the right place. this makes you a man worth knowing--isn't that about the idea? and in the afternoon, at just about the right hour, you rig yourself out in a certain cut of coat, and stroll for an hour or so on a certain street! in the evening--if a man wants to understand just what it is to live--he must get into other clothes and drop into the theater, making a point of being introduced to any heavy swell within reach, so you can speak of it afterward, you know. just as your chums like to say they had a supper with a pretty actress, after the curtain went down; but they don't go into details, and own up that the 'actress' maybe never did anything on a stage but walk on in armor and carry a banner. oh, scowl if you want to! of course it sounds shoddy when a trapper outlines it; but it doesn't seem shoddy to the people who live like that. then, about the time that all good girls are asleep, it is just the hour for a supper to be ordered, at just the right place for the wine to be good, and the dishes served in a shape, with a convenient waiter who knows how dim to make the lights, and how to efface himself, and let you wait on your 'lady' with your own hands. and she'll go home wearing a ring of yours--two, if you have them; and you'll wake up at noon next day, and think what a jolly time you had, but with your head so muddled that you can't remember where it was you were to meet her the next night, or whether it was the next night that her husband was to be home, and she couldn't see you at all." overton rolled over on his face and grunted disdainfully, saying: "that's about the style of thing you call _living_, don't you, sonny?" "great scott, dan!" and the "sonny" addressed stared at him in perplexity, "one never knows what to expect of you. of course there is _some_ truth in the sketch you make; but--but i thought you had never ranged to the east?" "did you? well, i don't look as if i'd ever ranged beyond the timber, do i?" and he stretched out his long legs with their shabby coverings, and stuck his fingers through a hole in his hat. "this outfit doesn't look as if the hands of a broadway tailor had ever touched it. but, my boy, the sketch you speak of would be just as true to life among a certain set in any large city of the states; only in the west, or even in the south, those ambitious sports would know enough to buy a horse on their own judgment, if they wanted to ride. or would bet on the races without hustling around to find some played-out jockey who would give them tips." "well, to say the least, your opinion is not very flattering to us," remarked the young man, moodily. "you've got some grudge against the east, i guess." "grudge? not any. and you're all right, max. you will find thousands willing to keep to your idea of life, so we won't split on that wedge. my old stepdad would chime in with you if he were here. he prates about civilization and eastern culture till i get weary sometimes. culture! wait till you see him. he's all right in his way, of course; but as i cut loose from home when only fifteen, and never ran across the old man again until two years ago--well, you see, i can make my estimates in that direction without being biased by family feeling. and i reckon he does the same thing. i don't know what to expect when i go back this time; but, from signs around camp when i left, i wouldn't be surprised if he presented me with a stepmother on my return." "a stepmother? whew!" whistled the other. "well, that shows there are some white women in your region, anyway." "oh, yes, we have several. this particular one is a pennsylvania product; talks through her nose, and eats with her knife, and will maybe try to make eyes at you and keep you in practice. but she is a good, square woman; simply one of the many specimens that drift out here. came up from helena with the 'boom,' and started a milliner store--a milliner store in the bush, mind you! but after the indians had bought all the bright feathers and artificial flowers, she changed her sign, and keeps an eating-house now. it is the high-toned corner of the camp. she can cook some; and i reckon that's what catches the old man." "any more interesting specimens like that?" "not like that," returned overton; "but there are some more." then he arose, and stood listening to sounds back in the wild forests. "i hear the 'cayuse' bell," he remarked; "so the others are coming. we'll go back up to the camp, and, after 'chuck,' we'll go over and give you a nearer view of the tribe on the other shore, if you want to add them to the list of your sight-seeing." "certainly i do. they'll be a relief after the squads of railroad section hands we've been having for company lately. they knocked all the romance out of the wildly beautiful country we've been coming through since we left the columbia river." "come back next year; then a boat will be puffing up here to the landing, and you can cross to the columbia in a few hours, for the road will be completed then." "and you--will you be here then?" "well--yes; i reckon so. i never anchor anywhere very long; but this country suits me, and the company seems to need me." the young fellow looked at him and laughed, and dropped his hand on the broad shoulder with a certain degree of affection. "seems to need you?" he repeated. "well, mr. dan overton, if the day ever comes when _i'm_ necessary to the welfare of a section as large as a good-sized state, i hope i'll know enough to appreciate my own importance." "hope you will," said overton, with a kindly smile. "no reason why you should not be of use. every man with a fair share of health and strength ought to be of use somewhere." "yes, that sounds all right and is easy to grasp, if you have been brought up with the idea. but suppose you had been trained by a couple of maiden aunts who only thought to give you the manners of a gentleman, and leave you their money to get through the world with? i guess, under such circumstances, you, too, might have settled into the feathery nest prepared for you, and thought you were doing your duty to the world if you were only ornamental," and the dubious smile on his really handsome face robbed the speech of any vanity. "you're all right, i tell you," returned the other. "don't growl at yourself so much. you'll find your work and buckle down to it, some of these days. maybe you'll find it out here--who knows? of course mr. seldon would see to it that you got any post you would want in this district." "yes, he's a jolly old fellow, and has shown me a lot of favors. seems to me relatives mean more to folks out here than they do east, because so few have their families or relatives along, i guess. if it had not been for seldon, i rather think i would not have had the chance of this wild trip with you." "likely not. i don't generally want a tenderfoot along when i've work to do. no offense, max; but they are too often a hindrance. now that you have come, though, i'll confess i'm glad of it. the lonely trips over this wild region tend to make a man silent--a bear among people when he does reach a camp. but we've talked most of the time, and i reckon i feel the better of it. i know i'll miss you when i go over this route again. you'll be on your way east by that time." the "cayuse" bell sounded nearer and nearer, and directly from the dense forest a packhorse came stepping with care over the fallen logs, where the sign of a trail was yet dim to any eyes but those of a woodsman. a bell at its neck tinkled as it walked, and after it four others followed, all with heavy loads bound to their backs. it looked strange to see the patient animals thus walk without guide or driver through the dense timber of the mountains; but a little later voices were heard, and two horsemen came out of the shadows of the wood, and followed the horses upward along the bank of the river to where a little stream of fresh water tumbled down to the kootenai. there a little camp was located, an insignificant gathering of tents, but one that meant a promising event to the country, for it was to be the connecting point of the boats that would one day float from the states on the river, and the railroad that would erelong lead westward over the trail from which the packhorses were bringing supplies. the sun was setting and all the ripples of the river shone red in its reflected light. forests of pine loomed up black and shadowy above the shores; and there, higher up--up where the snow was, all tips of the river range were tinged a warm pink, and where the shadows lay, the lavender and faint purples drifted into each other, and bit by bit crowded the pink line higher and higher until it dared touch only the topmost peaks with its lingering kiss. lyster halted to look over the wild beauty of the wilderness, and from the harmony of river and hills and sky his eyes turned to overton. "you are right, dan," he said, with an appreciative smile, a smile that opened his lips and showed how perfect the mouth was under the brown mustache--"you are right enough to keep close to all these beauties. you seem in some way to belong to them--not that you are so much 'a thing of beauty' yourself," and the smile widened a little; "but you have in you all the strength of the hills and the patience of the wilderness. you know what i mean." "yes, i guess so," answered overton. "you want some one to spout verses to or make love to, and there is no subject handy. i can make allowances for you, though. those tendencies are apt to stick to a man for about a year after a trip to southern california. i don't know whether it's the girls down there, or the wine that is accountable for it; but whatever it is, you have been back from there only three months. you've three-quarters of a year to run yet--maybe more; for i've a notion that you have a leaning in that direction even in your most sensible moments." "h'm! you must have made a trip to that wine country yourself sometime," observed lyster. "your theory suggests practice. were there girls and wine there then?" "plenty," returned overton, briefly. "come on. there's the cook shouting supper." "and after supper we're to go over to the kootenai camp. say! what is the meaning of that name, anyway? you know all their jargons up here; do you know that, too?" "nobody does, i reckon; there are lots of theories flying around. the generally accepted one is that they were called the '_court nez_' by the french trappers long ago, and that kootenai is the result, after generations of indian pronunciation. they named the '_nez perces_,' too--the 'pierced noses,' you know; but that name has kept its meaning better. you'll find the trail of the french all through the indian tribes up here." "think that was a frenchwoman in the river back there? you said she was white." "yes, i did. but it's generally the frenchmen you find among the reds, and not the women; though i do know some square white women across the line who have married educated indians." "but they are generally a lazy, shiftless set?" the tone was half inquiring, and overton grimaced and smiled. "they are not behind the rest, when it comes to a fight," he answered. "and as to lazy--well, there are several colors of people who are that, under some circumstances. i have an indian friend across in the states, who made eight thousand dollars in a cattle deal last year, and didn't sell out, either. now, when you and i can do as well on capital we've earned ourselves, then maybe we'll have a right to criticise some of the rest for indolence. but you can't do much to improve indians, or any one else, by penning them up in so many square miles and bribing them to be good. the indian cattleman i speak of kept clear of the reservation, and after drifting around for a while, settled down to the most natural civilized calling possible to an indian--stock-raising. dig in the ground? no; they won't do much of that, just at first. but i've eaten some pretty good garden truck they've raised." lyster whistled and arched his handsome brows significantly. "so your sympathies run in that direction, do they? is there a kootenai pocahontas somewhere in the wilderness accountable for your ideas? that is about the only ground i could excuse you on, for i think they are beastly, except in pictures." they had reached a gathering of men who were seated at a table in the open air--some long boards laid on trestles. overton and his friend were called to seats at the head of the table, where the "boss" of the construction gang sat. the rough pleasantries of the men, and the way they made room for him, showed that the big bronzed ranger was a favorite visitor along the "works." they looked with some curiosity at his more finely garbed companion, but he returned their regard with a good deal of careless audacity, and won their liking by his independence. but in the midst of the social studies he was making of them, he heard overton say: "and you have not heard of a white girl in this vicinity?" "never a girl. are you looking for one? old akkomi, the indian, has gone into camp across the river, and he might have a red one to spare." "perhaps," agreed overton. "he's an old acquaintance of mine--a year old. but i'm not looking for red girls just now, and i'm going to tell the old man to keep the families clear of your gang, too." then to lyster he remarked: "whether these people know it or not, there is a white girl in the indian camp--a young girl, too; and before we sleep, we'll see who she is." chapter ii. in the lodge of akkomi. the earliest stars had picked their way through the blue canopy, when the men from the camp crossed over to the fishing village of the indians; for it was only when the moon of may, or of june, lightened the sky that the red men moved their lodges to the north--their winter resort was the states. "dan--umph! how?" grunted a tall brave lounging at the opening of the tepee. he arose, and took his pipe from his lips, glancing with assumed indifference at the handsome young stranger, though, in reality, black bow was not above curiosity. "how?" returned overton, and reached out his hand. "i am glad to see that the lodges by the river hold friends instead of strangers," he continued. "this, too, is a friend--one from the big ocean where the sun rises. we call him max." "umph! how?" and lyster glanced in comical dismay at his friend as his hand was grasped by one so dirty, so redolent of cooked fish, as the one black bow was gracious enough to offer him. thereupon they were asked to seat themselves on the blanket of that dignitary--no small favor in the eyes of an indian. overton talked of the fish, and the easy markets there would soon be for them, when the boats and the cars came pushing swiftly through the forests; of the many wolves black bow had killed in the winter past; of how well the hunting shirt of deer-skin had worn that black bow's squaw had sold him when he met them last on the trail; of any and many things but the episode of the evening of which lyster was waiting to hear. as the dusk fell, lyster fully appreciated the picturesque qualities of the scene before him. the many dogs and their friendly attentions disturbed him somewhat, but he sat there feeling much as if in a theater; for those barbarians, in their groupings, reminded him of bits of stage setting he had seen at some time or another. one big fire was outside the lodges, and over it a big kettle hung, and the steam drifted up and over the squaws and children gathered there. some of them came over and looked at him, and several grunted at overton. black bow would order them away once in a while with a lordly "klehowyeh," much as he did the dogs; and, like the dogs, they would promptly return, and gaze with half-veiled eyes at the elegance of the high boots covering the shapely limbs of mr. lyster. the men were away on a hunt, black bow explained; only he and akkomi, the head chief, had not gone. akkomi was growing very old and no longer led the hunts; therefore a young chief must ever be near to his call; so black bow was also absent from the hunt. "we stay until two suns rise," and overton pointed across to the camp of the whites. "to-morrow i would ask that black bow and the chief akkomi eat at our table. this is the kinsman--_tillicums_--of the men who make the great work where the mines are and the boats that are big and the cars that go faster than the horses run. he wants that the two great chiefs of the kootenais eat of his food before he goes back again to the towns of the white people." lyster barely repressed a groan as he heard the proposal made, but overton was blandly oblivious of the appealing expression of his friend; the thing he was interested in was to bring black bow to a communicative mood, for not a sign could he discover of a white woman in the camp, though he was convinced there was or had been one there. the invitation to eat succeeded. black bow would tell the old chief of their visit; maybe he would talk with them now, but he was not sure. the chief was tired, his thoughts had been troubled that day. the son of his daughter had been near death in the river there. he was only a child, and could not swim yet; a young squaw of the white people had kept him from drowning, and the squaw of akkomi had been making medicines for her ever since. "young squaw! where comes a white squaw from to the kootenai lakes?" asked overton, incredulously. "half white, half red, maybe." "white," affirmed their host. "where? humph! where come the sea-birds from that get lost when they fly too far from shore? kootenai not know, but they drop down sometimes by the rivers. so this one has come. she has talked with akkomi; but he tell nothing; only maybe we will all dance a dance some day, and then she will be kootenai, too." "_adopt_ her," muttered overton, and glanced at lyster; but that gentleman's attention was given at the moment to a couple of squaws who walked past and looked at him out of the corners of their eyes, so he missed that portion of black bow's figurative information. "i have need to see the chief akkomi," said overton, after a moment's thought. "it would be well if i could see him before sleeping. of these," producing two colored handkerchiefs, "will you give one to him, that he may know i am in earnest, the other will you not wear for dan?" the brave grunted a pleased assent, and carefully selecting the handkerchief with the brightest border, thrust it within his hunting shirt. he then proceeded to the lodge of the old chief, bearing the other ostentatiously in his hand, as though he were carrying the fate of his nation in the gaudy bit of silk and cotton weaving. "what are you trading for?" asked lyster, and looked like protesting, when overton answered: "an audience with akkomi." "great cæsar! is one of that sort not enough? i'll never feel that my hand is clean again until i can give it a bath with some sort of disinfectant stuff. now there's another one to greet! i'll not be able to eat fish again for a year. why didn't luck send the old vagabond hunting with the rest? i can endure the women, for they don't sprawl around you and shake hands with you. just tell me what i'm to donate for being allowed to bask in the light of akkomi's countenance? haven't a thing over here but some cigars." overton only laughed silently, and gave more attention to the lodge of akkomi than to his companion's disgust. when black bow emerged from the tent, he watched him sharply as he approached, to learn from the indian's countenance, if possible, the result of the message. "if he sends a royal request that we partake of supper, i warn you, i shall be violently and immediately taken ill--too ill to eat," whispered lyster, meaningly. black bow seated himself, filled his pipe, handed it to a squaw to light, and then sent several puffs of smoke skyward, ere he said: "akkomi is old, and the time for his rest has come. he says the door of his lodge is open--that dan may go within and speak what there is to say. but the stranger--he must wait till the day comes again." "snubbed me, by george!" laughed lyster. "well, am i then to wait outside the portals, and be content with the crumbs you choose to carry out to me?" "oh, amuse yourself," returned overton, carelessly, and was on his feet at once. "i leave you to the enjoyment of black bow." a moment later he reached the lodge of the old chief and, without ceremony, walked in to the center of it. a slight fire was there,--just enough to kill the dampness of the river's edge, and over it the old squaw of akkomi bent, raking the dry sticks, until the flames fluttered upward and outlined the form of the chief, coiled on a pile of skins and blankets against the wall. he nodded a welcome, said "klehowyeh," and motioned with his pipe that his visitor should be seated on another pile of clothing and bedding, near his own person. then it was that overton discovered a fourth person in the shadows opposite him--the white woman he had been curious about. and it was not a woman at all,--only a girl of perhaps sixteen years instead--who shrank back into the gloom, and frowned on him with great, dark, unchildlike eyes, and from under brows wide and straight as those of a sculptor's model for a young greek god; for, if any beauty of feature was hers, it was boyish in its character. as for beauty of expression, she assuredly did not cultivate that. the curved red mouth was sullen and the eyes antagonistic. one sharp glance showed overton all this, and also that there was no indian blood back of the rather pale cheek. "so you got out of the water alive, did you?" he asked, in a matter of fact way, as though the dip in the river was a usual thing to see. she raised her eyes and lowered them again with a sort of insolence, as though to show her resentment of the fact that he addressed her at all. "i rather guess i'm alive," she answered, curtly, and the visitor turned to the chief. "i saw to-day your child's child in the waters of the kootenai. i saw the white friend lifting him up out of the river, and fighting with death for him. it would have been a good thing for a man to do, akkomi. i crossed the water to-night, to see if your boy is well once more, or if there is any way i can do service for the young white squaw who is your friend." the old indian smoked in silence for a full minute. he was a sharp-eyed, shrewd-faced old fellow. when he spoke, it was in the chinook jargon, and with a significant nod toward the girl, as though she was not to hear or understand his words. "it is true, the son of my daughter is again alive. the breath was gone when the young squaw reached him, but she was in time. dan know the young squaw, maybe?" "no, akkomi. who?" the old fellow shook his head, as if not inclined to give the information required. "she tell white men if she want white men to know," he observed. "the heart of akkomi is heavy for her--heavy. a lone trail is a hard one for a squaw in the kootenai land--a white squaw who is young. she rests here, and may eat of our meat all her days if she will." overton glanced again at the girl, who was evidently, from the words of the chief, following some lone trail through the wilderness,--a trail starting whence, and leading whither? all that he could read was that no happiness kept her company. "but the life of a red squaw in the white men's camps is a bad life," resumed the old man, after a season of deliberation; "and the life of the white squaw in the red man's village is bad as well." overton nodded gravely, but said nothing. by the manner of akkomi, he perceived that some important thought was stirring in the old man's mind, and that it would develop into speech all the sooner if not hurried. "of all the men of the white camps it is you akkomi is gladdest to talk to this day," continued the chief, after another season of silence; "for you, dan, talk with a tongue that is straight, and you go many times where the great towns are built." "the words of akkomi are true words," assented overton, "and my ears listen to hear what he will say." "where the white men live is where this young white squaw should live," said akkomi, and the listening squaw of akkomi grunted assent. it was easy to read that she looked with little favor on the strange white girl within their lodge. to be sure, akkomi was growing old; but the wife of akkomi had memories of his lusty youth and of various wars she had been forced to wage on ambitious squaws who fancied it would be well to dwell in the lodge of the head chief. and remembering those days, though so long past, the old squaw was sorely averse to the adoption dance for the white girl who lay on their blankets, and thought it good, indeed, that she go to live in the villages of the white people. overton nodded gravely. "you speak wisely, akkomi," he said. glancing at the girl, dan noted that she was leaning forward and gazing at him intently. her face gave him the uncomfortable feeling that she perhaps knew what they were talking of, but she dropped back into the shadows again, and he dismissed the idea as improbable, for white girls were seldom versed in the lore of indian jargon. he waited a bit for akkomi to continue, but as that dignitary evidently thought he had said enough, if overton chose to interpret it correctly, the white man asked: "would it please akkomi that i, dan, should lead the young squaw where white families are?" "yes. it is that i thought of when i heard your name. i am old. i cannot take her. she has come a long way on a trail for that which has not been found, and her heart is so heavy she does not care where the next trail leads her. so it seems to akkomi. but she saved the son of my daughter, and i would wish good to her. so, if she is willing, i would have her go to your people." "if she is willing!" overton doubted it, and thought of the scowl with which she had answered him before. after a little hesitation, he said: "it shall be as you wish. i am very busy now, but to serve one who is your friend i will take time for a few days. do you know the girl?" "i know her, and her father before her. it was long ago, but my eyes are good. i remember. she is good--girl not afraid." "father! where is her father?" "in the grave blankets--so she tells me." "and her name--what is she called?" but akkomi was not to be stripped of all his knowledge by questions. he puffed at the pipe in silence and then, as overton was as persistently quiet as himself, he finally said: "the white girl will tell to you the things she wants you to know, if she goes with your people. if she stays here, the lodge of akkomi has a blanket for her." the girl was now face downward on the couch of skins, and when overton wished to speak to her he crossed over and gently touched her shoulder. he was almost afraid she was weeping, because of the position; but when she raised her head he saw no signs of tears. "why do you come to me?" she demanded. "i ain't troubling the white folks any. huh! i didn't even stop at their camp across the river." the grunt of disdain she launched at him made him smile. it was so much more like that of an indian than a white person, yet she was white, despite all the red manners she chose to adopt. "no, i reckon you didn't stop at the white camp, else i'd have heard of it. but as you're alone in this country, don't you think you'd be better off where other white women live?" he spoke in the kindliest tone, and she only bit her lip and shrugged her angular shoulders. "i will see that you are left with good people," he continued; "so don't be afraid about that. i'm dan overton. akkomi will tell you i'm square. i know where there's a good sort of white woman who would be glad to have you around, i guess." "is it your wife?" she demanded, with the same sullen, suspicious wrinkle between her brows. his face paled ever so little and he took a step backward, as he looked at her through narrowing eyes. "no, miss, it is not my wife," he said, curtly, and then walked back and sat down beside the old chief. "in fact, she isn't any relation to me, but she's the nearest white woman i know to leave you with. if you want to go farther, i reckon i can help you. anyway, you come along across the line to sinna ferry, and i feel sure you'll find friends there." she looked at him unbelievingly. "she's used to being deceived," decided overton, as she watched him; but he stood her gaze without flinching and smiled back at her. "do you live there?" she asked again, in that abrupt, uncivil way, and turned her eyes to akkomi, as though to read his countenance as well as that of the white man,--a difficult thing, however, for the head of the old man was again shrouded in his blanket, from which only the tip of his nose and his pipe protruded. in a far corner the squaw of akkomi was crouched, her bead-like eyes glittering with a watchful interest, as they turned from one to the other of the speakers, and missed no tone or gesture of the two so strangely met within her tepee. overton noticed her once, and thought what a subject for a picture lyster would think the whole thing--at long range. he would want to view it from the door of the tepee, and not from the interior. but the questioning eyes of the girl were turned to him, and remembering them, he said: "live there? well, as much--a little more than i do anywhere else of late. i am to go there in two days; and if you are ready to go, i will take you and be glad to do it." "you don't know anything about me," she protested. he smiled, for her tone told him she was yielding. "oh, no--not much," he confessed, "but you can tell me, you know." "i know i can, but i won't," she said, doggedly. "so i guess you'll just move on down to the ferry without me. he knows, and he says i can live here if i want to. i'm tired of the white people. a girl alone is as well with the indians. i think so, anyway, and i guess i'll try camping with them. they don't ask a word--only what i tell myself. they don't even care whether i have a name; they would give me one if i hadn't." "a suitable name--and a nice indian one--for you would be, 'the water rat' or 'the girl who swims.' maybe," he added, "they will hunt you up one more like poetry in books (the only place one finds poetry in indians), 'laughing eyes,' or 'the one who smiles.' oh, yes, they'll find you a name fast enough. so will i, if you have none. but you have, haven't you?" "yes, i have, and it's 'tana," said the girl, piqued into telling by the humorous twinkle in the man's eyes. "'tana? why, that itself is an indian name, is it not? and you are not indian." "it's 'tana, for short. montana is my name." "it is? well, you've got a big name, little girl, and as it is proof that you belong to the states, don't you think you'd better let me take you back there?" "i ain't going down among white folks who will turn up their noses at me, just because you found me among these redskins," she answered, scowling at him and speaking very deliberately. "i know how proud decent women are, and i ain't going among any other sort and that's settled." "why, you poor little one, what sort of folks have you been among?" he asked, compassionately. her stubborn antagonism filled him with more of pity than tears could have done; it showed so much suspicion, that spoke of horrible associations, and she was so young! "see here! no one need know i found you among the indians. i can make up some story--say you're the daughter of an old partner of mine. it'll be a lie, of course, and i don't approve of lies. but if it makes you feel better, it goes just the same! partner dies, you know, and i fall heir to you. see? then, of course, i pack you back to civilization, where you can--well, go to school or something. how's that?" she did not answer, only looked at him strangely, from under those straight brows. he felt an angry impatience with her that she did not take the proposal differently, when it was so plainly for her good he was making schemes. "as to your father being dead--that part of it would be true enough, i suppose," he continued; "for akkomi told me he was dead." "yes--yes, he is dead," she said coldly, and her tones were so even no one would imagine it was her father she spoke of. "your mother, too?" "my mother, too," she assented. "but i told you i wasn't going to talk any more about myself, and i ain't. if i can't go to your sunday-school without a pedigree, i'll stop where i am--that's all." she spoke with the independence of a boy, and it was, perhaps, her independence that induced the man to be persistent. "all right, 'tana," he said cheerfully. "you come along on your own terms, so long as you get out of these quarters. i'll tell the dead partner story--only the partner must have a name, you know. montana is a good name, but it is only a half one, after all. you can give me another, i reckon." she hesitated a little and stared at the glowing embers of the lodge fire. he wondered if she was deciding to tell him a true one, or if she was trying to think of a fictitious one. "well?" he said at last. then she looked up, and the sullen, troubled, unchildlike eyes made him troubled for her sake. "rivers is a good name--rivers?" she asked, and he nodded his head, grimly. "that will do," he agreed. "but you give it just because you were baptized in the river this evening, don't you?" "i guess i give it because i haven't any other i intend to be called by," she answered. "and you will cut loose from this outfit?" he asked. "you will come with me, little girl, across there into god's country, where you must belong." "you won't let them look down on me?" "if any one looks down on you, it will be because of something you will do in the future, 'tana," he said, looking at her very steadily. "understand that, for i will settle it that no one knows how i came across you. and you will go?" "i--will go." "come, now! that's a good decision--the best you could have made, little girl; and i'll take care of you as though you were a cargo of gold. shake hands on the agreement, won't you?" she held out her hand, and the old squaw in the corner grunted at the symbol of friendship. akkomi watched them with his glittering eyes, but made no sign. it surely was a strange beginning to a strange friendship. "you poor little thing!" said overton, compassionately, as she half shrank from the clasp of his fingers. the tender tone broke through whatever wall of indifference she had built about her, for she flung herself face downward on the couch, and sobbed passionately, refusing to speak again, though overton tried in vain to calm her. chapter iii. the image-maker. the world was a night older ere dan overton informed lyster that they would have an addition of one to their party when they continued their journey into the states. on leaving the village of akkomi but little conversation was to be had from dan. in vain did his friend endeavor to learn something of the white squaw who swam so well. he simply kept silence, and looked with provoking disregard on all attempts to surprise him into disclosures. but when the camp breakfast was over, and he had evidently thought out his plan of action, he told lyster over the sociable influence of a pipe, that he was going over to the camp of akkomi again. "the fact, is, max, that the girl we saw yesterday is to go across home with us. she's a ward of mine." "what!" demanded max, sitting bolt upright in his amazement, "a ward of yours? you say that as though you had several scattered among the tribes about here. so it is a kootenai pocahontas! what good advice was it you gave me yesterday about keeping clear of selkirk range females? and now you are deliberately gathering one to yourself, and i will be the unnecessary third on our journey home. dan! dan! i wouldn't have thought it of you!" overton listened in silence until the first outburst was over. "through?" he asked, carelessly; "well, then, it isn't a pocahontas; it isn't an indian at all. it is only a little white girl whose father was--was an old partner. well, he's gone 'over the range'--dead, you know--and the girl is left to hustle for herself. naturally, she heard i was in this region, and as none of her daddy's old friends were around but me, she just made her camp over there with the kootenais, and waited till i reached the river again. she'll go with me down to sinna; and if she hasn't any other home in prospect, i'll just locate her there with mrs. huzzard, the milliner-cook, for the present. now, that's the story." "and a very pretty little one it is, too," agreed mr. max. "for a backwoodsman, who is not supposed to have experience, it is very well put together. oh, don't frown like that! i'll believe she's your granddaughter, if you say so," and he laughed in wicked enjoyment at overton's flushed face. "it's all right, dan. i congratulate you. but i wouldn't have thought it." "i suppose, now," remarked dan, witheringly, "that by all these remarks and giggles you are trying to be funny. is that it? well, as the fun of it is not visible to me yet, i'll just keep my laughter till it is. in the meantime, i'm going over to call on my ward, miss rivers, and you can hustle for funny things around camp until i come back." "oh, say, dan, don't be vindictive. take me along, won't you? i'll promise to be good--'pon honor i will. i'll do penance for any depraved suspicions i may have indulged in. i'll--i'll even shake hands again with black bow, there! beyond that, i can think of no more earnest testimony of repentance." "i shall go by myself," decided overton. "so make a note of it, if you see the young lady before to-morrow, it will be because she specially requests it. understand? i'm not going to have her bothered by people who are only curious; not but that she can take her own part, as you'll maybe learn later. but she was too upset to talk much last night. so i'll go over and finish this morning, and in the meantime, this side of the river is plenty good enough for you." "is it?" murmured mr. lyster, as he eyed the stalwart form of the retreating guardian, who was so bent on guarding. "well, it would do my heart good, anyway, to fasten another canoe right alongside of yours where you land over there, and i shouldn't be surprised if i did it." thus it happened that while overton was skimming upward across the river, his friend, on mischief bent, was getting a canoe ready to launch. a few minutes after overton had disappeared toward the indian village, the second canoe danced lightly over the kootenai, and the occupant laughed to himself, as he anticipated the guardian's surprise. "not that i care in the least about seeing the dismal damsel he has to look after," mused lyster. "in fact, i'm afraid she'll be a nuisance, and spoil our jolly good time all the way home. but he is so refreshingly earnest about everything. and as he doesn't care a snap for girls in general, it is all the more amusing that it is he who should have a charge of that sort left on his hands. i'd like to know what she looks like. common, i dare say, for the ultra refined do not penetrate these wilds to help blaze trails; and she swam like a boy." when he reached the far shore, no one was in sight. with satisfied smiles, he fastened his canoe to that of overton, and then cast about for some place to lie in wait for that selfish personage and surprise him on his return. he had no notion of going up to the village, for he wanted only to keep close enough to trace overton. hearing children's voices farther along the shore, he sauntered that way, thinking to see indian games, perhaps. when he came nearer, he saw they were running races. the contestants were running turn about, two at a time. each victory was greeted with shrill cries of triumph. he also noticed that each victor returned to a figure seated close under some drooping bushes, and each time a hand was reached out and some little prize was given to the winner. then, with shouts of rejoicing, a new race was planned. as the stranger stood back of the thick bushes, watching the stretch of level beach and the half-naked, childish figures, he grew curious to see who that one person just out of sight was. one thing at last he did discover--that the hand awarding the prizes was tanned like the hand of a boy, but that it certainly had white blood instead of red in its veins. what if it should be the ward? elated, and full of mischief, he crept closer. if only he could be able to give overton a description of her when overton came back to the canoe! at first all he could see were the hands--hands playing with a bit of wet clay--or so it seemed to him. then his curiosity was more fully aroused when out of the mass a recognizable form was apparent--a crudely modeled head and shoulders of a decided indian character. lyster was so close now that he could notice how small the hands were, and to see that the head bent above them was covered with short, brown, loosely curled hair, and that there was just a tinge of reddish gold on it, where the sunlight fell. a race was just ended, and one of the little young savages trotted up where the image-maker was. the small hand was again reached out, and he could see that the prize the little indian had raced for was a blue bead of glass. he could see, also, that the owner of the hand had the face of a girl--a girl with dark eyes, and long lashes that touched the rather pale cheeks. her mouth was deliciously saucy, with its bow-like curve, and its clear redness. she said something he did not understand, and the children scampered away to resume the endless races, while she continued the manipulation of the clay, frowning often when it would not take the desired form. then one of the sharp-eyed little redskins left his companions and slipped back to her, and said something in a tone so low it was almost a whisper. she turned at once and looked directly into the thicket, back of which lyster stood. "what are you watching for?" she demanded. "i don't like people who are afraid to show themselves." "well, i'll try to change that as quickly as i can," lyster retorted, and circling the clump of bushes, he stood before her with his hat in his hand, looking smilingly audacious as she frowned on him. but the frown faded as she looked; perhaps because 'tana had never seen any one quite so handsome in all her life, or so fittingly and picturesquely dressed, for mr. maxwell lyster was artist enough to make the most of his many good points and to exhibit them all with charming unconsciousness. "i hope you will like me better here than across there," he said, with a smile that was contagious. "you see, i was too shy to come forward at first, and then i was afraid to interrupt your modeling. it is very good." "you don't look shy," she said, combatively, and drew the clay image back, where he could not look at it. she was not at all sure that he was not laughing at her, and she covered her worn shoes with the skirt of her dress, feeling suddenly very poor and shabby in the light of his eyes. she had not felt at all like that when overton looked at her in akkomi's lodge. "you would not be so unfriendly if you knew who i am," he ventured meekly. "of course, i--max lyster--don't amount to much, but i happen to be dan overton's friend, and with your permission, i hope to continue with him to sinna ferry, and with you as well; for i am sure you must be miss rivers." "if you're sure, that settles it, i suppose," she returned. "so he--he told you about me?" "oh, yes; we are chums, as you will learn. then i was so fortunate as to see your brave swim after that child yesterday. you don't look any the worse for it." "no, i'm not." "i suppose, now, you thought that little dip a welcome break in the monotony of camp-life, while you were waiting for dan." she looked at him in a quick, questioning way he thought odd. "oh--yes. while i was waiting for--dan," she said in a queer tone, and bent her head over the clay image. he thought her very interesting with her boyish air, her brusqueness, and independence. yet, despite her savage surroundings, a certain amount of education was visible in her speech and manner, and her face had no stamp of ignorance on it. the young kootenais silently withdrew from their races, and gathered watchfully close to the girl. their nearness was a discomfiting thing to lyster, for it was not easy to carry on a conversation under their watchful eyes. "you gave them prizes, did you not?" he asked. "how much wealth must one offer to get them to run?" "run where?" she returned carelessly, though quietly amused at the scrutiny of the little redskins. they were especially charmed by the glitter of gold mountings on mr. lyster's watch-guard. "oh, run races--run anywhere," he said. from a pocket of her blouse she drew forth a few blue beads that yet remained. "this is all i had to give them, and they run just as fast for one of these as they would for a pony." "good enough! i'll have some races for my own edification and comfort," and he drew out some coins. "will you run for this--run far over there?" the children looked at the girl. she nodded her head, said a word or two unintelligible to him, but perfectly clear to them; for, with sharp looks at the coins and pleased yells, they leaped away to their racing. "now, this is more comfortable," he said. "may i sit down here? thanks! now would you mind telling me whose likeness it is you are making in the clay?" "i guess you know it's nobody's likeness," she answered, and again thrust it back out of sight, her face flushing that he should thus make a jest of her poor efforts. "you've seen real statues, i suppose, and know how they ought to be, but you don't need to look for them in the purcell range." "but, indeed, i am in earnest about your modeling. won't you believe me?" and the blue eyes looking into her own were so appealing, that she turned away her head half shyly, and a pink flush crept up from her throat. miss rivers was evidently not used to eyes with caressive tendencies and they disturbed her, for all her strangely unchildlike character. "of course, your work is only in the rough," he continued; "but it is not at all bad, and has real indian features. and if you have had no teaching--" "huh!" and she looked at him with a mirthless smile. "where'd any one get teaching of that sort along the columbia river? of course, there are some gentlemen--officers and such--about the reservations, but not one but would only laugh at such a big girl making doll babies out of mud. no, i had no teaching to do anything but read, and i did read some in a book about a sculptor, and how he made animals and people's faces out of clay. then i tried." as she grew communicative, she seemed so much more what she really was in years--a child; and he noticed, with satisfaction, that she looked at him more frankly, while the suspicion faded almost entirely from her face. "and are you going to develop into a sculptor under overton's guardianship?" he asked. "you see, he has told me of his good luck." she made a queer little sound between a laugh and a grunt. "i'll bet the rest of the blue beads he didn't call it good luck," she returned, looking at him keenly. "now, honest injun--did he?" "honest injun! he didn't speak of it as either good or bad luck; simply as a matter of course, that at your father's death you should look him up, and let him know you were alone. oh, he is a good fellow, dan is, and glad, i am sure, to be of use to you." her lips opened in a little sigh of content, and a swift, radiant smile was given him. "i'm right glad you say that about him," she answered, "and i guess you know him well, too. akkomi likes him, and akkomi's sharp." the winner of the race here trotted back for the coin, and lyster showed another one, as an incentive for all to scatter along the beach again. it looked as though the two white people must pay for the grant of privacy on the river-bank. having grown more at ease with him, 'tana resumed again the patting and pressing of the clay, using only a little pointed stick, while lyster watched, with curiosity, the ingenious way in which she seemed to feel her way to form. "have you ever tried to draw?" he asked. she shook her head. "only to copy pictures, like i've seen in some papers, but they never looked right. but i want to do everything like that--to make pictures, and statues, and music, and--oh, all the lovely things there are somewhere, that i've never seen--never will see them, i suppose. sometimes, when i get to thinking that i never will see them, i just get as ugly as a drunken man, and i don't care if i never do see anything but indians again. i get so awful reckless. say!" she said, again with that hard, short laugh, "girls back your way don't get wild like that, do they? they don't talk my way either, i guess." "maybe not, and few of them would be able, either, to do what we saw you do in this river yesterday," he said kindly. "dan is a judge of such things, you know, and he thought you very nervy." "nervy? oh, yes; i guess he'd be nervy himself if he was needed. say! can you tell me about the camp, or settlement, at this sinna ferry? i never was there. he says white women are there. do you know them?" lyster explained his own ignorance of the place, knowing it as he did only through dan's descriptions. then she, from her bit of indian knowledge, told him sinna was the old north indian name for beaver. then he got her to tell him other things of the indian country, things of ghost-haunted places and strange witcheries, with which they confused the game and the fish. he fell to wondering what manner of man rivers, the partner of dan, had been, that his daughter had gained such strange knowledge of the wild things. but any attempt to learn or question her history beyond yesterday was always checked in some way or other. chapter iv. dan's ward. mr. max lyster was not given to the study of deep problems; his habits of thought did not run in that groove. but he did watch the young stranger with unusual interest. her face puzzled him as much as her presence there. "i feel as though i had seen you before," he said at last, and her face grew a shade paler. she did not look up, and when she spoke, it was very curtly: "where?" "oh, i don't know--in fact, i believe it is a resemblance to some one i know that makes me feel that way." "i look like some one you know?" "well, yes, you do--a little--a lady who is a little older than you--a little more of a brunette than you; yet there is a likeness." "where does she live--and what is her name?" she asked, with scant ceremony. "i don't suppose her name would tell you much," he answered. "but it is miss margaret haydon, of philadelphia." "miss margaret haydon," she said slowly, almost contemptuously. "so you know her?" "you speak as though you did," he answered; "and as if you did not like the name, either." "but you think it's pretty," she said, looking at him sharply. "no, i don't know such swells--don't want to." "how do you know she is a swell?" "oh, there's a man owns big works across the country, and that's his name. i suppose they are all of a lot," she said, indifferently. "say! are there any girls at sinna ferry, any family folks? dan didn't tell me--only said there was a white woman there, and i could live with her. he hasn't a wife, has he?" "dan?" and he laughed at the idea, "well, no. he is very kind to women, but i can't imagine the sort of woman he would marry. he is a queer fish, you know." "i guess you'll think we're all that up in this wild country," she observed. "does he know much about books and such things?" "such things?" "oh, you know! things of the life in the cities, where there's music and theaters. i love the theaters and pictures! and--and--well, everything like that." lyster watched her brightening face, and appreciated all the longing in it for the things he liked well himself. and she loved the theaters! all his own boyish enthusiasm of years ago crowded into his memory, as he looked at her. "you have seen plays, then?" he asked, and wondered where she had seen them along that british columbia line. "seen plays! yes, in 'frisco, and portland, and victoria--big, real theaters, you know; and then others in the big mining camps. oh, i just dream over plays, when i do see them, specially when the actresses are pretty. but i mostly like the villains better than the heroes. don't know why, but i do." "what! you like to see their wickedness prosper?" "no--i think not," she said, doubtfully. "but i tell you, the heroes are generally just too good to be live men, that's all. and the villain mostly talks more natural, gets mad, you know, and breaks things, and rides over the lay-out as though he had some nerve in him. of course, they always make him throw up his hands in the end, and every man in the audience applauds--even the ones who would act just as he does if such a pretty hero was in their way." "well, you certainly have peculiar ideas of theatrical personages--for a young lady," decided lyster, laughing. "and why you have a grievance against the orthodox handsome hero, i can't see." "he's too good," she insisted, with the little frown appearing between her brows, "and no one is ever started in the play with a fair chance against him. he is always called willie, where the villain would be called bill--now, isn't he? then the girl in the story always falls in love with him at first sight, and that's enough to rile any villain, especially when he wants her himself." "oh!" and the face of the young man was a study, as he inspected this wonderful ward of dan. whatever he had expected from the young swimmer of the kootenai, from the welcomed guest of akkomi, he had not expected this sort of thing. she was twisting her pretty mouth, with a schoolgirl's earnestness, over a problem, and accenting thus her patient forming of the clay face. she built no barriers up between herself and this handsome stranger, as she had in the beginning with overton. what she had to say was uttered with all freedom--her likes, her thoughts, her ambitions. at first the fineness and perfection of his apparel had been as grandeur and insolence when contrasted with her own weather-stained, coarse skirt of wool, and her boy's blouse belted with a strap of leather. even the blue beads--her one feminine bit of adornment--had been stripped from her throat, that she might give some pleasure to the little bronze-tinted runners on the shore. but the gently modulated, sympathetic tones of lyster and the kindly fellowship in his eyes, when he looked at her, almost made her forget her own shabbiness (all but those hideous coarse shoes!) for he talked to her with the grace of the people in the plays she loved so, and had not once spoken as though to a stray found in the shelter of an indian camp. but he did look curious when she expressed those independent ideas on questions over which most girls would blush or appear at least a little conscious. "so, you would put a veto on love at first sight, would you?" he asked, laughingly. "and the beauty of the hero would not move you at all? what a very odd young lady you would have me think you! i believe love at first sight is generally considered, by your age and sex, the pinnacle of all things hoped for." a little color did creep into her face at the unnecessary personal construction put on her words. she frowned to hide her embarrassment and thrust out her lips in a manner that showed she had little vanity as to her features and their attractiveness. "but i don't happen to be a young lady," she retorted; "and we think as we please up here in the bush. maybe your proper young ladies would be very odd, too, if they were brought up out here like boys." she arose to her feet, and he saw more clearly then how slight she was; her form and face were much more childish in character than her speech, and the face was looking at him with resentful eyes. "i'm going back to camp." "now, i've offended you, haven't i?" he asked, in surprise. "really, i did not mean to. won't you forgive me?" she dug her heel in the sand and did not answer; but the fact that she remained at all assured him she would relent. he was amused at her quick show of temper. what a prospect for dan! "i scarcely know what i said to vex you," he began; but she flashed a sullen look at him. "you think i'm odd--and--and a nobody; just because i ain't like fine young ladies you know somewheres--like miss margaret haydon," and she dug the sand away with vicious little kicks. "nice ladies with kid slippers on," she added, derisively, "the sort that always falls in love with the pretty man, the hero. huh! i've seen some men who were heroes--real ones--and i never saw a pretty one yet." as she said it, she looked very straight into the very handsome face of mr. lyster. "a young tartar!" he decided, mentally, while he actually colored at the directness of her gaze and her sweepingly contemptuous opinion of "pretty men." "i see i'd better vacate your premises since you appear unwilling to forgive me even my unintentional faults," he decided, meekly. "i'm very sorry, i'm sure, and hope you will bear no malice. of course i--nobody would want you to be different from what you are; so you must not think i meant that. i had hoped you would let me buy that clay bust as a memento of this morning, but i'm afraid to ask favors now. i can only hope that you will speak to me again to-morrow. until then, good-by." she raised her eyes sullenly at first, but they dropped, ashamed, before the kindness of his own. she felt coarse and clumsy, and wished she had not been so quick to quarrel. and he was turning away! maybe he would never speak nicely to her again, and she loved to hear him speak. then her hand was thrust out to him, and in it was the little clay model. "you can have it. i'll give it to you," she said, quite humbly. "it ain't very pretty, but if you like it--" thus ended the first of many differences between dan's ward and dan's friend. when daniel overton himself came stalking down among the indian children, looking right and left from under his great slouch hat, he halted suddenly, and with his lips closed somewhat grimly, stood there watching the rather pretty picture before him. but the prettiness of it did not seem to appeal to him strongly. he looked on the girl's half smiling, drooped face, on lyster, who held the model and his hat in one hand and, with his handsome blonde head bared, held out his other hand to her, saying something in those low, deferential tones dan knew so well. her hand was given after a little hesitation. when they beheld dan so near them, the hands were unclasped and each looked confused. mr. lyster was the first to recover, and adjusting his head covering once more, he held up the clay model to view. "thought you'd be around before long," he remarked, with a provoking gleam in his eyes. "i really had no hope of meeting miss rivers before you this morning; but fortune favors the brave, you know, and fortune sent me right along these sands for my morning walk--a most indulgent fortune, for, look at this! did you know your ward is an embryo sculptress?" the older man looked indifferently enough at the exalted bit of clay. "i leave discoveries of that sort to you. they seem to run in your line more than mine," he answered, briefly. then he turned to the girl. "akkomi told me you were here with the children, 'tana. if you had other company, akkomi would have made him welcome." he did not speak unkindly, yet she felt that in some way he was not pleased; and perhaps--perhaps he would change his mind and leave her where he found her! and if so, she might never see--either of their faces again! as the thought came to her, she looked up at dan in a startled way, and half put out her hand. "i--i did not know. i don't like the lodges. it is better here by the river. it is _your_ friend that came, and i--" "certainly. you need not explain. and as you seem to know each other, i need not do any introducing," he answered, as she seemed to grow confused. "but i have a little time to talk to you this morning and so came early." "which means that i can set sail for the far shore," added lyster, amiably. "all right; i'm gone. good-by till to-morrow, miss rivers. i'm grateful for the clay indian, and more grateful that you have agreed to be friends with me again. will you believe, dan, that in our short acquaintance of half an hour, we have had time for one quarrel and 'make up'? it is true. and now that she is disposed to accept me as a traveling companion, don't you spoil it by giving me a bad name when my back is turned. i'll wait at the canoes." with a wave of his hat, he passed out of sight around the clump of bushes, and down along the shore, singing cheerily, and the words floated back to them: "come, love! come, love! my boat lies low; she lies high and dry on the ohio." overton stood looking at the girl for a little time after lyster disappeared. his eyes were very steady and searching, as though he began to realize the care a ward might be, especially when the antecedents and past life of the ward were so much of stubborn mystery to him. "i wonder," he said, at last, "if there is any chance of your being my friend, too, in so short a time as a half-hour? oh, well, never mind," he added, as he saw the red mouth tremble, and tears show in her eyes as she looked at him. "only don't commence by disliking, that's all; for unfriendliness is a bad thing in a household, let alone in a canoe, and i can be of more downright use to you, if you give me all the confidence you can." "i know what you mean--that i must tell you about--about how i came here, and all; but i won't!" she burst out. "i'll die here before i do! i hated the people they said were my people. i was glad when they were dead--glad--glad! oh, you'll say it's wicked to think that way about relatives. maybe it is, but it's natural if they've always been wicked to you. i'll go to the bad place, i reckon, for feeling this way, and i'll just have to go, for i can't feel any other way." "'tana--_'tana!_" and his hand fell on her shoulder, as though to shake her away from so wild a mood. "you are only a girl yet. when you are older, you will be ashamed to say you ever hated your parents--whoever they were--your mother!" "i ain't saying anything about her," she answered bitterly. "she died before i can mind. i've been told she was a lady. but i won't ever use the name again she used. i--i want to start square with the world, if i leave these indians, and i can't do it unless i change my name and try to forget the old one. it has a curse on it--it has." she was trembling with nervousness, and her eyes, though tearless, were stormy and rebellious. "you'll think i'm bad, because i talk this way," she continued, "but i ain't--i ain't. i've fought when i had to, and--and i'd swear--sometimes; but that's all the bad i ever did do. i won't any more if you take me with you. i--i can cook and keep house for you, if you hain't got folks of your own, and--i do want to go with you." "come, love! come! won't you go along with me? and i'll take you back to old tennessee!" the words of the handsome singer came clearly back to them. overton, about to speak, heard the words of the song, and a little smile, half-bitter, half-sad, touched his lips as he looked at her. "i see," he said, quietly, "you care more about going to-day, than you did when i talked to you last night. well, that's all right. and i reckon you can make coffee for me as long as you like. that mayn't be long, though, for some of the young fellows will be wanting you to keep house for them before many years, and you'll naturally do it. how old are you?" "i'm--past sixteen," she said, in a deprecating way, as though ashamed of her years and her helplessness. "i'm old enough to work, and i will work if i get where it's any use trying. but i won't keep house for any one but you." "won't you?" he asked, doubtfully. "well, i've an idea you may. but we'll talk about that when the time comes. this morning i wanted to talk of something else before we start--you and max and i--down into idaho. i'm not asking the name of the man you hate so; but if i am to acknowledge him as an old acquaintance of mine, you had better tell me what business he was in. you see, it might save complications if any one should run across us some day and know." "no one will know me," she said, decidedly. "if i didn't know that, i'd stay right here, i think. and as to him, my fond parent," and she made a grimace--"i guess you can call him a prospector and speculator--either of those would be correct. i think they called him jim, when he was christened." "akkomi said last night you had been on the trail hunting for some one. was it a friend, or--or any one i could help you look for?" "no, it wasn't a friend, and i'm done with the search and glad of it. did you," she added, looking at him darkly, "ever put in time hunting for any one you didn't want to find?" without knowing it, miss rivers must have touched on a subject rather sensitive to her guardian, for his face flushed, and he gazed at her with a curious expression in his eyes. "maybe i have, little girl," he said at last. "i reckon i know how to let your troubles alone, anyway, if i can't help them. but i must tell you, max--max lyster, you know--will be the only one very curious about your presence here--as to the route you came, etc. you had better be prepared for that." "it won't be very hard," she answered, "for i came over from sproats' landing, up to karlo, and back down here." "over from sproats--you?" he asked, looking at her nervously. "i heard nothing of a white girl making that trip. when, and how did you do it?" "two weeks ago, and on foot," was the laconic reply. "as i had only a paper of salt and some matches, i couldn't afford to travel in high style, so i footed it. i had a ring and a blanket, and i traded them up at karlo for an old tub of a dugout, and got here in that." "you had some one with you?" "i was alone." overton looked at her with more of amazement than she had yet inspired in him. he thought of that indescribably wild portage trail from the columbia to the kootenai. when men crossed it, they preferred to go in company, and this slip of a girl had dared its loneliness, its dangers alone. he thought of the stories of death, by which the trail was haunted; of prospectors who had verged from that dim path and had been lost in the wilderness, where their bones were found by indians or white hunters long after; of strange stories of wild beasts; of all the weird sounds of the jungles; of places where a misstep would send one lifeless to the jagged feet of huge precipices. and through that trail of terror she had walked--alone! "i have nothing more to ask," he said briefly. "but it is not necessary to tell any of the white people you meet that you made the trip alone." "i know," she said, humbly, "they'd think it either wasn't true--or--or else that it oughtn't to be true. i know how they'd look at me and whisper things. but if--if you believe me--" she paused uncertainly, and looked up at him. all the rebellion and passion had faded out of her eyes now: they were only appealing. what a wild, changeable creature she was with those quick contrasts of temper! wild as the name she bore--montana--the mountains. something like that thought came into his mind as he looked at her. he had gathered other wild things from his trips into the wilderness; young bears with which to enliven camp life; young fawns that he had loved and cared for, because of the beauty of eyes and form; even a pair of kittens had been carried by him across into the states, and developed into healthy, marauding panthers. one of these had set its teeth through the flesh of his hand one day ere he could conquer and kill it, and his fawns, cubs and smaller pets had drifted from him back to their forests, or else into the charge of some other prospector who had won their affections. he remembered them, and the remembrance lent a curious character to the smile in his eyes, as he held out his hand to her. "i do believe you, for it is only cowards who tell lies; and i don't believe you'd make a good coward--would you?" she did not answer, but her face flushed with pleasure, and she looked up at him gratefully. he seemed to like that better than words. "akkomi called you 'girl-not-afraid,'" he continued. "and if i were a redskin, too, i would look up an eagle feather for you to wear in your hair. i reckon you've heard that only the braves dare wear eagle feathers." "i know, but i--" "but you have earned them by your own confession," he said, kindly, "and some day i may run across them for you. in the meantime, i have only this." he held out a beaded belt of indian manufacture, a pretty thing, and she opened her eyes in glad surprise, as he offered it to her. "for me? oh, dan!--mr. overton--i--" she paused, confused at having called him as the indians called him; but he smiled understandingly. "we'll settle that name business right here," he suggested. "you call me dan, if it comes easier to you. just as i call you 'tana. i don't know 'mr. overton' very well myself in this country, and you needn't trouble yourself to remember him. dan is shorter. if i had a sister, she'd call me dan, i suppose; so i give you license to do so. as to the belt, i got it, with some other plunder, from some columbia river reds, and you use it. there is some other stuff in akkomi's tepee you'd better put on, too; it's new stuff--a whole dress--and i think the moccasins will about fit you. i brought over two pairs, to make sure. now, don't get any independent notions in your head," he advised, as she looked at him as though about to protest. "if you go to the states as my ward, you must let me take the management of the outfit. i got the dress for an army friend of mine, who wanted it for his daughter; but i guess it will about fit you, and she will have to wait until next trip. now, as i've settled our business, i'll be getting back across the river, so until to-morrow, _klahowya_." she stood, awkward and embarrassed, before him. no words would come to her lips to thank him. she had felt desolate and friendless for so long, and now when his kindness was so great, she felt as if she should cry if she spoke at all. just as she had cried the night before at his compassionate tones and touch. suddenly she bent forward for the belt, and with some muttered words he could not distinguish, she grasped his big hand in her little brown fingers, and touching it with her lips, twice--thrice--turned and ran away as swiftly as the little indians who had run on the shore. the warm color flushed all over dan's face, as he looked after her. of course, she was only a little girl, but he was devoutly glad max was not in sight. max would not have understood aright. then his eyes traveled back to his hand, where her mouth had touched it. her kiss had fallen where the scar of the panther's teeth was. and this, also, was a wild thing he was taking from the forests! chapter v. at sinna ferry. "it has been young wolves, an' bears, an' other vicious pets--every formed thing, but snakes or redskins, and at last it's that!" "tush, tush, captain! now, it's not so bad. why, i declare, now, i was kind of pleased when i got sight of her. she's white, anyway, and she's right smart." "smart!" the captain sniffed, dubiously. "we'll get a chance to see about that later on, mrs. huzzard. but it's like your--hem! tender heart to have a good word for all comers, and this is only another proof of it." "pshaw! now, you're making game, i guess. that's what you're up to, captain," and mrs. huzzard attempted a chaste blush and smile, and succeeded in a smirk. "i'm sure, now, that to hem a few neckties an' sich like for you is no good reason for thinking i'm doing the same for every one that comes around. no, indeed; my heart ain't so tender as all that." the captain, from under his sandy brows, looked with a certain air of satisfaction at the well rounded personality of mrs. huzzard. his vanity was gently pleased--she was a fine woman! "well, i mightn't like it so well myself if i thought you'd do as much for any man," he acknowledged. "there's too many men at the ferry who ain't fit even to eat one of the pies you make." mrs. huzzard was fluting the edge of a pie at that moment, and looked across the table at the captain, with arch meaning. "maybe so; but there's a right smart lot of fine-looking fellows among them, too; there's no getting around that." the unintelligible mutter of disdain that greeted her words seemed to bring a certain comfort to her widowed heart, for she smiled brightly and flipped the completed pie aside, with an airy grace. "now--now, captain leek, you can't be expecting common grubbers of men to have all the advantages of manners that you've got. no, sir; you can't. they hain't had the bringing up. they hain't had the schooling, and they hain't had the soldier drills to teach them to carry themselves like gentlemen. now, you've had all that, and it's a sight of profit to you. but don't be too hard on the folks that ain't jest so finished like as you. there's that new rivers girl, now--she ain't a bad sort, though it is queer to see your boy dan toting such a stranger into camp, for he never did seem to take to girls much--did he?" "it's not so easy to tell what he's taken to in his time," returned the captain, darkly. "you know he isn't my own boy, as i told you before. he was eight years old when i married his mother, and after her death he took the bit in his own teeth, and left home. no great grief to me, for he wasn't a tender boy to manage!" and captain leek heaved a sigh for the martyrdom he had lived through. "oh, well, but see what a fine man he's turned out, and i'm sure no own son could be better to you," for mrs. huzzard was one of the large, comfortable bodies, who never see any but the brightest side of affairs, and a good deal of a peacemaker in the little circle where she had taken up her abode. "indeed, now, captain, you'll not meet many such fine fellows in a day's tramp." "if she'd even been a real indian," he continued, discontentedly, "it would have been easier to manage her--to--to put her in some position where she could earn her own living; for by dan's words (few enough, too!) i gather that she has no money back of her. she'll be a dead weight on his hands, that's what she'll be, and an expensive savage he'll find her, i'll prophesy." "like enough. young ones of any sort do take a heap of looking after. but she's smart, as i said before, and i do think it's a sight better to make room for a likely young girl than to be scared most to death with young wolves and bears tied around for pets. i was all of a shiver at night on account of them. i'll take the girl every time. she won't scratch an' claw at folks, anyway." "maybe not," added the captain, who was too contented with his discontent to let go of it at once. "but no telling what a young animal like that may develop into. she has no idea whatever of duty, mrs. huzzard, or of--of veneration. she contradicted me squarely this morning when i made some comment about those beastly redskins; actually set up her ignorance against my years of service under the american flag, mrs. huzzard. yes, madame! she did that," and captain leek arose in his wrath and tramped twice across the room, halting again near her table and staring at her as though defying her to justify that. when he arose, one could see by the slight unsteadiness in his gait that the cane in his hand was for practical use. his limp was not a deformity--in fact, it made him rather more interesting because of it; people would notice or remember him when nothing else in his personality would cause them to do so. for captain alphonso leek was not a striking-looking personage. his blue eyes had a washed-out, querulous expression. his sandy whiskers had the appearance of having been blown back from his chin, and lodged just in front of his ears. an endeavor had been made to train the outlying portions of his mustache in line with the lengthy, undulating "mutton chops;" but they had, for well-grounded reasons, failed to connect, and the effect was somewhat spoiled by those straggling skirmishers, bristling with importance but waiting in vain for recruits. the top of his head had got above timber line and glistened in the sun of early summer that streamed through the clear windows of mrs. huzzard's back room. but as that head was generally covered by a hat that sported a cord and tassel, and as his bulging breastbone was covered by a dark-blue coat and vest, on which the brass buttons shone in real military fashion--well, all those things had their weight in a community where few men wore a coat at all in warm weather. mrs. huzzard, in the depths of her being, thought it would be a fine thing to go back to pennsylvania as "mrs. captain," even if the captain wasn't as forehanded as she'd seen men. even the elegant way in which he could do nothing and yet diffuse an air of importance, was impressive to her admiring soul. the clerical whiskers and the military dress completed the conquest. but mrs. huzzard, having a bit of native wisdom still left, knew he was a man who would need managing, and that the best way was not to let his opinion rule her in all things; therefore, she only laughed cheerily at his indignation. "well, captain, i can't say but she did flare up about the indians, when you said they were all thieves and paupers, stealing from the government, and all that. but then, by what she says, she has knowed some decent ones in her time--friends of hers; an' you know any one must say a good word for a friend. you'd do that yourself." "maybe; i don't say i wouldn't," he agreed. "but i do say, the friends would not be redskins. no, madame! they're no fit friends for a gentleman to cultivate; and so i have told dan. and if this girl owns such friends, it shows plainly enough that the class she belongs to is not a high one. dan's mother was a lady, mrs. huzzard! she was my wife, madame! and it is a distress for me to see any one received into our family who does not come up to that same level. that is just the state of the case, and i maintain my position in the matter; let dan take on all the temper he likes about it." the lady of the pies did not respond to his remarks at once. she had an idea that she herself might fall under the ban of captain leek's discriminating eyes, and be excluded from that upper circle of chosen humanity to which he was born and bred. he liked her pies, her flap-jacks, and even the many kinds of boiled dinners she was in the habit of preparing and garnishing with "dumplings." so far as his stomach was concerned, she could rule supreme, for his digestion was of the best and her "filling" dishes just suited him. but lorena jane huzzard had read in the papers some romances of the "gentle folk" he was fond of speaking of in an intimate way. the gentle folk in her kind of stories always had titles, military or civil, and were generally english lords and ladies; the villains, as generally, were french or italian. but think as she might over the whole list, she could remember none in which the highbred scion of blue blood had married either a cook or a milliner. one might marry the milliner if she was very young and madly beautiful, but lorena jane was neither. she remembered also that beautiful though the milliner or bailiff's daughter, or housekeeper's niece might be, it was only the villain in high life who married her. then the marriage always turned out at last to be a sham, and the milliner generally died of a broken heart. so mrs. huzzard sighed and, with a thoughtful face, stirred up the batter pudding. captain leek had given her food for reflection of which he was little aware, and it was quite a little while before she remembered to answer his remarks. "so mr. dan is showing temper, too, is he? well--well--that's a pity. he's a good boy, captain. i wouldn't waste my time to go against him, if i was you, and there he is now. good-morning, mr. dan! come right in! breakfast over, but i'll get you up a bite at any time, and welcome. it does seem right nice for you to be back in town again." overton entered at her bidding, and smiled down from his tall stature to the broad, good-natured face she turned to him. "breakfast! why, i'm thinking more about dinner, mrs. huzzard. i was up in the hills last night, and had a camp breakfast before you city folks were stirring. where's 'tana?" a dubious sniff from captain leek embarrassed mrs. huzzard for a moment. she thought he meant to answer and hesitated to give him a chance. but the sniff seemed to express all he wanted to say, and she flushed a little at its evident significance. "well, what's the matter now?" demanded the younger man, impatiently, "where is she--do you know?" "oh--why, yes--of course we do," said mrs. huzzard hurriedly. "i didn't mean to leave you without an answer--no, indeed. but the fact is, the captain is set against something i did this morning, but i do hope you won't be. whatever they know or don't know in sussiety, the girl was ignorant of it as could be when she asked to go, and so was i when i let her. that's the gospel truth, and i do hope you won't have hard feeling against me for it." he came a step nearer them both, and looked keenly from one to the other--even a little threateningly into the watchful eyes of captain leek. "let her go! what do you mean? where--out with it!" "well, then, it was on the river she went, in one of them tiltuppy indian boats that i'm deathly afraid of. but mr. lyster, he did promise faithfully he'd take good care of her. and as she'd seemed a bit low-spirited this morning, i thought it 'ud do her good, and i part told her to run along. and to think of its being improper for them to go together--alone! well, then, i never did--that's all!" "is it?" and overton drew a long breath as of relief and laughed shortly. "well, you are perfectly right, mrs. huzzard. there is nothing wrong about it, and don't you be worried into thinking there is. max lyster is a gentleman--didn't you ever happen to know one, dad? heavens! what a sinner you must have been in your time, if you can't conceive two young folks going out for an innocent boat ride. if any 'sky pilot' drifts up this way, i'll explain your case to him--and ask for some tracts. why, man, your conscience must be a burden to you! i understand, now, how it comes i find your hair a little scarcer each time i run back to camp." he had seated himself, and leaning back, surveyed the irate captain as though utterly oblivious of that gentleman's indignation, and then turned his attention to mrs. huzzard, who was between two fires in her regret that the captain should be ridiculed and her joy in overton's commendation of herself. the captain had dismayed her considerably by a monologue on etiquette while she was making the pies, and she had inwardly hoped that the girl and her handsome escort would return before overton, for vague womanly fears had been awakened in her heart by the opinions of the captain. to be sure, dan never did look at girls much, and he was as "settled down" as any old man yet. the girl was pretty, and there was a bit of mystery about her. who could tell what her guardian intended her for? this question had been asked by captain leek. dan was very close-lipped about her, and his reticence had intensified the mystery regarding his ward. mrs. huzzard had seen wars of extermination started for a less worthy reason than pretty montana, and so she had done some quiet fretting over the question until 'tana's guardian set her free from worries by his hearty words. "don't you bother your precious head, or 'tana's, with ideas of what rules people live by in a society of the cities thousands of miles away," he advised her. "it's all right to furnish guards or chaperons where people are so depraved as to need them." this with a turn of his eyes to the captain, who was gathering himself up with a great deal of dignity. "good-morning, mrs. huzzard," he said, looking with an unapproachable air across dan's tousled head. "if my stepson at times forgets what is due a gentleman in your house, do not fancy that i reflect on you in the slightest for it. i regret that he entertains such ideas, as they are totally at variance with the rules by which he was reared. good-morning, madame." mrs. huzzard clasped her hands and gazed with reproach at overton, but at the same time she could not repress a sigh of relief. "well, now, he is good-natured to take it like that, and speak so beautiful," she exclaimed, admiringly; "and you surely did try any man's patience, mr. dan. shame on you!" but dan only laughed and held up his finger warningly. "you'll marry that man some day, if i don't put a stop to this little mutual admiration society i find here on my return," he said, and caught her sleeve as she tried to pass him. "now don't you do it, mrs. huzzard. you are too nice a woman and too much of a necessity to this camp for any one man to build up a claim for you. just think what will happen if you do marry him! why, you'll be my stepmother! doesn't the prospect frighten you?" "oh, stop your nonsense, mr. dan! i declare you do try a body's patience. you are too big to send to bed without your supper, or i vow i'd try it and see if it would tame you any. the captain is surely righteous mad." "then let him attend to his postoffice instead of interfering with your good cooking. jim hill said yesterday he guessed the postoffice had moved to your hotel, and the boys all ask me when the wedding is to be." she blushed with a certain satisfaction, but tossed her head provokingly. "well, now, you can just tell them it won't be this week, mr. dan overton; so you can quit your plaguing. who knows but they may be asking the same about you, if you keep fetching such pretty girls into camp? oh, i guess you don't like bein' plagued any more than other folks." for overton's smile had vanished at her words, and a tiny wrinkle crept between his brows. but when she commented on it, he recovered himself, and answered carelessly: "but i don't think i will keep on bringing pretty girls into camp--that is, i scarcely think it will grow into a steady habit," he said, and met her eyes so steadily that she dismissed all idea of any heart interest in the girl. "but i'd rather 'tana didn't hear any chaff of that sort. you know what i mean. the boys, or any one, is like enough to joke about it at first; but when they learn 'for keeps,' that i'm not a marrying man, they'll let up. as she grows older, there'll be enough boys to bother her in camp without me. all i want is to see that she is looked after right; and that's what i'm in here to talk about this morning." "well, now, i'm right glad to help you all i can--which ain't much, maybe, for i never did have a sight of schooling. but i can learn her the milliner trade--though it ain't much use at the ferry yet; but it's always a living, anyway, for a woman in a town. and as to cookin' and bakin'--" "oh, yes; they are all right; she will learn such things easily, i think! but i wanted to ask about that cousin of yours--the lady who, you said, wanted to come out from ohio to teach indians and visit you. is she coming?" "well, she writes like it. she is a fine scholar, lavina is; but i kind o' let up on asking her to come after i struck this camp, for she always held her head high, i hear, and wouldn't be noways proud of me as a relation, if she found me doing so much downright kitchen work. i hain't seen her since she was grow'd up, you know, and i don't know how she'd feel about it." "if she's any good, she'll think all the more of you for having pluck to tackle any honest work that comes," said overton, decidedly. "we all do--every man in the settlement. if i didn't, i wouldn't be asking you to look after this little girl, who hasn't any folks--father or mother--to look after her right. i thought if that lady teacher would just settle down here, i would make it worth her while to teach 'tana." "well, now, that would be wise," exclaimed mrs. huzzard, delightedly. "an' i'll write her a letter this very night. or, no--not to-night," she added, "for i'll be too busy. to-night the dance is to be." "what dance?" "well, now, i clean forgot to tell you about that. but it was mr. lyster planned it out after you left yesterday. as he's to go back east in a few days, he is to give a supper and a dance to the boys, and i just thought if they were going to have it, they might as well have it right and so it's to be here." overton twisted his hat around in silence for a few moments. "what does 'tana think of it?" he asked, at last. "she? why, land's sakes! she's tickled a heap over it. indeed, to go back to the commencement, i guess it was to please her he got it up. at least, that's the way it looked to me, for she no sooner said she'd like to see a dance with this crowd at the ferry than he said there should be one, and i should get up a supper. i tell you that young chap sets store by that little girl of yours, though she does sass him a heap. they're a fine-looking young couple, mr. dan." mr. dan evidently agreed, for he nodded his head absently, but did not speak. he did not look especially pleased over the announcement of the dance. "well, i suppose she's got to learn soon or late whom to meet and whom to let alone here," he said at last, in a troubled way, "and she might as well learn now as later. yet i wish max had not been in such a hurry. and he promised to take good care of her on the river, did he?" he added, after another pause. "well, he's a good fellow; but i reckon she can guide him in most things up here." "no, indeed," answered mrs. huzzard, with promptness, "i heard her say myself that she had never been along this part of the kootenai river before." "maybe not," he agreed. "i'm not speaking of this immediate locality. i mean that she has good general ideas about finding ways, and trails, and means. she's got ideas of outdoor life that girls don't often have, i reckon. and if she can only look after herself as well in a camp as she can on a trail, i'll be satisfied." mrs. huzzard looked at him as he stared moodily out of the window. "i see how it is," she said, nodding her head in a kindly way. "since she's here, you're afraid some of the folks is most too rough to teach her much good. well, well, don't you worry. we'll do the best we can, and that dead partner o' yours--her father, you know--will know you do your best; and no man can do more. i had a notion about her associates when i let her go out on the river this morning. 'just go along,' thought i, 'if you get into the way of making company out of real gentlemen, you'll not be so like to be satisfied with them as ain't--" "good enough," dan assented, cheerily. "you have been doing a little thinking on your own account, mrs. huzzard? that's all right, then. i'll know that you are a conscientious care-taker, no matter how far out on a trail i am. there's another thing i wanted to say; it's this: just you let her think that the help she gives you around the house more than pays for her keeping, will you?" "why, of course i will; and i'm willing enough to take her company in change for boarding, if that's all. you know i didn't want to take the money when you did pay it." "i know; that's all right. i want you to have the money, only don't let her know she is any bill of expense to me. understand! you see, she said something about it yesterday--thought she was a trouble to me, or some such stuff. it seemed to bother her. when she gets older, we can talk to her square about such things. but now, till she gets more used to the thought of being with us, we'll have to do some pious cheating in the matter. i'll take the responsibilities of the lies, if we have to tell any. it--it seems the only way out, you see." he spoke a little clumsily, as though uttering a speech prepared beforehand and by one not used to memorizing, and he did not look at mrs. huzzard as he talked to her. but she looked at him and then let her hand fall kindly on his shoulder. she had not read romances for nothing. all at once she fancied she had found a romance in the life of dan overton. "yes, i see, as plain as need be," she said. "i see that you've brought care for yourself with that little mischief in her indian dress; an' you take all the care on your shoulders as though it was a blessed privilege. and she's never to know what she owes you. well, there's my hand. i'm your friend, dan overton. but don't waste your days with too much care about this new pet you've brought home. that's all i've got to say. she'll never think more of you for it. girls don't; they are as selfish as young wolves." chapter vi. mrs huzzard's suspicions. overton sat silent and thoughtful for a little while after mrs. huzzard's words. then he glanced up and smiled at her. "i've just been getting an idea of the direction your fancies are taking," he said mockingly, "and they're very pretty, but i reckon you'll change them to oblige me; what i'm doing for her is what i'd do for any other child left alone. but as this child doesn't happen to be a boy, i can't take it on the trail, and a ranger like me is not fit to look after her, anyway. i think i told you before, i'm not a marrying man, and she, of course, would not look at me if i was; so what does it matter about her thinking of me? of course, she won't--it ain't my intention. even if she leaves these diggings some day and forgets all about me, just as the young wolves or wildcats do--well, what difference? i've helped old bums all over the country, and never heard or wanted to hear of them again, and i'm sure it's more worth one's while to help a young girl. now, you're a nice little woman, mrs. huzzard, and i like you. but if you and i are to keep on being good friends, don't you speak like that about the child and me. it's very foolish. if she should hear it, she'd leave us some fine night, and we'd never learn her address." then he put on his hat, nodded to her, and walked out of the door as though averse to any further discussion of the subject. "bums all over the country!" repeated mrs. huzzard, looking after him darkly. "well, mr. dan overton, it's well for you that ward of yours, as you call her, wasn't near enough to hear that speech. and you're not a marrying man, are you? well, well, i guess there's many a man and woman, too, goes through life and don't know what they might be, just because they never meet with the right person who could help them to learn, and you're just of that sort. not a marrying man! humph! when there's not a better favored one along this valley--that there ain't." she fidgeted about the dinner preparations, filled with a puzzled impatience as to why dan overton should thus decidedly state that he was not one of the men to marry, though all the rest of the world might fall into the popular habit if they chose. "it's the natural ambition of creation," she declared in confidence to the dried peach-pie she was slipping from the oven. "of course, being as i'm a widow myself, i can't just make that statement to men folks promiscuous like. but it's true, and every man ought to know it's true, and why dan overton--" she paused in the midst of her soliloquy, and dropped into the nearest chair, while a light of comprehension illuminated her broad face. "to think it never came in my mind before," she ejaculated. "that's it! poor boy! he's had a girl somewhere and she's died, i suppose, or married some other fellow; and that's why he's a bachelor at nearly thirty, i guess," she added, thoughtfully. "she must have died, and that's why he never looks as gay or goes on larks with the other boys. he just goes on a lone trail mostly, dan does. even his own stepfather don't seem to have much knowledge about him. well, well! i always did feel that he had some sort of trouble lookin' out of them dark eyes of his, and his words to-day makes it plain to me all at once. well, well!" the pensive expression of her face, as it rested on her fat hand, was evidence that lorena jane huzzard had, after all, found a romance in real life suited to her fancy, and the unconscious hero was dan overton. poor dan! the grieving hero to whom her thoughts went out was at that moment walking in a most prosaic, lazy fashion down the main thoroughfare of the settlement. the road led down to the ferry from seemingly nowhere in particular, for from the ferry on both sides of the river the road dwindled into mere trails that slipped away into the wildernesses--trails traveled by few of the white race until a few short years ago, and then only by the most daring of hunters, or the most persevering of the gold-seekers. in the paths where gold is found the dwellings of man soon follow, and the quickly erected shanties and more pretentious buildings of sinna ferry had grown there as evidence that the precious metals in that region were no longer visionary things of the enthusiasts, but veritable facts. the men who came to it along the water, or over the inland trails, were all in some way connected with the opening up of the new mining fields. overton himself had drifted up there as an independent prospector, two years before. then, when works were got under way all along that river and lake region, when a reliable man was needed by the transfer company to get specie to their men for pay-days, it was overton to whom was given the responsibility. various responsible duties he had little by little shouldered, until, as lyster said, he seemed a necessity to a large area, yet he had not quite abandoned the dreams with which he had entered those cool northern lands. some day, when the country was more settled and transportation easier, it was his intention to slip again up into the mountains, along some little streams he knew, and work out there in quietness his theories as to where the gold was to be found. meantime, he was contented enough with his lot. no vaulting ambition touched him. he was merely a ranger of the kootenai country, and was as welcome in the scattered lodges of the indians as he was in the camps of the miners. he even wore clothes of indian make, perhaps for the novelty of them, or perhaps because the buckskin was better suited than cloth to the wild trails over which he rode. and if, at times, he drifted into talk of existence beyond the frontier, and gave one an idea that he had drunk of worldly life deep enough to be tired of it, those times were rare; even lyster had but once known him to make reference to it--that one evening after their ride along the falls of the kootenai. but however tired he might at some time have grown of the life of cities, he was not at all too _blasé_ to accommodate himself to sinna ferry. if poor mrs. huzzard had seen the very hearty drink of whisky with which he refreshed himself after his talk with her, she would not have been so apt to think of him with such pensive sympathy. the largest and most popular saloon was next door to the postoffice, the care of which dan had secured for his stepfather, as the duties of it were just about as arduous as any that gentleman would deign to accept. the mail came every two weeks, and its magnitude was of the fourth-class order. no one else wanted it, for a man would have to possess some other means of livelihood before he could undertake it, but the captain accepted it with the attitude of a veteran who was a martyr to his country. as to the other means of livelihood, that did not cause him much troubled thought, since he had chanced to fall in dan's way just as dan was starting up to the kootenai country, and dan had been the "other means" ever since. the captain watched overton gulp down the "fire-water," while he himself sipped his with the appreciation of a gentleman of leisure. "you didn't use to drink so early in the day," the captain remarked, with a certain watchful malice in his face. "are your cares as a guardian wearing on your nerves, and bringing a need of stimulants?" overton wheeled about as though to fling the whisky-glass across at the speaker; but the gallant captain, perceiving that he had overreached his stepson's patience, promptly dodged around the end of the bar, squatting close to the floor. overton, leaning over to look at him, only laughed contemptuously, and set the glass down again. "you're not worth the price of the glass," he decided, amused in spite of himself at the fear in the pale-blue eyes. even the flowing side-whiskers betrayed a sort of alarm in their bristling alertness. "and if it wasn't that one good woman fancied you were true metal instead of slag, i'd--" he did not complete the sentence, leaving the captain in doubt as to his half-expressed threat. "get up there!" dan suddenly exclaimed. "now, you think you will annoy me about that guardianship until i'll give it up, don't you?" he said, more quietly, as the captain once more stood erect, but in a wavering, uncertain way. "well, you're mightily mistaken, and you might as well end your childish interference right here. the girl is as much entitled to my consideration as you are--more! so if any one is dropped out of the family circle, it will not be her. do you understand? and if i hear another word of your insinuations about her amusements, i'll break your neck! two, jim." this last was to the barkeeper, and had reference to a half-dollar he tossed on the counter as payment for his own drink and that of the captain; and again he stalked into the street with his temper even more rumpled than when he left mrs. huzzard's. assuredly it was not a good morning for mr. overton's peace of mind. down along the river he came in sight of the cause of his discontent, the most innocent-looking cause in the world. she was teaching lyster to paddle the canoe with but one paddle, as the indians do, and was laughing derisively at his ineffectual attempts to navigate in a straight line. "you--promised--mrs. huzzard--you'd--take--care--of--me," she said, slowly and emphatically, "and a pretty way you're doing it. suppose i depended on you getting me in to shore for my dinner, how many hours do you think i'd have to go without eating? just about sixteen. give me that paddle, and don't upset the canoe when you move." these commands mr. lyster obeyed with alacrity. "what a clever little girl you are!" he said, admiringly, as she sent the canoe skimming straight as a swallow for the shore. "now, overton would appreciate your skill at this sort of work"--and then he laughed a little--"much more than he would your modeling in clay." a dark flush crept over her face, and her lips straightened. "why shouldn't he look down on that sort of pottering around?" she demanded. "_he_ isn't the sort of man who has time to waste on trifles." "why that emphasis on the _he_?" asked her tormentor. "do you mean to insinuate that i do waste time on trifles? well, well! is that the way i get snubbed, because i grow enthusiastic over your artistic modeling and your most charming voice, miss 'tana?" she flashed one sulky, suspicious look at him, and paddled on in silence. "what a stormy shadow lurks somewhere back of your eyes," he continued, lazily. "one moment you are all sugar and cream to a fellow, and the next you are an incipient tornado. i think you might distribute your frowns a little among the people you know, and not give them all to me. now, there's overton--" "don't you talk about him," she commanded, sharply. "you do a lot of making fun about folks, but don't you go on making fun of him, if that's what you're trying to do. if it's _me_--pooh!" and she looked at him, saucily. "i don't care much what you think about me; but dan--" "oh! dan, then, happens to-day to be one of the saints in your calendar, and plain mortals like myself must not take his name in vain--is that it? what a change from this time yesterday!--for i don't think you sent him to the hills in a very angelic mood. and you!--well, i found you with a clay indian crumbled to pieces in your destroying hands; so i don't imagine dan's talk to you left a very peaceful impression." he laughed at her teasingly, expecting to see her show temper again, but she did not. she only bent her head a little lower, and when she lifted it, she looked at him with a certain daring. "he was right, and i was silly, i guess. he was good--so good, and i'm mostly bad. i was bad to him, anyway, but i ain't too much of a baby to say so. and if he's mad at me when he comes back, i'll just pack my traps and take another trail." "back to akkomi?" he asked, gaily. "now, you know we would not hear to that." "it ain't your affair, only dan's." "oh, excuse me for living on the same earth with you and dan! it is not my fault, you know. i suppose now, if you did desert us, it would be to act as a sort of guardian angel to the tribes along the river, turn into a whole life-saving service yourself, and pick up the superfluous reds who tumble into the rivers. i wondered for a whole day why you made so strong a swim for so unimportant an article." "his mother thought he was important," she answered. "but i didn't know he had a mother just then; all i thought as i started for him was that he was so plucky. he tried his little best to save himself, and he never said one word; that was what i liked about him. it would have been a pity to let that sort of a boy be lost." "you think a heap of that--of personal bravery--don't you? i notice you gauge every one by that." "maybe i do. i know i hate a coward," she said, indifferently. then, as the canoe ran in to the shore, she for the first time saw overton, who was standing there waiting for them. she looked at him with startled alertness as his eyes met hers. he looked like a statue--a frontier sentinel standing tall and muscular with folded arms and gazing with curious intentness from one to the other of the canoeists. in the bottom of the boat a string of fish lay, fine speckled fellows, to delight the palate of an epicure. she stooped and picking up the fish, walked across the sands to him. "look, dan!" she said, with unwonted humility. "they're the best i could find, and--and i'm sorry enough for being ugly yesterday. i'll try not to be any more. i'll do anything you want--yes, i will!" she added, snappishly, as he smiled dubiously, she thought unbelievingly. "i'd--dress like a boy, and go on the trails with you, paddle your canoe, or feed your horse--i would, if you like." lyster, who was following, heard her words, and glanced at overton with curious meaning. overton met the look with something like a threat in his own eyes--a sort of "laugh if you dare!" "but i don't like," dan said, briefly, to poor 'tana, who had made such a great effort to atone for ugly words spoken to him the day before. she said no more; and lyster, walking beside her, pulled one of her unruly curls teasingly, to make her look at him. "didn't i tell you it was better to give your smiles to me instead of to overton?" he asked, in a bantering way, as he took the string of fish. "i care a great deal more about your good opinion than he does." "oh--you--" she began, and shrugged her shoulders for a silent finish to her thought, as though words were useless. "oh, _me_! of course, me. now, if you had offered to paddle a canoe for me, i'd--" "you'd loll in the bottom of the boat and let me," she flashed out. "of course you would; you're made just that way." "sh--h, 'tana," said overton, while to himself he smiled in an indulgent way, and thought: "that is like youth; they only quarrel when there is a listener." then turning to the girl, he said aloud: "you know, 'tana, i want you to learn other things besides paddling a canoe. such things are all right for a boy; but--" "i know," she agreed; but there was a resentful tone in her voice. "and i guess i'll never trouble you to do squaw's work for you again." she looked squaw-like, but for her brown, curly hair, for she still wore the dress overton had presented to her at the kootenai village; and very becoming it was with its fancy fringes and dots of yellow, green, and black beads. only the hat was a civilized affair--the work of mrs. huzzard, and was a wide, pretty "flat" of brown straw, while from its crown some bunches of yellow rosebuds nodded--the very last "artificial" blossoms left of sinna ferry's first millinery store. the young face looked very piquant above the beaded collar; not so pinched or worn a face as when the men had first seen her. the one week of sheltered content had given her cheeks a fullness and color remarkable. she was prettier than either man had imagined she would be. but it was not a joyous, girlish face even yet. there was too much of something like suspicion in it, a certain watchful attention given to the people with whom she came in contact; and this did not seem to abate in the least. overton had noticed it, and decided that first night that she must have been treated badly by people to have distrust come so readily to her. he noticed, also, that any honest show of kindness soon won her over; and that to lyster, with his graceful little attentions and his amused interest, she turned from the first hour of their acquaintance as to some chum who was in the very inner circle of those to whom her favor was extended. overton, hearing their wordy wars and noting their many remarks of friendship, felt old, as though their light enjoyment of little things made him realize the weight of his own years, for he could no longer laugh with them. looking down now at the clouded young face under the hat, he felt remorsefully like a "kill-joy;" for she had been cheery enough until she caught sight of him. "and you will never do squaw work for me again, little squaw?" dan questioned, banteringly. "not even if i asked you?" "you never will ask me," she answered, promptly. "well, then, not even if i should get sick and need a nurse?" "you!" and she surveyed him from head to foot with pronounced unbelief. "_you'll_ never be sick. you're strong as a mountain lion, or an old king buffalo." "maybe," he agreed, and smiled slightly at the dubious compliment. "but you know even the old king buffaloes die sometime." "die? oh, yes, in a fight, or something of that sort; but they don't need much medicine!" "and even if you did," said lyster, addressing overton, "i'm going to give you fair warning you can't depend on 'tana, unless you mend your ways. she threatened to-day to leave us, if you allow the shadow of your anger to fall on her again. so take heed, or she will swim back to akkomi." overton looked at her sharply, and saw that back of lyster's badinage there was something of truth. "you did?" he asked, reproachfully. "i did not know i had been so bad a friend to you as that." but no answer was made to him. she was ashamed, and she looked it. she was also angry at lyster, and he was made aware of it by a withering glance. "now _i'm_ in her bad books," he complained; "but it was only my fear of losing her that urged me to give you warning. i hope she does not take revenge by refusing me all the dances i am looking forward to to-night. i'd like to get you, as her guardian, on my side, overton." the girl looked up, expectantly, and rested her slim fingers on the arms of the two men. "i could not be of much use, unless i had an invitation myself to the dance," dan remarked, dryly; "mine has evidently been delayed in the mail." "you don't like it?" said the girl, detecting the fact in his slight change of tone. "you don't want me to go to dances?" "what an idea!" exclaimed lyster. "of course, he is not going to spoil our good time by objecting--are you, dan? i never thought of that. you see, you were away; but, of course, i fancied you would like it, too. i'll write you out a flourishing request for your presence, if that's all." "it isn't necessary; i'll be there, i reckon. but why should you think i mean to keep you from jollifications?" he asked, looking kindly at 'tana. "don't get the idea in your head that i'm a sort of 'bad man from roaring river,' who eats a man or so for breakfast every day, and all the little girls he comes across. no, indeed! i'll whistle for you to dance any time; so get on your war-paint and feathers when it pleases you." the prospect seemed to please her, for she walked closer to him and looked up at him with more content. "anyway, you ain't like captain leek," she decided. "he's the worst old baby! why, he just said all sorts of things about dances. guess he must be a heavy swell where he comes from, and where all the fandangoes are got up in gilt-edged style. i'd like to spoil the gilt for him a little. i will, too, if he preaches any more of his la-de-da society rules to me. i'll show him i'm a different boy from mrs. huzzard." "now, what would you do?" asked lyster. "he wouldn't trust himself in a boat with you, so you can't drown him." "don't want to. huh! i wouldn't want to be lynched for _him_. all i'd like to hit hard would be his good opinion of himself. i could, too, if dan wouldn't object." "if you can, you're a wonder," remarked dan. "and i'll give you license to do what i confess i can't. but i think you might take us into your confidence." this she would not do, and escaped all their questions, by taking refuge in mrs. huzzard's best room, and much of her afternoon was spent there under that lady's surveillance, fashioning a party gown with which to astonish the natives. for mrs. huzzard would not consent to her appearing in the savageness of an indian dress, when the occasion was one of importance--namely, the first dance in the settlement held in the house of a respectable woman. and as 'tana stitched, and gathered, and fashioned the dress, according to mrs. huzzard's orders, she fashioned at the same time a little plan of her own in which the personality of captain leek was to figure. if mrs. huzzard fancied that her silent smiles were in anticipation of the dancing festivities, she was much mistaken. chapter vii. a game of poker. mr. max lyster, in his hasty plans for an innocent village dance, had neglected to make allowance for a certain portion of the inhabitants whose innocence was not of the quality that allowed them to miss anything, no matter who was host. they would shoot the glass out of every window in a house, if the owner of the house should be in their bad books for any trifling slight, and would proceed to "clean out" any establishment where their own peculiar set was ignored. there were, perhaps, seven or eight women in the place who were shown all respect by men in general. they were the wives and daughters of the city fathers--the first of the "family folks" to give the stamp of permanency to the little camp by the river. these ladies and their husbands, together with the better class of the "boys," were the people whom mr. lyster expected to meet and to partake of his hospitality in the cheery abode of mrs. huzzard. but overton knew there were one or two other people to consider, and felt impatient with lyster for his impulsive arrangements. of course, 'tana could not know and mrs. huzzard did not, but lyster had at least been very thoughtless. the fact was that the well-ordered establishment of mrs. huzzard was a grievance and a thorn in the side of certain womankind, who dwelt along the main street and kept open drinking saloons seven days in the week. they would have bought ribbons and feathers from her, and as a milliner thought no more about her, or even if she had opened a hotel, with a bar attached, they would have been willing to greet her as a fellow worker, and all would have had even chances. but her effrontery in opening an eating house, where only water--pure or adulterated with tea or coffee--was drunk--well, her immaculate pretensions, to use the vernacular of one of the disgusted, "made them sick." it may have been their dislike was made more pronounced because of the fact that the more sober-minded men turned gladly to the irreproachable abode of mrs. huzzard, and the "bosses" of several "gangs" of workmen had arranged with her for their meals. besides, the river men directed any strangers to her house; whereas, before, the saloons had been the first point of view from which travelers or miners had seen sinna ferry. all these grievances had accumulated through the weeks, until the climax was capped when the report went abroad that a dance was to take place at the sickeningly correct restaurant, and that only the _elité_ of the settlement were expected to attend. thereupon some oaths had been exchanged in a desultory fashion over the bars at mustang kate's and dutch lena's; and derisive comments made as to mrs. huzzard and her late charge, the girl in the indian dress. some of the boys, who owned musical instruments--a banjo and a mouth organ--were openly approached by bribery to keep away from the all too perfect gathering, so that there might be a dearth of music. but the boys with the musical instruments evaded the bribes, and even hinted aloud their desire to dance once anyway with the new girl of the curly hair and the indian dress. this decision increased somewhat the muttering of the storm brewing; and when dutch lena's own man indiscreetly observed that he would have to drop in line, too, if all the good boys were going, then indeed did the cyclone of woman's wrath break over that particular branch of hades. lena's man was scratched a little with a knife before quiet was restored, and there had been some articles of furniture flung around promiscuously; also some violent language. overton divined somewhat of all this, knowing as he did the material of the neighborhood, though no actual history of events came to his ears. and 'tana, presenting herself to his notice in all the glory of her party dress, felt her enthusiasm cool as he looked at her moodily. he would have liked to shut her away from all the vulgar gaze and comment he knew her charming face would win for her. his responsibilities as a guardian forced on him so many new phases of thought. he had never before given the social side of sinna ferry much consideration; but he thought fast and angrily as he looked down on the slim, girlish, white-draped figure and the lovely appealing face turned upward to him. "you don't like it--you don't think it is pretty?" she asked, and her mouth was a little tremulous. "i tried so hard. i sewed part of it myself, and mrs. huzzard said--" lyster arose from a seat by the window. he had entered the room but a moment before, and now lounged toward her with critical eyes. "mrs. huzzard said you were enchanting in your new gown--is not that it?" he asked, and then frowned at overton in a serio-comic way. "and lives there a man with soul so dead that he cannot perceive the manifold beauties arranged for his inspection? well, you know i told you i appreciate you much more than he will ever do; so--" "what nonsense you are talking!" said overton, irritably. "of course, the dress is all right. i don't know much about such things, though; so my opinion is not worth much. but i don't think little girls should be told so much of their charms, lyster. they are too likely to be made think that prettiness is the only thing worth living for." he smiled at 'tana to soften the severity of his speech; but she was not looking at him just then, and so missed the softening accompaniment. she felt it was herself who was taken to task instead of lyster, and stood with drooped, darkening face until the door closed behind overton. "that is your fault," she burst out. "he--he might have thought it was nice, if you hadn't been here with your fool speeches. you just go around laughing at everything, mr. max lyster, and you're just as empty as that china cat on the mantel, and it's hollow. i'd like to hit you sometimes when you say your nice, tantalizing words--that's what _i'd_ like to do; and maybe some day i will." "i shouldn't be surprised if you did," he agreed, and stepped back out of range of her clenched brown hands. "whew! what a trial you'd be to a guardian who had nerves. you are spoiling your pretty face with that satanic expression. now, why should you make war on me? i'm sure i am one of your most devoted servants." "you are your own devoted servant," she retorted, "and you'll never be any other person's." "well, now, i'm not so sure of that," he said, and looked at her smilingly. all her anger did not keep him from seeing what a wondrous difference all that white, billowy lawn made in the girl whom he had taken for a squaw that first day when he saw her swimming the kootenai. she looked taller, slighter, with such lovable curves in the girlish form, and the creamy neck and arms gleaming through the thin material. no ornaments or ribbons broke the whiteness of her garb--nothing but the indian belt of beads that overton had given her, and in it were reddish tints and golden brown the color of her hair. to be sure, the cheeks were a little tanned by the weather, and the little hand was browner than need be for beauty; but, for all that, he realized, as overton had seemingly not done, that the girl, when dressed as dainty girlhood should be, was very pretty, indeed. "i am willing to sign myself your bond slave from this hour, if that will lessen your anger against me," he protested. "just think, i leave sinna ferry to-morrow. how shall i do penance until then?" "'it may be for years, and it may be forever, then why art thou silent, o voice of my heart?'" she pouted and frowned a little at his warbling, though a smile eventually touched her lips, and speculation shone in her eyes. "i _will_ make you do penance," she declared, "and right now, too. i haven't any money, but i'll put up my moccasins against five dollars in a game of poker." "you--play poker?" "i'll try," she said briefly, and her eyes sparkled; "i'll play you and ask no favors." "your moccasins are not worth five." "maybe not. call it two-fifty then and promise me two hands at that." "how sure you are to win!" he laughed, well pleased that she was diverted from her quick displeasure. "we'll call it five against the moccasins. here are the cards. and what am i to do with those little moccasins, even if i do win them?" "oh, i'll take care of the moccasins!" she said, easily. "i guess they'll not trouble you much, mr. lyster. cut for deal?" he nodded, and they commenced their game there alone in mrs. huzzard's most respectable _café_. mrs. huzzard herself did not approve of card playing. no one but captain leek had, as yet, been allowed that privilege. his playing she had really begun to look upon as almost moral in its effects, since he pursued it as the most innocent of pastimes, never betting more than a few dimes, and since it secluded him effectually from the roaring lion of iniquity to which so many men fell victims in the lively little settlement. but 'tana, knowing that card playing by a girl would not be a thing within mrs. huzzard's understanding, glanced warily at the door leading to the second floor of the establishment and comforted herself that the mistress of the domain was yet employed by her toilet for the evening. 'tana dealt, and did it so deftly that lyster looked at her in surprise, even irritation. what business had she touching the bits of pasteboard like that--like some old gambler. such a slight slip of a thing, with all the beauty of early youth in her face, and all the guilelessness of a vestal in the pure white of her garb. he fancied he would have felt different if he had seen her playing cards in that indian dress; it would not have brought such a discord with it. and it was not merely that she played, but it was the way she played that brought vexation to him--that careless, assured handling of the cards. it seemed almost professional,--it seemed-- "i'll just take that little five," remarked his opponent easily, and spread out the cards before him. "i know what you've got, and it won't touch this flush, and if you play again i'd advise you to gather your wits and not play so wild--that is, if you want to win." he stared at her in astonishment. it was quite true--while his thoughts had been with her personality and her incongruous occupation, her thoughts had been centered very decidedly on the points of the game. she, at least, had not played "wild." a doubt even came into his mind, as to whether she played honestly. "i don't think i cared about winning," he answered, "i'd rather have given you the stakes than to have had you play for them that way--yes, 'tana, double the stakes." "oh, would you?" she asked, with saucy indifference. "well, i ain't asking favors. i guess i can win all i want." "no doubt you can," he assented, gravely. "but as young ladies do not generally depend on their skill with cards to earn their pocket money, i'm afraid overton would have a lecture ready for you, if he learned of your skill." "let him," she said, recklessly. "i've tried to be good, and tried to be nice, and--and even pretty," she added, touching the dainty sleeve and skirt of her dress, "but what use is it? he just stands off and stares at me, and even speaks sharp as if he's sorry he ever brought me down here. i didn't think he'd be like that. he was nicer in akkomi's village; and now--" she hesitated, and, seeing that lyster's eyes were watching her attentively, she laughed in a careless way, and curled the five-dollar bill around her finger. "so i might as well be bad, don't you see? and i'm going to be, too. i want this five dollars to gamble with, and for nothing else in the world. i'm going to get square with some one." "which means you are going to worry some one else, just because overton has annoyed you," decided lyster. "that is a woman's idea of retaliation, i believe. am i the selected victim?" "of course you're not, or i wouldn't have told you. all i wanted of you was to give me a start." "exactly; your frankness is not very flattering; but, in spite of it, i'd like to give you a start in a different way--toward a good school, for instance. how would you like that?" she looked at him for a moment suspiciously, she was so used to raillery from him; then she answered briefly: "but you are not my guardian, mr. max lyster." "then you prefer card playing?" "no, i don't. i'd like it, but my income can't cover such luxuries, and i have booked myself to play for a time this evening, if i can get the man i want to play with." "but that is what you must not do," he said, hastily. "with overton or myself, of course, a game would not do you any special harm; but you simply must not indulge in such pastime with this promiscuous gathering of people--of men." "but it isn't men--it's only one man i want to play--do you see?" "i might if i knew who it was; but you don't know any men here but dan and me." "yes, i do, too. i know captain alphonso leek." "perhaps, but--" lyster smiled, and shook his head dubiously. "but he won't play with me, because he don't like me; that's what you would say, if you were not too polite--isn't it? he doesn't approve of me, and can't understand why i'm on the face of the earth, and especially why dan should take any responsibility but captain leek on his hands. huh! can't i see? of course i do. i heard him call me _'that'_ this morning. and so, i want to play a game of poker with him." she looked impishly at him from under her brows, and twirled the money. "won't you be a messenger of peace and fix the game for me?" she asked, insinuatingly. "you know you promised to do penance." "then i forswear all rash promises for the future," he declared. "but you did promise." "well, then, i'll keep my word, since you are such a little shylock. and if it is only the captain--" she laughed after he had gone out, and sat there shuffling the cards and building them into various forms. she was thus employed when overton again passed the window and entered the room ere she could conceal them. he observed her attempt to do so and smiled indulgently. "playing with the cards, are you?" he asked, in a careless way. "they are expensive toys sometimes. but i'll teach you 'seven-up' some day; it's an easy game." "is it?" she said; but did not look up at him. his indifference to the pretty dress had not yet ceased to annoy her. "yes. and see here, 'tana! i forgot to give you a present i brought you a little while ago. it's a ring a fellow from the upper lake region worried me into buying, as he was dead broke. he bought it from an indian up near karlo. queer for an indian to have, isn't it?" "near karlo?" she said, and reached out her hand for it. there was a strange look on her face, a strange choking sound in her throat. he noticed it, and his voice was very kindly as he spoke again. "you don't like even to hear of that region, do you? you must have been very miserable somewhere up there. but never mind, little girl; we'll try to forget all that. and if the ring fits you, wear it, no matter what country it comes from." she tried to thank him, but the words would not come easily, and her outstretched hand in which the ring lay was tremulous. "oh, that's all right," he said hastily, afraid, no doubt, she was going to cry, as he had seen her do before at kind words. "never mind about the thanks. if you care to wear it, that's all that's necessary; though a snake ring is not the prettiest of ornaments for a girl. it fits, doesn't it?" "yes, it fits," she returned, and slipped it on her finger. "it is very nice," but she shivered as with cold, and her hand shook. it was curious enough to attract notice anywhere, a silver and a gold snake twined together with their heads meeting, and in the flattened gold head, eyes of garnet gleamed, while the silver head had eyes of emerald. not a girlish looking ornament, surely. "i'll wear it," she said, and dropped the hand to her side. "but don't tell the rest where it came from. i may want to tease them." chapter viii. the dance. "ain't it lovely, ora?" and 'tana danced past ora harrison, the doctor's pretty daughter, as if her feet had wings to them. and as ora's bright face smiled an answer, it was clear that the only two young girls in the settlement were enjoying lyster's party to the full. for it was a pronounced success. every "boy" invited was there in as much of festive outfit as circumstances would allow. all the "family" people were there. and the presence of doctor harrison--the only "professional" man in the town--and his wife and daughter gave a stamp of select society to the gathering in mrs. huzzard's rooms. mrs. huzzard beamed with pleasure at the great success of it all. she would have liked to dance, too, and refused most unwillingly when lyster tried to persuade her. but a supercilious glance from the captain made her refusal decided. the doubt as to whether ladies in "sussiety" ever did dance after forty years, and one hundred and sixty-three pounds weight, deterred her. now, if the captain had asked her to dance, she would have been more assured. but the captain did not; and, after a while, he was not to be seen. he had vanished into the little back sitting room, and she was confident he was engaged in his innocent pastime of a friendly game of cards with the doctor. "go and dance with 'tana, or that nice little girl of the doctor's," she said to lyster, when he was trying to inveigle her into a quadrille--"that's the sort of partner for you." "but 'tana has disappeared mysteriously; and as miss ora is 'bespoke,' i can't dance with her unless i want a duel with her partner." "'tana disappeared! well, now, i haven't seen her for two dances," said mrs. huzzard, looking around searchingly, "though i never missed her till this minute." "beg pardon, ma'am," said a voice at her elbow; "but is it the--the young lady with the white dress you are looking for?" "yes, it is," answered mrs. huzzard, and turned around to face the speaker, who was an apologetic-looking stranger with drab-colored chin whiskers, and a checkered shirt, and a slight impediment in his speech. "well, ma'am, i saw her go into that room there quite a spell ago," and he nodded toward the back sitting room. "she hasn't passed out again, as i've seen." then, as mrs. huzzard smiled on him in a friendly way, he ventured further: "she's a very pretty girl, as any one can see. might i ask her name?" "oh, yes! her name is rivers--miss tana rivers," said mrs. huzzard. "you must be a stranger in the settlement?" "yes, ma'am, i am. my name is harris--jim harris. i come down from the diggings with mr. overton this morning. he allowed it would be all right for me to step inside, if i wanted to see the dancing." "to be sure it is," agreed mrs. huzzard, heartily. "his friends are our friends, and civil folks are always right welcome." "thank, you, ma'am; you're kind, i'm sure. but we ain't just friends, especial. only i had business in his line, so we picked up acquaintance and come into camp together; and when i saw the pretty girl in white, i did think i'd like to come in a spell. she looks so uncommon like a boy i knew up in the 'big bend' country. looks enough like him to be a twin; but he wasn't called rivers. has--has this young lady any brothers or cousins up there?" "well, now, as for cousins, they are far out, and we hain't ever talked about them; but as for brothers or sisters, father or mother, that she hasn't got, for she told me so. her pa and mr. dan overton they was partners once; and when the pa died he just left his child to the partner's care; and he couldn't have left her to a squarer man." "that's what report says of him," conceded the stranger, watching her with guarded attention. "then mr. overton's partner hasn't been dead long?" "oh, no--not very long; not long enough for the child to get used to talking of it to strangers, i guess; so we don't ask her many questions about it. but it troubles her yet, i know." "of course--of course; such a pretty little girl, too." then the two fell into quite a pleasant chat, and it was not until he moved away from beside her, to make room for the doctor's wife, that mrs. huzzard observed that one arm hung limply beside him, and that one leg dragged a little as he walked. he was a man who bore paralysis with him. she thought, while he was talking to her, that he looked like a man who had seen trouble. a weary, drawn look was about his eyes. she had seen dissipated men who looked like that; yet this stranger seemed in no ways a man of that sort. he was so quiet and polite; and when she saw the almost useless limbs, she thought she knew then what that look in his face meant. but there were too many people about for her to study one very particularly, so she lost sight of the stranger, harris, and did not observe that he had moved near the door of the sitting room, or that the door was open. but it was; and just inside of it lyster stood watching, with a certain vexation, a game of cards played there. the doctor had withdrawn, and was looking with amusement at the two players--'tana and captain leek. the captain was getting the worst of it. his scattered whiskers fairly bristled with perplexity and irritation. several times he displayed bad judgment in drawing and discarding, because of his nervous annoyance, while she seemed surprisingly skillful or lucky, and was not at all disturbed by her opponent's moods. she looked smilingly straight into his eyes, and when she exhibited the last winning hand, and the captain dashed his hand angrily into the pack, she waited for one civil second and then swept the stakes toward her. "what! don't you want to play any more, captain?" she asked, maliciously. "i would really like to have another dance, yet if you want revenge--" "go and dance by all means," he said, testily. "when i want another game of poker, i'll let you know, but i must say i do not approve of such pastime for young ladies." "none of us would, if in your place, captain," laughed the doctor. "and, for my part, i am glad i did not play against her luck." the captain mumbled something about a difference between luck and skill, while 'tana swept the money off the table and laughed--not a pleasant laugh, either. "one--two--three--four!--twenty dollars--that is about a dollar a minute, isn't it?" she asked provokingly. "well, captain, i guess we are square up to to-night, and if you want to open another account, i'm ready." she spoke with the dash and recklessness of a boy. lyster noticed it again, and resented it silently. but when she turned, she read the displeasure in his eyes. "oh, it's you, is it?" she inquired airily. "is it time for our dance? you see, the captain wanted some amusement, and, as the doctor was nearly asleep over the cards, i came in and helped them out." "beautifully," agreed the doctor. but lyster borrowed no cheeriness from their smiles. "i think it is our dance," lyster observed. "and if you will come--" "certain," she said, with a nod; but at the door she paused. "won't you keep this money for me?" she asked. "i've no pocket. and just put a five in a locked pocket 'for keeps,' please; i owe it to you." "to me? you won that five." "no, i didn't; i cheated you," she whispered. "keep it, please do." she pushed the money into his hand. one piece of it fell and rolled to the feet of the stranger, who leaned carelessly against the doorway, but in such a position that he could easily see into the sitting room. he stooped and picked up the money. "yours, miss?" he said, courteously, and she smilingly reached out her hand for it--the hand on which overton's gift, the strange ring, glittered. the paralytic stranger barely repressed an exclamation as he noticed it, and from it his eyes went swiftly, questioningly, to the girl's face. "yes, it's mine," she said, with a nod of thanks. then she smiled a little as she saw where his attention was given. "are you wondering if the snakes you see are the result of odd drinks? well, they are not; they are of metal and won't hurt you." "beg pardon, miss. guess i did look at your pretty ring sharp; and it is enough to make a man shake if he's been drinking. but a little drink will do me a long time." then lyster and the girl passed on, the girl smiling at the little exchange of words with the stranger. but lyster himself was anything but well pleased at the entire affair. he resented the fact that he had found her there gambling, that she had shown such skill, that she had turned to the seedy-looking stranger and exchanged words, as men might do, but as a girl assuredly should not do. all these things disturbed him. why, he could scarcely have told. only that morning she had been but a little half-savage child, who amused him by her varying moods and sharp speech. but to-night, in her graceful white gown, she seemed to have grown taller and more womanly and winsome. the glances and homage of the most acceptable youths about revealed to him the fact that she was somewhat more than the strong swimmer or clever canoeist. she was deemed charming by others, in a very different fashion than he had thought of her, and she appeared rather too conscious of the fact. he fancied that she even delighted in letting him see that others showed deference to her, when he had only that day teased her as carelessly as he would have teased a boy into a rage. then to stop and jest like that with the insignificant stranger by the door! mr. lyster said a bad word in his mind, and decided that the presuming masculinity of the settlement would be allowed few chances for favors the remainder of the evening. he intended to guard her himself--a formidable guard for the purpose, as a man would need a good deal of self-reliance to try for favor if so handsome a personality as lyster's was an opponent. but the rather shabby stranger, standing by the inner door, scarcely noticed the noticeable young fellow. all his attention was given to the girl who had spoken to him so frankly. she passed on and did not observe his excessive interest. but his eyes lighted up when he heard her voice speaking to him, and his face flushed with color as he stroked his beard with his well hand and gazed after her. "so this is where the trail begins, is it?" he whispered to the trembling hand at his lips. "well, i would have looked for it many another place before commencing with a partner of mr. dan overton--law-and-order man. he must have gulled this whole territory beautifully to have them swear by him as they do. and 'monte' is his _protégée_! well, miss--or mr. monte--whichever it is--your girl's toggery is more becoming than the outfit i saw you wear last; but though your hair is a little darker, i'd swear to you anywhere--yes, and to the ring, too. well, i think i'll rest my weary body in this 'burgh' for a few weeks to come. if the devil hasn't helped his own, and cheated me, this partner--mr. 'rivers'--is yet alive and in the flesh. if so, there is one place he will drift sooner or later, and that is to this young gambler. and then--then death will be no sham for him, for i will be here, too." to 'tana--jubilant with her victory over her instinctive antagonist, the captain--all the evening was made for her pleasure, and she floated in the paradise of sixteen years; and the world where people danced was the only world worth knowing. "i will be good now--i can be as good as an angel since i've got even with the captain." she whispered those words to lyster, whose hand was clasping hers, whose arm was about her waist, as they, drifted around the rather small circle, to a waltz played on a concertina and a banjo. she looked up at him, mutely asking him to believe her. her desire for revenge satisfied, she could be a very good girl now. it was just then that overton, who stood outside the window, glanced in and saw her lovely upturned face--saw the red lips move in some pouting protest, to which lyster smiled but looked doubtfully down at her. to the man watching them from without, the two seemed always so close--so confidential. at times he even wondered if lyster had not learned more than himself of her life before that day at akkomi's camp. all that evening dan had not once entered the room where they danced, or added in any way to their merry-making. he had stood outside the door most of the time, or sometimes rested a little way from it on a store box, where he smoked placidly, and inspected the people who gathered to the dance. all the invited guests came early, and perfect harmony reigned within. a few of the unsavory order of citizens had sauntered by, as though taking note of the pleasures from which they were excluded. but it was not until almost twelve o'clock--just after overton had turned away from watching the waltz--that a pistol shot rang out in the street, and several dancers halted. some of the men silently moved to the door, but just then the door was opened by overton, who looked in. "it was only my gun went off by accident," he said, carelessly. "so don't let me stampede the party. go on with your music." the stranger, harris, was nearest the door, and essayed to pass out, but overton touched him on the arm. "not just yet," he said hurriedly. "don't come out or others will follow, and there'll be trouble. keep them in some way." then the door closed. the concertina sobbed and shrieked out its notes, and drowned a murmur of voices on the outside. one man lay senseless close to the doorstep, and four more men with two women stood a little apart from him. "if another shot is fired, your houses will be torn down over your heads to-morrow," said overton, threateningly; "and some of you will not be needing an earthly habitation by that time, either." "fury! it is overton!" muttered one of the men to another. "they told us he wasn't in this thing." "what for you care?" demanded the angry tones of a dutch woman. "what difference that make--eh? if so be as we want to dance--well, then, we go in and dance--you make no mistake." but the men were not so aggressive. the most audacious was the senseless one, who had fired the revolver and whom overton had promptly and quietly knocked down. "i don't think you men want any trouble of this sort," he remarked, and ignored the women entirely. "if you've been told that i'm not in this, that's just where some one told you a lie; and if it's a woman, you should know better than to follow her lead. if these women get through that door, it will be when i'm an angel. i'm doing you all a good turn by not letting the boys in there know about this. no religion could save you, if i turned them loose on you; so you had better get away quiet, and quick." the men seemed to appreciate his words. "that's so," mumbled one. and as the other woman attempted a protest, one of the men put his hand over her mouth, and, picking her up bodily, walked down the street with her, she all the time kicking and making remarks of a vigorous nature. the humor of the situation appealed to the delicate senses of her companions, until they laughed right heartily, and the entire tone of the scene was changed from a threat of battle to an excuse for jollity. the man on the ground reeled upward to his feet with the help of a shake from overton. "where's my gun?" he asked, sulkily. blood trickling from a cut brow compelled him to keep one eye shut. "overton has it," explained one of his friends. "come on, and don't try another racket." "i want my gun--it was him hit me," growled the wounded one, whose spirits had not been enlivened by the spectacle the rest had witnessed. "you are right--it was him," agreed the other, darkly; "and if it hadn't been for breaking up the dance, i guess he'd a-killed you. come on. you left a ball in his arm by the looks of things, and all he did was to knock you still. he may want to do more to-morrow. but as you have no gun, you'd better wait till then." the door had been opened, and the light streamed out. men talked in a friendly, jovial fashion on and about the doorstep. they saw the forms moving away in the shadows, but no sign of disturbance met them. overton stood looking in the window at the dancers. the waltz was not yet finished, and 'tana and lyster drifted past within a few feet of him. the serenity of their evening had not been disturbed. her face held all of joyous content--so it seemed to the watcher. she laughed as she danced; and hearing the music of her high, girlish tones, he forgot for a time the stinging little pain in his arm, until his left hand, thrust into his coat pocket, slowly filled with blood. then dan turned to the man nearest him. "if doctor harrison is still in there, would you do me the favor of asking him to come outside for a few minutes?" he asked, and the man addressed stepped closer. "there is a back way into the house. hadn't you better just step in that way, and have him fix you up? he's in the back room, alone, smoking." overton turned with an impatient exclamation, and a sharp, questioning look. it was the half-paralyzed stranger--harris. "oh, i ain't interfering!" he said, amiably. "but as i slipped out through the back door before your visitors left, i dropped to the fact that you had some damage done to that left arm. yes, i'll carry any message you like to your doctor, for i like your nerve. but i must say it's thankless work to stand up as a silent target for cold lead, just so some one else may dance undisturbed. take an old man's advice, sonny, do some of the dancing yourself." chapter ix. the stranger's warning. that one festive night decided the immediate future of 'tana. all her joy in it did not prevent a decision that it should be the last in her experience, for a year to come, at least. it was lyster who broached the subject, and overton looked at him closely while he talked. "you are right," he decided, at last; "a school is the easiest path out of this jungle, i reckon. i thought of a school, but didn't know where--i'm not posted on such things. but if you know the trail to a good one, we'll fix it. she has no family folks at all, so--" "i'd like to ask, if it's allowable--" "don't ask me about her people," said the other, quickly; "she wouldn't want me to talk of them. you see, max, all sorts get caught in whirlpools of one sort or another, when ventures are made in a new country like this, and often it's a thoroughbred that goes under first, while a lot of scrub stock will pull through an epidemic and never miss a feed. well, her folks belonged to the list that has gone under--speculating people, you know, who left her stranded when they started 'over the range,' and she's sensitive about it--has a sort of pride, too, and doesn't want to be pitied, i guess. anyway, i've promised she sha'n't be followed by any reminder of her misfortunes, and i can't go into details." "oh, that's all right; i'm not curious to know whether her folks had a palace or a cabin to live in. but she has brightness. i like her well enough to give up some useless pastimes that are expensive, and contribute the results to a school fund for her, if you say yes. but i should like to know if her people belonged to the class we call ladies and gentlemen--that is all." overton did not answer at once. his eyes were turned toward his bandaged arm, and a little wrinkle grew between his brows. "the man is dead, and i don't think there's anything for me to say as to his gentlemanly qualities," he said at last. "he was a prospector and speculator, with an equal amount of vice and virtue in him, i suppose; just about like the rest of us. her mother i never saw, but have reason to think she was a lady." "and you say every word of that as if they were drawn from you with forceps," said lyster, cheerily. "well, i'll not bother you about it again. but, you see, there is a cousin of mine at the school i spoke of, and i wanted to know because of that. it's all right, though; my own instincts would tell me she came of good stock. but even good stock will grow wild, you know, if it doesn't get the right sort of training. you know, old fellow, i'm downright in earnest about wanting to help you about her." "yes, i know. you have, too," said the other. "you've pointed out the school and all, and we see she can't be left here." "not when you are ranging around the hills, and never a man to take your place as a guard," agreed lyster. "i feel about two years old ever since i heard of how you kept annoyances from us last night while we were so serenely unconscious of your trials. 'tana will scarcely look at me this morning, for no reason but that i did not divine the state of affairs and go to help you. that girl has picked up so much queer knowledge herself that she expects every one to be gifted with second sight." then he told, with a good deal of amusement, the episode of the poker game and the discomfiture of the captain. overton said little. he was not so much shocked or vexed over it as lyster had been, because he had lived more among people to whom such pastimes were not unusual. "and i offered to teach her 'seven-up,' because it was easy," he remarked grimly. "yes, the school is best. you see, even if i am on the ground, i'm not a fit guardian. didn't i give her leave to get square with the old man? while, if i'd been the right sort of a guardian, she would have been given a moral lecture on the sinfulness of revenge. i guess we'd better begin to talk school right away." "i imagine she'll object at first, through force of habit, and protest that she knows enough for one girl." but she did not. she listened with wonder in her eyes, and something of shamed contrition in her face, and knew so well--so very well that she did not deserve it. she had wanted--really wanted to vex him when she played the cards, when she had danced past, and never let on she saw him looking somberly in at the window the night before. but in the light of morning and with the knowledge of his wounded arm, all her resentment was gone. she could scarcely speak even the words she meant to say. "i can't do that--go, i mean. it will cost so much, and i have no money. i can't make any here, and--and you are not rich enough to lend it to me, even if i could pay it back some day, so--" "never mind about the money; it will be got. i'm to start up north of this soon, and this doesn't seem a good place to school you in, anyway. so, for a year or so, you go to that school down in helena. max knows the name of it; i forget. when you get all rigged out with an education, and have a capital of knowledge, you can talk then about the money and paying it, if it makes you feel more comfortable. but just now you be a good little girl; go down there with max to the school, study hard, so that if i drop into a chasm some night, or am picked off by a bullet, you'll have learned, anyway, how to look after yourself in the right way." "oh, it's mr. max, then, that's planning this, is it?" she asked suddenly, and her face flushed a little--he must have thought in anger, for he said: "why--yes; that is--mostly. you see, 'tana, i've drifted out from the ways of the world while max has kept up with them. so he proposed--well, no matter about the plan. i'm to suggest it to you, and as it's no loss and all gain to you, i reckon you'll be sensible enough to say yes." "i will," she answered, quietly; "it is very kind of you both to be so good to me, for i haven't been good to you--to either of you, i'm sorry--i--maybe i'll be better when i come back--and--maybe i can pay you some day." "me? oh, you won't owe me anything, and i reckon you'd better not make plans about coming back here! the books and things you learn will likely turn you toward other places--finer places. this is all right for men who have money to make; but you--" "i'm coming back here," she said, nodding her head emphatically. "maybe not for always--but i'll come back some time--i will." she was twisting her fingers in a nervous way, and, as he watched her, he noticed that her little brown hands were devoid of all ornament. "where is the ring?" he asked. "have you lost it already?" "no, it's here--in my pocket," and she drew it out that he might see. "i--i took it off this morning when i saw you were shot. you'll laugh, i suppose; but i thought the snakes brought bad luck." "so you are superstitious?" "oh, i don't know! i'm not afraid very often; but sometimes i think there are signs that are true. i've heard old folks say so, and talk of things unlucky. i took the ring off when i saw your arm." "but the arm was only scratched--not worth a thought from a little girl like you," he said; "and surely not worth throwing off your jewelry for. but some day--some day of good luck, i may find you a prettier ring--one more like a girl's ring, you know; one you can wear and not be afraid." "if i'm afraid, it isn't for myself," she said, with that old, unchildlike look he had not seen in her eyes of late. "but i'll tell you what i'm afraid of. have you ever heard of people who were 'hoodoos'? i guess you have. well, sometimes i'm afraid i'm just that--like the snakes in that ring. i'm afraid i bring bad luck to people--people i like. it isn't the harm to me that ever frightens me. i guess i can fight that; but no one can fight a 'hoodoo,' i guess; and your arm--" "oh, see here! wake up, 'tana, you're dreaming! who put that cussed nonsense into your head? 'hoodoo!' pshaw! i will have patience with you in anything but that. did any one look at you last night as if you were a 'hoodoo'? here comes max; we'll ask him." but she did not smile at their badinage. "i was in earnest, and you think it only funny," she said. "well, maybe you won't always laugh at it. men who know a heap believe in 'hoodoos.'" "but not 'hoodoos' possessed of the _tout ensemble_ of miss rivers," objected lyster. "you are simply trying to scare us--me, out of the journey i hoped to make with you to helena. you are trying to evade a year of scholastic training we have planned for you, and you would like to prophesy that the boat will blow up or the cars run off the track if you embark. but it won't. you will say good-by to your ogre of a guardian to-morrow. you will be guarded by no less a personage than my immaculate self to the door of your academy; from which you will emerge, later on, with never a memory of 'hoodoos' in your wise brain; and you will live to a green old age and make clay busts of us both when we are gray haired. there! i think i'm a good healthy sort of a prophet; and as a reward will you go with me to-morrow?" "with you? then it is you who--" "who has planned the whole brilliant scheme? exactly--the journey part of it at all events; and i'm not so modest as our friend here. i'll take the blame of my share, and his, too, if he doesn't speak up for himself. here comes your new friend, dan. where did you pick him up?" it was the man harris, and beside him was the captain. they were talking with some animation of late indian raids to the westward. "i doubt if it was indians at all who did the thieving," remarked harris; "there are always a lot of scrub whites ready to take advantage of war signals, and do devilment of that sort, made up as reds." "oh, yes--some say so! that man holly used to get the credit of that sort of renegade work. handsome holly he was called once. but now that he's dead, maybe we'll see he was not the only one to work mischief between the whites and reds." "holly? lee holly?" asked lyster. "why, didn't we hear a rumor that he wasn't dead at all, but had been seen somewhere near butte?" "i didn't," returned overton, who was the one addressed, "though it may be so. he's a very slippery specimen and full of schemes, from what i hear. but he doesn't seem to range over this territory, so i've never run across him. it would be like him, though, to play dead when the government men grew warm on his trail, and he'd no doubt get plenty of help from his indian allies." harris was watching him keenly, and the careless honesty of the speaker's face and tone evidently perplexed him, for he turned with a baffled look to the girl, who stood with down-dropped eyes, and twisted a spray of leaves nervously around her fingers. he noticed one quick, troubled glance she gave overton, but even to his suspicious eyes it did not seem a regard given a fellow-conspirator. "i believe it was the doctor i heard speak of the rumor that holly was yet above ground," said lyster. "the mail came up yesterday, and perhaps he found it in the papers. don't think i had heard of the man before. is he one of the important people up here?" "rather," remarked overton, "an accomplished crook who has dabbled in several trades in the columbia river region. the latest was a wholesale horse steal from a ranch over in washington--indian work, with him as leader. the regulars from the fort got after them, there was an ugly fight, and the reds reported holly as killed. that is the last i heard of him. you were asking me yesterday if he ever prospected in our valley, didn't you?" he asked, turning to harris. "a man made undue importance of by the stupid indians," declared captain leek. "he humored their superstitions and played medicine man with them, i've heard; and he had a boy for a partner--a young slip the gamblers called 'monte' down in coeur d'alene. some said it was his son." "a fine instructor for youth," observed lyster. "who could expect anything but vice from a man who had such a boyhood?" "but you would," said 'tana, suddenly, "if you knew that boy when he grew to be a man. if he was bad, you'd want him to get off the earth where you walked; and you never once would stop to ask if he was brought up right or not--you know you wouldn't--nobody does, i guess. i don't know why it is, but it seems all wrong to me. maybe, though, when i go to school, and learn things, i will think like the rest, and not care." lyster shrugged his shoulders and looked after her as she vanished into the regions where mrs. huzzard was concocting dishes for the mid-day meal. "i doubt if she thinks like the rest," he remarked. "how fiery she is, and how independent in her views of things." but overton smiled at her curt speech. "poor 'tana has lived among rough scenes until she learns to judge quickly, and for herself," he said. "her words are true enough, too; she may have known just such boys as holly's clever little partner and seen how hard it was for them to be any good. i wonder now what has become of young 'monte' since holly disappeared. he would be a good one to follow, if there is doubt as to holly's death being a fact. i believe there was a reward out for him some time ago, to stimulate lagging justice. don't know if it's withdrawn or not." "square," decided harris, in silent communion with himself, as he surveyed overton; "dead square, and don't scent the trail. i'd like to know what their little game is with him. some devilment, sure." on one pretext and another he kept close to overton. he was studying the stalwart, easy-going keeper of the peace, and dan, who had a sort of compassion for all who were halt, or blind, or homeless, took kindly enough to the semi-paralyzed stranger. harris seemed to belong nowhere in particular, yet knew each trail of the kootenai and columbia country, knew each drift where the yellow sands were found--each mine where the silver hunt paid best returns. "you've prospected some, i see, even if you don't get over the ground very fast," dan remarked; "and with it all, i reckon you've staked out some pay claims for yourself?" the face of harris contracted in a swift frown; he drew a long breath, and his clasped hands tightened on each other. "i did," he said, in a choked, nervous sort of way; "i did. if i could tell you of it, i would. you're the sort of man i'd--but never mind. i'm not well yet--not strong enough to get excited over it. i've got to take things easy for a spell, or another stroke of this paralysis will come as my share. that handicaps me considerable. i was--was upset by something unexpected last night, and i've had a queer, shaky feeling ever since; can't articulate clear. did you notice? the--the only thing under god's heaven i'm afraid of is that paralysis--that it will catch me again before i get my work done; and to-day--" "don't talk of it," advised overton, as he noticed how the man's voice hesitated and trembled, how excitable he was over the subject of his mineral finds and his threatened helplessness. "don't think of it, and you'll come out all right yet. if i can do anything for you--" the other man laughed in a spasmodic, contemptuous fashion. "for me?" he said. "you can't. i thought you could, but i was on a blind trail--you can't. i can give you a lift, though--yes, i can. it's about--about that girl. you--you tried to guard her last night, as if she was a flower the rough wind must not blow on. i know--i watched you. i've been there, and know." "know what? you're an infernal fool!" burst out dan, with all his good nature out of sight. "no hints about the girl, or--or anything else! i won't have it!" "it's no hint; facts are all i'd mention to you, and i'd do that just because i think you're square. and they--they are playing you. see? for he ain't dead. i don't know what their game is with you, but he ain't dead; and there--there's no telling what scheme he's got her into this--this territory for. so i want you to know. i don't want you to be caught in any trap of theirs. she--she looks all right; but he's a devil--a thing infernal--a--" overton caught him by one arm, and swung him around like a child. "speak clear. no more of your blasted stuttering or beating away from points; who is the man you talk of? who is playing with me? now speak." "why, monte, the girl; monte and lee holly. he's somewhere alive--that's what i'm trying to tell you. i was hunting for him when i found her laying low here, don't you understand? you stare so. it is lee holly and-- ah--my--god!" the last words were gurgled in his throat; his face whitened, and he sank to the ground as though his bones had suddenly been converted into jelly--a strange, shapeless heap of humanity as he lay at overton's feet. overton bent over him, and after a moment of blank amaze, lifted the helpless head, and almost dropped it again, when the eyes, appealing and keenly conscious, met his own. there was a queer chuckling sound in the man's throat; he was trying to speak, but could not. the secret he was trying to tell was buried back of those speechless lips, and one more stroke of the doom he feared had overtaken him. chapter x. the stranger's love story. 'tana sat alone in her room a few hours later, and from the window watched the form of ora harrison disappear along the street. the latter had been sent by her father with some medicine for the paralyzed stranger, and the girls had chatted of the school 'tana was to attend, and of the schools ora had gone to and all the friends she remembered there, who now sent her such kind letters. ora told 'tana of the lovely time she expected to have when the steamers would come up from bonner's ferry to the kootenai lake region, for then her friends were to come in the summers, and the warm months were to be like holidays. all this girlish frankness, all the cheery friendship of the doctor's family filled 'tana with a wild unrest against herself--against the world. "it would be easy to be good if a person lived like that always," she thought, "in a nice home, with a mother to kiss me and a father i was not ashamed of. i felt stupid when they talked to me. i could only think how happy they were, and that they did not seem to know it. and ora was sweet and sorry for me because my parents were dead. huh!" she grunted, disdainfully, in the indian fashion peculiar to her at times. "if she knew how i felt about it she'd hate me, i suppose. they'd all think i was bad clear through. they wouldn't understand the reason--no nice women like them could. oh, if the school would only make me nice like that! but i suppose it's got to be born in people, and i was born different." even this reason did not render her more resigned; and, to add to her disquiet, there came to her the memory of eyes whose gaze made her shiver--the eyes of the stranger whom overton had carried into the house for dead, but whose brain was yet alive. he had looked at her with a strange, wild stare, and overton himself had turned his eyes toward her in moody questioning when she came forward to help. he had accepted the help, but each time she raised her eyes she saw that dan was looking at her with a new watchfulness; all his interest in the stricken stranger did not keep him from that. "if any one is accountable for this, i guess i'm the man," he confessed, ruefully. "he told me he was afraid of this, yet i was fool enough to lose my temper and turn him around rough. it might have struck him, anyway; but my conscience doesn't let me down easy. he'll be my care till some one comes along with a stronger claim." "maybe there is some one somewhere," said 'tana. "there might be letters, if it would be right to look." "if there are relatives anywhere in the settlements, i guess they'd be glad enough if i'd look," decided overton. "there is no way to get permission from him, though," and he looked in the helpless man's eyes. "i don't know what you'd say to this if you could speak, stranger," he said; "but to go through your pockets seems the only way to locate you or your friends; so i'll have to do it." it was not easy to do, with those eyes staring at him in that horrible way. but he tried to avoid the eyes, and thrust his hand into the inner pocket, drawing out an ordinary notebook, some scraps of newspaper folded up in it, and two letters addressed to joe hammond; one to little dalles, and the other had evidently been delivered by a messenger, for no destination was marked on it. it was an old letter and the envelope was worn through all around the edges. another paper was wrapped around it, and the writing was of a light feminine character. overton touched it with a certain reverence and looked embarrassed. "i think, mrs. huzzard, i will ask you to read this, as it seems a lady's letter, and if there is any information in it, you can give it to us; if not, i'll just put it back in his pocket and hope luck will tell us what the letter doesn't." but mrs. huzzard demurred: "and me that short-sighted that even specs won't cure it! no, indeed. i'm no one to read important papers. but here's 'tana, with eyes like a hawk for sighting things. she'll read it fast enough." overton looked undecided, remembering those strange insinuations of the now helpless man, and feeling that the man himself might not be willing. "i--well--i guess not," he said, at last. "it ain't just square to send a little girl blindfold like that into a stranger's claim. we'll let some one over twenty-one read the letters. you'll do, max, and if it ain't all right, you can stop up short." so lyster read the treasured message, all in the same feminine writing. his sensitive face grew grave, and he turned compassionate glances toward the helpless man as he read the letters, according to their dates. the oldest one was the only one not sad. its postmark was a little town many miles to the south. "dear old joe: it's awful to be this near you, and know you are sick, without being able to get to you. i just arrived, and your partner has met me, and told me all about it. but i'll go up with him, just the same; and when you are able to travel we can come down to a town and be married, instead of to-day, as we had set on. so that's all right, and don't you worry. your partner, john ingalls, is as nice as he can be to me. why did you not tell me how good looking he was? maybe you never discovered it--you slow, prosy old joe! when you wrote to me of that rich find you stumbled on, i was sorry you had picked up a partner; for you always did trust folks too much, and i was afraid you'd be cheated by the stranger you picked up. but i guess that i was wrong, joe; for he is a very nice gentleman--the nicest i ever met, i think. and he talks about you just as if he was your brother, and thought a heap of you. he tried to tease me some, too--asked how you ever came to catch such a pretty girl as me! then i told him, joe, that you never had to catch me--that i was little, and hadn't any folks, and how you got your folks to give me a home when you was only a boy; and that you was always like a big brother to me till you made some money in the mines. then you wrote and asked me to come out and marry you. he just laughed, joe, and said it was not a brother's love that a wife wanted; but i don't think he knows anything about that--do you? and, joe, i came pretty near telling him all about that richest find you made--the one you said you wanted me to be the first to see. i thought, of course, you had told your partner, just as you told me when you sent me the plan of it--what for, i don't know, joe, for i never could find it in the wide world, even if there was any chance of my hunting for it alone. your partner asked me point blank if you had written to me of any late find of yours, or of any special location where you found good signs. i tried to look innocent, and said maybe you had, but i couldn't remember. i didn't like to tell a story. i wanted to tell him all the truth, and how rich you said we would be. i knew you would want to tell him yourself, so i managed to keep quiet in time. but whenever he looks at me i feel guilty. and he looks at me so kindly, and he is so good. he says we can't begin our journey to you right away, because he has provisions and things to get first; but we will set out in three days. so i send this letter that you will know i am on the road; maybe we'll reach you first. he is going to take me riding around this camp this evening--i mean mr. ingalls. he says i must get some enjoyment before i go up there to the mountains, where no one lives. he is the nicest stranger i ever met. but, of course, i never was away from home much to meet folks; i guess, though, i might travel a long ways and not meet any one so nice. he just brought me a pretty purse made by the indians. i hope you wear a big hat like he does, and big, high boots. i never saw folks wear them back home; but they do look nice. now, good-by, joe, for a few days. "yours affectionately, "fannie." "well, that letter is plain sailing," remarked overton, "but there is only one name in it we could follow up--the partner, john ingalls. but i don't think i've heard of him." "wait! there is another letter--two more," said lyster; and the others were silent as he read: "joe: i hope you'll hate me now. i can stand that better than to know you still like me. i can't help it. i am going with him--your partner. he loves me, too, joe--not in the brotherly way you did, but in a way that makes me think of him and no one else. so i can't marry any one but him. maybe it's a sin to be false to you, joe; but i never could go to you now. and i can't help going where he wants me to go. don't be mad at him; he can't help it either, i suppose. he says he will always be good to me, and i am going. but my heart is heavy as i write to you. i am not happy--maybe because i love him too much. but i am going. try and forget me. "fannie." in dead silence lyster unfolded the third paper. the drama of this stranger's life was a pathetic thing to the listeners, who looked at him with pity in their eyes, but could utter no words of sympathy to the man who sat there helpless and looked at them. then the last, a penciled sheet, was read. "joe: i am dying, i think. the indian woman with me says so; and i hope it is true. he came to me to-day--the first time in weeks. he never married me, as he promised. he cursed me to-day because my baby face led him away from a fortune he knows you found. i never told him, though it is a wonder. all he knows of it he heard you say in your sleep when you were sick that time. to-day he told me you were paralyzed, joe--that you are helpless still--that he has taken indians with him there to your old claim, and searched every foot of ground for the gold vein he thinks you know of. but it is of no use, and he is furious over it, and so taunts me of your helplessness alone in the wilderness. "joe, i still have the plan you made of the river and the two little streams and the marked tree. can't i make amends some way for the wrong i did you? is there anywhere a friend you could trust to work the find and take care of you? for if you are too helpless to write yourself, and can get only the name of the person to me, i will send the plan some way to him. i know i am not to live long. i am in a perfect fever to hear from you, and tell you that my sin against you weighs me down to despair. "i can't tell you of my life with him; it is too horrible. i do not even know who he is, for ingalls is not his name. we are with indians and they call him 'medicine,' and seem to know him well. he has left me here, to-day, and i feel i will never see him again. he tells me he has sent for a young white boy who is to be brought to camp, and who will help care for me. anything would be better than the sly red faces about me; they fill me with terror. my one hope is that the boy may get this letter sent to you, and that some word may come to me from you before my life ends. it has taken me all this day to write to you. "good-by. i am dying miserably, and i deserve it. i can't even tell you where to write me; only we are with indians camped by a big river. not far away is a wall of rock, like a hill, beside the river, and indian writing is cut on the wall, and holes and things are cut all along it." "the arrow lakes of the columbia!" interrupted overton-- "if the boy comes, and is to be trusted at all, he may tell me more; that is my only hope of this reaching you. if you are not able to make another plan (and he says your hands are powerless) remember, i have the one you did make. if you can send me one word--one name of a friend--i will try--try so hard. he would kill me if he knew, and i would be glad of it, if i could only help you first. i feel that i will never see you again. "fannie." mrs. huzzard was crying and whispering, "poor dear!--poor child!" and even the voice of lyster was not quite steady as he read. those straggling, weak pencil marks had a pathos of their own to him. the letter, crossed and recrossed by the lines, was on two pages, evidently torn from the back of a book. "it seems a sacrilege to dive into a man's feelings and secrets like this," he said, ruefully. "it _is_! my only consolation is that i did it with good intent." "and, after all, not a plain trail found that will help us locate this man or his friends," decided overton--"not a name we can really fasten to but the name on the envelope--joe hammond. it is too bad. why, 'tana! good god! _'tana!_" for the girl, who had uttered no word, but had listened to that last letter with whitened face and staring eyes, leaned against the wall at its close, and a little gasp from her drew their attention. she fell forward on her face ere overton could reach her. "tana, my girl, what is it? speak!" he entreated. but the girl only whispered: "i know now! joe--joe hammond!" and fainted dead away at the feet of the paralyzed man. chapter xi. 'tana and joe. "just like a part in a play, captain--that's just the way it struck me," said mrs. huzzard, recounting the affair for the benefit of the postmaster of sinna ferry. "the man a-sitting there like a statue, with only his eyes looking alive, and that poor, scared dear a-falling down on the floor beside him, and looking as white as milk! i never had a notion she was so easy touched by people's troubles. it surely was a sorry story read from them three letters. i tell you, sir, men leave women with aching hearts many's the time," and she glanced sentimentally toward her listener; "though if there is one place more heart-rending to be deserted in than another, i think an indian village would be the very worst. just to think of that poor dear dying there in a place she didn't even know the name of." "humph! i've an idea you are giving your sympathy to the wrong individual," decided the captain. "it must be easier even to die in some unknown corner than for a living soul to be shut up in a dead body, after the manner of this harris, or hammond, or whatever his name is. i guess, from the looks of things, he must have collapsed when that second letter reached him; had a bad stroke, and was just recovering somewhat when he strayed into this camp. yes, madame, i've an idea he's had a harder row to hoe than the girl; and, then, it doesn't look as though he'd deserved it so much." "mr. dan is mightily upset over it, ain't he?" "mr. dan is just as likely to get upset over any other vagabond who strays in his direction," grumbled the captain. "folks are always falling in his way to be looked after. he has the worst luck! he never did a bit of harm to this stranger--nothing but drop a hand on his shoulder; and all at once the man falls down helpless. and dan feels in duty bound to take care of him. then the girl 'tana has to flop over in the same way, just when i thought we were to get rid of her. and she's another charge to look after. he'll be wanting to hire your house for a hospital next thing, mrs. huzzard." "and welcome he'd be to it for 'tana," declared mrs. huzzard, valiantly. "she's been a bit saucy to you at times, and i know it; but, indeed, it's only because she fancies you don't like her." "like her, madame! a girl who plays poker, and--and--" "and wins," added mrs. huzzard, with a twinkle in her eyes. "ah, now, didn't mr. max tell me the whole story! she is a clip, and i know it; but i think she only meant that game as a bit of a joke." "a twenty-dollar joke, mrs. huzzard, is too expensive to be funny," growled the captain, with natural discontent. "but if i could only convince myself that the money was honestly won, i would not feel so annoyed over it; but i can't--no, madame. i am confident there was a trick in that game--some gambler's trick she has picked up among her promiscuous acquaintances. and i am annoyed--more than ever annoyed now that there is a chance of her remaining longer under dan's care. she's a dangerous _protégée_ for a boy of his age, that's all." "dangerous! oh, now, i've my doubts of that," said mrs. huzzard, shaking her head, emphatically. "you take my word for it, if she's dangerous as a girl to any one in this camp, it's not mr. dan's peace of mind she's disturbing, but that of his new friend." "you mean lyster? ridiculous! a gentleman of culture, used to the best society, give a thought to such an unclassed individual? no, madame!--don't you believe it. his interest about the school affair was doubtless to get her away from camp, and to keep her from being a responsibility on dan's hands." "hum! maybe. but, from all the dances he danced with her, and the way he waited on her, i'd a notion that he did not think her a great responsibility at all." this conversation occurred the morning after those letters had been read. the owner of them was installed in the best room mrs. huzzard had to offer, and miners from all sections were cordially invited to visit the paralyzed man, in the vain hope that some one would chance to remember his face, or help establish the lost miner's identity; for he seemed utterly lost from all record of his past--all but that he had loved a girl whom an unknown partner had stolen. and overton remembered that he seemed especially interested in the whereabouts of the renegade, lee holly. the unknown lee holly's name had suddenly attained the importance of a gruesome ghost to overton. he had stared gloomily at the paralytic, as though striving to glean from the living eyes the secrets held close by the silenced lips. 'tana and monte and lee holly!--his little girl and those renegades! surely these persons could have nothing to do with each other. harris was looney--so overton decided as he stalked back and forth beside the house, glancing up once in a while to a window above him--a window where he hoped to see 'tana's face; for all one day had gone, and the evening come again, yet he had never seen her since he had lifted her unconscious form from beside the chair of harris. her words, "i know now! joe--joe hammond!" were yet whispering through his senses. did those words mean anything? or was the child simply overwrought by that tragedy told in the letters? he did not imagine she would comprehend all the sadness of it until she had fallen in that faint. the night he had talked with her first in akkomi's tepee, and afterward in the morning by the river, he had promised to be satisfied with what she chose to tell him of herself, and ask no questions of her past. but since the insinuations of harris and her own peculiar words and manner, he discovered that the promise was not easy to keep--especially when lyster besieged him with questions; for 'tana had spent the day utterly alone, but for the ministrations of mrs. huzzard. she would not see even the doctor, as she said she was not sick. she would not see overton, lyster, or any one else, because she said she did not want to talk; she was tired, and that reason must suffice. it did for lyster, especially after he had received a nod, a smile, and a wave of her hand from her window--a circumstance he related hopefully to overton, as it banished the lingering fear in his mind that her exile was one caused by absolute illness. "i candidly believe, dan, that she is simply ashamed of having fainted before us last evening--fancies it looks weak, i suppose; and she does pride herself so on her ungirlish strength. i've no doubt she will emerge from her seclusion to-morrow morning, and expect us to ignore her sentimental swoon. how is your other patient?" "better." "much?" "well, just the difference of turning his eyes quickly toward a thing, instead of slowly, as at first. the doctor just told me he is able to move his head slightly, so i guess he is not to go under this trip. but he'll never be a well man again." "rather heavy on you, old fellow, that you feel bound to look after him. i can't see the necessity of it. why don't you let the rest of the camp--" but overton had turned away and resumed his walk. lyster stared at him in wonder for a moment and then laughed. "all right, rothschild," he observed. "you know the depth of your own purse best. but, to tell the truth, you don't act like your own responsible self to-day. you go moping around as though the other fellow's stroke had touched you, too. you are a great fellow, dan, to take other people's loads on your shoulders; but it is a bad habit, and you'd better reform." "i will, when i have time," returned overton, with a grim smile. "just now i have other things to think of. don't mind me." "i sha'n't. i confess i don't mind any of you very much since i saw the cheery vision of your _protégée_ at the window--and waving her hand to me, too; the first bit of sunshine i've seen in camp to-day. for the average specimen i've run across has looked to me like you--glum." receiving no reply whatever to this criticism, he strolled away after a smiling glance upward to 'tana's window. but no girlish hand waved greeting to him this time, and he comforted himself by humming, "my love is but a lassie yet." this was a mischievous endeavor to attract overton's attention and make him say something, even though the something should prove uncomplimentary to the warbler. but it was a failure. overton only thrust his hands a little deeper in his pockets as he stared after the handsome, light-hearted fellow. of course, it would be max to whom she would wave her hand; and he was glad somebody felt like singing, though he himself could not. his mind was too much tormented by the thoughts of those two who formed a nucleus for the hospital already contemptuously alluded to by the captain. and those two? one sat almost motionless, as he had been for the twenty-four hours. but as mrs. huzzard and the captain left his room, each spoke hopefully of his appearance. mrs. huzzard especially was very confident his face showed more animation than she had observed at her noonday visit; and the fact that he could move his head and nod in reply to questions certainly did seem to promise recovery. in the adjoining room, close to the very thin partition, 'tana lay with ears strained to catch each word of the conversation. but when her door was opened by mrs. huzzard, all semblance of interest was gone, and she lay on the little bed with closed eyes. "i'm right glad she's taking a nap at last," said the good soul as she closed the door softly. "that child scarce slept a bit all night, and i know it. curious how nervous she got over that man's troubles. but, of course, he did look awful at first, and nigh about scared me." 'tana lay still till the steps died away on the stairs, and the voices were heard more faintly on the lower floor. all the day she had waited for the people to leave the stranger in the next room alone; and, for the first time, no voice of visitors broke the silence of the upper floor. she slipped to the door and listened. her movements were stealthy as that of some forest animal evading a hunter. she turned the knob softly, and with still swiftness was inside the stranger's room, and the door closed behind her. he certainly was more alert, for his eyes met hers instantly. his look was almost one of fear, and she was trembling visibly. "i had to come," she said, nervously, in a half whisper, "i heard the letters read, and i have to tell you something i've thought all night--all day--and i have to tell you. do you understand? try to understand. nod your head if you do. do you?" her speech was rapid and impatient, while she listened each moment lest a step sound on the stairs again. but in all her eagerness to hear she never looked away from his face, and she uttered a low exclamation of gladness when the man's head bent slowly in assent. "oh, i am so glad--so glad! you will get well; you must! listen! i know you now, and why you looked at me so. you think you saw me up at revelstoke--i think i remember your face there--and you don't trust me. you are looking for that man--the man that took her away from you. you think i could find a trail to him; but you are wrong. he is dead, and i know she is--i _know_! your name was the last word she said--'joe.' she wanted you to forgive her, and not cross _his_ path. you don't believe me, perhaps; but it is all true. i went to the camp with--with the boy she wrote of. she talked of you to me. i had word to give you if we ever met. but how was i to know that jim harris was the man--the same man? do you hear--do you believe me?" those burning eyes--eyes in which all of life in him seemed concentrated--looked out on her from the pale, strange face; looked on her until her own cheeks grew colorless, for there was something awful in the searching regard of the man who was but half alive. "see!" she said, and slipped from her belt a package in which paper rustled, "i've had that plan of the gold find ever since--since she died. she gave it to me, in case you should be--as you are, and no one to look after it for you. or, if you should go under, she said, i was to look it up. and i started to look it up--yes, i did; but things were against me, and i let it go for a while. but now, listen! if you get well, it means money must do it. see? dan hasn't very much--not enough to float you long. now, i've thought it all out. you give up the notion of looking for that man, who wasn't worth a shot of powder when he was alive, and worth less now. it's that notion that's been eating the life out of you. oh, i've thought it all out! now you just turn honest prospector, like you was when that man ingalls first spotted you. i'm only a girl, but i'll try to help make amends for the wrongs he did you. i'll go partners with you. look! here is the plan; and i'm almost sure i know where the two little streams meet. i've thought of it a heap; but the face of--of that dead girl, kept me from doing anything till i had either found you or knew you were dead. no one knows i have the plan--though _he_ would have cut throats for it. now do you trust me?" she held the plan up so he could see it--a queer puzzle of lines and dots; but a glance sufficed, and he turned his eyes again to the face of the girl. her eagerness, her intensity, awakened him to trust and sympathy. he looked at her and nodded his head. "oh, i knew you would!" she breathed, thankfully. "and i'll stand by you--you'll see! i've wanted a chance like this--a chance to make up for some of the devilment he's done to folks--and some he's made me help at. you know who i am, but none of the rest do--and they sha'n't. i'm a new girl now. i want to make up for some of the badness that has been. it's all over; but sometimes i hate the blood in my veins because--you know! and if i can only do _some_ good--" she paused, for the eyes of the paralyzed man had moved from her face, and were resting on something back of her. it was overton! he entered and closed the door, and stood looking doubtful and astonished, while 'tana rose to her feet trembling and a little pale. "how long--were you there?" she demanded, angrily. he looked at her very steadily before making reply--such a curious, searching look that she moved uneasily because of it; but her face remained defiant. "i just now opened the door," he said at last, speaking in a slow, deliberate way. "i slipped here as quietly as i could, because they told me you were asleep, and i must not make a noise. i got here just as you were telling this man that no one but him should know who you were before you came among us--that is all, i guess." she had sat down on a seat close to harris, and dropped her face in her hands. overton stood with his back against the door, looking down at her. in his eyes was a keen sorrow as she sat down in that despairing fashion, and crept close to the stranger as though for refuge from _him_. "i might have avoided telling what i heard," he continued; "but i don't think that would be quite square among friends. then, as i see you have found a new acquaintance here, i thought maybe you would have something to tell me if you knew what i heard you say to him." but, kindly as his words were, she seemed to shrink from them. "no; i can't. oh, mr. dan, i can't--i can't," she muttered, with her head still bowed on the arm of the chair occupied by harris. "if you can't trust me any more, i can't blame you. but i can't tell you--that's all." "then i'll just go down stairs again," he decided, "and you can finish your talk with harris. i'll keep the rest of the folks from interrupting you as i did. but if you want me, little girl, you know i'll not be far away." the tears came in her eyes. his persistent kindness to her made her both ashamed and glad, and she reached out her hand. "wait," she said, "maybe i have something to tell you," and she unfolded the paper again and showed it to harris. "shall i tell him? would you rather he would be the man to do the business?" she asked. "you know i'm willing, but i don't know enough myself. do you want him to be the man?" harris nodded his head. with a look of relief on her face, she turned to overton, who watched them wonderingly. "what sort of man is it you want? or what is it you want to tell me?" "only that i've found a plan of the ground where he made that rich find the letter told of," she answered, with a bit of a tremble in her voice. "he's never been able to look after it himself, and was afraid to trust any one. but now--" "and you have the plan--_you_, 'tana?" "yes, i have it. i think i even know where the place is located. but--don't ask me anything about how i got the plan. he knows, and is satisfied--that is all." "but, 'tana, i don't understand. you are giving me surprises too thick this evening. if he has found a rich yield of ore, and has taken you into partnership, it means that you will be a rich woman. a streak of pay ore can do more for you than a ranger like myself; so i guess you can afford to drop me." her face fell forward in her hands again. the man in the chair looked at her and then turned his eyes pleadingly to the other man, who remained standing close to the door. overton recognized the pleading quality of the glance, and was filled with amazement by it. witchery seemed to have touched the stranger when paralysis touched him, else he would not so quickly have changed from his suspicion of the girl into that mute pleading for her. she was trying so hard to keep back the tears, and in the effort her jaws were set and her brows drawn together stormily. she looked to him as she had looked in the lodge of akkomi. "you don't trust me," she said at last; "that's why you won't help us. but you ought to, for i've never lied to you. if it's because i'm in it that you won't have anything to do with the mine, i'll leave. i won't bother you about that school. i won't bother you about anything. i'll help locate the place if--if joe here is willing; and then you two can be partners, and i'll be out of it, for i can trust you to take care of him, and see that the money does what it can for him. i can trust you if you can't me. so you are the one to speak up. what is your answer?" chapter xii. partners. "well, i've been a 'hoodoo' all my, life; and if i only lead some one into luck now--good luck--oh, wouldn't i learn a sun-dance, and dance it!" the world was two weeks older, and it was 'tana who spoke; not the troubled 'tana who had crouched beside the paralytic and cowered under her fear of overton's distrust, but a girl grown lighter-hearted by the help of work to be done--work in which she was for once to stand side by side with overton himself, for his decision about the prospecting had been in her favor. he had "spoken up," as she had asked him to do, and a curious three-cornered partnership had been arranged the next day; a very mysterious partnership, of which no word was told to any one. only 'tana suddenly decided that the schooling must wait a little longer. lyster would have to make the trip to helena without her; she was not feeling like it just then, and so forth. therefore, despite the very earnest arguments of mr. lyster, he did have to go alone. during all the journey, he was conscious of a quite unreasonable disappointment, an impatience with even overton, for not enforcing his authority as guardian, and insisting that she at once commence the many studies in which she was sadly deficient. but overton had stood back and said nothing. lyster did not understand it, and could not succeed in making either of them communicative. "you'll be back here in less than a month," said overton. "we will send her then, if she feels equal to it. in the meantime, we'll take the best care we can of her here at the ferry. i find i will have time to look after her a little until then. i have only one short trip to make up the river; so don't get uneasy about her. she'll be ready to go next run you make, sure." so lyster wondered, dissatisfied, and went away. he was even a little more dissatisfied with his last memory of the girl--a vision of her bending over that unknown, helpless miner. his sympathies were with the man. he was most willing to assist, in a financial way, toward taking care of one so unfortunate. but the thing he was not willing to do was to see 'tana devote herself without restraint to the welfare of a stranger--a man they knew nothing of--a fellow who, of course, could have no appreciation of the great luck he was in to have her constantly beside him. it was a clean waste of exceptionable sympathy; and a squaw, or some miner out of work, would do as well in this case. he even offered to pay for a squaw, or for any masculine nurse; but the girl had very promptly suggested that he busy himself with his own duties, if he had any. she stated further that he had no control whatever over her actions, and she could not understand-- "i know i have none," he retorted, with some impatience, and yet a good deal of fondness in his handsome eyes. "that is why i'm complaining. i wish i had. and if i had, wouldn't i whisk you away from this uncouth life! i wonder if you will ever let me do so, tana?" "i think you'd better be packing your plunder," she remarked, coolly. "if you don't, you'll keep the whole outfit waiting." and that was how they let even lyster go away. not a hint was he given of the all-engrossing plan that bound both 'tana and overton to the interests of the passive stranger, who looked at them with intelligence, but who could not speak. their partnership was a curious affair, and the arrangement for interests in it was conducted on the one side by nods or shakes of the head, while the other two offered suggestions, and asked questions, until a very clear understanding was arrived at. only one knotty discussion had arisen. overton offered to give one month of time to the search, on condition that one half of the find, if there was any made, should belong to 'tana, while the original finder should have the other half. he himself would give that much time to helping them out in a friendly way; but more than that he could not give, because of other duties. to this the man harris shook his head with all possible vigor, while 'tana was quite as emphatic in an audible way. harris desired that all shares be equal, and overton count himself in for a third. 'tana approved the plan, insisting that she would not accept an ounce of the dust if he did not. so dan finally agreed and ended the discussion concerning the division of the gold they might never find. "and don't be so dead sure that the dirt will pan out well, even if we do find the place," he said, warningly, to 'tana. "why, my girl, if the average of dust had been as high as my average of hope over strikes i've made myself, i would have been a billionaire long ago." "i never heard you talk of prospecting," remarked 'tana. "all the rest do here, and not you--how is that?" "oh, prospecting strikes one like a fever; sometimes a man recovers from it, or seems to for a while. i had the fever bad about two years ago--out in nevada. well, i left there. i sunk my stock of capital in a very big hole, and lost my enthusiasm for a while. maybe i will find it again, drifting along the kootenai; but as yet it has not struck me hard. from what i can gather, this fellow must simply have dropped on a nugget or little pocket, and something must have made him distrust his partner to such an extent that he kept the secret find to himself. so there evidently has been no testing of the soil, no move toward development. we may never find an ounce of metal, for such disappointments have been even where very large nuggets have been found. you must not expect too much of this search. golden hope lets you down hard when you do fall with it." but, despite his warnings, he made arrangements for their river journey with all speed possible. the three of them were to go; and, as chaperon, mrs. huzzard was persuaded to join their queer "picnic" party, for that was the idea given abroad concerning their little trip to the north. it was to be a venture in the interests of harris--supposedly the physical interests; though captain leek did remark, with decided emphasis, that it was the first time he ever knew of a man being sent out to live in the woods as a cure for paralysis. but the preparations were made; even the fact that mrs. huzzard was seized with an unreasonable attack of rheumatism on the eve of departure did not deter them at all. "unless you need me to stay here and look after you, we'll go just the same," decided 'tana. "a squaw won't be much of a substitute for you; but she'll be better than no one, and we'll go." so the squaw was secured, through the agency of her husband, whom overton knew, and who was to take their camp outfit up the river for them. this was one reason why mrs. huzzard, as she watched them depart, was a little thankful for the visitation of rheumatism. their camp was only a day old when 'tana announced her willingness to dance if only good fortune would come to her. it seemed a thing probable, for as overton poured water slowly from a tin pan into the shallow little stream, there were left in the bottom of the pan, as the last sifting bit of soil was washed out, some tiny bits of yellow the size of a pin-head, and one as large as a grain of wheat. 'tana gave a little ecstatic cry as she bent over it and touched the particles with her finger. "oh, dan--it is the gold!--the real gold! and we are millionaires!--millionaires, and you would not believe it!" he raised his finger warningly, and shook his head. "wait until we are millionaires before you commence to shout," he advised. "it is a good show here--yes; but, after all, it may be only a chance washing from hills far enough away. show them to harris, though; he may be interested, though he appears to me very indifferent about the matter." "he don't seem to care," she agreed. "he just looks at us as though we were a couple of children he had found a new plaything for. but don't you think he looks brighter?" "well, yes; the river trip has done him good, instead of the harm the ferry folks prophesied. but you run along and show him the 'yellow,' and don't draw the squaw's attention to it." the squaw was wrapped neck and heels in a blanket, although the day was one of the warmest of summer; and stretched asleep in the sun, she gave no heed to the quick, light step of the girl. neither did harris, at whose tent door she lay. he must have thought it was the stoical, indifferent indian, for he gave her a quick, startled glance as he heard her surprised "oh!" at the door. then she walked directly to him, lifted his right hand, and let go again. it fell on his knee in the old, helpless way. "but you did raise it," she said, accusingly. "i saw you as i came to the door. you stretched out your hand." he looked at her and nodded very slightly, then looked at his hand and appeared trying to lift it; but gave up, and shook his head sadly. "you mean you moved it a little once, but can't do it again?" she asked, and he nodded assent. "oh, well, that's all right," she continued, cheerfully. "you are sure to get along all right, now that you have commenced to manage your hands if ever so little. but just at first, when i saw you, i had a mighty queer notion come into my head. i thought you were getting over that stroke faster than you let us know. but i'm too suspicious, ain't i? maybe it's a bad thing for folks to trust strangers too much in this world; but it is just as bad for a girl to grow up where she can't trust any one. don't you think so?" the man nodded. they had many conversations like that, and she had grown not to notice his lack of speech nearly so much as at first. he was so good a listener, and she had become so used to his face gradually gaining again expressive power, that she divined his wishes more readily than the others. "but trusting don't cut any figure in what i came to speak to you about," she continued. "no 'trust and hope on, brethren,' about this, i guess," and she held the grains of yellow metal before his eyes. "there it is--the gold! dan found it in the little hollow where the spring is. is that where you found it?" he shook his head, but looked pleased at the show they had found. "was it bigger bundles of it than this you struck?" he nodded assent. "bigger than this! well, it must have been rich. these lumps are enough in size if they only turn out enough in number. oh, how i wish you had put the very spot on that plan of the ground and the rivers! still, i suppose you were right to be cautious. and if i hadn't been on a lone trail through this country last spring, and got lost, and happened to notice the two little streams running into the river so close to each other, we might have had a year's journey along the kootenai before we could have found the particular little stream and followed the right one to its source. i think we are close on the trail now, joe." he shook his head energetically when she called him joe. "well, i forget," she said. "you see, i've been thinking for months about finding joe hammond; and now that i've found you, i can't get used to thinking you are jim harris. what's the use of your changing your name, anyway? you did it so you could trail him, your partner, better. but what was the use, with him well and strong, and with devils back of him, and you alone and barely able to crawl? your head was wrong, joe--jim, i mean. if you hadn't been looney, you'd just have settled down and worked your claim, got rich, and then looked for your man." he shook his head impatiently, and looked at her with as much of a frown as his locked muscles would allow, and a very queer, hard smile about his eyes and mouth. "ah!" and 'tana shivered a little; "don't look like that, joe. you wouldn't get any sunday-school prizes for a meek and lowly spirit if the manager saw you fix your face in that fashion. i guess i know how you felt. if you had just so much strength, and couldn't hope for more, you wouldn't waste it looking for gold while he was above ground. now, ain't i about right?" he gave no assent, but smiled in a more kindly way at the shrewdness of her guess. "you won't own up, but i know i am right," she said; "and the way i know it is because i think i'd feel just like that myself if some one hurt me bad. i wonder if girls often feel that way. i guess not. i know ora harrison, the doctor's girl, don't. she says her prayers every night, and asks god to let her enemies have good luck. u'm! i can't do that." the man watched her as she sat silent for a little, looking out into the still, warm sunshine. the squaw slumbered on, and the girl stared across her, and her face grew sad and moody with some hard thought. "it's awful to hate," she said, at last. "don't you think it is?--to hate so that you can't breathe right when the person you hate comes near where you are--to be able to _feel_ if he comes near, even when you don't see or hear him, to feel a devil that rises up in your breast and makes you want to get a knife and cut--cut deep, until the blood you hate runs away from the face you hate, and leaves it white and cold. ah! it's bad, i reckon, to have some one hate you; but it's a thousand times worse to hate back. it makes the prettiest day black when the devil tells you of the hate you must remember, and you can't pray it away, and you can't forget it, and you can't help it! oh, dear!" she put her hands over her eyes and leaned her head against his hand. he felt her tears, but could not comfort her. "you see, i know--how you felt," she said, trying to speak steadily. "girls shouldn't know; girls should have love and good thoughts taught to them. i--i've dreamed dreams of what a girl's life ought to be like; something like ora's home, where her mother kisses her and loves her, and her father kisses and loves them both. i went to their home once, and i never could go again. i was starving for the kind of home she has, and i knew i never would get it. that is the hardest part of it--to know, no matter how hard you try to be good, all your life, you can't get back the good thoughts and the love that should have been yours when you were little--the good thoughts that would have kept hate from growing in your heart, until it is stronger than you are. oh, it's awful!" the squaw, who did not understand english, but did understand tears, rolled over and peered out from her blanket at the girl who knelt there as at the feet of a confessor. but the girl did not see her; she still knelt there, almost whispering now. "and the worst of it is, joe, after they are dead--the ones you hate--then the devil in you commences to torment you by making you think of some good points among the bad ones; some little kind word that would have made the hate in your heart less if it had not been for your own terrible wickedness. and it gnaws and torments you just like a rat gnawing the heart out of a log for a nest. and hate is terrible! whether it is live hate, or dead, it is terrible. maybe i won't feel so bad now that i've said out loud to some one how i feel--how much harder my heart is than it ought to be. i couldn't tell any one else. but you hate, too, you know. maybe you know, too, that dead hate hurts worst--that it haunts like a ghost." she looked up at him, and saw again that queer, wise smile about his lips. "you don't believe he's dead!" she said, and her face grew paler. "you think he's still alive, and that is why you don't want folks to use your old name. you are laying for him yet, and you so helpless you can't move!" the man only looked at her grimly. he would not deny; he would not assent. "but you are wrong," she persisted. "he is dead. the indians told me so--akkomi told me so. would they lie to me? joe, can't you let the hate go by, now that he is dead--dead?" but no motion answered her, though his eyes rested on her kindly enough. then the squaw arose and slouched away to pick up firewood in the forest, and the girl arose, too, and touched his hand. "well, whether you can or not, i am glad i told you what i did. maybe it won't worry me so much now; for sometimes, just when i'm almost happy, the ghost of that bad hate seems to whisper, whisper, and there ain't any more good times for me. i'm glad i told you. i would not have, though, if you could talk like other folks, but you can't." she got him a drink of water, slipped their first find of the gold into his pocket, and then stood at the tent door, watching for overton. but he did not come, and after a little she picked up the pan again and started for the small stream where she had left him. the man in the chair watched her go, and when she was out of sight, that right hand was again slowly raised from the chair. "c--an't i?" he whispered, in a strange, indistinct way. "poor lit--tle girl! poor little--girl!" chapter xiii. the track in the forest. their camp was about a mile from the kootenai river, and close to a stream of depth sufficient to carry a canoe; while, a little way north of their camp, a beautiful spring of clear water gurgled out from under a little bank, and added its portion to the larger stream that flowed eastward to the river. there was a little peculiarity about the spring, which made it one to remember--or, rather, two to remember, for it was really a twin, and its sister stream slipped from the other side of the narrow ledge and ran north for a little way, and then turned to the east and emptied into the kootenai, not a hundred yards from the stream into which its mate had run. the two springs were not twenty feet apart, and lay direct north and south from each other. then their wide curves, in opposite directions, left within their circle a tract of land like an island, for the streams bounded it entirely except for that narrow neck of rock and soil joining it to the bigger hills to the west. it was in the vicinity of the two springs that the rude sketch of harris bade them search; but more definite directions than that he had not given. he had marked a tree where the north stream joined the river; and finding that as a clew, they followed the stream to its source. when they reached the larger stream, navigable for a mile, they concluded to move their tents there, for no lovelier place could be found. it was 'tana and overton who tramped over the lands where the streams lay, and did their own prospecting for location. he was surprised to find her knowledge of the land so accurate. the crude drawing was as a solved problem to her; she never once made a wrong turn. "well, i've thought over it a heap," she said, when he commented on her clever ideas. "i saw that marked tree as we went down to the ferry, and i remembered where it was; and the trail is not hard if you only get started on it right. it's getting started right that counts--ain't it, dan?" there seemed fewer barriers between them in the free, out-of-door life, where no third person's views colored their own. they talked of lyster, and missed him; yet dan was conscious that if lyster were with them, he would have come second instead of first in her confidences, and her friendly, appealing ways. whether he trusted her or not, she did not know. he had not asked a question as to how that survey of the land came to her; but he watched harris sometimes when the girl paid him any little attention, and he could read only absolute trust in the man's eyes. overton was not given to keen analysis of people or motives; a healthy unconcern pervaded his mind as to the affairs of most people. but sometimes the girl's character, her peculiar knowledge, her mysterious past, touched him with a sense of strange confusion, yet in the midst of the confusion--the deepest of it--he had put all else aside when she appealed to him, and had followed her lead into the wilderness. and as she ran from him with the particles of gold, and carried them, as he bade her, to harris, he followed her with his gaze until she disappeared through the green wall of the bushes. once he started to follow her, and then stopped, suddenly muttered something about a "cursed fool," and flung himself face down in the tall grass. "it's got to end here," he said, aloud, as men grow used to thinking when they live alone in the woods much. then he raised himself on his elbows and looked over the little grassy dip of the land to where the stream from the hills sparkled in the warm sun; and then away beyond to where the evergreens raised their dark heads along the heights, looking like somber guardians keeping ward over the sunny valley of the twin springs. over them all his gaze wandered, and then up into the deep forest above him--a forest unbroken from there to the swift columbia. the perfect harmony of it all must have oppressed him until he felt himself the one discordant note, for he closed his eyes with a sigh that was almost a groan. "i'll see it all again--often, i suppose," he muttered; "but never quite as it is now--never, for it's got to end. the little bits of gold i found are a warning of the changes to come here--that is the way it seems to me. queer how a man will change his idea of life in a year or so! there have been times when i would have rejoiced over the prospect of wealth there is here; yet all i am actually conscious of is regret that everything must change--the place--the people--all where gold is king. pshaw! what a fool i would seem to any one else if he knew. yet--well, i have dreamed all my days of a sort of life where absolute happiness could be lived. other men do the same, i suppose--yes, of course. i wonder if others also come in reach of it too late. i suppose so. well, reasoning won't change it. i marked out my own path--marked it out with as little thought as many another fool; but i've got to walk in it just the same, and cursing back don't help luck. but i had to have a little pow-wow all alone and be sorry for myself, before turning my back on the man i'd like to be--and--the rest of my dreams that have come in sight for a little while but can never come nearer--there she comes again! i'm glad of it, for she will at least keep me from drifting into dreams alone." but she appeared to be dreaming a little herself. at any rate, the scene she had passed through in the tent left memories too dark with feeling to be quickly dispelled, and he noticed at once the change in her face, and the traces of tears left about her eyes. "what has hurt you?" he asked. she shook her head and said: "nothing." "oh! so you leave here jolly enough, and run around to camp, and cry about nothing--do you?" he asked, with evident unbelief. "were you crying for joy over those little grains of gold--or over your loneliness in being so far from the ferry folks?" she laughed at the mere idea of either--and laughter dispels tear traces so quickly from faces that are young. "lonely!" she exclaimed: "lonely here? why, i feel a heap more satisfied here than down at the ferry, where the whole place smelled like saw-mills and new lumber. i always had a grudge against saw-mills, for they spoil all the lovely woods. that is why i like all this," and she made a sweep of her arm, embracing all the territory in sight; "for in here not a tree has been touched with an ax. lonely here! why, dan, i've been so perfectly happy that i'm afraid--yes, i am. didn't you ever feel like that--just as if you were too happy to last, and you were afraid some trouble would come and end it all?" but overton stooped to lift the pick he had been using, and so turned his face away from her. "well, i'm glad you are not getting blue over lack of company," he remarked; "for we have only commenced prospecting, you know, and it will be at least a week before we can hope to send for any one else to join us." "a week! do you intend to send for other folks, then?" and her tone was one of regret. "oh, it would be all different, then. my pretty camp would be spoiled for me if folks should come talking and whistling up our creek. don't let any one know so soon!" "you don't know what you are talking of," he answered, a little roughly. "this is a business trip. we did not come up here just because we were looking for a pretty picture of a place to camp in." "oh!" and surprise and dismay were in the exclamation. "then you don't care for it--you want other people just as soon as you find the rich streak where the gold is? well"--and she looked again over their little chosen valley--"i almost hope you won't find it very soon--not for several days. i would like to live just like this for a whole week. and i thought--i was so sure you liked it, too." "oh, yes," he answered, indifferently enough, evidently giving his whole attention to examining the soil he had commenced to dig up again, "i like the camp all right, but we can't just stand around and admire it, if we want to accomplish what we came for. and see here, 'tana," he said, and for the first time he looked at her with a sort of unwillingness, "you must know that this gold is going to make a big change in things for you. you can't live out in the woods with a couple of miners and an indian squaw, after your fortune is made--don't you see that? you must go to school, and live out in the world where your money will help you to--well, the right sort of society for a girl." "what is the use of having money if it don't help you to live where you please?" she demanded. "i thought that was what money was for. i'd a heap rather stay poor here in the woods, with--with the folks i know, instead of going where i'll have to buy friends with money. don't think i'd want the sort of friends who have to be baited with money, anyway." he stared at her helplessly. she was saying to him the things he had called himself a fool for thinking. but he could not call her a fool. he could only stifle an impatient groan, and wonder how he was to reason her into thinking as other girls would think of wealth and its advantages. "why were you so wild about finding the gold, if you care so little for the things it brings?" he demanded, and she pointed toward the tents. "it was for him i thought at first--of how the money would, maybe, help to make him well--get him great doctors, and all that. the world had been rough on him--people had brought him trouble, and--and i thought, maybe, i could help clear it away. that was what i had in my mind at first." "you need things, too, don't you?--not doctors, but education--books, beautiful things. you want pictures, statues, fine music, theaters--all such things. well, the money will help you get them, and get people to enjoy them with you. i've heard you talk to max about how you would like to live, and what you would like to see; and i think you can soon. but, 'tana, you will live then where people will be more critical than we are here--" "more like captain leek?" she asked, with a deep wrinkle between her brows; "for if they are, i'll stay here." "n--no; not like him; and yet they will think considerable of his sort of ideas, too," he answered, blunderingly. "one thing sure is this: when your actual work here is over, you must go at once back to mrs. huzzard. it was necessary for you to come, else i wouldn't have allowed it. but, little girl, when you get among those fine friends you are going to have, i don't want them to think you had a guardian up here who didn't take the first bit of civilized care of you. and that's what they would think if i let you stay here, just as though you were a boy. so you see, 'tana, i just felt i'd have to tell you plain that you would have to try and fit yourself to city ways of living. and when you are a millionairess, as you count on being, we three partners can't keep on living in tents in the kootenai woods." she pulled handfuls of the plumy grasses beside her, and stared sulkily ahead of her. evidently it was a great deal for her to understand at once. "would they blame you--_you_ for it, if they knew?" she asked at last. "yes, they would--if they knew," he said, savagely; and turning away, he walked across the little grassy level to where the abrupt little wall or ledge commenced--the one from under which the springs flowed. she thought he was simply out of patience with her. he was going to the woods--anywhere to be rid of her and her stupid ideas; and swift as a bird, she slipped after him. "then i'll go, dan," she said reassuringly, catching his arm. "so don't be vexed at me for being stubborn. come! let me look for the gold with you, and then--then i'll go when you say." "it's a bargain," he said, briefly, and drew his arm away. "and if we are going to do any more prospecting this evening, we had better begin." he stood facing her, with his back to the bank that was the first tiny step toward the mountain that rose dark and shadowy far above. he had walked along there before, looking with a miner's attention to the lay of the land. suddenly he uttered an exclamation, and a light of comprehension brightened his eyes. "i've got a clew to it, sure, 'tana!" he said, eagerly. "do you know where we are standing? well, if i don't make a big mistake, a good-sized river once rolled along just where we are now. the little creek is all that's left of it. this soil is all a comparatively recent deposit, and it and the gold dust in it have been washed down from the mountain. which means that this little valley is only a gateway, and the dust we found is only a trail we are to follow up to the mine from which it came. do you understand?" "yes, i think so," she answered, looking at the green-covered banks, and trying to realize how they looked when a mountain river had cut its way through and covered all the pretty level where the spring stream slipped now. "but doesn't that make the gold seem farther away--much farther? will we have to move up higher in the mountains?" "that is a question i need time to answer, but if i am right--if there is a backing of gold ore somewhere above this old river bed, it means a much surer thing than an occasional bit of dust washed out of the mud here. but we won't ignore our little placer digging either. there is an advantage to a poor prospector in having a claim he can work without any machinery but a pick, shovel, and pan; while the gold ore needs a fortune to develop it. let us go back and talk to harris, to see if his evidence substantiates my theory. if not, we will just stake out our claims on the level, and be thankful. later we will investigate the hills." the girl walked slowly beside him back to their camp. the shadows were commencing to lengthen. it was nearing supper time, and their day had been a busy, tiring one, for they had moved their camp many miles since dawn. "you are very nearly worn out, aren't you?" he asked, as he noticed her tired eyes and her listless step. "you see, you would tramp along the shore this morning when i wanted you to stay in the boat." "yes, i know," she answered; "but i don't think that made me tired. maybe it's the gold we are to find. how queer it is, dan, that a person will want and want some one thing all his life, and he thinks it will make him so happy; and yet, when at last he gets in sight of it, he isn't happy at all. that is the way i feel about our gold. i suppose i ought to be singing and laughing and dancing for joy. i said i would, too. yet here i am feeling as stupid as can be, and almost afraid of the fine life you say i must go to. oh, bother! i won't think over it any more. i am going to get supper." for while 'tana would accept the squaw as an assistant and a gatherer of fuel, she decidedly declined to have her installed as head cook. she herself filled that office with a good deal of girlish conceit, encouraged by the praise of overton and the approving nods of harris. there had been a fifth member of their party, flap-jacks' husband. 'tana had bestowed that name on the squaw in the very beginning of their acquaintance. but overton had sent him on an errand back to sinna ferry, not wishing to have his watchful eyes prying into their plans in the very beginning of their prospecting. and it was not until he had started on his journey that the pick and pan had disclosed the golden secret of the old river bed. harris watched the two approach, and his keen gray eyes turned with a certain fondness from one to the other. they were as guardian angels to him, and their mutual care of him had brought them closer to each other there in the wilderness than they ever had been in the little settlement farther down the river. "squaw not here yet?" asked 'tana, and at once set to work preparing things for the supper. harris shook his head, but at that moment their hand-maiden did return, carrying a great load of sticks for fire, and then brought to the girl a number of fine trout she had caught almost at their door. she built the fire outside, where two forked sticks had been driven into the ground, and across them a pole lay, from which kettles could be hung. as 'tana set the coffee pot on the hot coals, the indian woman spoke to her in that low voice which is characteristic of the red people. "more white men to come into camp?" she asked. "white men? no. why do you ask?" "i see tracks--not dan's tracks--not yours." "made when?" "now--little while back--only little." overton heard their voices, though not their words; and as 'tana re-entered the wigwam, he glanced around at her with a dubious smile. "that is the first time i ever heard you actually talking chinook," he observed; "though i've had an idea you could, ever since the evening in akkomi's village. it is like your poker playing, though you have been very modest about it." "i was not the night i played the captain," she answered; "and i think you might let me alone about that, after i gave him back his money." "that is just the part i can not forgive you for," he said. "he will never get over the idea, now, that you cheated him, and that your conscience got the better of you to such an extent that you tried to wipe a sin away by giving the money back." "perhaps i did," she answered, quietly. "i had to settle his conceit some way, for he did bother me a heap sometimes. but i'm done with that." she seemed rather thoughtful during the frying of the fish and the slicing down of mrs. huzzard's last contribution--a brown loaf. she was disturbed over the footprints seen by the indian woman--the track of a white man so close to their camp that day, yet who had kept himself from their sight! such actions have a meaning in the wild countries, and the meaning troubled her. while it would have been the most simple thing in the world to tell overton and have him make a search, something made her want to do the searching herself--but how? "i was right in my theory about the old river bed," he said to her, as she poured his coffee. "harris backs me up in it, and it was ore he found, and not the loose dirt in the soil. so the thing i am going to strike out for is the headquarters where that loose dust comes from." "oh! then it was ore you found?" she asked. harris nodded his head. "ore on the surface--and near here." that news made her even more anxious about that stranger who had prowled around. perhaps he, too, was searching for the hidden wealth. when the supper was over, and the sun had slipped back of the mountain, she beckoned to the squaw, and with the water bucket as a visible errand, they started toward the spring. but they did not stop there. she wanted to see with her own eyes those footprints, and she followed the indian down into the woods already growing dusky in the dying day. the birds were singing their good-night songs, and all the land seemed steeped in repose. only those two figures, gliding between the trees, carried with them the spirit of unrest. they reached an open space where no trees grew very close--a bit of marsh land, where the soil was black and tall ferns grew. the squaw led her straight to a place where two of the fern fronds were bent and broken. she parted the green lances, and there beside it was a scraping away of the earth, as though some one walking there had slipped, and in the black sandy loam a shoe had sunk deep. the indian was right; it was the mark of a white man, for the reds of that country had not yet adopted the footgear of their more advanced neighbors. "it turn to camp," said the squaw. "maybe some white thief, so i tell you. me tell dan?" "wait," answered the girl; and, kneeling down, she studied the slender outline of the foot attentively. "any more tracks?" "no more--only leaves stirred nearer to camp; he go that way." the full moon rose clear and warm in the east, while yet the sun's light lingered over the wilderness. beautiful flowers shone white and pink and yellow in the opaline light of the evening; and 'tana mechanically plucked a few that touched her as she passed, but she gave little notice to their beauty. all her thought was on the slender footprint of the man in the woods, and her face looked troubled. they walked on, looking to right and left in any nook where deep shadows lay, but never a sign could they see of aught that was human besides themselves, until they neared the springs again, when the squaw laid her hand on the arm of the girl. "dan," she said, in her low, abrupt way. the girl, looking up, saw him a little way ahead of them, standing there straight, strong, and surely to be trusted; yet her first impulse was to tell him nothing. "take the water and go," she said to the indian, and the woman disappeared like a mere wraith of a woman in the pale shadows. "don't go so far next time when you want to pick flowers in the evening," said overton, as 'tana came nearer to him. "you make me realize that i have nerves. if you had not come in sight the instant you did, i should have been after you." "but nothing will harm us; i am not afraid, and it is pretty in the woods now," she answered lamely, and toyed with the flowers. but the touch of her fingers was nervous, and the same quality trembled in her voice. he noticed it and reaching out took her hand in his very gently, and yet with decision that forced her to look up at him. "little girl--what is it? you are sick?" she shook her head. "no, i am not--i am not sick," and she tried to free her hand, but could not. "'tana," and his teeth closed for a moment on his lip lest he say all the warm words that leaped up from his heart at sight of her face, which looked startled and pale in the moonlight--"'tana, you won't need me very long; and when you go away, i'll never try to make you remember me. do you understand, little girl? but just now, while we are so far off from the rest of the world, won't you trust me with your troubles--with the thoughts that worry you? i would give half of my life to help you. half of it! ah, good god! all of it! 'tana--" in his voice was all the feeling which compels sympathy, or else builds up a wall that bars it out. but in the eyes of the girl, startled though she was, no resistance could be read. her hand was in his, her face lifted to him, and alight with sudden gladness. in his eyes she read the force of an irresistible power taking possession of a man's soul and touching her with its glory. "'tana!" he said very softly, in a tone she had never before heard dan overton use--a tone hushed and reverent and appealing. "_'tana!_" did he guess all the stormy emotions locked alone in the girl's heart, and wearing out her strength? did he guess all the childish longing to feel strong, loving arms around her as a shield? his utterance of her name drew her to him. his arm fell around her shoulders, and her head was bowed against his breast. the hat she wore had fallen to the ground, and as he bent over her, his hand caressed her hair tenderly, but there was more of moody regret than of joy in his face. "'tana, my girl! poor little girl!" he said softly. but she shook her head. "no--not so poor now," she half whispered and looked up at him--"not so very poor." then she uttered a half-strangled scream of terror and broke away from him; for across his shoulder she saw a face peering at her from the shadows of the over-hanging bushes above them, a white, desperate face, at sight of which she staggered back and would have fallen had overton not caught her. he had not seen the cause of her alarm, and for one instant thought it was himself from whom she shrank. "tell me--what is it?" he demanded. "'tana, speak to me!" she did not speak, but a rustle in the bushes above them caught his ear; and looking up, he saw a form pass lightly through the shadows and away from them. he could not tell whether it was an indian, a white man, or even an animal scampering off that way through the bushes. but anything that spied like that and ran when discovered was a thing to shoot at. he dropped his hand to his revolver, but she caught his arm. "no, dan! oh, don't--don't shoot him!" he stared at her, conscious that it was no ordinary fear that whitened her face. what did it mean? she herself had just come from the woods--pale, agitated, and with only a semblance of flower gathering to explain her absence. had she met some one there--some one who-- he let go of her and started to run up the side of the steep bank; but swiftly as he moved, she caught him and clung to him, half sobbing. "don't go! oh, dan, let him go!" she begged, and her grasp made it impossible for him to go unless he picked her up and carried her along. he stooped, took her head roughly in his hands, and turned her face up, so that the light would fall upon it. "_him!_ then you know who it is?" he said, grimly. "what sort of business is this, 'tana? are you going to tell me?" but she only crouched closer to him, and, sobbing, begged him not to go. once he tried to break away but lost his footing, and the soil and bits of boulders went clattering down past her. with a muttered oath of impatience, he gave up the pursuit, and stared down at her with an expression more bitter than any she had ever seen on his face before. "so you are bound to protect him, are you?" he asked, coldly. "very well. but if you value him so highly you had better keep him clear of this camp, else he'll find himself ready for a box. come! get up and go to the tents. that is a better place for you than here. your coming out here this evening has been a mistake all around--or else mine has. i wish to heaven i could undo it all." she stood a little apart from him, but her hand was still outstretched and clasping his arm. "all, dan?" she asked, and her mouth trembled. but his own lips were firm enough, as he nodded his head and looked at her. "all," he said briefly. "go now; and here are your flowers for which you hunted so long in the woods." he stooped to pick them up for her from where they had fallen--the white, fragrant things he had thought so beautiful as she came toward him with them in the moonlight. but as he lifted them from the bank, where they were scattered, he saw something else there which was neither beautiful nor fragrant, but over which he bent with earnest scrutiny. an ordinary looking piece of shale or stone it would have seemed to an inexperienced eye, a thing with irregular veins of a greenish appearance, and the green dotted plainly with yellow--so plainly as to show even in the moonlight the nature of the find. he turned to the girl and reached it to her with the flowers. "there! when my foot slipped i broke off that bit of 'float' from the ledge," he said curtly. "show it to harris. we have found the gold ore, and i'll stake out the claims to-night. you can afford to leave for civilization now as soon as you please, i reckon, for your work in the kootenai country is over. your fortune is made." chapter xiv. new-comers. many days went by after that before more time was given to the hunting of gold in that particular valley of the kootenai lands; for before another day broke, the squaw spoke at the door of overton's tent and told him the girl was sick with fever, that she talked as a little child babbles and laughs at nothing. he went with her, and the face he had seen so pale in the moonlight was flushed a rosy red, and her arms tossed meaninglessly, while she muttered--muttered! sometimes her words were of the gold, and of flowers. he even heard his name on her lips, but only once; and then she cried out that he hurt her. she was ill--very ill; he could see that, and help must be had. he went for it as swiftly as a boat could be sped over the water. during the very short season of waiting for the doctor and mrs. huzzard, he wrote to lyster, and secured some indians for work needed. if the doctor thought her able for the journey, he meant to have her brought back in a boat to sinna ferry, where she would have something more substantial than canvas walls about her. but the doctor did not. he was rather mystified by her sudden illness, as there had been no forewarnings of it. that it was caused by some shock was possible; and that it was serious was beyond doubt. the entire party, and especially mrs. huzzard, were taken aback by finding a newly arrived, self-imposed guardian at the door of tana's tent. it was the blanket-draped figure of old akkomi, and his gaily painted canoe was pulled up on the bank of the creek. "i heard on the wind the child was sick," he said briefly to overton. "i come to ask if you needed help." but overton looked at him suspiciously. it was impossible that he could have heard of her illness so soon, though he might have heard of her presence there. "were any of your people here at nightfall yesterday?" he asked. the old fellow shook his head. "no, none of my people," he said briefly; then he puffed away at his pipe, and looked approvingly at mrs. huzzard, who tried to pass him without turning her back to him at all, and succeeded in making a circuit bearing some relation to progress made before a throne, though the relationship was rather strained. his approving eyes filled her with terror; for, much as she had reveled in indian romances (on paper) in her youth, she had no desire to take any active part in them in her middle age. and so, with the help of the doctor and mrs. huzzard, they commenced the nursing of 'tana back to consciousness and health. night after night dan walked alone in the waning moonlight, his heart filled with remorse and blame for which he could find no relief. the gathering of the gold had no longer allurements for him. but he moved harris' tent on to one of the claims, and he cut small timber, and in a day and a half had a little log house of two rooms put up and chinked with dry moss and roofed with bark, that 'tana might have a home of her own, and have it close to where the ore streaked with gold had been found. then he sent the indians up the river again, and did with his own hands all labor needed about the camp. "you'll be sick yourself, overton," growled the doctor, who slept in the tent with him, and knew that scarce an hour of the night passed that he was not at the door of 'tana's cabin, to learn if any help was needed, or merely to stand without and listen to her voice as she spoke. "for mercy's sake, mr. dan, do be a little careful of yourself," entreated mrs. huzzard; "for if you should get used up, i don't know what i ever would do here in this wilderness, with 'tana and the paralyzed man and you to look after--to say nothing of the fear i'm in every hour because o' that nasty beast of an indian that you say is a chief. he is here constant!" "proof of your attractive powers," said overton, reassuringly. "he comes to admire you, that is all." "and enough, too! and if it wasn't for you that's here to protect me, the good lord only knows whether i'd ever see a milliner shop or a pie again, as long as i lived. so i am set on your taking more care of yourself--now won't you?" "wait until you have cause, before you worry," he advised, "i don't look like a sick man, do i?" "you don't look like a well one, anyway," she said, looking at him carefully; "and you don't look as i ever saw you look before. you are as hollow eyed as though you had been sick yourself for a month. altogether, i think your coming out here to camp in the wild woods has been a big mistake." "it looks like it just now," he agreed, and his eyes, tired and troubled, looked past her into the cabin where 'tana lay. "does she seem better?" "just about the same. eight days now since she was took down; and the doctor, he said to-morrow would be the day to hope for a change, either for the better or--" but the alternative was not a thing easy for the good soul to contemplate, and she left the sentence unfinished and disappeared into the cabin again, while the man outside dropped his head in his hands, feeling the most helpless creature in all the world. "better to-morrow, or--worse;" that was what mrs. huzzard meant, but could not utter. better or worse! and if the last, she might be dying now, each minute! and he was powerless to help her--powerless even to utter all the regret, the remorse, the heart-aching sorrow that was with him, for her ears were closed to the sense of words, and his lips were locked by some key of some past. his own judgment on himself was not light as he went over in his mind each moment of their hours together. poor little 'tana! poor little stray! "i promised not to question her; yes, i promised that, or she would never have left the indians with me. and i--i was savage with her, just because she would not tell me what she had a perfect right to keep from me if she chose. even if it was--a lover, what right had i to object? what right to hold her hands--to say all the things i said? if she were a woman, i could tell her all i think--all, and let her judge. but not as it is--not to a girl so young--so troubled--so much of a stray. oh, god! she shall never be a stray again, if only she gets well. i'd stay here digging forever if i could only send her out in the world among people who will make her happy. and she--the child, the child! said she would rather live here as we did than to have the gold that would make her rich. god! it is hard for a man to forget that, no matter what duty says." so his thoughts would ramble on each day, each night, and his restlessness grew until harris took to watching him with a great pity in his eyes, and mutely asked each time he entered if hope had grown any stronger. by the request of mrs. huzzard they had moved harris into the other room of the cabin, because of a rain which fell one night, and reminded them that his earthen floor might prove injurious to his health. mrs. huzzard declared she was afraid, with that room empty; and harris, though having a partially dead body, had at least a living soul, and she greatly preferred his presence to the spiritless void and the fear of indian occupancy. so she shared the room with 'tana, and the doctor and overton used one tent, while the squaw used the other. all took turns watching at night beside the girl, who never knew one from the other, but who talked of gold--gold that was too heavy a load for her to carry--gold that ran in streams where she tried to find water to drink and could not--gold that dan thought was better than friends or their pretty camp. and over those woes she would moan until frightened from them by ghosts, the ghosts she hated, and which she begged them so piteously to keep out of her sight. so they had watched her for days, and toward the evening of the eighth overton was keeping an ever-watchful ear for the indian and the doctor who had gone personally to fetch needed medicines from the settlement. akkomi was there as usual. each day he would come, sit in the doorway of the harris cabin for hours, and contemplate the helpless man there. when evening arrived he would enter his canoe and go back to his own camp, which at that time was not more than five miles away. overton, fearing that harris would be painfully annoyed by the presence of this self-invited visitor, offered to entertain him in his own tent, if harris preferred. but while harris looked with no kindly eye on the old fellow, he signified that the indian should remain, if he pleased. this was a decision so unexpected that overton asked harris if he had ever met akkomi before. he received an affirmative nod, which awakened his curiosity enough to make him question the indian. the old fellow nodded and smoked in silence for a little while before making a reply; then he said: "yes, one summer, one winter ago, the man worked in the hills beyond the river. our hunters were there and saw him. his cabin is there still." "who was with him?" "white man, stranger," answered akkomi briefly. "this man stranger, too, in the kootenai country--stranger from away somewhere there," and he pointed vaguely toward the east. "name--joe--so him called." "and the other man?" "other man stranger, too--go way--never come back. this one go away, too; but he come back." "and that is all you know of them?" "all. joe not like indian friends," and the old fellow's eyes wrinkled up in the semblance of laughter; "too much tenderfoot, maybe." "but joe's partner," persisted overton, "he was not tenderfoot? he had indian friends on the columbia river." "maybe," agreed the old fellow, and his sly, bead-like eyes turned toward his questioner sharply and were as quickly withdrawn, "maybe so. they hunt silver over there. no good." just inside the door harris sat straining his ears to catch every word, and akkomi's assumption of bland ignorance brought a rather sardonic smile to his face, while his lips moved in voiceless mutterings of anger. impatience was clearly to be read in his face as he waited for overton to question further, and his right hand opened and closed in his eagerness. but no other questions were asked just then; for overton suddenly walked away, leaving the crafty-eyed akkomi alone in his apparent innocence of joe's past or joe's partner. the old fellow looked after him kindly enough, but shook his head and smoked his dirty black pipe, while an expression of undivulged knowledge adorned his withered physiognomy. "no, dan, no," he murmured. "akkomi good friend to little sick squaw and to you; but he not tell--not tell all things." then his ears, not so keen as in years gone by, heard sounds on the water, sounds coming closer and closer. but dan's younger ears had heard them first, and it was to learn the cause that he had left so abruptly and walked to the edge of the stream. it was the doctor and the indian boatman who came in sight first around the bend of the creek. back of them was another canoe, but a much larger, much more pretentious one. in this was lyster and a middle-aged gentleman of rather portly build, who dressed in a fashion very fine when compared with the average garb of the wilderness. overton watched with some surprise the approach of the man, who was an utter stranger to him, and yet who bore a resemblance to some one seen before. a certain something about the shape of the nose and general contour of the face seemed slightly familiar. he had time to notice, also, that the hair was auburn in color, and inclined to curl, and that back of him sat a female form. by the time he had made these observations, their boat had touched the shore, and lyster was shaking his hand vigorously. "i got your letter, telling me of your big strike. it caught me before i was quite started for helena, so i just did some talking for you where i thought it would do the most good, old fellow, and turned right around and came back. i've been wild to hear about 'tana. how is she? this is my friend, mr. t. j. haydon, my uncle's partner, you know. he has made this trip to talk a little business with you, and when i learned you were not at the settlement, but up here in camp, i thought it would be all right to fetch him along." "of course it is all right," answered overton, assuringly. "our camp has a welcome for your friend even if we haven't first-class accommodations for him. and is this lady also a friend?" for lyster, forgetful of his usual gallantry, had allowed the doctor to assist the other voyager from the canoe--a rather tall lady of the age generally expressed as "uncertain," although the certainty of it was an indisputable fact. a rather childish hat was perched upon her thin but carefully frizzed hair, and over her face floated a white veil, that was on a drawing string around the crown of the hat and drooped gracefully and chastely over the features beneath, after the fashion of . a string of beads adorned the thin throat, and the rest of her array was after the same order of elegance. the doctor and lyster exchanged glances, and lyster was silently proclaimed master of ceremonies. "oh, yes," he said, easily. "pardon me that i am neglectful, and let me introduce you to miss slocum--miss lavina slocum of cherry run, ohio. she is the cousin of our friend, mrs. huzzard, and was in despair when she found her relative had left the settlement; so we had the pleasure of her company when she heard we were coming direct to the place where mrs. huzzard was located." "she will be glad to see you, miss," said overton, holding out his hand to her in very hearty greeting. "nothing could be more welcome to this camp just now than the arrival of a lady, for poor mrs. huzzard has been having a sorry siege of care for the last week. if you will come along, i will take you to her at once." gathering up her shawl, parasol, a fluffy, pale pink "cloud," and a homemade and embroidered traveling bag, he escorted her with the utmost deference to the door of the log cabin, leaving lyster without another word. that easily amused gentleman stared after the couple with keen appreciation of the picture they presented. miss slocum had a queer, mincing gait which her long limbs appeared averse to, and the result was a little hitchy. but she kept up with overton, and surveyed him with weak blue eyes of gratitude. he appeared to her a very admirable personage--a veritable knight of the frontier, possibly a border hero such as every natural woman has an ideal of. but to lyster, dan with his arms filled with female trappings and a lot of pink zephyr blown about his face and streaming over his shoulder, like a veritable banner of love's color, was a picture too ludicrous to be lost. he gazed after them in a fit of delight that seemed likely to end in apoplexy, because he was obliged to keep his hilarity silent. "just look at him!" he advised, in tones akin to a stage whisper. "isn't he a great old dan? and maybe you think he would not promenade beside that make-up just as readily on broadway, new york, or on chestnut street, philadelphia? well, sir, he would! if it was necessary that some man should go with her, he would be the man to go, and heaven help anybody he saw laughing! if you knew dan overton twenty years you would not see anything that would give you a better key to his nature than just his manner of acting cavalier to that--wonder." but mr. haydon did not appear to appreciate the scene with the same degree of fervor. "ah!" he said, turning his eyes with indifference to the two figures, and with scrutiny over the little camp-site and primitive dwellings. "am i to understand, then, that your friend, the ranger, is a sort of modern don juan, to whom any order of femininity is acceptable?" "no," said lyster, facing about suddenly. "and if my thoughtless manner of speech would convey such an idea of dan overton, then (to borrow one of dan's own expressions) i deserve to be kicked around god's footstool for a while." "well, when you speak of his devotion to any sort of specimen--" "of course," agreed lyster. "i see my words were misleading--especially to one unaccustomed to the life and people out here. but dan, as don juan, is one of the most unimaginable things! why, he does not seem to know women exist as individuals. this is the only fault i have to find with him; for the man who does not care for some woman, or never has cared for any woman, is, according to my philosophy, no good on earth. but dan just looks the other way if they commence to give him sweet glances--and they do, too! though he thinks that collectively they are all angels. yes, sir! let the worst old harridan that ever was come to overton with a tale of virtue and misfortune, and he will take off his hat and divide up his money, giving her a good share, just because she happens to be a woman. that is the sort of devotion to women i had reference to when i spoke first; the wonder to me is that he has not been caught in a matrimonial noose long ere this by some thrifty maid or matron. he seems to me guileless game for them, as his sympathy is always so easily touched." "perhaps he is keeping free from bonds that he may marry this ward of his for whom he appears so troubled," remarked mr. haydon. lyster looked anything but pleased at the suggestion. "i don't think he would like to hear that said," he returned. "'tana is only a little girl in his eyes--one left in his charge at the death of her own people, and one who appeals to him very strongly just now because of her helplessness." "well," said mr. haydon, with a slight smile, "i appear to be rather unfortunate in all my surmises over the people of this new country, especially this new camp. i do not know whether it is because i am in a stupid mood, or because i have come among people too peculiar to be judged by ordinary standards. but the thing i am interested in above and beyond our host and his _protégée_ is the gold mine he wrote you to find a buyer for. i think i could appreciate that, at least, at its full value, if i was allowed a sight of the output." the doctor had hurried to the cabin even before overton and miss slocum, so the two gentlemen were left by themselves, to follow at their leisure. mr. haydon seemed a trifle resentful at this indifferent reception. "one would think this man had been making big deals in gold ore all his life, and was perfectly indifferent as to whether our capital is to be used to develop this find of his," he remarked, as they approached the cabin. "did you not tell me he was a poor man?" "oh, yes. poor in gold or silver of the united states mint," agreed lyster, with a strong endeavor to keep down his impatience of this magnate of the speculative world, this wizard of the world of stocks and bonds, whom his partners deferred to, whose nod and beck meant much in a circle of capitalists. "i myself, when back east," thought lyster to himself, "considered haydon a wonderful man, but he seems suddenly to have grown dwarfed and petty in my eyes, and i wonder that i ever paid such reverence to his judgment." he smiled dubiously to himself at the consciousness that the wide spirit of the west must have already changed his own views of things somewhat, since once he had thought this marketer of mines superior. "but no one out here would think of calling dan overton poor," he continued, "simply because he is not among the class that weighs a man's worth by the dollars he owns. he is considered one of the solid men of the district--one of the best men to know. but no one thinks of gauging his right to independence by the amount of his bank account." mr. haydon shrugged his shoulders, and tapped his foot with the gold-headed umbrella he carried. "oh, yes. i suppose it seems very fine in young minds and a young country, to cultivate an indifference to wealth; but to older minds and civilization it grows to be a necessity. is that object over there also one of the solid men of the community?" it was akkomi he had reference to, and the serene manner with which the old fellow glanced over them, and nonchalantly smoked his pipe in the doorway, did give him the appearance of a fixture about the camp, and puzzled lyster somewhat, for he had never before met the ancient chief. he nodded his head, however, saying "how?" in friendly greeting, and the indian returned the civility in the same way, but gave slight attention to the speaker. all the attention of his little black eyes was given to the stranger, who did not address him, and whose gaze was somewhat critical and altogether contemptuous. then mrs. huzzard, without waiting for them to reach the door, hurried out to greet lyster. "i'm as glad as any woman can be to see you back again," she said heartily, "though it's more than i hoped for so soon, and--yes, the doctor says she's a little better, thank god! and your name has been on her lips more than once--poor dear!--since she has been flighty, and all the thanks i feel to you for bringing lavina right along i can never tell you; for it seems a month since i saw a woman last. i just can't count the squaw! and do you want to come in and look at our poor little girl now? she won't know you; but if you wish--" "may i?" asked lyster, gratefully. then he turned to the stranger. "your daughter back home is about the same age," he remarked. "will you come in?" "oh, certainly," answered mr. haydon, rather willing to go anywhere away from the very annoying old redskin of the pipe and the very--very scrutinizing eyes. the doctor and overton had passed into the room where harris was, and mrs. huzzard halted at the door with her cousin, so that the two men approached the bed alone. the dark form of akkomi had slipped in after them like a shadow, but a very alert one, for his head was craned forward that his eyes might lose never an expression of the fine stranger's face. 'tana's eyes were closed, but her lips moved voicelessly. the light was dim in the little room, and lyster bent over to look at her, and touched her hot forehead tenderly. "poor little girl! poor 'tana!" he said, and turned the covering from about her chin where she had pulled it. he had seen her last so saucy, so defiant of all his wishes, and the change to this utter helplessness brought the quick tears to his eyes. he clasped her hand softly and turned away. "it is too dark in here to see anything very clearly," said the stranger, who bent toward her slightly, with his hat in his hand. then akkomi, who had intercepted the light somewhat, moved from the foot of the bed to the stranger's side, and a little sunshine rifted through the small doorway and outlined more clearly the girl's face on the pillow. the stranger, who was quite close to her, uttered a sudden gasping cry as he saw her face more clearly, and drew back from the bed. the dark hand of the indian caught his white wrist and held him, while with the other hand he pointed to the curls of reddish brown clustering around the girl's pale forehead, and from them to the curls on mr. haydon's own bared head. they were not so luxuriant as those of the girl, but they were of the same character, almost the same color, and the vague resemblance to something familiar by which overton had been impressed was at once located by the old indian the moment the stranger lifted the hat from his head. "sick, maybe die," said akkomi, in a voice that was almost a whisper--"die away from her people, away from the blood that is as her blood," and he pointed to the blue veins on the white man's wrist. with an exclamation of fear and anger, mr. haydon flung off the indian's hand. lyster, scarce hearing the words spoken, simply thought the old fellow was drunk, and was about to interfere, when the girl, as though touched by the contest above her, turned mutteringly on the pillow and opened her unconscious eyes on the face of the stranger. "see!" said the indian. "she looks at you." "ah! great god!" muttered the other and staggered back out of the range of the wide-open eyes. lyster, puzzled, astonished, came forward to question his eastern friend, who pushed past him rudely, blindly, and made his way out into the sunshine. akkomi looked after him with a gratified expression on his dark, wrinkled old face, and bending over the girl, he muttered in a soothing way words in the indian tongue, as though to quiet her restlessness with indian witchery. chapter xv. something worse than a gold crisis. "what is the matter with your friend?" asked overton, as lyster stood staring after mr. haydon, who walked alone down the way they had come from the boats. "is one glimpse of our camp life enough to drive him to the river again?" "no, no--that is--well, i don't just know what ails him," confessed lyster, rather lamely. "he went in with me to see 'tana, and seems all upset by the sight of her. she does look very low, dan. at home he has a daughter about her age, who really resembles her a little--as he does--a girl he thinks the world of. maybe that had something to do with his feelings. i don't know, though; never imagined he was so impressionable to other people's misfortunes. and that satanic-looking old indian helped make things uncomfortable for him." "who--akkomi?" "oh, that is akkomi, is it? the old chief who was too indisposed to receive me when i awaited admittance to his royal presence! humph! well, he seemed lively enough a minute ago--said something to haydon that nearly gave him fits; and then, as if satisfied with his deviltry, he collapsed into the folds of his blanket again, and looks bland and innocent as a spring lamb at the present speaking. is he grand chamberlain of your establishment here? or is he a medicine man you depend on to cure 'tana?" "akkomi said something to mr. haydon?" asked overton, incredulously. "nonsense! it could not have been anything haydon would understand, anyway, for akkomi does not speak english." lyster looked at him from the corner of his eyes, and whistled rather rudely. "now, it is not necessary for any reason whatever, for you to hide the accomplishments of your noble red friend," he remarked. "you are either trying to gull me, or akkomi is trying to gull you--which is it?" "what do you mean?" demanded overton, impatiently. "you look as though there may be a grain of sense in the immense amount of fool stuff you are talking. akkomi, maybe, understands english a little when it is spoken; but, like many another indian who does the same, he will not speak it. i have known him for two years, in his own camp and on the trail, and i have never yet heard him use english words." "well, i have not had the felicity of even a two-hour acquaintance with his royal chieftainship," remarked lyster, "but during the limited space of time i have been allowed to gaze on him i am confident i heard him use five english words, and use them very naturally." "can you tell me what they were?" "certainly; and i see i will have to--and maybe bring proof to indorse me before you will quite credit what i tell you," answered lyster, with an amused expression. "you can scarcely believe a tenderfoot has learned more of your vagabond reds than you yourself knew, can you? well, i distinctly heard him say to mr. haydon: 'see! she looks at you.' but his other mutterings did not reach my ears; they did haydon's, however, and drove him out yonder. i tell you, dan, you ought to chain up your medicine men when capitalists brave the wilds of the kootenai to lay wealth at your doorstep, for this pet of yours is not very engaging." overton paid little heed to the chaffing of his friend. his gaze wandered to the old indian, who, as lyster said, was at that moment a picture of bland indifference. he was sunning himself again at the door of harris' cabin, and his eyes followed sleepily the form of mr. haydon, who had stopped at the creek, and with hands clasped back of him, was staring into the swift-flowing mountain stream. "oh, i don't doubt you, max," said overton, at last. "don't speak as if i did. but the idea that old akkomi really expressed himself in english would suggest to me a vital necessity, or else that he was becoming weak in his old age; for his prejudice against his people using any of the white men's words has been the most stubborn thing in his whole make-up. and what strong necessity could there be for him to address mr. haydon, an utter stranger?" "don't know, i am sure--unless it is that his interest in 'tana is very strong. you know she saved the life of his little grandchild--the future chief, you said. and i think you are fond of asserting that an indian never forgets a favor; so it may be that his satanic majesty over there only wanted to interest a seemingly influential stranger in a poor little sick girl, and was not aware that he took an uncanny way of doing it. had we better go down and apologize to haydon?" "you can--directly. who is he?" "well, he is the great moneyed mogul at the back of the company for whom you have been doing some responsible work out here. i guess he is what you call a silent partner; while mr. seldon--my relation, you know--has been the active member in the mining deals. they have been friends this long time. i have heard that seldon was to have married haydon's sister years ago. wedding day set and all, when the charms of a handsome employee of theirs proved stronger than her promise, and she was found missing one morning; also the handsome clerk, as well as a rather heavy sum of money, to which the clerk had access. of course, they never supposed that the girl knew she was eloping with a thief. but her brother--this one here--never forgave her. an appeal for help came to him once from her--there was a child then--but it was ignored, and they never heard from her again. haydon was very fond of her, i believe--fond and proud, and never got over the disgrace of it. seldon never married, and he did what he could to make her family forgive her, and look after her. but it was no use, though their regard for him never lessened. so you see they are partners from away back; and while haydon is considerable of an expert in mineralogy, this is the first visit he has ever made to their works up in the northwest. in fact, he had not intended coming so far north just now; he was waiting for seldon, who was down in idaho. but when i got your letter, and impressed on his mind the good business policy of having the firm investigate at once, he fell in with the idea, and--here we are! now, that is about all i can tell you of haydon, and how he came here." "less would have been plenty," said overton, with a pretended sigh of relief. "i didn't ask to be told his sister's love affairs or his brother-in-law's failings. i was asking about the man himself." "well, i don't know what to tell you about him; there doesn't seem to be anything to say. he is t. j. haydon, a man who inherited both money and a genius for speculation. not a plunger, you know; but one of those pursy, far-seeing fellows who always put their money on the right number and wait patiently until it wins. i might tell you that he was sentimental once in his life, and got married; and i might tell you of a pretty daughter he has (and whom he used to be very much afraid i would make love to), but i suppose you would not be interested in those exciting details, so i will refrain. but as to the man himself and his trip here, i can only say, if you have made a strike up here, he is the very best man i know to get interested. better even than seldon, for seldon always defers to haydon, while haydon always acts on his own judgment. and say, old fellow, long as we have talked, you have not yet told me one word of the new gold mine. i suspected none of the ferry folks knew of it, from the general opinion that your trip here was an idiotic affair. even the doctor said there was no sane reason why you should have dragged harris and 'tana into the woods as you did. i kept quiet, remembering the news in your letter, for i was sure you did not decide on this expedition without a good reason. then the contents of that letter i read the night harris collapsed--well, it stuck in my mind, and i got to wondering if your bonanza was the one he had found before. oh, i've been doing some surmising about it. am i right?" "pretty nearly," assented overton. "of course i knew some of the folks would raise a howl because i let 'tana come along; but it was necessary, and i thought it would be best for her in the end, else you may be sure--be very sure--i would not have had her come. she--was to have gone back--at once--the very next day; but when the next day came, she was not able. i have done what i could, but nothing seems to count. she does not get well, and the gold doesn't play much of a figure in this camp just now. one-third of the find is hers, and the same for harris and me; but i'd give my share cheerfully this minute if it would buy back health for her and let me see her laughing and bright again." lyster reached out his hand and gave overton's arm an affectionate pressure. "don't i know it, dan?" he asked kindly. "can't i see that you have just worked and worried yourself sick over her illness--blaming yourself, perhaps--" "yes, that is it--blaming myself for--many things," he agreed, brokenly, and then he checked himself as lyster's curious glance was turned on him. "so you see i am in no fit condition to talk values with this mr. haydon. all my thoughts are somewhere else. doctor says if she is not better to-night she will not get well. that means she will not live. tell your friend that something worse than a gold crisis is here just now, and i can't talk to him till it is over. don't mind if i'm even a bit careless with you, max. look after yourselves as well as you can. you are welcome--you know that; but--what's the use of words? perhaps 'tana is dying!" and turning his back abruptly on his friend, he walked away, while lyster looked after him with some surprise. "i seem to be dropped by everybody," he remarked, "first haydon and now dan. but i don't believe there is danger of her dying. i _won't_ believe it! dan has worried himself sick and fearful during these terrible days, but i'll do my share now and let him get some rest and sleep. 'tana die! i can't think it. but i care ten times more for dan, just because of his devotion to her. i wonder what he would think if he knew why i wanted her to go to school, or how much she was in my mind every hour i was gone. i felt like telling him just now, but better not--not yet. he thinks she is only a little child yet. dear old dan!" he entered the cabin and spoke to harris, whom he had not seen before, and who looked with pleasure at him, though, as ever, speechless and moveless, but for that nod of his head and the bright, quick glance of his eyes. from him he went again to 'tana; but she lay still and pale, with closed eyes and no longer muttering. "there ain't a blessed thing you can do, mr. max," said mrs. huzzard, in a wheezing whisper; "but if there is, you may be sure i'll let you know and glad to do it. lavina says she's going to help me to a rest; and you must help dan overton, for slept he has not, and i know it, these eight nights since i've been here. and if that ain't enough to kill a man!" "sure enough. but now that i am here, we will not have any night watches on his part," decided lyster. "between miss slocum and myself i think we can manage to do some very creditable nursing." "i am willing to do my best," said miss lavina, with a shrinking glance toward flap-jacks, who just slouched past with a bucket of water; "but i must confess i do feel a timidity in the presence of these sly-looking indians. and if at night i can only be sure none of them are very close, i may be able to watch this poor girl instead of watching for them with their tomahawks." "never fear while i am detailed as guard," answered lyster, reassuringly. "they will reach you only over my dead body." "oh, but--" and the timid one arose as if for instant flight, but was held by mrs. huzzard. "now, now!" she said reprovingly to the young fellow, "it's noways good-natured of you to make us more scared of the dirty things than we are naturally. but, lavina, i'll go bail that he never yet has seen a dead body of their killing since he came in the country. lord knows, they don't look as if they would kill a sheep, though they might steal them fast enough. it ain't from dan overton that you ever learned to scare women, mr. max; you wouldn't catch him at such tricks." "now i beg that whatever you do, mrs. huzzard, you will not compare me to that personage," objected lyster; "for i am convinced that anything human would in your eyes suffer by such a comparison. great is dan in the camp of the kootenais!" mrs. huzzard only laughed at his words, but miss lavina did not. she even let her eyes wander again to akkomi, in order to show her disapproval of frivolous comment on mr. overton; a fact lyster perceived and was immensely amused by. "she has set her covetous maidenly eyes on him, and if she doesn't marry him before the year is over, he will have to be clever," he decided, as he left them and went to look up haydon. "serves dan right if she did, for he never gives any other fellow half a chance with the old ladies. the rest of us have to be content with the young ones." chapter xvi. through the night. the soft dusk of the night had fallen over the northern lands, and the pale stars had gleamed for hours on the reflecting waves of mountain streams. it was late--near midnight, for the waning sickle of the moon was slipping from its dark cover in the east and hanging like a jewel of gold just above the black crown of the pines. breaths from the heights sifted down through the vast woods, carrying sometimes the dreary twitter of a bird disturbed, or the mellow call of insects singing to each other of the summer night. all sounds of the wilderness were as echoes of rest and utter content. and in the camp of the twin springs, shadows moved sometimes with a silence that was scarce a discord in the wood songs of repose. a camp fire glimmered faintly a little way up from the stream, and around it slept the indian boatman, the squaw, and old akkomi, who, to the surprise of overton, had announced his intention of remaining until morning, that he might know how the sickness went with the little "girl-not-afraid." a dim light showed through the chinks of 'tana's cabin, where miss lavina, the doctor, and lyster were on guard for the night. the doctor had grown sleepy and moved into harris' room, where he could be comfortable on blankets. lyster, watching the girl, was trying to make himself think that their watching was all of no use; her sleep seemed so profound, so healthfully natural, that he could not bring himself to think, as dan did, that the doctor's worst prophecy could come true--that out of that sleep she might awake to consciousness, or that, on the other hand, she might drift from sleep to lethargy and thus out of life. outside a man stood peering in through a chink from which he had stealthily pulled the moss. he could not see the girl's face, but he could see that of lyster as he bent over, listening to her breathing, and he watched it as if to glean some reflected knowledge from the young fellow's earnest glances. he had been there a long time. once he slipped away for a short distance and stood in the deeper shadows, but he had returned, and was listening to the low, disjointed converse of the watchers within, when suddenly a tall form loomed up beside him and a heavy hand was dropped on his shoulder. "not a word!" said a voice close to his ear. "if you make a noise, i'll strangle you! come along!" to do otherwise was not easy, for the hand on his shoulder had a helpful grip. he was almost lifted over the ground until they were several yards from the cabin, and out in the clearer light of the stars. "well, i protest, mr. overton, that your manner is not very pleasant," remarked the captive, as he was released and allowed to speak. "is--is this sort of threats a habit of yours with strangers in your camp?" overton, seeing him now away from the thick shadows of the cabin, gave a low exclamation of astonishment and irritation. "_you_--mr. haydon! well, you must confess that if my threats are not pleasant, neither is it pleasant to find some one moving like a spy around that little girl's cabin. if you don't want to be treated like a spy, don't act like one." "well, it does look queer, maybe," said the other, lamely. "i--i could not get asleep, and as i was walking around, it seemed natural to look in the cabin, though i did not want to disturb them by going in. i think i heard them say she was improving." "did they say that--lately?" asked overton, earnestly, everything else forgotten for the moment in his strong desire for her recovery. "who said it--miss slocum? well, she seems like a sensible woman, and i hope to god she is right about this! don't mind my roughness just now. i was too quick, maybe; but spies around a new gold mine or field are given pretty harsh treatment up here sometimes; and you were liable to suspicion from any one." "no doubt--no doubt," agreed the other, with visible relief. "but to be a suspected character is a new rôle for me--a bit amusing, too. however, now that you have broached the subject of this new find of yours, i presume lyster made clear to you that i came up here for the express purpose of investigating what you have to offer, with a view to making a deal with you. and as my time here will be limited--" "perhaps to-morrow we can talk of it. i can't to-night," answered overton. "to that little girl in there one-third of the stock belongs; another third belongs to that paralyzed man in the other cabin. i have to look after the interests of them both, and need to have my head clear to do it. but with her there sick--dying maybe--i can't think of dollars and cents." "you mean to tell me that the young girl is joint owner of a gold find promising a fortune? why, i understood max to say she was poor--in fact, indebted to you for all care." "max is too careless with his words," answered overton, coldly. "she is in my care--yes; but i do not think she will be poor." "she has a very conscientious guardian, anyway," remarked mr. haydon, "when it is impossible for a man even to look in her cabin without finding you on his track. i confess i am interested in her. can you tell me how she came in this wild country? i did not expect to find pretty young white girls in the heart of this wilderness." "i suppose not," agreed the other. they had reached the little camp fire by this time, and he threw some dry sticks on the red coals. as the blaze leaped up and made bright the circle around them, he looked at the stranger and said, bluntly: "what did akkomi tell you of her?" "akkomi?" "yes; the old indian who went in with you to see her." "oh, that fellow? some gibberish." "i guess he must have said that she looks like you," decided overton. "i rather think that was it." "like _me_! why--how--" and mr. haydon tried to smile away the absurdity of such a fancy. "for there is a resemblance," continued the younger man, with utter indifference to the stranger's confusion. "of course it may not mean anything--a chance likeness. but it is very noticeable when your hat is off, and it must have impressed the old indian, who seems to think himself a sort of godfather to her. yes, i guess that was why he spoke to you." "but her--her people? are there only you and these indians to claim her? she must have some family--" "possibly," agreed overton, curtly. "if she ever gets able to answer, you can ask her. if you want to know sooner, there is old akkomi; he can tell you, perhaps." but mr. haydon made a gesture of antipathy to any converse with that individual. "one meets so many astonishing things in this country," he remarked, as though in extenuation of something. "the mere presence of such a savage in the sick girl's room is enough to upset any one unused to this border life--it upset me completely. you see, i have a daughter of my own back east." "so max tells me," replied overton, carelessly, all unconscious of the intended honor extended to him when mr. haydon made mention of his own family to a ranger of a few hours' acquaintance. "yes," haydon continued, "and that naturally makes one feel an interest in any young girl without home or--relatives, as this invalid is; and i would be glad of any information concerning her--or any hint of help i might be to her, partly for--humanity's sake, and partly for max." "at present i don't know of any service you could render her," said overton, coldly, conscious of a jarring, unpleasant feeling as the man talked to him. he thought idly to himself how queer it was that he should have an instinctive feeling of dislike for a person who in the slightest degree resembled 'tana; and this stranger must have resembled her much before he grew stout and broad of face; the hair, the nose, and other points about the features, were very much alike. he did not wonder that akkomi might have been startled at it, and made comments. but as he himself surveyed mr. haydon's features by the flickering light of the burning sticks, he realized how little the likeness of outlines amounted to after all, since not a shadow of expression on the face before him was like that of the girl whose sleep was so carefully guarded in the cabin. and then, with a feeling of thankfulness that it was so, there flashed across his mind the import of the stranger's closing words--"for the sake of max." "for max, you said. well, maybe i am a little more stupid than usual to-night, but i must own up i can't see how a favor to 'tana could affect max very much." "you do not?" "i tell you so," said overton curtly, not liking the knowing smile in the eyes of the speaker. he did not want to be there talking to him, anyway. to walk alone under the stars was better than the discord of a voice unpleasant. under the stars she had come to him that once--once, when she had been clasped close--close! when she had whispered words near to his heart, and their hands had touched in the magnetism of troubled joy. ah! it was best to remember that, though death itself follow after! a short, impatient sigh touched his lips as he tried to listen to the words of the stranger while his thoughts were elsewhere. "and seldon would do something very handsome for max if he married to suit him," haydon was saying, thoughtfully. "seldon has no children, you know, and if this girl was sent to school for a while, i think it would come out all right--all right. i would take a personal interest to the extent of talking to seldon of it. he will think it a queer place for max to come for a wife; but when--when i talk to him, he will agree. yes, i can promise it will be all right." "what are you talking of?" demanded overton, blankly. he had not heard one-half of a very carefully worded idea of mr. haydon's. "max married! to whom?" "you are not a very flattering listener," remarked the other, dryly, "and don't show much interest in the love affairs of your _protégeé_; but it was of her i was speaking." "you--you would try to marry her to max lyster--marry her!" and his voice sounded in his own ears as strange and far away. "well, it is not an unusual prophecy to make of a young girl, is it?" asked mr. haydon, with an attempt to be jocular. "and i don't know where she could find a better young fellow. from his discourses concerning her on our journey here and his evident devotion since our arrival, i fancy the idea is not so new to him as it seems to be to you, mr. overton." "nonsense! when she is well, they quarrel as often as they agree--oftener." "that is no proof that he is not in love with her--and why not? she is a pretty girl, a bright girl, he says, and of good people--" "he knows nothing about her people," interrupted overton. "but you do?" "i know all it has been necessary for me to know," and, in spite of himself, he could not speak of 'tana to this man without a feeling of anger at his persistence. "but i can't help being rather surprised, mr. haydon, that you should so quickly agree that a wise thing for your partner's nephew to do is to turn from all the cultured, intelligent girls he must know, and look for a wife among the mining camps of the kootenai hills. and, considering the fact that you approve of it, without ever having heard her speak, without knowing in the least who or what her family have been--i must say it is an extraordinarily impulsive thing for a man of your reputation to do--a cool-headed, conservative business man." mr. haydon found himself scrutinized very closely, very coldly by the ranger, who had all the evening kept away from him, and whom he had mentally jotted down as a big, careless, improvident prospector, untaught and a bit uncouth. but his words were not uncouth as he launched them at the older man, and he was no longer careless as he watched the perturbation with which they were received. but haydon shrugged his shoulders and attempted to look indifferent. "i remarked just now that this was a land of astonishing things," he said, with a tolerant air, "and it surely is so when the most depraved-looking redskin is allowed admittance to a white girl's chamber, while the most harmless of caucasians is looked on with suspicion if he merely shows a little human interest in her welfare." "akkomi is a friend of her own choosing," answered overton, "and a friend who would be found trusty if he was needed. as to you--you have no right, that i know of, to assume any direction of her affairs. she will choose her own friends--and her own husband--when she wants them. but while she is sick and helpless, she is under my care, and even though you were her father himself, your ideas should not influence her future unless she approved you." with a feeling of relief he turned away, glad to have in some way given vent to the irritation awakened in him by the prosperous gentleman from civilization. the prosperous gentleman saw his form grow dim in the starlight, and though his face flushed angrily at first, the annoyance gave place to a certain satisfaction as he seated himself on a log by the fire, and repeated overton's final words: "_'even though you were her father himself_!' well, well, mr. overton! your uncivil words have told me more than you intended--namely, that your own knowledge as to who her father was, or is, seems very slight. so much the better, for one of your unconventional order is not the sort of person i should care to have know. 'even though you were her father himself.' humph! so he does me the doubtful honor to suppose i may be? it is a nasty muddle all through. i never dreamed of walking into such a net as this. but something must be done, and that is clear; no use trying to shirk it, for seldon is sure to run across them sooner or later up here--sure. and if he took a hand in it--as he would the minute he saw her--well, i could not count on his being quiet about it, either. i've thought it all out this evening. i've got to get her away myself--get her to school, get her to marry max, and all so quietly that there sha'n't be any social sensation about her advent into the family. i hardly know whether this wealth they talk of will be a help or a hindrance; a help, i suppose. and there need not be any hitch in the whole affair if the girl is only reasonable and this autocratic ranger can be ignored or bought over to silence. it would be very annoying to have such family affairs talked of--annoying to the girl, also, when she lives among people who object to scandals. gad! how her face did strike me! i felt as if i had seen a ghost. and that cursed indian!" altogether, mr. haydon had considerable food for reflection, and much of it was decidedly annoying; or so it seemed to akkomi, who lay in the shadow and looked like a body asleep, as were the others. but from a fold of his blanket he could see plainly the face of the stranger and note the perplexity in it. the first tender flush of early day was making the stars dim when the doctor met overton between the tents and the cabins, and surveyed him critically from his slouch hat to his boots, on which were splashes of water and fresh loam. "what, in the name of all that's infernal, has taken possession of you, overton?" he demanded, with assumed anger and real concern. "you have not been in bed all night. i know, for i've been to your tent. you prowl somewhere in the woods when you ought to be in bed, and you are looking like a ghost of yourself." "oh, i guess i'll last a day or two yet, so quit your growling; you think you'll scare me into asking for some of your medicines; but that is where you will find yourself beautifully left. i prefer a natural death." "and you will find it, too, if you don't mend your ways," retorted the man of the medicines. "i thought at first it was the care of 'tana that kept you awake every hour of every night; but i see it is just the same now when there are plenty to take your place; worse--for now you go tramping, god only knows where, and come back looking tired, as though you had been racing with the devil." "you haven't told me how she is," was all the answer he made to this tirade. "you said--that by daylight--" "there would be a change--yes, and there is; only a shadow of a change as yet, but the shadow leans the right way." "the _right_ way," he half whispered, and walked on toward her cabin. he felt dizzy and the tears crept up in his eyes, and he forgot the doctor, who looked after him and muttered statements damaging to dan's sanity. all the long night he had fought with himself to keep away, to let the others care for her--the others, who fancied they were giving him a wished-for rest. and all the while the desire of his heart was to bar them out--to wait, alone with her, for the life or death that was to come. he had walked miles in his restlessness, but could not have found again the paths he walked over. he had talked with some of the people who were wakeful in the night, but could scarce have told of any words he had said. he had felt dazed by the dread of what the new day would bring, and now he looked up at the morning star with a great thankfulness in his heart. the new day had come, and with it a breath of hope. miss lavina met him at the door, and whispered that the doctor thought the fever had taken the hoped-for turn for the better. 'tana had opened her eyes but a moment before, and looked at miss slocum wonderingly, but fell asleep again; she had looked rational, but very weak. "well, old fellow, i am proud of myself," said lyster, as overton entered. "it took miss slocum and me only one night to bring 'tana around several degrees nearer health. we are the nurses! and if she only wakes conscious--" his words, or else the intense, wistful gaze of the man at the foot of the bed, must have aroused her, for she moved and opened her eyes and looked around aimlessly, passing over the faces of miss slocum, of the squaw, and of overton, until lyster, close beside her, whispered her name. then her lips curved ever so little in a smile as her eyes met his. "max!" she said, and put out her hand to him. as his fingers clasped it, she turned her face toward him, and fell contentedly asleep again, with her cheek against his hand. and mr. haydon, who came in with the doctor a moment later, glanced at the picture they made, and smiled meaningly at overton. "you see, i was right," he observed. "and do you not think it would be a very exacting guardian who could object?" overton only looked at max, whose face had flushed a little, knowing how significant his attitude must appear to others. but his hand remained in hers, and his eyes turned to dan with a half embarrassed confession in them--a confession dan read and understood. "yes, you may well be proud, max," he said, answering lyster's words. "you deserve all gratitude; and i hope--i hope nothing but good luck will come your way." mr. haydon, who watched him with critical eyes, could read nothing in his words but kindliest concern for a friend. the doctor, who had suddenly got a ridiculous idea in his head that dan overton was wearing himself out on 'tana's account, changed his mind and silently called himself a fool. he might have known dan had more sense than that. yet, what was it that had changed him so? twenty-four hours later he thought he knew. chapter xvii. miss slocum's ideas regarding deportment. "so it was a gold mine that dragged you people up into this wilderness? well, i've puzzled my mind a good deal to understand your movements lately; but the finding of a vein as rich as your free gold promises is enough to turn any man's head for a while. well, well; you are a lucky fellow, overton." "yes, i've no doubt that between good luck and bad luck, i've as much luck as anybody," answered overton, with a grimace, "but a week or so ago you did not think me lucky--you thought me 'looney.'" "you are more than half right," agreed the doctor; "appearances justified me. my wife and i stormed at you--behind your back--for carrying 'tana with you on your fishing trip; it was such an unheard-of thing to my folks, you know. humph! i wonder what they will say when it is known that she was on a prospecting trip, and that the venture will result in a gain to her of dollars that will be counted by the tens of thousands. by george! it seems incredible! just like a chapter from the old fairy tales." "yes. i find myself thinking about it like that sometimes," said overton; "a little afraid to lay plans, for fear that after all it may be a dream. i never hoped much for it; i came under protest, and the luck seems more than i deserved." "maybe that is the reason you accept it in such a sulky fashion," observed the doctor, "for, upon my soul, i think i am more elated over your good fortune than you are. you don't appear to get up a particle of enthusiasm because of it." "well, i have not had an enthusiastic lot of partners, either. harris, here, not able to move; 'tana not expected to live; and i suddenly face to face with all this responsibility for them. it gave me considerable to think about." "you are right. i only wonder you are not gray-haired. a new gold-field waiting for you to make it known, and you guarding it at the same time, perhaps, from red tramps who come spying around. but you are lucky, dan; everything comes your way, even a capitalist ready at your word to put up money on the strength of the ore you have to show. why, man, many a poor devil of a prospector has stood a long siege with starvation, even with gold ore in sight, just because no one with capital would buy or back him." "i know. i realize that; and, for the sake of the other two, i am very glad there need be no waiting for profits." "do you know, dan, i fancy little 'tana is in the way of being well cared for, even without this good fortune," observed the doctor, looking at the other in a questioning way. "it just occurred to me yesterday that that fine young fellow, lyster, is uncommonly fond of her. it may be simply because she is ill, and he is sorry for her; but his devotion appeared to me to have a sentimental tinge, and i thought what a fine thing it would be." "very," agreed overton; "and you are sentimental enough yourself to plan it all out for them. i guess haydon helped to put that notion into your head, didn't he?" the doctor laughed. "well, yes, he did speak of lyster's devotion to your _protégée_" he acknowledged; "and you think we are a couple of premature match-makers, don't you?" "i think maybe you had better leave it for 'tana to decide," answered overton, "and i also think schools will be the first thing considered by her. she is very young, you know." "seventeen, perhaps," hazarded the doctor; but overton did not reply. he was watching the canoe just launched by their indian boatmen. they were to take mr. haydon back again to the ferry. he was to send up workmen, and overton was to manage the work for the present--or, at least, until mr. seldon could arrive and organize the work of developing the vein that mr. haydon had found was of such exceeding richness that his offer to the owners had been of corresponding magnitude. overton had promptly accepted the terms offered; harris agreed to them; and even if 'tana should not, dan decided that out of his own share he could make up any added sum desired by her for her share, though he had little idea that she would find fault with his arrangements. she! who had thought, that day of the gold find, that it was better to have their little camp unshared by the many whom gold would bring to them--that it was almost better to be poor than to have their happy life changed. and it was all over now. other people had come and were close about her, while he had not seen her since the morning before, when she had awakened and turned to max. well, he should be satisfied, so he told himself. she was going to get well again. she was going to be happy. more wealth than they had hoped for had come to her, and with it she would, of course, leave the hills, would go into the life of the cities, and by and by would be glad to forget the simple, primitive life they had shared for the few days of one kootenai summer. well, she would be happy. and here on the spot where their pretty camp had been, he would remain. no thought of leaving came to him. it would all be changed, of course; men and machinery would spoil all the beauty of their wilderness. but as yet no plan for his own future had occurred to him. that he himself had wealth sufficient to secure him from all toil and that a world of pleasure was within his reach, did not seem to touch him with any alluring sense. he was going to remain until the vein of the twin springs had a big hole made in it; and the rich soil of the old river he had staked out as a reserve for himself and his partners, to either work or sell. through his one-sided conversations with harris he learned that he, too, wanted to remain in the camp where their gold had been found. doctors, medicines, luxuries, could be brought to him, but he would remain. mrs. huzzard had at once been offered a sum that in her eyes was munificent, for the express purpose of managing the establishment of the partners--when it was built. until then she was to draw her salary, and act as either nurse or cook in the rude dwellings that for the present had to satisfy all their dreams of luxury. an exodus from sinna ferry was expected; many changes were to be made; and overton and the doctor went down to the canoe to give final directions to their indian messenger. lyster was there, too, with a most exhausting list of articles which mr. haydon was to send up from helena. "dan, some of these things i put down for 'tana, as i happened to think of them," he said, and unfolded a little roll made from the leaves of a notebook stuck together at the ends with molasses. "you look it over and see if it's all right. i left one sheet empty for anything you might want to add." dan took it, eying dubiously the length of it and the great array of articles mentioned. "i don't think i had better add anything to it until heavier boats are carrying freight on the kootenai," he remarked, and then commenced reading aloud some of the items: eiderdown pillows. rugs and hammocks. a guitar. hot water bottle. some good whisky. toilet soap. bret harte's poems. a traveling dress for a girl. (here followed measurements and directions to the dressmaker.) then the whole was scratched out, and the following was substituted: brown flannel or serge--nine yards. "i had to get mrs. huzzard to tell me some of the things," said lyster, who looked rather annoyed at the quizzical smiles of dan and the doctor. "i should imagine you would," observed overton. "i would have needed the help of the whole camp to get together that amount of plunder. a good shaving set and a pair of cork insoles, no. , are they for 'tana, too?" but lyster disdained reply, and overton, after reading, "all the late magazines," and "a double kettle for cooking oatmeal," folded up the paper and gave it back. "as i have read only a very small section of the list, i do not imagine you have omitted anything that could possibly be towed up the river," he said. "but it is all right, my boy. i would never have thought of half that stuff, but i've no doubt they will all be of use, and 'tana will thank you." "how soon do you expect she will be able to walk, or be moved?" asked mr. haydon of the doctor. "oh, in two or three weeks, if nothing interferes with her promised recovery. she is a pretty sick girl; but i think her good constitution will help her on her feet by that time." "and by that time i will be back here," said haydon, addressing lyster. he took a sealed envelope from an inner pocket and gave it to the young fellow. "when she gets well enough to read that, give it to her, max," he said, in a low tone. "it's something that may surprise her a little, so i trust your discretion as to when she is to see it. from what i hear of her, she must be a rather level-headed, independent little girl. and as i have something to tell her worth her knowing, i have decided to leave the letter. now, don't look so puzzled. when i come back she will likely tell you what it means, but you may be sure it is no bad news i send her. will you attend to it?" "certainly. but i don't understand--" "and there is no need for you to understand--just yet. take good care of her, and help overton in all possible ways to look after our interests here. there will be a great deal to see to until seldon or i can get back." "oh, dan is a host in himself," said lyster. "he won't want me in his way when it comes to managing his men. but i can help flap-jacks carry water, or help old akkomi smoke, for he comes here each day for just that purpose--that and his dinner--so never fear but that i will make myself useful." miss slocum from the cabin doorway--the door was a blanket--watched the canoe skim down the little stream, and sighed dolefully when it disappeared entirely. "now, lavina," remonstrated mrs. huzzard, "i do hope that you ain't counting on making part of the next load that leaves here; for now that you have got here, i'd hate the worst kind to lose you. gold mines are fine things to live alongside of, i dare say; but i crave some human beings within hail--yes, indeed." "exactly my own feelings, cousin lorena," admitted miss slocum, "and i regret the departure of any member of our circle--all except the indians. i really do not think that any amount of living among them would teach me to feel lonely at their absence. and that dreadful akkomi!" "yes, isn't he a trial? not that he ever does any harm; but he just keeps a body in mortal dread, for fear he might take a notion to." "yet mr. overton seems to think him entirely friendly." "humph! yes. but if 'tana should pet a rattlesnake, mr. overton would trust it. that's just how constant he is to his friends." "well, now," said miss lavina, with mild surprise in her tone, "i really have seen nothing in his manner that would indicate any extreme liking for the girl, though she is his ward. now, that bright young gentleman, mr. lyster--" "tut, tut, lavina! max lyster is all eyes and hands for her just now. he will fan her and laugh with her; but it will be dan who digs for her and takes the weight of her care on his shoulders, even if he never says a word about it. that is just dan overton's way." "and a very fine way it is, lorena," said miss slocum, while her eyes wandered out to where he stood talking to lyster. "i've met many men of fine manners in my time, but i never was more impressed at first sight by any person than by him when he conducted me personally to you on my arrival. the man had never heard my name before, yet he received me as if this camp had been arranged on purpose for my visit, and that he himself had been expecting me. if that did not contain the very essence of fine manners, i never saw any, lorena jane." "i--i s'pose it does, lavina," agreed mrs. huzzard; "though i never heard any one go on much about his manners before. and as for me--well," and she looked a bit embarrassed, "i ain't the best judge myself. i've had such a terrible hard tussle to make a living since my man died, that i hain't had time to study fine manners. i'll have time enough before long, i suppose, for dan overton surely has offered me liberal living wages. but, lavina, even if i did want to learn now, i wouldn't know where to commence." "well, lorena, since you mention it, there is lots of room for improvement in your general manner. you've been with careless people, i suppose, and bad habits are gathered that way. now i never was much of a genius--couldn't trim a bonnet like you to save my life; but i did have a most particular mother; and she held that good manners was a recommendation in any land. so, even if her children had no fortune left them, they were taught to show they had careful bringing up. one of my ideas in coming out here was that i might teach deportment in some indian school, but not much of that notion is left me. could i ever teach flap-jacks to quit scratching her head in the presence of ladies and gentlemen? no." "i don't think," said mrs. huzzard, in a meditative way, "that i mind the scratching so much as i do the dratted habit she has of carrying the dish-cloth under her arm when she don't happen to be using it. that just wears on my nerves, it does. but i tell you what it is, lavina--if you are kind of disappointed on account of not getting indian scholars that suit just yet, i'm more than half willing you should teach me the deportment, if you'd be satisfied with one big white scholar instead of a lot of little red ones." "yes, indeed, and glad to do it," said miss slocum, frankly. "your heart is all right, lorena jane; but a warm heart will not make people forget that you lean your elbow on the table and put your food into your mouth with your knife. such things jar on other people just as flap-jacks and the dish-cloth jar on you. don't you understand? but your desire to improve shows that you are a very remarkable woman, lorena, for very few people are willing to learn new habits after having followed careless ones for forty years." "thirty-nine," corrected lorena jane, showing that, however peculiar and remarkable her wisdom might be in some directions, it did not prevent a natural womanly feeling regarding the number of years she had lived. "you see," she continued, after a little, as miss lavina kept a discreet silence, "this here gold fever is catching; and if any one gets started on the right track, there is no telling what day he may stumble over a fortune. one might come my way--or yours, lavina. and, just as you say, fine manners is a heap of help in sassiety. and thinking of it that way makes me feel i'd like to be prepared to enjoy, in first-class style, any amount of money i might get a chance at up here. for i tell you what it is, lavina, this western land is a woman's country. her chances in most things are always as good, and mostly better than a man's." "yes, if she does not die from fright at the creepy looks of the friendly indians," said miss slocum, with a shivering breath. "i have not slept sound for a single minute since i saw that old smoking wretch who never seems a rod from this cabin. now down there at sinna ferry i thought it might be kind of nice, though we stopped only a little while, and i was not up in the street. any real genteel people there?" "well--yes, there is," answered lorena jane, after a slight hesitation as to just how much it would be wise to say of the genteel gentleman who resided in sinna ferry, and was in her eyes a model of culture and disdainful superiority. indeed, that disdain of his had been a first cause in her desire to reach the state of polish he himself enjoyed--to rise above the vulgar level of manners that had of old seemed good enough to her. "yes, there is some high-toned folks there; the doctor's wife and family, for one; and then there is a very genteel man there--captain leek. he is an ex-officer in the late war, you know; a real military gentleman, with a wound in his leg. limps some, but not enough to make him awkward. he keeps the postoffice. but if this government looked after its heroes as it ought to, he'd be getting a good pension--that's just what he would. i'm too sound a union woman not to feel riled at times when i see the defenders of the constitution go unrewarded." "don't say 'riled,' lorena," corrected miss slocum. "you must drop that and 'dratted' and 'i'll swan'; for i don't think you could tell what any of them mean. i couldn't, i'm sure. but i used to know a family of leeks back in ohio. they were democrats, though, and their boys joined the confederate army, though i heard they wasn't much good to the cause. but of course it is not likely to be one of them." "i should think not," agreed mrs. huzzard, stoutly. "i never heard him talk politics much; but i do know that he wears nothing but the union blue to this day, and always that military sort of hat with a cord around it--so--so dignified like." "no, i did not suppose it could be the one i knew," said her cousin; "the military uniform decides that." chapter xviii. awakening. "flap-jacks," said 'tana, softly, so as to reach no ear but that of the squaw, who came in from harris' cabin to find the parasol of miss slocum, who was about to walk in the sunshine. to the red creature of the forest this parasol seemed the most wonderfully beautiful thing of all the strange things which the white squaws made use of. "flap-jacks, are they gone?" three weeks had gone by, three weeks of miraculous changes in the beauty of their wild nook along the trail of the old river. "twin springs," the place was called now--twin spring mines. already men were at work on the new lode, and doing placer digging for the free gold in the soil. wooden rails were laid to the edge of the stream, and over it the small, rude car was pushed with the new ore down to a raft on which a test load had been drifted to the immense crusher at the works on lake kootenai. and the test had resulted so favorably that the new strike at twin springs was considered by far the richest one of the year. through all the turbulence that swept up the little stream to their camp, two of the discovering party were housed, sick and silent, in the little double cabin. the doctor could see no reason why 'tana was so slow in her recovery; he had expected so much more of her--that she would be carried into health again by the very force of her ambition, and her eager delight in the prospects which her newly acquired wealth was opening up to her. but puzzling to relate, she showed no eagerness at all about it. her ambitions, if she had any, were asleep, and she scarcely asked a question concerning all the changes of life and people around her. listless she lay from one day to another, accepting the attention of people indifferently. max would read to her a good deal, and several times she asked to be carried into the cabin of harris, where she would sit for hours talking to him, sometimes in a low voice and then again sitting close beside him in long silences, which, strangely enough, seemed more of companionship to her than the presence of people who laughed and talked. they wearied her at times. when she was able to walk out, she liked to go alone; even max she had sent back when he followed her. but she never went far. sometimes she would sit for an hour by the stream, watching the water slip past the pebbles and the grasses, and on to its turbulent journey toward a far-off rest in the pacific. and again, she would watch some strange miner dig and wash the soil in his search for the precious "yellow." but her walks were ever within the limits of the busy diggings; all her old fondness for the wild places seemed sleeping--like her ambitions. "she needs change now. get her away from here," advised the doctor, who no longer felt that she needed medicines, but who could not, with all his skill, build her up again into the daring, saucy 'tana, who had won the game of cards from the captain that night at the select party at sinna ferry. but when overton, after much hesitation, broached the subject of her going away, she did look at him with a touch of the old defiance in her face, and after a bit said: "i guess the camp will have to be big enough for you and me, too, a few days longer. i haven't made up my mind as to when i want to go." "but the summer will not last long, now. you must commence to think of where you want to go; for when the cold weather comes, 'tana, you can't remain here." "i can if i want to," she answered. after one troubled, helpless look at her pale face, he walked out of the cabin; and lyster, who had wanted to ask the result of the interview, could not find him all that evening. he had gone somewhere alone, up on the mountain. she had answered him with a great deal of cool indifference; but when the two cousins entered her room, she was on the bed with her face buried in the pillows, weeping in an uncontrollable manner that filled them with dismay. the doctor decided that while dan was a good fellow in most ways, he evidently had not a soothing influence on 'tana, possibly not realizing the changed mental condition laid on her by her sickness. the doctor further made up his mind that, without hurting dan's feelings, he must find some other mouthpiece for his ideas concerning her or reason with her himself. but, so far, she would only say she was not ready to go yet. dan, wishing to make her stay comfortable as possible, went quietly to all the settlements within reach for luxuries in the way of house-furnishing, and had mrs. huzzard use them in 'tana's cabin. but when he had done all this, she never asked a question as to where the comforts came from--she, who, a short month before, had valued each kind glance received from him. mrs. huzzard was sorely afraid that it was pride, the pride of newly acquired wealth, that changed her from the gay, saucy girl into a moody, dreamy being, who would lie all alone for hours and not notice any of them coming and going. the good soul had many a heartache over it all, never guessing that it was an ache and a shame in the heart of the girl that made the new life that was given her seem a thing of little value. 'tana had watched the squaw wistfully at times, as if expecting her to say something to her when the others were not around, but she never did. when 'tana heard the ladies ask lyster to go with them to a certain place where beautiful mosses were to be found, she waited with impatience until their voices left the door. the squaw shook her head when asked in that whispering way of their departure; but when she had carried out the parasol and watched the party disappear beyond the numerous tents now dotting the spaces where the grass grew rank only a month before, then she slipped back and stood watchful and silent inside the door. "come close," said the girl, motioning with a certain nervousness to her. she was not the brave, indifferent little girl she had been of old. "come close--some one might listen, somewhere. i've been so sick--i've dreamed so many things that i can't tell some days what is dream and what is true. i lie here and think and think, but it will not come clear. listen! i think sometimes you and i hunted for tracks--a white man's tracks--across there where the high ferns are. you showed them to me, and then we came back when the moon shone, and it was light like day, and i picked white flowers. some days i think of it--of the tracks, long, slim tracks, with the boot heel. then my head hurts, and i think maybe we never found the tracks, maybe it is only a dream, like--like other things!" she did not ask if it were so, but she leaned forward with all of eager question in her eyes. it was the first time she had shown strong interest in anything. but, having aroused from her listlessness to speak of the ghosts of fancy haunting her, she seemed quickened to anxiety by the picture her own words conjured up. "ah! those tracks in the black mud and that face above the ledge!" "it is true," said the squaw, "and not a dream. the track of the white man was there, and the moon was in the sky, as you say." "ah!" and the evidently unwelcome truth made her clench her fingers together despairingly; she had hoped so that it was a dream. the truth of it banished her lethargy, made her think as nothing else had. "ah! it was so, then; and the face--the face was real, was--" "i saw no face," said the squaw. "but i did--yes, i did," she muttered. "i saw it like the face of a white devil!" then she checked herself and glanced at the indian woman, whose dark, heavy face appeared so stupid. still, one never could tell by the looks of an indian how much or how little he knows of the thing you want to know; and after a moment's scrutiny, the girl asked: "did you learn more of the tracks?--learn who the white man was that made them?" the woman shook her head. "you sick--much sick," she explained. "all time dan he say: 'stay here by white girl's bed. never leave.' so i not get out again, and the rain come wash all track away." "does dan know?--did you tell him?" "no, dan never ask--never talk to me, only say, 'take care 'tana,' that all." the girl asked no more, but lay there on her couch, filled with dry moss and covered with skins of the mountain wolf. her eyes closed as though she were asleep; but the squaw knew better, and after a little, she said doubtfully: "maybe akkomi know." "akkomi!" and the eyes opened wide and slant. "that is so. i should have remembered. but oh, all the thoughts in my brain have been so muddled. you have heard something, then? tell me." "not much--only little," answered the squaw. "that night--late that night, a white stranger reached akkomi's tent, to sleep. no one else of the tribe got to see him, so the word is. kawaka heard on the river, and it was that night." "and then? where did the stranger go?" the squaw shook her head. "me not know. kawaka not hear. but i thought of the track. now many white men make tracks, and one no matter." "akkomi," and the thoughts of the girl went back to the very first she could remember of her recovery; and always, each day, the face of akkomi had been near her. he had not talked, but would look at her a little while with his sharp, bead-like eyes, and then betake himself to the sunshine outside her door, where he would smoke placidly for hours and watch the restless anglo-saxon in his struggle to make the earth yield up its riches. each day akkomi had been there, and she had not once aroused herself to question why; but she would. rising, she passed out and looked right and left; but no blanketed brave met her gaze. only kawaka, the husband of flap-jacks, worked about the canoes by the water. then she entered harris' cabin, where the sight of his helpless form, and his welcoming smile, made her halt, and drop down on the rug beside him. she had forgotten him so much of late, and she touched his hand remorsefully. "i feel as if i had just got awake, joe," she said, and stretched out her arms, as though to drive away the last vestige of sleep. "do you know how that feels? to lie for days, stupid as a chilled snake, and then, all at once, to feel the sun creeping around where you are and warming you until you begin to wonder how you could have slept so many days away. well, just now i feel almost well again. i did not think i would get well; i did not care. all the days i lay in there i wished they would just let me be, and throw their medicines in the creek. i think, joe, that there are times when people should be allowed to die, when they grow tired--tired away down in their hearts; so tired that they don't want to take up the old tussle of living again. it is so much easier to die then than when a person is happy, and--and has some one to like them, and--" she left the sentence unfinished, but he nodded a perfect understanding of her thoughts. "yes, you have felt like that, too, i suppose," she continued, after a little. "but now, joe, they tell me we are rich--you and dan and i--so rich we ought to be happy, all of us. are we?" he only smiled at her, and glanced at the cozy furnishing of his rude cabin. like 'tana's, it had been given a complete going over by overton, and rugs and robes did much to soften its crude wood-work. it had all the luxury obtainable in that district, though even yet the doors were but heavy skins. she noticed the look but shook her head. "thick rugs and soft pillows don't make troubles lighter," she said, with conviction; and then: "maybe dan is happy. he--he must be. all he thinks of now is the gold ore." she spoke so wistfully, and her own eyes looked so far, far from happy, that the face of the man was filled with longing to comfort her--the little girl who had tramped so long on a lone trail--how lonely none knew so well as he. his fingers closed and unclosed, as if with the desire to clasp her hand,--to make some visible show of friendship. she saw the slight movement, and looked up at him with a new interest. "oh, i forgot, joe! i never once have asked how you have got along while i have been so sick. can you use your hands any at all? you could once, a little bit that day--the day we found the gold." but he shook his head, and just then a step was heard outside, and lyster looked in. a shade of surprise touched his face, as he saw 'tana there, with so bright an expression in her eyes. "what has harris been telling you that has aroused you to interest, tana?" he asked, jestingly. "he has more influence than i, for i have scarcely been able to get you to talk at all." "you don't need me; you have miss slocum," she answered. "have you dropped her in the creek and run back to camp? and have you seen akkomi lately? i want him." "of course you do. the moment i make my appearance, you want to get rid of me by sending me for some other man. no, i am happy to say i have not seen that royal loafer for the past hour. and i am more happy still to find that you really want some one--any one--once more. do you realize, my dear girl, how very many days it is since you have condescended to want anything on this earth of ours? won't you accept me as a substitute for akkomi?" "i don't want you." but her eyes smiled on him kindly, and he did not believe her. "perhaps not; but won't you pretend you do for a little while, long enough to come with me for a little walk--or else to talk to me in your cabin?" "to talk to you? i don't think i can talk much to any one yet. i just told joe i feel as if i was only waking up." "so i see; that is the reason i am asking an audience. i will do the talking, and it need not be a very long talk, if you are too tired." "i believe i will go," she said, at last. "i was thinking it would be nice to float in a canoe again--just to float lazy on the current. can't we do that?" "nothing easier," he answered, entirely delighted that she was again more like the 'tana of two months before. she seemed to him a little paler and a little taller, but as they walked together to the canoe, he felt that they would again come to the old chummy days of sinna ferry, when they quarreled and made up as regularly as the sun rose and set. "well, why don't you talk?" she asked, as their little craft drifted away from the tents and the man who washed the soil by the spring run. "what did you do with the women folks?" "gave them to overton. they concluded not to risk their precious selves with me, when they discovered that he, for a wonder, was disengaged. really and truly, that angular schoolmistress will make herself mrs. overton if he is not careful. she flatters him enough to spoil an average man; looks at him with so much respectful awe, you know, though she never does say much to him." "saves her breath to drill mrs. huzzard with," observed the girl, dryly. "that poor, dear woman has a bee in her muddled old head, and the bee is captain leek and his fine manners. i can see it, plain as day. bless her heart! i hear her go over and over words that she always used to say wrong, and she does eat nicer than she used to. humph! i wonder if dan overton will take as kindly to being taught, when the school-teacher begins with him." there was a mirthless, unlovely smile about her lips, and lyster reached over and clasped her hand coaxingly. "'tana, what has changed you so?" he asked. "is it your sickness--is it the gold--or what, that makes you turn from your old friends? dan never says a word, but i notice it. you never talk to him, and he has almost quit going to your cabin at all, though he would do anything for you, i know. my dear, you will find few friends like him in the world." "oh, don't--don't bother me about him," she answered, irritably. "he is all right, of course. but i--" then she stopped, and with a determined air turned the subject. "you said you had something to talk to me about. what was it?" "you don't know how glad i am to hear you speak as you used to," he said, looking at her kindly. "i would be rejoiced even to get a scolding from you these days. but that was not exactly what i brought you out to tell you, either," and he drew from his pocket the letter he had carried for three weeks, waiting until she appeared strong enough to accept surprises. "i suppose, of course, you have heard us talk a good deal about the eastern capitalist who was here when you were so sick, and who, unhesitatingly, made purchase of the twin spring mines, as it is called now." "you mean the very fine mr. haydon, who had curly hair and looked like me?" she asked, ironically. "yes, i've heard the women folks talking about him a good deal, when they thought me asleep. old akkomi scared him a little, too, didn't he?" "so, you _have_ heard?" he asked, in surprise. "well, yes, he does look a little like you; it's the hair, i think. but i don't see why you utter his name with so much contempt, 'tana." "maybe not; but i've heard the name of haydon before to-day, and i have a grudge against it." "but not this haydon." "i don't know which haydon. i never saw any of them--don't know as i want to. i guess this one is almost too fine for kootenai country people, anyway." "but that is where you are wrong, entirely wrong, 'tana," he hastened to explain. "he was very much interested in you--very much, indeed; asked lots of questions about you, and--and here is what i wanted to speak of. when he went away, he gave me this letter for you. i imagine he wants to help make arrangements for you when you go east, have you know nice people and all that. you see, 'tana, his daughter is about your age, and looks just a little as you do sometimes; and i think he wants to do something for you. it's an odd thing for him to take so strong an interest in any stranger; but they are the very best people you could possibly know if you go to philadelphia." "maybe if you would let me see the letter myself, i could tell better whether i wanted to know them or not," she said, and lyster handed it to her without another word. it was a rather long letter, two closely-written sheets, and he could not understand the little contemptuous smile with which she opened it. haydon, the great financier, had seemed to him a very wonderful personage when he was 'tana's age. the girl was not so indifferent as she tried to appear. her fingers trembled a little, though her mouth grew set and angry as she read the carefully kind words of mr. haydon. "it is rather late in the day for them to come with offers to help me," she said, bitterly. "i can help myself now; but if they had looked for me a year ago--two or three years ago--" "looked for you!" he exclaimed, with a sort of impatient wonder. "why, my dear girl, who would even think of hunting for little white girls in these forests? don't be foolishly resentful now that people want to be nice to you. you could not expect attention from people before they were aware of your existence." "but they did know of my existence!" she answered, curtly. "oh! you needn't stare at me like that, mr. max lyster! i know what i'm talking about. i have the very shaky honor of being a relation of your fine gentleman from the east. i thought it when i heard the name, but did not suppose he would know it. and i'm not too proud of it, either, as you seem to think i ought to be." "but they are one of our best families--" "then your worst must be pretty bad," she interrupted. "i know just about what they are." "but 'tana--how does it come--" "i won't answer any questions about it, max, so don't ask," and she folded up the letter and tore it into very little pieces, which she let fall into the water. "i am not going to claim the relationship or their hospitality, and i would just as soon you forgot that i acknowledged it. i didn't mean to tell, but that letter vexed me." "look here, 'tana," and lyster caught her hand again. "i can't let you act like this. they can be of much more help to you socially than all your money. if the family are related to you, and offer you attention, you can't afford to ignore it. you do not realize now how much their attention will mean; but when you are older, you will regret losing it. let me advise you--let me--" "oh, hush!" she said, closing her eyes, wearily. "i am tired--tired! what difference does it make to you--why need you care?" "may i tell you?" and he looked at her so strangely, so gravely, that her eyes opened in expectation of--she knew not what. "i did not mean to let you know so soon, 'tana," and his clasp of her hand grew closer; "but, it is true--i love you. everything that concerns you makes a difference to me. now do you understand?" "you!--max--" "don't draw your hand away. surely you guessed--a little? i did not know myself how much i cared till you came so near dying. then i knew i could not bear to let you go. and--and you care a little too, don't you! speak to me!" "let us go home," she answered in a low voice, and tried to draw her fingers away. she liked him--yes; but-- "tana, won't you speak? oh, my dear, dear one, when you were so ill, so very ill, you knew no one else, but you turned to me. you went asleep with your cheek against my hand, and more than once, 'tana, with your hand clasping mine. surely that was enough to make me hope--for you did like me a little, then." "yes, i--liked you," but she turned her head away, that he could not see her flushed face. "you were good to me, but i did not know--i could not guess--" and she broke down as though about to cry, and his own eyes were full of tenderness. she appealed to him now as she had never done in her days of brightness and laughter. "listen to me," he said, pleadingly. "i won't worry you. i know you are too weak and ill to decide yet about your future. i don't ask you to answer me now. wait. go to school, as i know you intend to do; but don't forget me. after the school is over you can decide. i will wait with all patience. i would not have told you now, but i wanted you to know i was interested in the answer you would give haydon. i wanted you to know that i would not for the world advise you, but for your best interests. won't you believe--" "i believe you; but i don't know what to say to you. you are different from me--your people are different. and of my people you know nothing, nothing at all, and--" "and it makes no difference," he interrupted. "i know you have had a lot of trouble for a little girl, or your family have had trouble you are sensitive about. i don't know what it is, but it makes no difference--not a bit. i will never question about it, unless you prefer to tell of your own accord. oh, my dear! if some day you could be my wife, i would help you forget all your childish troubles and your unpleasant life." "let us go home," she said, "you are good to me, but i am so tired." he obediently turned the canoe, and at that moment voices came to them from toward the river--ringing voices of men. "it is possibly mr. haydon and others," he exclaimed, after listening a moment. "we have been expecting them for days. that was why i could no longer put off giving you the letter." "i know," she said, and her face flushed and paled a little, as the voices came closer. he could see she nervously dreaded the meeting. "shall i get the canoe back to camp before they come?" he asked kindly; but she shook her head. "you can't, for they move fast," she answered, as she listened. "they would see us; and, if he is with them, he--would think i was afraid." he let the canoe drift again, and watched her moody face, which seemed to grow more cold with each moment that the strangers came closer. he was filled with surprise at all she had said of haydon and of the letter. who would have dreamed that she--the little indian-dressed guest of akkomi's camp--would be connected with the most exclusive family he knew in the east? the haydon family was one he had been especially interested in only a year ago, because of mr. haydon's very charming daughter. miss haydon, however, had a clever and ambitious mamma, who persisted in keeping him at a safe distance. max lyster, with his handsome face and unsettled prospects, was not the brilliant match her hopes aspired to. pretty margaret haydon had, in all obedience, refused him dances and affected not to see his efforts to be near her. but he knew she did see; and one little bit of comfort he had taken west with him was the fancy that her refusals were never voluntary affairs, and that she had looked at him as he had never known her to look at another man. well, that was a year ago, and he had just asked another girl to marry him--a girl who did not look at him at all, but whose eyes were on the swift-flowing current--troubled eyes, that made him long to take care of her. "won't you speak to me at all?" he asked. "i will do anything to help you, 'tana--anything at all." she nodded her head slowly. "yes--now," she answered. "so would mr. haydon, max." "'tana! do you mean--" his face flushed hotly, and he looked at her for the first time with anger in his face. she put out her hand in a tired, pleading way. "i only mean that now, when i have been lucky enough to help myself, it seems as if every one thinks i need looking after so much more than they used to. maybe because i am not strong yet--maybe so; i don't know." then she smiled and looked at him curiously. "but i made a mistake when i said 'every one,' didn't i? for dan never comes near me any more." then the strange canoes came in sight and very close to them, as they turned a bend in the creek. there were three large boats--one carrying freight, one filled with new men for the works, and in the other--the foremost one--was mr. haydon, and a tall, thin, middle-aged stranger. "uncle seldon!" exclaimed lyster, with animation, and held the canoe still in the water, that the other might come close, and in a whisper he said: "the one to the right is mr. haydon." he glanced at her and saw she was making a painful effort at self-control. "don't worry," he whispered. "we will just speak, and drift on past them." but when they called greeting to each other, and the indian boatman was told to send their craft close to the little camp canoe, she raised her head and looked very levelly across the stranger, who had hair so like her own, and spoke to the indian who paddled their boat as though he were the only one there to notice. "plucky!" decided mr. haydon, "and stubborn;" but he kept those thoughts to himself, and said aloud: "my dear young lady, i am indeed pleased to see you so far recovered since my last visit. i presume you know who i am," and he looked at her in a smiling, confidential way. "yes, i know who you are. your name is haydon, and--there is a piece of your letter." she picked up a fragment of paper that had fallen at her feet, and flung it out from her on the water. mr. haydon affected not to see the pettish act, but turned to his companion. "will you allow me, miss rivers, to introduce another member of our firm? this is mr. seldon. seldon, this is the young girl i told you of." "i knew it before you spoke," said the other man, who looked at her with a great deal of interest, and a great deal of kindness. "my child, i was your mother's friend long ago. won't you let me be yours?" she reached out her hand to him, and the quick tears came to her eyes. she trusted without question the earnest gray eyes of the speaker, and turned from her own uncle to the uncle of max. chapter xix. the man in akkomi's cloak. "my dear fellow, there is, of course, no way of thanking you sufficiently for your care of her; but i can only say i am mighty glad to know a man like you." it was mr. seldon who said so, and dan overton looked embarrassed and deprecating under the praise he had to accept. "it is all right for you to make a fuss over it, seldon," he returned; "but you know, as well as you know dinner time, that you would have done no less if you had found a young girl anywhere without a home--and especially if you found her in an indian camp." "did she give you any information as to how she came to be there?" overton looked at him good-naturedly, but shook his head. "i can't give you any information about that," he answered. "if you want to know anything of her previous to meeting her here, she will have to tell you." "but she won't. i can't understand it; for i can see no need of mystery. i knew her mother when she was a girl like 'tana, and--" "you did?" "yes, i did. so now, perhaps, you will understand why i take such an interest in her--why mr. haydon takes an interest in her. simply because she is his niece." "oh, she is--is she? and he came here, found her dying, or next door to it, and never claimed her." "no; that is a little way of his," acknowledged his partner. "if she had really died, he never would have said a word about it, for it would have caused him a lot of troublesome explanation at home. but i guess he knew i would be likely to come across her. she is the very image of what her mother was. he told me the whole story of how he found her here, and all. and now he wants to do the proper thing and take her home with him." "the devil he does!" growled overton. "well, why do you come to me about it?" "your influence with her was one thing," answered mr. seldon, with a dubious smile at the dark face before him. "this _protégée_ of yours has a will of her own, it seems, and refuses utterly to acknowledge her aristocratic relations, refuses to be a part of her uncle's household; and we want your influence toward changing her mind." "well, you'll never get it," and the tone was decided as the words. "if she says she is no relation to anybody, i'll back her up in it, and not ask her her reasons, either. if she doesn't want to go with mr. haydon, she is the only one i will allow to decide, unless he brings a legal order from some court, and i might try to hinder him even then. she willingly came under my guardianship, and when she leaves it, it must be willingly." "oh, of course there will be no coercion about the matter," explained mr. seldon, hastily. "but don't you, yourself, think it would be a decided advantage for her to live for a while with her own relatives?" "i am in no position to judge. i don't know her relatives. i don't know why it is that she has not been taken care of by them long ago; and i am not asking any questions. she knows, and that is enough; and i am sure her reasons for not going would satisfy me." "well, you are a fine specimen to come to for influence," observed the other. "she has a grudge against haydon, that is the obstacle--a grudge, because he quarreled with her mother long ago. i thought that as you have done so much for her, your word might have weight in showing her the folly of it." "my word would have no more weight than yours," he answered, curtly. "all i have done for her amounts to nothing; and i've an idea that if she wanted me to know her family affairs, she would tell me." "which, interpreted, means that i had better be at other business than gossiping," said mr. seldon, with much good humor. "well, you are a fine pair, and something alike, too--you goldfinders! she snubbed max for trying to persuade her, and you snub me. as a last resort, i think i shall try to get that old indian into our lobbying here. he is her next great friend, i hear." "i haven't seen him in camp to-day, for a wonder; but he is sure to be around before night." "but, you see, we are to go on up to the new works on the lake to-day, and be back day after to-morrow. i wish you, too, could go up to-morrow, for i would like your judgment about some changes we expect to make. could you leave here for twenty-four hours?" "i'll try," promised overton. "but the new men from the ferry will be up to-day or to-morrow, so i may not reach there until you are about ready to start back." "come anyway, if you can, i don't seem to get much chance to talk to you here in camp--maybe i could on the river. you may be in a more reasonable mood about 'tana by that time, and try to influence her to partake of civilization." "'civilization!' oh, yes, of course, you imagine it all lies east of the appalachian range," remarked overton, slightingly. "i expect that from a man of haydon's stamp, but not from you." seldon only laughed. "one would think you had been born and bred out here in the west," he remarked, "while you are really only an importation. but what is that racket about?" for screeches were sounding from the cabin--cries, feminine and frightened. overton and seldon started for it, as did several of the workmen, but their haste slackened as they saw 'tana leaning against a doorway and laughing, while the squaw stood near her, chuckling a little as a substitute for merriment. but there were two others within the cabin who were by no means merry--the two cousins, who were standing huddled together on the couch, uttering spasmodic screeches at every movement made by a little gray snake on the floor. it had crept in at a crevice, and did not know how to make its escape from the noisy shelter it had found. its fright was equal to that of the women, for it appeared decidedly restless, and each uneasy movement of it was a signal for fresh screams. "oh, mr. overton! i beg of you, kill the horrible reptile!" moaned miss slocum, who at that moment was as indifferent to the proprieties as mrs. huzzard, and was displaying considerable white hosiery and black gaiter tops. "oh, lawsy! it is coming this way again. ooh--ooh--h!" and mrs. huzzard did a little dance from one foot to the other, in a very ecstasy of fear. "oh, lavina, i'll never forgive myself for advising you to come out to this idaho country! oh, lord! won't somebody kill it?" "why, there is no need to fear that little thing," said overton. "really, it is not a snake to bite--no more harm in it than in a mouse." "a _mouse_!" they both shrieked. "oh, please take it away." just then akkomi came in through the other cabin, and, hearing the shrieks, simply stooped and picked up the little stranger in his hand, holding it that they might see how harmless it was. but, instead of pacifying them, as he had kindly intended, they only cowered against the wall, too horrified even to scream, while they gazed at the old indian, as at something just from the infernal regions. "lord, have mercy on our souls," muttered lavina, in a sepulchral tone, and with pallid, almost moveless, lips. "forever and ever, amen," added lorena jane, clutching her drapery a little closer, and a little higher. and not until overton persuaded akkomi to throw the frightened little thing away did they consent to move from their pedestal. even then it was with fear and trembling, and many an awful glance toward the placid old indian, who smoked his pipe and never glanced toward them. "never again will i sleep in that room--not if i die for it!" announced mrs. huzzard, and miss slocum was of the same mind. "but the cabin is as safe as a tent," said 'tana, persuasively, "and, really, it was not a dangerous snake." "ooh--h! i beg that you will not mention it," shivered miss slocum. "for my part, i don't expect to sleep anywhere after this terrible experience. but i'll go wherever lorena jane goes, and do what i can to comfort and protect her, while she rests." akkomi sat on harris' doorstep, and smoked, while they argued on the dangers around them, and were satisfied only when overton put a tent at their disposal. they proceeded to have hammocks swung in it on poles set for the purpose, as they could feel safe on no bed resting on the ground. "but, really, my conscience troubles me about leaving you here alone, 'tana," said mrs. huzzard, and overton also looked at her as if interested in her comfort. "well, your conscience had better give itself a rest, if that is all it has to disturb it," she answered. "i don't care the least bit about staying alone--i rather like it; though, if i need any one, i'll have flap-jacks stay." so overton left them to their arrangements, and said nothing to 'tana; but as seldon and haydon were about to embark, he spoke to the former. "i may not be able to get up there after all, as i may feel it necessary to be here at night, so don't wait for me." "all right, overton; but we'd like to have you." after the others had left the cabin, akkomi still remained, and the girl watched him uneasily but did not speak. she talked to harris, telling him of the funny actions of the two frightened women, but all the time she talked and tried to entertain the helpless man, it was with an evident effort, for the dark old indian's face at the door was constantly drawing her attention. when she finally entered her own room, he appeared at the entrance, and, after a careful glance, to see that no one was near, he entered and spoke: "'tana, it is now two suns since we talked. will you go to-day in my boat for a little ways?" "no," she said, angrily. "go home to your tepee, akkomi, and tell the man there i am sorry he is not dead. i never will see him again. i go away from this place now--very soon--maybe this week. what becomes of him i do not care, and it will be long before i come back." he muttered some words of regret, and she turned to him more kindly. "yes, i know, akkomi, you are my good friend. you think it is right to do what you are doing now. maybe it is; maybe i am wrong. but i will not be different in this matter--never--never!" "if he should come here--" "he would not dare. there are people here he had better fear. give him the names of seldon and of haydon." "he knows; but it is the new miners he fears most; they come from all parts. he wants money." "let him work for it, like an honest man," she said, curtly. "don't talk of it again. i will not go outside the camp alone, and i will not listen to any more words about it. now mind that!" in the other cabin, harris listened intently to each word uttered. his eyes fairly blazed in his eagerness to hear 'tana's final decision. but when akkomi slouched past his door, and peered in, with his sharp, quick eyes, he had relapsed again into the apathetic state habitual to him. to all appearances he had not heard their words, and the old indian walked thoughtfully past the tents and out into the timber. lyster called some light greeting to him, but he barely looked up and made no reply whatever. his thoughts were evidently on other things than camp sociabilities. it was dark when he returned, and his fit of thoughtfulness was yet upon him, for he spoke to no one. overton, who had been talking to harris, noticed him smoking beside the door as he came out. "you had better bring your camp down here," he remarked, ironically. "well, for to-night you will have to spread your blanket in this room if harris doesn't object. that is what i am to do, for i've given up my quarters to the ladies, who are afraid of snakes." akkomi nodded, and then overton moved nearer the door again. "jim, i may not be back for an hour or so. i am going either on the water or up on the mountain for a little while. don't lie awake for me, and i'll send a fellow in to look after you." harris nodded, and 'tana, in her own room, heard overton's steps die away in the night. he was going on the water or on the mountains--the places she loved to go, and dared not. she felt like calling after him to wait to take her with him once more, and did rise and go to the door, but no farther. lights were gleaming all along the little stream; laughter and men's voices came to her across the level. her own corner of the camp looked very dark and shadowy in comparison. but she turned back to it with a sigh. "you may go, flap-jacks," she said to the squaw. "i don't mind being alone, but first fix the bed of harris." she noticed akkomi outside the door, but did not speak to him. she heard the miner enter the other cabin and assist harris to his couch and then depart. she wondered a little that the old indian still sat there smoking, instead of spreading his blanket, as overton had invited him to do. a book of poems, presented to her by lyster, was so engrossing, however, that she forgot the old fellow, until a movement at the door aroused her, and she turned to find the silent smoker inside her cabin. but it was not akkomi, though it was the cloak of akkomi that fell from his shoulders. it was a man dressed as an indian, but his speech was the speech of a white man, as he frowned on her white, startled face. "so, my fine lady, i've found you at last, even if you have got too high and mighty to come when i sent for you," he said, growlingly. "but i'll change your tune very quick for you." "don't forget that i can change yours," she retorted. "a word from me, and you know there is not a man in this camp wouldn't help land you where you belong--in a prison, or at the end of a rope." "oh, no," and he grimaced in a sardonic way. "i'm not a bit afraid of that--not a bit in the world. you can't afford it. these high-toned friends you've been making might drop off a little if they heard your old record." "and who made it for me?" she demanded. "you! you've been a curse to every one connected with you. in that other room is a man who might be strong and well to-day but for you. and there is that girl buried over there by the picture rocks of arrow lake. think of my mother, dragged to death through the slums of 'frisco! and me--" "and you with a gold mine, or the price of one," he concluded--"plenty of money and plenty of friends. that is about the facts of your case--friends, from millionaires down to that digger i saw you with the other night." "don't you dare say a word against him!" she exclaimed, threateningly. "oh, that's the way the land lies, is it?" he asked, with an ugly leer at her. "and that is why you were playing 'meet me by moonlight alone,' that night when i saw you together at the spring. well, i think your money might help you to some one besides a married man." "a married man?" she gasped. "dan!" "dan, it is," he answered, insolently. "but you needn't faint away on that account. i have other use for you--i want some money." "you are telling that lie about him because you think it will trouble me," she said, regarding his painted face closely and giving no heed to his demand. "you know it is not true." "about the marriage? i'll swear--" "i would not believe your oath for anything." "oh, you wouldn't? well, now, what if i prove to you, right in this camp, that i know his wife?" "his wife?" she sat down on the side of the couch, and all the cabin seemed whirling around her. "well--a girl he married. you may call her what you please. she had been called a good many things before he picked her up. humph! now that he has struck it rich, some one ought to let her know. she'd make the dollars fly." "it is not true! it is not _true_!" she murmured to herself, as if by the words she could drive away the possibility of it. he appeared to enjoy the sensation he had created. "it is true," he answered--"every word of it, and he has been keeping quiet about it, has he? well, see here. you don't believe me--do you? now, while i was waiting there at the door, a man came in to put your paralyzed partner to bed. the man was jake emmons--used to hang out at spokane. he knew lottie snyder before this overton did--and after overton married her, too, i guess. you ask him anything you want to know of it. he can tell you--if he will." she did not answer. she feared, as he talked, that it was true; and she longed for him to go away, that she could think alone. the hot blood burned in her cheeks, as she remembered that night by the twin springs. the humiliation of it, if it proved true! "but, see here, 'tana. i didn't come here to talk about your virtuous ranger. i want some money--enough to cut the country. it ain't any more than fair, anyway, that you divide with me, for if it hadn't been for that sneaking hound in the other room, half of this find would have been mine a year ago." "it will do more good where it is," she answered. "he did right not to trust you. and if he were able to walk, you would not be allowed to live many minutes within reach of him." "oh, yes; i know he was trailing me," he answered, indifferently, "but it was no hard trick to keep out of his road. i suppose you let him know you approve of his feelings toward me." "yes, i would load a gun for him to use on you if he were able to hold it," she answered, and he seemed to think her words amusing. "you have mighty little regard for your duty to me," he observed. "duty? i can't owe you any duty when i never received any from you. i am nearly seventeen, and in all the years i remember you, i can't recall any good act you have ever done for me." "nearly seventeen," and he smiled at her in the way she hated. "didn't your new uncle, haydon, tell you better than that? you are nearly eighteen years old." "eighteen!" and she rose in astonishment. "i?" "you--though you don't look it. you always were small for your age, so i just told you a white lie about it in order to manage you better. but that is over; i don't care what you do in the future. all i want of you is money to get to south america; so fix it up for me." "i ought to refuse, and call them in to arrest you." "but you won't," he rejoined. "you can't afford it." he watched her, though, with some uncertainty, as she sat silent, thinking. "no, i can't afford it," she said, at last. "i will be doing wrong to help you, just as if i let a poison snake loose where people travel--for that is what you are. but i am not strong enough to let these friends go and start over again; so i will help you away this once." he drew a breath of relief, and gathered up his blanket. "that is the way to talk. you've got a level head--" "that will do," she said, curtly. "i don't want praise from a coward, a thief, or a murderer. you are all three. i have no money here. you will have to come again for it to-morrow night." "a trick--is it?" "it is no trick. i haven't got it, that is all. maybe i can't get it in money, but i will get it in free gold by to-morrow at dusk. i will put it here under the pillow, and will manage to keep the rest away at that time. you can come as you came this evening, and get it; but i will neither take it nor send it to you. you will have to risk your freedom and your life to come for it. but while i can't quite decide to give you up or to kill you, myself, i hope some one else will." "hope what you please," he returned, indifferently. "so long as you get the dust for me, i can stand your opinion. and you will have it here?" "i will have it here." "i trust you only because i know you can't afford to go back on me," he said, as he wrapped the blanket around him, and dropped his taller form to the height of akkomi. "it is a bargain, then, my dear. good-night." "i don't wish you a good-night," she answered. "i hope i shall never see you alive again." and she never did. chapter xx. 'tana's engagement "and she wants a thousand dollars in money or free gold--a thousand dollars to-day?" "no use asking me what for, dan, for i don't know," confessed lyster. "i can't see why she don't tell you herself; but you know she has been a little queer since the fever--childish, whimsical, and all that. maybe as she has not yet handled any specie from your bonanza, she wants some only to play with, and assure herself it is real." "less than a thousand in money and dust would do for a plaything," remarked overton. "of course she has a right to get what she wants; but that amount will be of no use to her here in camp, where there is not a thing in the world to spend it for." "maybe she wants to pension off some of her indian friends before she leaves," suggested max--"old akkomi and flap-jacks, perhaps. i am a little like miss slocum in my wonder as to how she endures them, though, of course, the squaw is a necessity." "oh, well, she was not brought up in the world of miss slocum--or your world, either," answered overton. "you should make allowance for that." "make allowance--i?" and lyster looked at him curiously. "are you trying to justify her to me? why, man, you ought to know by this time what keeps me here a regular lounger around camp, and there is no need to make excuses for her to me. i thought you knew." "you mean you--like her?" "worse than that," said max, with his cheery, confident smile. "i'm trying to get her to say she likes me." "and she?" "well, she won't meet me as near half-way as i would like," he confessed; "talks a lot of stuff about not being brought up right, and not suited to our style of life at home, and all that. but she did seem rather partial to me when she was ill and off guard. don't you think so? that is all i have to go on; but it encourages me to remember it." overton did not speak, and lyster continued speculating on his chances, when he noticed his companion's silence. "why don't you speak, dan? i did hope you would help me rather than be indifferent." "help you!" and lyster was taken aback at the fierce straightening of the brows and the strange tone in which the words were uttered. the older man could not but see his surprised look, for he recovered himself, and dropped his hand in the old familiar way on lyster's shoulder. "not much chance of my helping you when she employs you as an agent when she wants any service, rather than exchange words with me herself. now, that is the way it looks, max." "i know," agreed lyster. "and to tell the truth, dan, the only thing she does that really vexes me is her queer attitude toward you of late. i can't think she means to be ungrateful, but--" "don't bother about that. everything has changed for her lately, and she has her own troubles to think of. don't you doubt her on my account. just remember that. and if--she says 'yes' to you, max, be sure i would rather see her go to you than any other man i know." "that is all right," observed lyster, laughingly; "but if you only had a love affair or two of your own, you could perhaps get up more enthusiasm over mine." then he sauntered off to report the financial interview to 'tana, and laughed as he went at the impatient look flung at him by overton. he found 'tana visiting at the tent of the cousins, who were using all arguments to persuade her to share their new abode. each was horrified to learn that she had dismissed the squaw at sleeping time, and had remained in the cabin alone. "not quite alone," she corrected, "for harris was just on the other side of the door." "much protection he would be." "well, then, dan overton was with him. how is he for protection?" "thoroughly competent, no doubt," agreed miss lavina, with a rather scandalized look. "but, my dear, the propriety?" "do you think flap-jacks would help any one out in propriety?" retorted 'tana. "but we won't stumble over that question long, for i want to leave the camp and go back to the ferry." "and then, 'tana?" "and then--i don't know, mrs. huzzard, to school, maybe--though i feel old for that, older than either of you, i am sure--so old that i care nothing for all the things i wanted less than a year ago. they are within my reach now, yet i only want to rest--" she did not finish the sentence. mrs. huzzard, noticing the tired look in her eyes and the wistfulness of her voice, reached out and patted her head affectionately. "you want, first of all, to grow strong and hearty, like you used to be--that is what you need first, then the rest will all come right in good time. you'll want to see the theaters, and the pictures, and hear the fine music you used to talk of. and you'll travel, and see all the fine places you used to dream about. then, maybe, you'll get ambitious, like you used to be, about making pictures out of clay. for you can have fine teaching now, you know, and you'll find, after a while, that the days will hardly seem long enough for all the things you want to do. that is how it will be when you get strong again." 'tana tried to smile at the cheerful picture, but the smile was not a merry one. her attention was given to lyster and overton, whom she could see from the tent door. how tall and strong dan looked! was she to believe that story of him heard last night? the very possibility of it made her cheeks burn at the thought of how she had stood with his arm around her. and he had pitied her that night. "poor little girl!" he had said. was his pity because he saw how much he was to her, while he himself thought only of some one else? one after another those thoughts had come to her through the sleepless night, and when the day came she could not face him to speak to him of the simplest thing. and of the money she must have, she could not ask him at all. she wished she could have courage to go to him and tell him the thing she had heard; but courage was not strong in her of late. the fear that he might look indifferently on her and say, "yes, it is true--what then?"--the fear of that was so great that she had walked by the water's edge, as the sun rose, and felt desperate enough to think of sleep under the waves, as a temptation. for if it was true-- the two older women watched her, and decided that she was not yet strong enough to think of long journeys. her hands would tremble at times, and tears, as of weakness, would come to her eyes, and she scarcely appeared to hear them when they spoke. she never walked through the woods as of old, though sometimes she would stand and look up at the dark hills with a perfect hunger in her eyes. and when the night breeze would creep down from the heights, and carry the sweet wood scents of the forest to her, she would close her eyes and draw in long breaths of utter content. the strong love for the wild places was as second nature to her; yet when max would ask her to go with him for flowers or mosses, her answer was always "no." but she would go to the boat sometimes, though no longer having strength to use the paddle. it was a good place to think, if she could only keep the others from going, too, so she slipped away from max and the women and went down. a chunky, good-looking fellow was mending one of the canoes, and raised his head at her approach, nodding to her and evidently pleased when she addressed him. "yes, it is a shaky old tub," he agreed, "but i told overton i thought it could be fixed to carry freight for another trip; so he put me at it." "you are new in camp, aren't you?" she asked, not caring at all whether he was or not. she was always friendly with the workmen, and this one smiled and bowed. "we are all that, i guess," he said. "but i came up the day haydon and seldon came. i lived with seldon down the country, and was staggered a little, i tell you, when i found overton was in charge, and had struck it rich. but no man deserves good luck more." "no," she agreed. "then you knew him before?" "yes, indeed--over in spokane. he don't seem quite the same fellow, though. we thought he would just go to the dogs after he left there, for he started to drink heavily. but he must have settled in his own mind that it wasn't worth while; so here he is, straight as a string, and counting his dollars by the thousands, and i'm glad to see it." "drink! he never drinks to excess, that we know of," she answered. "doesn't seem to care for that sort of thing." "no, he didn't then, either," agreed this loquacious stranger, "but a woman can drive as good men as him to drink; and that is about the way it was. no one thought any worse of overton, though--don't think that. the worst any one could say was that he was too square--that's all." too square! she walked away from him a little way, all her mind aflame with his suggestions. he had taken to drink and dissipation because of some woman. was it the woman whose name she had heard last night? the key to the thing puzzling her had been dropped almost at her feet, yet she feared to pick it up. no teaching she had ever received told her it was unprincipled to steal through another the confidence he himself had not chosen to give her. but some instinct of justice kept her from further question. she knew the type of fellow who was rigging up the canoe, a light-headed, assuming specimen, who had not yet learned to keep a still tongue in his head, but he did not impress her as being a deliberate liar. then, all at once, she realized who he must be, and turned back. there was no harm in asking that, at any rate. "you are the man whom overton sent to put harris to bed last night, are you not?" she asked. he nodded, cheerfully. "and your name is jake emmons, of the spokane country?" "thet's who," he assented; "that's where i came across lottie snyder, overton's wife, you know. i was running a little stage there for a manager, and she--" "i am not asking you about--about mr. overton's affairs," she said, and she sat down, white and dizzy, on the overturned canoe. "and he might not like it if he knew you were talking so free. don't do it again." "all right," he agreed. "i won't. no one here seems to know about the bad break he made over there; but, lord! there was excuse enough. she is one of those women that look just like a little helpless baby; and that caught overton. young, you know. but i won't whisper her name in camp again, for it is hard on the old man. but, as you are partners, i guessed you must know." "yes," she said, faintly; "but don't talk, don't--" "say! you are sick, ain't you?" he demanded, as her voice dropped to a whisper. "say! look here, miss rivers! great snakes! she's fainted!" when she opened her eyes again, the rough roof of her cabin was above her, instead of the blue sky. the women folks were using the camp restorative--whisky--on her to such good purpose that her hands and face and hair were redolent of it, and the amount she had been forced to swallow was strangling her. the face she saw first was that of max--max, distressed and anxious, and even a little pale at sight of her death-like face. she turned to him as to a haven of refuge from the storm of emotion under which she had fallen prostrate. it was all settled now--settled forever. she had heard the worst, and knew she must go away--away from where she must see that one man, and be filled with humiliation if ever she met his gaze. a man with a wife somewhere--a man into whose arms she had crept! "are you in pain?" asked miss lavina, as 'tana groaned and shut her eyes tight, as if to bar out memory. "no--nothing ails me. i was without a hat, and the sun on my head made me sick, i suppose," she answered, and arose on her elbow. "but i am not going to be a baby, to be watched and carried around any more. i am going to get up." just outside her door overton stood; and when he heard her voice again, with its forced independent words, he walked away content that she was again herself. "i am going to get up," she continued. "i am going away from here to-morrow or next day--and there are things to do. help me, max." "best thing you can do is to lie still an hour or two," advised mrs. huzzard, but the girl shook her head. "no, i'm going to get up," she said, with grim decision; and when lyster offered his hand to help her, she took it, and, standing erect, looked around at the couch. "that is the last time i'm going to be thrown on you for any such fool cause," she said, whimsically. "who toted me in here--you?" "i? not a bit of it," confessed lyster. "dan reached you before any of the others knew you were ill. he carried you up here." "he? oh!" and she shivered a little. "i want to talk to harris. max, come with me." he went wonderingly, for he could see she was excited and nervous. her hand trembled as it touched his, but her mouth was set so firmly over the little white teeth that he knew it was better to humor her than fret her by persuading her to rest. but once beside harris, she sat a long time in silence, looking out from the doorway across the level now active with the men of the works. not until the two cousins had walked across to their other shelter did she speak, and then it was to harris. "joe, i am sick," she confessed; "not sick with the fever, but heartsick and headsick. you know how and maybe why." he nodded his head, and looked at lyster questioningly. "and i've come in here to tell you something. max, you won't mind. he can't talk, but knows me better than you do, i guess; for i've come to him before when i was troubled, and i want to tell him what you said to me in the boat." max stared at her, but silently agreed when he saw she was in earnest. he even reached out his hand to take hers, but she drew away. "wait till i tell him," she said, and turned to the helpless man in the chair. "he asked me to marry him--some day. would it be right for me to say yes?" "'tana!" exclaimed lyster; but she raised her hand pleadingly. "i haven't any other person in the world i could go to and ask," she said. "he knows me better than you do, max, and i--oh! i don't think i should be always contented with your ways of living. i was born different--a heap different. but to-day it seems as if i am not strong enough to do without--some one--who likes me, and i do want to say 'yes' to you, yet i'm afraid it is only because i am sick at heart and lonely." it was a declaration likely to cool the ardor of most lovers, but lyster reached out his hand to her and laughed. "oh, you dear girl," he said, fondly. "did your conscience make it necessary for you to confess in this fashion? now listen. you are weak and nervous; you need some one to look after you. doesn't she, harris? well, take me on trial. i will devote myself to your interests for six months, and if at the end of that time you find that it was only sickness and loneliness that ailed you, and not liking me, then i give you my word i'll never try to hold you to a promise. you will be well and strong by that time, and i'll stand by the decision you make then. will you say 'yes,' now?" she looked at harris, who nodded his head. then she turned and gave her hand to max. "yes," she said. "but if you should be sorry--" "not another word," he commanded; "the 'yes' is all i want to hear just now; when i get sorry i'll let you know." and that is the way their engagement began. chapter xxi. lavina and the captain. as the day wore on, 'tana became more nervous and restless. with the dark, that man was to come for the gold she had promised. lyster brought it to her, part in money, part in free gold, and as he laid it on the couch, she looked at him strangely. "how much you trust me when you never even ask what i am to do with all this!" she said. "yet it is enough to surprise you." "yes, it is," he agreed. "but when you are ready you will tell me." "no, i will not tell you," she answered, "but it is the last thing--i think--that i will keep from you, max. it is a debt that belongs to days before i knew you. what did overton say?" "not much, maybe he will leave for the upper works this evening or to-morrow morning." "did you--did you tell him--" "that you are going to belong to me? well, no, i did not. you forgot to give me permission." her face flushed shyly at his words. "you must think me a queer girl, max," she said. "and you are so good and patient with me, in spite of my queer ways. but, never mind; they will not last always, i hope." "which?--my virtues or your queerness?" he asked. she only smiled and pushed the gold under the pillow. "go away now for a little while. i want to rest." "well, rest if you like; but don't think. you have been fretting over some little personal troubles until you fancy them heavy enough to overbalance the world. but they won't. and i'm not going to try and persuade you into haydon's house, either, now that you've been good to me; unless, of course, you fall in love with margaret, and want to be with her, and it is likely to happen. but uncle seldon and my aunts will be delighted to have you, and you could live as quiet as you please there." "so i am likely to fall in love with margaret, am i?" she asked. "why? does everybody? did you--max? now, don't blush like that, or i'll be sure of it. i never saw you blush so pretty before. it made you almost good looking. now go; i want to be alone." "sha'n't i send one of the ladies up?" "not a soul! go, max. i am tired." so he went, in all obedience, and he and the cousins had a long talk about the girl and the danger of leaving her alone another night. her sudden illness showed them she was not strong enough yet to be allowed to guide herself. "i shall try hard to get her to leave to-morrow, or next day," said lyster. "where is dan? i would like to talk to him about it, but he has evidently disappeared." "i don't know what to think of dan overton," confessed mrs. huzzard. "he isn't ever around, chatty and sociable, like he used to be. when we do see him, he is nearly always busy; and when he isn't busy, he strikes for the woods." "maybe he is still searching for new gold mines," suggested miss lavina. "i notice he does seem very much engaged in thought, and is of a rather solitary nature." "never was before," protested her cousin. "and if these gold finds just twist a person's nature crosswise, or send them into a fever, then i hope the good lord'll keep the rest of them well covered up in future." "lorena jane," said miss lavina, in a reproachful tone, "it is most essential that you free yourself from those very forcible expressions. they are not a bit genteel." "no, i reckon they ain't, lavina; and the more i try the more i'm afraid i never will be. land sakes, if folks would only teach their young ones good manners when they are young, what a sight of mortified feelings would be saved after a while!" lyster left them in the midst of the very earnest plea for better training, for he espied a new boat approaching camp. as it came closer, he found that among the other freight it carried was the autocrat of sinna ferry--captain leek. "what a god-forsaken wilderness!" he exclaimed, and looked around with a supercilious air, suggesting that he would have given the creator of the kootenai country valuable points if he had been consulted. "well, my dear young fellow, how you have managed to exist here for three weeks i don't know." "well, we had mrs. huzzard," explained max, with a twinkle in his eye; "and she is a panacea for many ills. she has made our wilderness very endurable." "yes, yes; excellent woman," agreed the other, with a suspicious look. "and 'tana? how is she--the dear girl! i really have been much grieved to hear of her illness; and at the earliest day i could leave my business i am here to inquire in person regarding her health." "oh!" and max struggled with a desire to laugh at the change in the captain's attitude since 'tana was a moneyed individual instead of a little waif. poor 'tana! no wonder she looked with suspicion on late-coming friends. "yes, she is better--much better," he continued, as they walked up from the boat. "i suppose you knew that a cousin of mrs. huzzard, a lady from ohio, has been with us--in fact, came up with our party." "so i heard--so i heard. nice for mrs. huzzard. i was not in town, you know, when you rested at the ferry. i heard, however, that a white woman had come up. who is she?" they had reached the tent, and mrs. huzzard, after a frantic dive toward their very small looking glass, appeared at the door with a smile enchanting, and a courtesy so nicely managed that it nearly took the captain's breath away. it was the very latest of lavina's teachings. "well, now, i'm mighty--hem!--i'm extremely pleased that you have called. have a nice trip?" but the society tone of mrs. huzzard was so unlike the one he had been accustomed to hearing her use, that the captain could only stare, and before he recovered enough to reply, she turned and beckoned miss slocum, with the idea of completing the impression made, and showing with what grace she could present him to her cousin. but the lately acquired style was lost on him this time, overtopped by the presence of miss lavina, who gazed at him with a prolonged and steady stare. "and this is your friend, captain leek, of the northern army, is it?" she asked, in her very sharpest voice--a voice she tried to temper with a smile about her lips, though none shone in her eyes. "i have no doubt you will be very welcome to the camp, captain leek." mrs. huzzard had surely expected of lavina a much more gracious reception. but mrs. huzzard was a bit of a philosopher, and if lavina chose to be somewhat cold and unresponsive to the presence of a cultured gentleman, well, it gave lorena jane so much better chance, and she was not going to slight it. "come right in; you must be dead tired," she said, cordially. "mr. max, you'll let dan know he's here, won't you--that is, when he does show up again, but no one knows how long that will be." "yes, i am tired," agreed the captain, meekly, and not quite at his ease with the speculative eyes of miss slocum on him. "i--i brought up a few letters that arrived at the ferry. i can't make up my mind to trust mail with these indian boatmen dan employs." "they are a trial," agreed mrs. huzzard, "though they haven't the bad effect on our nerves that one or two of the camp indians have--an awful squaw, who helps around, and an ugly old man, who only smokes and looks horrible. now, lavina--she ain't used to no such, and she just shivers at them." "yes--ah--yes," murmured the captain. "lavina says she knew folks of your name back in ohio," continued mrs. huzzard, cheerfully, in order to get the two strangers better acquainted. "i thought at first maybe you'd turn out to know each other; but she says they was democrats," and she turned a sharp glance toward him, as if to read his political tendencies. "no, i never knew any captain leek," said miss slocum, "and the ones i knew hadn't any one in the union army. their principles, if they had any, were against it, and there wasn't a republican in the family." "then, of course, that would settle captain leek belonging to them," decided mrs. huzzard, promptly. "i don't know much about politics, but as all our men folks wore the blue clothes, and fought in them, i was always glad i come from a republican state. and i guess all the republicans that carried guns against the union could be counted without much arithmetic." "i--i think i will go and look for dan myself," observed the captain, rising and looking around a little uncertainly at miss slocum. "i brought some letters he may want." he made his bow and placed the picturesque corded hat on his head as he went out. but mrs. huzzard looked after him somewhat anxiously. "he's sick," she decided as he vanished from her view; "i never did see him walk so draggy like. and don't you judge his manners, either, lavina, from this first sight of him, for he ain't himself to-day." "he didn't look to me as though he knew who he was," remarked lavina; and after a little she looked up from the tidy she was knitting. "so, lorena jane, that is the man you've been trying to educate yourself up to more than for anybody else--now, tell the truth!" "well, i don't mind saying that it was his good manners made me see how bad mine were," she confessed; "but as for training for him--" "i see," said miss lavina, grimly, "and it is all right; but i just thought i'd ask." then she relapsed into deep thought, and made the needles click with impatience all that afternoon. the captain came near the tent once, but retreated at the vision of the knitter. he talked with mrs. huzzard in the cabin of harris, but did not visit her again in her own tent; and the poor woman began to wonder if the air of the kootenai woods had an erratic influence on people. dan was changed, 'tana was changed, and now the captain seemed unlike himself from the very moment of his arrival. even lavina was a bit curt and indifferent, and lorena jane wondered where it would end. in the midst of her perplexity, 'tana added to it by appearing before her in the indian dress overton had presented her with. since her sickness it had hung unused in her cabin, and the two women had fashioned garments more suitable, they thought, to a young girl who could wear real laces now if she chose. but there she was again, dressed like any little squaw, and although rather pale to suit the outfit, she said she wanted a few more "indian hours" before departing for the far-off eastern city that was to her as a new world. she received captain leek with an unconcern that was discouraging to the pretty speeches he had prepared to utter. dan returned and looked sharply at her as she sat whittling a stick of which she said she meant to make a cane--a staff for mountain climbing. "where do you intend climbing?" he asked. she waved the stick toward the hill back of them, the first step of the mountain. "it is only a few hours since i picked you up down there, looking as if you were dead," he said, impatiently; "and you know you are not fit to tramp." "well, i'm not dead yet, anyway," she answered, with a shrug of her shoulders; "and as i'm going to break away from this camp about to-morrow, i thought i'd like to see a bit of the woods first." "you--are going--to-morrow?" "i reckon so." "'tana! and you have not said a word to me of it? that was not very friendly, little girl." she did not reply, but bent her head low over her work. after observing her for a while in silence, he arose and put on his hat. "here is my knife," he remarked. "you had better use it, if you are determined to haggle at that stick. your own knife is too dull for any use. you can leave it here in the cabin when you are done with it." she accepted it without a word, but flushed red when he had gone, and she found the eyes of harris regarding her sadly. "'not very friendly,'" she said, going over overton's words--"you think that, too--don't you? you think i'm ugly, and saucy, and awful, i know! you look scoldings at me; but if you knew all, maybe you wouldn't--if you knew that my heart is just about breaking. i'm going out where there is no one to talk to, or i'll be crying next." the two cousins and the captain were in 'tana's cabin. mrs. huzzard was determined that miss slocum and the captain should become acquainted, and, getting sight of the girl, who was walking alone across the level, she at once followed her, thinking that the two left behind would perhaps become more social if left entirely to themselves. and they did; that is, they talked, and the captain spoke first. "so you--you bear a grudge--don't you, lavina?" "well, i guess if i owed you a very heavy one, i've got a good chance to pay it off now," she remarked, grimly. he twirled his hat in a dejected way, and did not speak. "you an officer in the union army?" she continued, derisively. "you a pattern of what a gentleman should be; you to set up as superior to these rough-handed miners; you to act as if this government owes you a pension! why, how would it be with you, alf leek, if i'd tell this camp the truth of how you went away, engaged to me, twenty-five years ago, and never let me set eyes on you since--of how i wore black for you, thinking you were killed in the war, till i heard that you had deserted. i took off that mourning quick, i can tell you! i thought you were fighting on the wrong side; yet if you had a good reason for being there, you should have staid and fought so long as there was breath in you. and if i was to tell them here that you haven't a particle of right to wear that blue suit that looks like a uniform, and that you were no more 'captain' of anything than i am--well, i guess lorena jane wouldn't have much to say to you, though maybe mr. overton would." he grew actually pale as he listened. his fear of some one overhearing her was as great as his own mortification. "but you--you won't tell--will you, lavina?" he said pleadingly. "i haven't done any harm! i--" "harm! alf leek, you never had enough backbone to do either harm or help to any one in this world. but don't you suppose you did me harm when you spoiled me for ever trusting any other man?" "i--i would have come back, but i thought you'd be married," he said, in a feeble, hopeless way. "likely that is now, ain't it?" she demanded. and, woman-like, now that she had reduced him to meekness and humiliation, she grew a shade less severe, as if pretty well satisfied. "i had other things to think of besides a husband." "you won't tell--will you, lavina? i'll tell you how it all happened, some day. then i'll leave this country." "you'll not," she contradicted. "you'll stay right here as long as i do, and i won't tell just so long as you keep from trying to make lorena jane believe how great you are. but at the first word of your heroic actions, or the cultured society you were always used to--" "you'll never hear of them," he said eagerly, "never. i knew you wouldn't make trouble, lavina, for you always were such a good, kind-hearted girl." he offered his hand to her, sheepishly, and she gave it a vixenish slap. "don't try any of your skim-milk praise on me," she said, tartly. "huh! you, that lorena thought was a pillar of cultured society! when, the lord knows, you wouldn't have known how to read the addresses on your own letters if i hadn't taught you!" he moved to the door in a crestfallen manner, and stood there a moment, moistening his lips, and apparently swallowing words that could not be uttered. "that's so, lavina," he said, at last, and went out. "there!" she muttered aggrievedly--"that's alf leek, just as he always was. give him a chance, and he'd ride over any one; but get the upper hand of him, and he is meeker than moses. not that much meekness is needed to come up to moses, either." then, after an impatient tattoo, she exclaimed: "gracious me! i do wish he hadn't looked so crushed, and had talked back a little." chapter xxii. the murder. that evening, as the dusk fell, a slight figure in an indian dress slipped to the low brush back of the cabin, and thence to the uplands. it was 'tana, ready to endure all the wilds of the woods, rather than stay there and meet again the man she had met the night before. she had sent the squaw away; she had arranged in mrs. huzzard's tent a little game of cards that would hold the attention of lyster and the others; and then she had slipped away, that she might, for just once more, feel free on the mountain, as she had felt when they first located their camp in the sweet grass of the twin springs. the moon would be up after a while. she could not walk far, but she meant to sit somewhere up there in the high ground until the moon should roll up over the far mountains. the mere wearing of the indian dress gave her a feeling of being herself once more, for in the pretty conventional dress made for her by mrs. huzzard, she felt like another girl--a girl she did not know very well. in the southwest long streaks of red and yellow lay across the sky, and a clear radiance filled the air, as it does when a new moon is born after the darkness. she felt the beauty of it all, and stretched out her arms as though to draw the peaks of the hills to her. but, as she stepped forward, a form arose before her--a tall, decided form, and a decided voice said: "no, 'tana, you have gone far enough." "dan!" "yes--it is dan this time, and not the other fellow. if he is waiting for you to-night, i will see that he waits a long time." "you--you!" she murmured, and stepped back from him. then, her first fright over, she straightened herself defiantly. "why do you think any one is waiting for me?" she demanded. "what do you know? i am heartsick with all this hiding, and--and deceit. if you know the truth, speak out, and end it all!" "i can't say any more than you know already," he answered--"not so much; but last night a man was in your cabin, a man you know and quarreled with. i didn't hear you; don't think i was spying on you. a miner who passed the cabin heard your voices and told me something was wrong. you don't give me any right to advise you or dictate to you, 'tana, but one thing you shall not do, that is, steal to the woods to meet him. and if i find him in your cabin, i promise you he sha'n't die of old age." "you would kill him?" "like a snake!" and his voice was harsher, colder, than she had ever heard it. "i'm not asking you any questions, 'tana. i know it was the man whom you--saw that night at the spring, and would not let me follow. i know there is something wrong, or he would come to see you, like a man, in daylight. if the others here knew it, they would say things not kind to you. and that is why it sha'n't go on." "sha'n't? what right have you--to--to--" "you will say none," he answered, curtly, "because you do not know." "do not know what?" she interrupted, but he only drew a deep breath and shook his head. "tana, don't meet this man again," he said, pleadingly. "trust me to judge for you. i don't want to be harsh with you. i don't want you to go away with hard thoughts against me. but this has got to stop--you must promise me." "and if i refuse?" "then i'd look for the man, and he never would meet you again." a little shiver ran over her as he spoke. she knew what he meant, and, despite her bitter words last night to her visitor, the thought was horrible to her that dan-- she covered her face with her hands and turned away. "don't do that, little girl," he said, and laid his hand on her arm. "'tana!" she flung off his hand as though it stung her, and into her mind flashed remembrance of jake emmons from spokane--of him and his words. "don't touch me!" she half sobbed. "don't you say another word to me! i am going away to-morrow, and i have promised to marry max lyster." his hand dropped to his side, and his face shone white in the wan glimmer of the stars. "you have promised that?" he said, at last, drawing his breath hard through his shut teeth. "well--it is right, i suppose--right. come! i will take you back to him now. he is the best one to guard you. come!" she drew away and looked from him across to where the merest rim of the rising moon was to be seen across the hills. the thought of that other night came to her, the night when they had stood close to each other in the moonlight. how happy she had been for that one little space of time! and now--ah! she scarcely dare allow him to speak kindly to her, lest she grow weak enough to long for that blind content once more. "come, tana." "go. i will follow after a little," she answered, without turning her head. "i may never trouble you to walk with you again," he said, in a low, constrained tone; "but this time i must see you safe in the tent before i leave." "leave! going! where to?" she asked, and her voice trembled in spite of herself. she clasped her hands tightly, and he could see the flash of the ring he had given her. she had put it on with the indian dress. "that does not matter much, does it?" he returned; "but somewhere, far enough up the lake not to trouble you again while you stay. come." she walked beside him without another word; words seemed so useless. she had said words over and over again to herself all that day--words of his wrong to her in not telling her of that other woman, words of reproach, bitter and keen; yet none of her reasoning kept her from wanting to touch his hand as he walked beside her. but she did not. even when they reached the level by the springs, she only looked her farewell to him, but did not speak. "good-by," he said, in a voice that was not like dan's voice. she merely bowed her head, and walked away toward the tent where she heard mrs. huzzard laughing. she halted near the cabin, and then hurried on, dreading to enter it yet, lest she should meet the man she was trying to avoid. overton watched her until she reached the tent. the moon had just escaped the horizon, and threw its soft misty light over all the place. he pulled his hat low over his eyes, and, turning, took the opposite direction. only a few minutes elapsed when lyster remembered he had promised dan to look after harris, and rose to go to the cabin. "i will go, too," said 'tana, filled with nervous dread lest he encounter some one on her threshold, though she had all reason to expect that her disguised visitor had come and gone ere that. "well, well, 'tana, you are a restless mortal," said mrs. huzzard. "you've only just come, and now you must be off again. what did you do that you wanted to be all alone for this evening? read verses, i'll go bail." "no, i didn't read verses," answered 'tana. "but you needn't go along to the cabin." "well, i will then. you are not fit to sleep alone. and, if it wasn't for the beastly snakes!--" "we will go and see harris," said the girl, and so they entered his cabin, where he sat alone with a bright light burning. some newspapers, brought by the captain, were spread before him on a rough reading stand rigged up by one of the miners. he looked pale and tired, as though the effort of perusing them had been rather too much for him. listen as she might, the girl could hear never a sound from her own cabin. she stood by the blanket door, connecting the two rooms, but not a breath came to her. she sighed with relief at the certainty that he had come and gone. she would never see him again. "shall i light your lamp?" asked lyster; and, scarce waiting for a reply, he drew back the blanket and entered the darkness of the other cabin. two of the miners came to the door just then, detailed to look after harris for the night. one was the good-natured, talkative emmons. "glad to see you are so much better, miss," he said, with an expansive smile. "but you scared the wits nearly out of me this morning." then they heard the sputter of a match in the next room, and a sharp, startled cry from lyster, as the blaze gave a feeble light to the interior. he staggered back among the rest, with the dying match in his fingers, and his face ashen gray. "snakes!" half screamed mrs. huzzard. "oh, my! oh, my!" 'tana, after one look at lyster, tried to enter the room, but he caught and held her. "don't, dear!--don't go in there! it's awful--awful!" "what's wrong?" demanded one of the miners, and picked up a lamp from beside harris. "look! it is akkomi!" answered lyster. at the name 'tana broke from him and ran into the room, even before the light reached it. but she did not take many steps. her foot struck against something on the floor, an immovable body and a silent one. "akkomi--sure enough," said the miner, as he saw the indian's blanket. "drunk, i suppose--indian fashion." but as he held the light closer, he took hold of the girl's arm, and tried to lead her from the scene. "you'd better leave this to us, miss," he added, in a grave tone. "the man ain't drunk. he's been murdered!" 'tana, white as death itself, shook off his grasp and stood with tightly clasped hands, unheeding the words of horror around her, scarce hearing the shriek of mrs. huzzard, as that lady, forgetful even of the snakes, sank to the floor, a very picture of terror. 'tana saw the roll of money scattered over the couch; the little bag of free gold drawn from under the pillow. he had evidently been stooping to secure it when the assassin crept behind him and left him dead there, with a knife sticking between his shoulders. "the very knife you had to-day!" said lyster, horror-stricken at the sight. the miner with the lamp turned and looked at her strangely, and his eyes dropped from her face to her clasped hands, on which the ring of the snakes glittered. "your knife?" he asked, and others, attracted by mrs. huzzard's scream, stood around the doors and looked at her too. she nodded her head, scarce understanding the significance of it, and never taking her eyes from the dead man, whose face was yet hidden. "he may not be dead," she said, at last. "look!" "oh, he's dead, safe enough," and emmons lifted his hand. "was he trying to rob you?" "i--no--i don't know," she answered, vaguely. then another man turned the body over, and utter surprise was on every face; for, though it was akkomi's blanket, it was a much younger man who lay there. "a white man, by heavens!" said the miner who had first entered. "a white man, with brown paint on his face and hands! but, look here!" and he pulled down the collar of the dead man's shirt, and showed a skin fair as a child's. "something terribly crooked here," he continued. "where is overton?" overton! at the name her very heart grew cold within her. had he not threatened he would kill the man who visited her at night? had he come straight to the cabin after leaving her? had he kept his word? had he-- "i think overton left camp after supper--started for the lake," answered some one. "well, we'll do our best to get it straight without him, then. some of you see what time it is. this man has been dead about a half hour. mr. lyster, you had better write down all about it; and, if any one here has any information to give, let him have it." his eyes were on the girl's face, but she said nothing, and he bent to wipe off the stain from the dead man's face. some one brought water, and in a little while was revealed the decidedly handsome face of a man about forty-five years old. "do any of you know him?" asked the miner, who, by circumstance, appeared to have been given the office of speaker--"look--all of you." one after another the men approached, but shook their heads; until an old miner, gray-haired and weather-beaten, gave vent to a half-smothered oath at sight of him. "know him?" he exclaimed. "well, i do, though it's five years since i saw him. heavens! i'd rather have found him alive than dead, though, for there is a standing reward offered for him by two states. why, it's the card-sharper, horse-thief and renegade--lee holly!" "but who could have killed him?" "that is overton's knife," said one of the men. "but overton had not had it since noon," said 'tana, speaking for the first time in explanation. "i borrowed it then." "you borrowed it? for what?" "oh--i forget. to cut a stick with, i think." "you think. i'm sorry to speak rough to a lady, miss but this is a time for knowing--not thinking." "what do you mean by that?" demanded lyster. the man looked at him squarely. "nothing to offend innocent folks," he answered. "a murder has been done in this lady's room, with a knife she acknowledges she has had possession of. it's natural enough to question her first of all." the color had crept into her face once more. she knew what the man meant, and knew that the longer they looked on her with suspicion, the more time overton would have to escape. then, when they learned they were on a false scent, it would be late--too late to start after him. she wished he had taken the money and the gold. she shuddered as she thought him a murderer--the murderer of that man; but, with what skill she could, she would keep them off his track. her thoughts ran fast, and a half smile touched her lips. even with that dead body at her feet, she was almost happy at the hope of saving him. the others noticed it, and looked at her in wonder. lyster said: "you are right. but miss rivers could know nothing of this. she has been with us since the moon rose, and that is more than a half-hour." "no, only fifteen minutes," said one of the men. "well, where were you for the half-hour before the moon rose?" asked the man who seemed examiner. "that is really the time most interesting to this case." "why, good heavens, man!" cried lyster, but 'tana interrupted: "i was walking up on the hill about that time." "alone?" "alone." mrs. huzzard groaned dismally, and lyster caught 'tana by the hand. "'tana! think what you are saying. you don't realize how serious this is." "one more question," and the man looked at her very steadily. "were you not expecting this man to-night?" "i sha'n't answer any more of your questions," she answered, coldly. lyster turned on the man with clenched hands and a face white with anger. "how dare you insult her with such a question?" he asked, hoarsely. "how could it be possible for miss rivers to know this renegade horse-thief?" "well, i'll tell you," said the man, drawing a long breath and looking at the girl. "it ain't a pleasant thing to do; but as we have no courts up here, we have to straighten out crimes in a camp the best way we can. my name is saunders. that man over there is right--this is lee holly; and i am sure now that i saw him leave this cabin last night. i passed the cabin and heard voices--hers and a man's. i heard her say: 'while i can't quite decide to kill you myself, i hope some one else will.' the rest of their words were not so clear. i told overton when he came back, but the man was gone then. you ask me how i dare think she could tell something of this if she chose. well, i can't help it. she is wearing a ring i'll swear i saw lee holly wear three years ago, at a card table in seattle. i'll swear it! and he is lying here dead in her room, with a knife sticking in him that she had possession of to-day. now, gentlemen, what do you think of it yourselves?" chapter xxiii. good-by. "oh, 'tana, it is awful--awful!" and poor mrs. huzzard rocked herself in a spasm of woe. "and to think that you won't say a word--not a single word! it just breaks my heart." "now, now! i'll say lots of things if you will talk of something besides murders. and i'll mend your broken heart when this trouble is all over, you will see!" "over! i'm mightily afraid it is only commencing. and you that cool and indifferent you are enough to put one crazy! oh, if dan overton was only here." the girl smiled. all the hours of the night had gone by. he had at least twelve hours' start, and the men of the camp had not yet suspected him for even a moment. they had questioned harris, and he told them, by signs, that no man had gone through his cabin, no one had been in since dark; but he had heard a movement in the other room. the knife he had seen 'tana take into the other room long before dark. "and some one quarreling with this holly--or following him--may have chanced on it and used it," contested lyster, who was angered, dismayed, and puzzled at 'tana, quite as much as at the finding of the body. her answers to all questions were so persistently detrimental to her own cause. "don't be uneasy--they won't hang me," she assured him. "think of them hanging any one for killing lee holly! the man who did it--if he knows whom he was settling for--was a fool not to face the camp and get credit for it. every man would have shaken hands with him. but just because there is a little mystery about it, they try to make it out a crime. pooh!" "oh, child!" exclaimed mrs. huzzard, totally scandalized. "a murder! of course it is a crime--the greatest." "i don't think so. it is a greater crime to bring a soul into the world and then neglect it--let it drift into any hell on earth that nets it--than it is to send a soul out of the world, to meet heaven, if it deserves it. there are times when murder is justifiable, but there are certain other crimes that nothing could ever justify." "why, 'tana!" and mrs. huzzard looked at her helplessly. but miss slocum gave the girl a more understanding regard. "you speak very bitterly for a young girl; as if you had thought a great deal on this question." "i have," she acknowledged, promptly; "you think it is not a very nice question for girls to study about, don't you? well, it isn't nice, but it's true. i happen to be one of the souls dragged into life by people who didn't think they had responsibilities. miss slocum, maybe that is why i am extra bitter on the subject." "but not--not against your parents, 'tana?" said mrs. huzzard, in dismay. the girl's mouth drew hard and unlovely at the question. "i don't know much about religion," she said, after a little, "and i don't know that it matters much--now don't faint, mrs. huzzard! but i'm pretty certain old married men who had families were the ones who laid down the law about children in the bible. they say 'spare the rod and spoil the child,' and then say 'honor your father and mother.' they seem to think it a settled thing that all fathers and mothers are honorable--but they ain't; and that all children need beating--and they don't." "oh, 'tana!" "and i think it is that one-sided commandment that makes folks think that all the duty must go from children to the parents, and not a word is said of the duty people owe to the souls they bring into the world. i don't think it's a square deal." "a square deal! why, 'tana!" "isn't it so?" she asked, moodily. "you think a girl is a pretty hard case if she doesn't give proper respect and duty to her parents, don't you? but suppose they are the sort of people no one can respect--what then? seems to me the first duty is from the parent to the children--the duty of caring for them, loving them, and teaching them right. a child can't owe a debt of duty when it never received the duties it should have first. oh, i may not say this clearly as i feel it." "but you know, 'tana," said miss slocum, "that if there is no commandment as to parents giving care to their children, it is only because it is so plainly a natural thing to do that it was unnecessary to command it." "no more natural than for a child to honor any person who is honorable, or to love the parent who loves him, and teaches him rightly. huh! if a child is not able to love and respect a parent, it is the child who loses the most." miss slocum looked at her sadly. "i can't scold you as i would try to scold many a one in your place," she said, "for i feel as if you must have traveled over some long, hard path of troubles, before you could reach this feeling you have. but, 'tana, think of brighter things; young girls should never drift into those perplexing questions. they will make you melancholy if you brood on such things." "melancholy? well, i think not," and she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "seems to me i'm the least gloomy person in camp this morning. all the rest of you look as though mr. holly had been your bosom friend." she talked recklessly--they thought heartlessly--of the murder, and the two women were strongly inclined to think the shock of the affair had touched her brain, for she showed no concern whatever as to her own position, but treated it as a joke. and when she realized that she was to a certain extent under guard, she seemed to find amusement in that, too. her expressions, when the cousins grew pitiful over the handsome face of holly, were touched with ridicule. "i wonder if there was ever a man too low and vile to get woman's pity, if he only had a pretty face," she said, caustically. "if he was an ugly, old, half-decent fellow, you wouldn't be making any soft-hearted surmises as to what he might have been under different circumstances. he has spoiled the lives of several tenderhearted women like you--yet you pity him!" "'tana, i never knew you to be so set against any one as you are against that poor dead man," declared mrs. huzzard. "not so much wonder the folks think you know how it happened, for you always had a helping word for the worst old tramp or beggarly indian that came around; but for this man you have nothing but unkindness." "no," agreed the girl, "and you would like to think him a romantic victim of somebody, just because he is so good-looking. i'm going to talk to harris. he won't sympathize with the wrong side, i am sure." he looked up eagerly as she entered, his eyes full of anxious question. she touched his hand kindly and sat close beside him as she talked. "you want to know all about it, don't you?" she asked, softly. "well, it is all over. he was alive, after all, and i would not believe it. but now you need never trail him again, you can rest now, for he is dead. somebody else has--has owed him a grudge, too. they think i am the somebody, but you don't believe that?" he shook his head decidedly. "no," she continued; "though for one moment, joe, i thought that it might have been you. yes, i did; for of course i knew it was only weakness would keep you from it, if you were in reach of him. but i remembered at once that it could not be, for the hand that struck him was strong." he assented in his silent way, and watched her face closely, as if to read the shadows of thought thrown on it by her feelings. "it's awful, ain't it?" she whispered. "it is what i said i hoped for, and just yet i can't be sorry--i can't! but, after this stir is all over, i know it will trouble me, make me sorry because i am not sorry now. i can't cry, but i do feel like screaming. and see! every once in a while my hands tremble; i tremble all over. oh, it is awful!" she buried her face in her hands. only to him did she show any of the feeling with which the death of the man touched her. "and you can't tell me anything of how it was done?" she said, at last. "you so near--did you see any one?" she longed to ask if he had seen overton, but dared not utter his name, lest he might suspect as she did. each hour that went by was an added gain to her for him. of course he had struck, not knowing who the man was. if he had known, it would have been so easy to say, "i found him robbing the cabin. i killed him," and there would have been no further question concerning it. "but if all the other bars were beaten down between us, this one would keep me from ever shaking hands with him again. why should it have been he out of all the camp? oh, it makes my heart ache!" while she sat thus, with miserable thoughts, others came to the door, and looking up, she saw akkomi, who looked on her with keen, accusing eyes. "no--it is not true, akkomi," she said, in his own jargon. "keep silent for a little while of the things these people do not know--a little while, and then i can tell you who it is i am shielding, but not yet." "him!" and the eyes of the indian turned to the paralytic. "no--not him; truly not," she said, earnestly. "it is some one you would want to help if you knew--some one who is going fast on the path from these people. they will learn soon it is not i; but till then, keep silence." "dan--where?" he asked, laconically, and her face paled at the question. had he any reason to suspect the dread in her own mind? but a moment's thought reassured her. he had asked simply because overton seemed always to him the controlling spirit of the camp, and overton was the one he would have speech with, if any. "overton left last night for the lake," explained lyster, who had entered and heard the name of dan and the interrogative tone. then the blanket was brought to akkomi--his blanket, in which the man had died. "i sold it to the white man--that is all," he answered through 'tana; and more than that he would not say except to inform them he would wait for dan. which was, in fact, the general desire of the committee organized to investigate. they all appeared to be waiting for dan. lyster did not by any means fill his place, simply because lyster's interest in 'tana was too apparent, and there was little of the cool quality of reason in his attitude toward the mysterious case. he did not believe the ring she wore had belonged to holly, though she refused to tell the source from which it had reached her. he did not believe the man who said he heard that war of words at her cabin in the evening--at least, when others were about, he acted as if he did not believe it. but when he and 'tana chanced to be alone, she felt the doubt there must be in his mind, and a regret for him touched her. for his sake she was sorry, but not sorry enough to clear the mystery at the expense of that other man she thought she was shielding. captain leek had been dispatched with all speed to the lake works, that seldon, haydon, and overton might be informed of the trouble in camp, and hasten back to settle it. to send for them was the only thing lyster thought of doing, for he himself felt powerless against the lot of men, who were not harsh or rude in any way, but who simply wanted to know "why"--so many "whys" that he could not answer. not less trying to him were the several who persisted in asserting that she had done a commendable thing--that the country ought to feel grateful to her, for the man had made trouble along the columbia for years. he and his confederates had done ugly work along the border, etc., etc. "sorry you asked me, max?" she said, seeing his face grow gloomy under their cheering (?) assertions. he did not answer at once, afraid his impatience with her might make itself apparent in his speech. "no, i'm not sorry," he said, at last; "but i shall be relieved when the others arrive from the lake. since you utterly refuse to confide even in me, you render me useless as to serving you; and--well--i can't feel flattered that you confide in me no more than in the strangers here." "i know," she agreed, with a little sigh, "it is hard on you, and it will be harder still if the story of this should ever creep out of the wilderness to the country where you come from--wouldn't it?" and she looked at him very sharply, noting the swift color flush his face, as though she had read his thoughts. "yes--so it's lucky, max, that we haven't talked to others about that little conditional promise, isn't it? so it will be easier to forget, and no one need know." "you mean you think me the sort of fellow to break our engagement just because these fools have mixed you up with this horror?" he asked, angrily. "you've no right to think that of me; neither have you the right--in justice to me as well as yourself--to maintain this very suggestive manner about all things connected with the murder. why can you not tell more clearly where your time was spent last evening? why will you not tell where the ring came from? why will you see me half-frantic over the whole miserable affair, when you could, i am sure, easily change it?" "oh, max, i don't want to worry you--indeed i don't! but--" and she smiled mirthlessly. "i told you once i was a 'hoodoo.' the people who like me are always sure to have trouble brewing for them. that is why i say you had better give me up, max; for this is only the beginning." "don't talk like that; it is folly," he said, in a sharp tone. "'hoodoo!' nonsense! when overton and the others arrive, they will find a means of changing the ideas of these people, in spite of your reticence; and then maybe old akkomi may find words, too. he sits outside the door as impassive as the clay image you gave me and bewitched me with." she smiled faintly, thinking of those days--how very long ago they seemed, yet it was this same summer. "i feel as if i had lived a long time since i played with that clay," she said, wistfully; "so many things have been made different for me." then she arose and walked about the little room restlessly, while the eyes of harris never left her. into the other room she had not gone at all, for in it was the dead stranger. "when do you look for your uncle and mr. haydon?" she asked, at last, for the silences were hardest to endure. she would laugh, or argue, or ridicule--do anything rather than sit silent with questioning eyes upon her. she even grew to fancy that harris must accuse her--he watched her so! "when do we look for them? well, i don't dare let myself decide. i only hope they may have made a start back, and will meet the captain on his way. as to dan--he had not so very much the start, and they ought to catch up with him, for there were the two indian canoeists--the two best ones; and when they are racing over the water, with an object, they surely ought to make better time than he. i can't see that he had any very pressing reason for going at all." "he doesn't talk much about his reasons," she answered. "no; that's a fact," he agreed, "and less of late than when i knew him first. but he'll make akkomi talk, maybe, when he arrives--and i hope you, too." "when he arrives!" she thought the words, but did not say them aloud. she sat long after max had left her, and thought how many hours must elapse before they discovered that dan had not followed the other men to the lake works. she felt sure that he was somewhere in the wilderness, avoiding the known paths, alone, and perhaps hating her as the cause of his isolation, because she would not confess what the man was to her, but left him blindly to keep his threat, and kill him when found in her room. ah! why not have trusted him with the whole truth? she asked herself the question as she sat there, but the mere thought of it made her face grow hot, and her jaws set defiantly. she would not--she could not! so she told herself. better--better far be suspected of a murder--live all her life under the blame of it for him--than to tell him of a past that was dead to her now, a past she hated, and from which she had determined to bar herself as far as silence could build the wall. and to tell him--him--she could not. but even as she sat, with her burning face in her hands, quick, heavy steps came to the door, halted, and looking up she found dan before her. "oh! you should not," she whispered, hurriedly. "why did you come back? they do not suspect; they think i did it--and so--" "what does this all mean?--what do you mean?" he asked. "can't you speak?" it seemed she could not find any more words, she stared at him so helplessly. "max, come here!" he called, to hasten steps already approaching. "come, all of you; i had only a moment to listen to the captain when he caught up with me. but he told me she is suspected of murder--that a ring she wore last night helped the suspicion on. i didn't wait to hear any more, for i gave the little girl that snake ring--gave it to her weeks ago. i bought it from a miner, and he told me he got it from an indian near karlo. now are you ready to suspect me, too, because i had it first?" "the ring wasn't just the most important bit of circumstantial evidence, mr. overton," answered the man named saunders; "and we are all mighty glad you've got here. it was in her room the man was found, and a knife she borrowed from you was what killed him; and of where she was just about the time the thing happened she won't say anything." his face paled slightly as he looked at her and heard the brief summing up of the case. "my knife?" he said, blankly. "yes, sir. when some one said it was your knife, she spoke up and said it was, but that you had not had it since noon, for she borrowed it then to cut a stick; but beyond that she don't tell a thing." "who is the man?" "the renegade--lee holly." "lee holly!" he turned a piercing glance on harris, remembering the deep interest he had shown in that man lee holly and his partner, "monte." harris met his gaze without flinching, and nodded his head as if in assent. and that was the man found dead in her room! the faces of the people seemed for a moment an indistinct blur before his eyes; then he rallied and turned to her. "'tana, you never did it," he said, reassuringly; "or if you did, it has been justifiable, and i know it. if it was necessary to do it in any self-defense, don't be afraid to tell it all plainly. no one would blame you. it is only this mystery that makes them want to hear the truth." she only looked at him. was he acting? did he himself know nothing? the hope that it was so--that she had deceived herself--made her tremble as she had not at danger to herself. she had risen to her feet as he entered, but she swayed as if to fall, and he caught her, not knowing it was hope instead of despair that took the color from her face and left her helpless. "courage, 'tana! tell us what you can. i left you just as the moon came up. i saw you go to mrs. huzzard's tent. now, where did you go after that?" "what?" almost shouted lyster. "you were with her when the moon rose. are you sure?" "sure? of course i am. why?" "and how long before that, mr. overton?" asked saunders; "for that is a very important point." "about a half-hour, i should say--maybe a little more," he answered, staring at them. "now, what important thing does that prove?" one of the men gave a cheer; three or four had come up to the door when they saw overton, and they took the yell up with a will. mrs. huzzard started to run from the tent, but grew so nervous that she had to wait until miss slocum came to her aid. "what in the world does it mean?" she gasped. saunders turned around with an honestly pleased look. "it means that mr. overton here has brought word that clears miss rivers of being at the cabin when the murder was done--that's what it means; and we are all too glad over it to keep quiet. but why in the world didn't you tell us that, miss?" but she did not say a word. all about dan were exclamations and disjointed sentences, from which he could gain little actual knowledge, and he turned to lyster, impatiently: "can't you tell me--can't some of you tell me, what i have cleared up for her? when was this killing supposed to be done?" "at or a little before moonrise," said max, his face radiant once more. "'tana--don't you know what he has done for you? taken away all of that horribly mistaken suspicion you let rest on you. where was she, dan?" "last night? oh, up above the bluff there--went up when the pretty red lights were in the sky, and staid until the moon rose. i came across her up there, and advised her not to range away alone; so, when she got good and ready, she walked back again, and went to the tent where you folks were. then i struck the creek, decided i would take a run up the lake, and left without seeing any of you again. and all this time 'tana has had a guard over her. some of you must have been crazy." "well, then, i guess i was the worst lunatic of the lot," confessed saunders. "but to tell the truth, mr. overton, it looks to me now as if she encouraged suspicion--yes, it does. 'overton's knife,' said some one; but, quick as could be, she spoke up and said it was she who had it, and she didn't mind just where she left it. and as to where she was at that time, well, she just wouldn't give us a bit of satisfaction. blest if i don't think she wanted us to suspect her." "oh!" he breathed, as if in understanding, and her first words swept back to him, her nervous--"why did you come back? they suspect me!" surely that cry was as a plea for his own safety; it spoke through eyes and voice as well as words. some glimmer of the truth came to him. "come, 'tana!" he said, and reached his hand to her. "where is the man--holly? i should like to go in. will you come, too?" she rose without a word, and no one attempted to follow them. mrs. huzzard heaved a prodigious sigh of content. "oh, that girl montana!" she exclaimed. "i declare she ain't like any girl i ever did see! this morning, when she was a suspected criminal, she was talky, and even laughed, and now that she's cleared, she won't lift her head to look at any one. i do wonder if that sort of queerness is catching in these woods. i declare i feel most scared enough to leave." but lyster reassured her. "remember how sick she has been; and think what a shock this whole affair has been to weak nerves," he said, for with dan's revelations he had grown blissfully content once more, "and as for that fellow hearing voices in her cabin--nonsense! she had been reading some poem or play aloud. she is fond of reading so, and does it remarkably well. he heard her spouting in there for the benefit of harris, and imagined she was making threats to some one. poor little girl! i'm determined she sha'n't remain here any longer." "are you?" asked mrs. huzzard, dryly. "well, mr. max, so long as i've known her, i've always found 'tana makes her own determinations--and sticks to them, too." "i'm glad to be reminded of that," he retorted, "for she promised me yesterday to marry me some time." "bless my soul!" "if she didn't change her mind," he added, laughingly. "to marry you! well, well, well!" and she stared at him so queerly, that a shade of irritation crossed his face. "why not?" he asked. "don't you think that a plain, ordinary man is good enough for your wild-flower of the kootenai hills?" "oh, you're not plain at all, mr. max lyster," she returned, "and i'll go bail many a woman who is smarter than either 'tana or me has let you know it! it ain't the plainness--it's the difference. and--well, well! you know you've been quarreling ever since you met." "but that is all over now," he promised; "and haven't you a good wish for us?" "indeed i have, then--a many of them, but you have surprised me. i used to think that's how it would end; and then--well, then, a different notion got in my head. now that it's settled, i do hope you will be happy. bless the child! i'll go and tell her so this minute." "no," he said, quickly, "let her and dan have their talk out--if she will talk to him. that fever left her queer in some things, and one of them is her avoidance of dan. she hasn't been free and friendly with him as she used to be, and it is too bad; for he is such a good fellow, and would do anything for her." "yes, he would," assented mrs. huzzard. "and she will be her own spirited self in a few weeks--when she gets away from here--and gets stronger. she'll appreciate dan more after a while, for there are few like him. and so--as she is to go away so soon, i hope something will put them on their former confidential footing. maybe this murder will be the something." "you are a good friend, mr. max," said the woman, slowly, "and you deserve to be a lucky lover. i'm sure i hope so." within the cabin, those two of whom they spoke stood together beside the dead outlaw, and their words were low--so low that the paralyzed man in the next room listened in vain. "and you believed that of me--of me?" he asked, and she answered, falteringly: "how did i know? you said--you threatened--you would kill him--any man you found in here. so, when he was here dead, i--did not know." "and you thought i had stuck that knife in him and left?" she nodded her head. "and you thought," he continued, in a voice slightly tremulous, "that you were giving me a chance to escape just so long as you let them suspect--you?" she did not answer, but turned toward the door. he held his arm out and barred her way. "only a moment!" he said, pleadingly. "it never can be that--that i would be anything to you, little girl--never, never! but--just once--let me tell you a truth that shall never hurt you, i swear! i love you! no other word but that will tell your dearness to me. i--i never would have said it, but--but what you risked for me has broken me down. it has told me more than your words would tell me, and i--oh, god! my god!" she shrank from the passion in his words and tone, but the movement only made him catch her arm and hold her there. tears were in his eyes as he looked at her, and his jaws were set firmly. "you are afraid of me--of me?" he asked. "don't be. life will be hard enough now without leaving me that to remember. i'm not asking a word in return from you; i have no right. you will be happy somewhere else--and with some one else--and that is right." he still held her wrist, and they stood in silence. she could utter no word; but her mouth trembled and she tried to smother a sob that arose in her throat. but he heard it. "don't!" he said, almost in a whisper--"for god's sake, don't cry. i can't stand that--not your tears. here! be brave! look up at me, won't you? see! i don't ask you for a word or a kiss or a thought when you leave me--only let me see your eyes! look at me!" what he read in her trembling lips and her shrinking, shamed eyes made him draw his breath hard through his shut teeth. "my brave little girl!" he said softly. "you will think harshly of me for this some day--if you ever know--know all. but what you did this morning made a coward of me--that and my longing for you. try to forgive me. or, no--you had better not. and when you are his wife--oh, it's no use--i can't think or speak of that--yet. good-by, little girl--good-by!" chapter xxiv. leaving camp. afterward, 'tana never could remember clearly the incidents of the few days that followed. only once more she entered the cabin of death, and that was when mr. haydon and mr. seldon returned with all haste to the camp, after meeting with captain leek and the indian boatman. then, as some of the men offered to go with them to view the remains of the outlaw, she came forward. "no. i will take them," she said. when mr. haydon demurred, feeling that a young girl should be kept as much as possible from such scenes, she had laid her hand on seldon's arm. "come!" she said, and they went with her. but when inside the door, she did not approach the blanket-covered form stretched on the couch; only pointed toward it, and stood herself like a guard at the entrance. when seldon lifted the indian blanket from the face, he uttered a startled exclamation, and looked strangely at her. she never turned around. "what is it?" asked mr. haydon. no one replied, and as he looked with anxiety toward the form there, his face grew ashen in its horror. "lord in heaven!" he gasped; "first her on that bed and now _him_! i--i feel as if i was haunted in this camp. seldon, is it--is it--" "no mistake possible," answered the other man, decidedly. "i could swear to the identity. it is george rankin!" "and holly, the renegade!" added haydon, in consternation; "and lord only knows how many other aliases he has worn. oh, what a sensation the papers would make over this if they got hold of it all. my! my! it would be awful! and that girl, montana, as she calls herself, she has been clever to keep it quiet as she has, for--oh, lord!" "what is the matter now? you look fairly sick," said the other, impatiently. "i didn't fancy you'd grieve much over his death." "no, it isn't that," said haydon, huskily. "but that girl--don't you see she was accused of this? and--well seeing who he is, how do we know--" he stopped awkwardly, unable to continue with the girl herself so near and with seldon's warning glance directed to him. she leaned against the wall, and apparently had not heard their words. seldon's face softened as he looked at her; and, going over, he put his hand kindly on her hair. "i am going to be your uncle, now," he said in a caressing tone. "you have kept up like a soldier under some terrible things here; but we will try to make things brighter for you now." she smiled in a dreary way without looking at him. his knowledge of the terrible things she had endured seemed to her very limited. "and you will go now with us--with mr. haydon--back to your mother's old home, won't you?" he said, in a persuasive way. "it is not good, you know, for a little girl not to know any of her relations, or to bear such shocking grudges," he added, in a lower tone. but she gave him no answering smile. "i will go to your house if you will have me," she said. "you and max are my friends. i will go only with people i like." "you know, my dear," said mr. haydon, who heard her last words. "you know i offered you a home in my house until such time as you got to school, and--and of course, i'll stick to it." "though you are a little afraid to risk it, aren't you?" she asked, with an unpleasant smile. "haven't you an idea that i might murder you all in your beds some fine night? you know i belong to a country where they do such things for pastime. aren't you afraid?" "that is a very horrible sort of pleasantry," he answered, and moved away from the dead face he had been staring at. "i beg you will not indulge in it, especially when you move in a society more refined than these mining camps can afford. it will be a disadvantage to you if you carry with you customs and memories of this unfinished section. and after all, you do not belong here, your family was of the east. when you go back there, it would be policy for you to forget that you had ever lived anywhere else." mr. haydon had never made so long a speech to her before, and it was delivered with a certain persistence, as if it was a matter of conscience he would be relieved to have off his mind. "i think you are mistaken when you say i do not belong here," she answered, coolly. "some of my family have been a good many things i don't intend to be. i was born in montana; and i might have starved to death for any help my 'family' would have given me, if i hadn't struck luck and helped myself here in idaho. so i think i belong out here, and if i live, i will come back again--some day." she turned to seldon and pointed to the dead form. "they will take him away to-day--i heard them say so," she said quietly. "let it be somewhere away from the camp--not near--not where i can see." "can't you forget--even now, 'tana?" "does anybody ever forget?" she asked. "when people say they can forget and forgive, i don't trust them, for i don't believe them." "have you any idea who killed him?" he asked. "it is certainly a strange affair. i thought you might suspect some one these people know nothing of." but she shook her head. "no," she said. "there were several who would have liked to do it, i suppose--people he had wronged or ruined; for he had few friends left, or he would not have come across to these poor reds to hide. give old akkomi part of that gold; he was faithful to me--and to him, too. no, i don't know who did it. i don't care, now. i thought i knew once; but i was wrong. this way of dying is better than the rope; and that is what the law would have given him. he would have chosen this--i know." "did you ever in your life hear such cold-blooded words from a girl?" demanded haydon, when she left them and went to harris. "afraid of her? humph! well, some people would be. no wonder they suspected her when she showed such indifference. every word she says makes me regret more and more that i acknowledged her. but how was i to know? she was ill, and made me feel as if a ghost had come before me. i couldn't sleep till i had made up my mind to take the risk of her. max sung her praises as if she was some rare untrained genius. nothing gave me an idea that she would turn out this way." "'this way' has not damaged you much so far," remarked mr. seldon, dryly. "and as she is not likely to be much of a charge on your hands, you had better not borrow trouble on that score." "all very well--all very well for you to be indifferent," returned mr. haydon, with some impatience. "you have no family to consider, no matter what wild escapade she would be guilty of, you would not be touched by the disgrace of it, because she doesn't belong in any way to your family." "maybe she will, though," suggested seldon. mr. haydon shrugged his shoulders significantly. "you mean through max, don't you?" he asked. "yes, i was simple enough to build on that myself--thought what a nice, quiet way it would be of arranging the whole affair; but after a talk with this ranger, overton, whom you and max unite in admiring, i concluded he might be in the way." "overton? nonsense!" "well, maybe; but he made himself very autocratic when i attempted to discuss her future. he seemed to show a good deal of authority concerning her affairs." "not a bit more than he does over the affairs of their paralyzed partner in there," answered seldon. "if she always makes as square friends as dan overton, i shan't quarrel with her judgment." when 'tana left them and went into the other cabin, she stood looking at harris a long time in a curious, scrutinizing way, and his face changed from doubt to dread before she spoke. "i am hardly able to think any more, joe," she said at last, and her tired eyes accented the truth of her words; "but something like a thought keeps hammering in my head about you--about you and--" she pointed to the next room. "if you could walk, i should know you did it. if you could talk, i should know you had it done. i wouldn't tell on you; but i'd be glad i was going where i would not see you, for i never could touch your hand again. i am going away, joe; won't you tell me true whether you know who did it? do you?" he shook his head with his eyes closed. he, too, looked pale and worn, and noticing it, she asked if he would not rather move to some other dwelling, since-- he nodded his head with a sort of eagerness. all of the two days and the night he had sat there, with only the folds of a blanket to separate him from the room where his dead foe lay. "i will speak to them about it right away." she lifted his hand and stroked it with a sort of sympathy. "joe, can you forgive him now?" she whispered. he made her no reply; only closed his eyes as before. "you can't, then? and i can't ask you to, though i suppose i ought to. margaret would," and she smiled strangely. "you don't know margaret, do you? well, neither do i. but i guess she is the sort of girl i ought to be. joe, i can't stay in camp any longer. maybe i'll leave for the ferry to-day. will you miss me? yes, i know you will," she added, "and i will miss you, too. do you know--can you tell when dan will come back?" he shook his head, and an hour later she said to max: "take me away from here, back to the ferry--any place. mrs. huzzard will, maybe, come for a few days--or miss slocum. ask them, and let me go soon." and an hour after they had started, another canoe went slowly over the water toward the kootenai river, a canoe guided by akkomi; and in it lay the blanket-draped figure of the man whose death was yet a mystery to the camp. he was at least borne to his resting place by a friend, though what the reason for akkomi's faithfulness, no one ever knew; for some favor in the past, no doubt. seldon knew that 'tana would rather akkomi should be the one to cover his grave, though where it was made, no white man ever knew. chapter xxv. on manhattan island. "what do you intend to make of your life, montana, since you avoid all questions of marriage? you will not go to school, and care nothing about fitting yourself for the society where by right you should belong." a whole winter had gone, and the springtime had come again; and over all the island of manhattan, and on the heights back from the rivers, the green of the leaves was creeping over the boughs from which winter had swept all signs of life months ago. in a very lovely little room, facing a park where the glitter of a tiny lake could be seen, 'tana lounged and stared at the waving branches and the fettered water. not just the same 'tana as when, a year ago, she had breasted the cold waves of the kootenai. no one, to look at her now, would connect the taller, stylishly dressed figure, with that little half-savage who had scowled at overton in the lodge of akkomi. her hair was no longer short and boyish in its arrangement. a silver comb held it in place, except where the tiny curls crept down to cluster about her neck. a gown of soft white wool was caught at her waist by a flat woven belt of silver, and an embroidered shoe of silvery gleam peeped from under the white folds. no, it was not the same 'tana. and the little gray-haired lady, who slipped ivory knitting needles in and out of silky flosses, watched her with troubled concern as she asked: "and what do you intend to make of your life, montana?" "you are out of patience with me, are you not, miss seldon?" asked the girl. "oh, yes, i know you are; and i don't blame you. everything i have ever wanted in my life is in reach of me here--everything a girl should have; yet it doesn't mean so much to me as i thought it would." "but if you would go to school, perhaps--" "perhaps i would learn to appreciate all this," and the girl glanced around at the fine fittings of the room, and then back to the point of her own slipper. "but i do study hard at home. doesn't miss ackerman give me credit for learning very quickly? and doesn't that music teacher hop around and wave his hands over my most excellent, ringing voice? they say i study well." "yes, yes; you do, too. but at a school, my dear, where you would have the association of other girls, you would naturally grow more--more girlish yourself, if i may say so; for you are old beyond your years in ways that are peculiar. your ideas of things are not the ideas of girlhood; and yet you are very fond of girls." "and how do you know that?" asked 'tana. "why, my dear, you never go past one on the street that you don't give her more notice than the very handsomest man you might see. and at the matinees, if the play does not hold you very close, your eyes are always directed to the young girls in the audience. yes, you are fond of them, yet you will not allow yourself to be intimate with any." and the pretty, refined-looking lady smiled at her and nodded her head in a knowing way, as though she had made an important discovery. the girl on the couch lay silent for a while, then she rose and went over to the window, gazing across to the park, where people were walking and riding along the green knolls and levels. young girls were there, too, and she watched them a little while, with the old moody expression in her dark eyes. "perhaps it is because i don't like to make friends under false pretenses," she said, at last. "your society is a very fine and very curious thing, and there is a great deal of false pretense about it. individually, they would overlook the fact that i was accused of murder in idaho--the gold mine would help some of them to do that! but if it should ever get in their papers here, they would collectively think it their duty to each other not to recognize me." "oh, montana, my dear child, why do you not forget that horrible life, and leave your mind free to partake of the advantages now surrounding you?" and miss seldon sighed with real distress, and dropped her ivory needles despairingly. "it seems so strange that you care to remember that which was surely a terrible life." "much more so than you can know," answered the girl, coming over to her and drawing a velvet hassock to her side. "and, my dear, good, innocent little lady, just so long as you all try to persuade me that i should go out among young people of my own age, just so long must i be forced to think of how different my life has been to theirs. some day they, too, might learn how different it has been, and resent my presence among them. i prefer not to run that risk. i might get to like some of them, and then it would hurt. besides, the more i see of people since i came here, the more i feel that every one should remain with their own class in life." "but, montana, that is not an american sentiment at all!" said miss seldon, with some surprise. "but even that idea should not exclude from refined circles. by birth you are a lady." the girl smiled bitterly. "you mean my mother was," she answered. "but she did not give me a gentleman for a father; and i don't believe the parents of any of those lovely girls we meet would like them to know the daughter of such a man, if they knew it. now, do you understand how i feel about myself and this social question?" "you are foolishly conscientious and morbid," exclaimed the older lady. "i declare, montana, i don't know what to do with you. people like you--you are very clever, you have youth, wealth, and beauty--yes, the last, too! yet you shut yourself up here like a young nun. only the theaters and the art galleries will you visit--never a person--not even margaret." "not even margaret," repeated the girl; "and that is the crowning sin in your eyes, isn't it? well, i don't blame you, for she is very lovely; and how much she thinks of you!" "yes!" sighed the little lady. "mrs. haydon is a woman of very decided character, but not at all given to loving demonstrations to children. long ago, when we lived closer, little margie would come to me daily to be kissed and petted. max was only a boy then, and they were great companions." "yes; and if he had been sensible, he would have fallen in love with her and made her mrs. lyster, instead of knocking around western mining towns, and making queer friends," said the girl, smiling at the old lady's astonished face. "she is just the sort of girl to suit him." "my dear," she said, solemnly, "do you really care for him a particle?" "who--max? of course i do. he is the best fellow i know, and was so good to me out there in the wilderness. there was no one out there to compare me with, so i suppose i loomed up big when compared with the average squaw. but everything is different here. i did not know how different. i know now, however, and i won't let him go on making a mistake." "oh, montana!" cried the little lady, pleadingly. just then a maid entered with two cards, at which she glanced with a dismay that was comical. "margaret and max! why, is it not strange they should call at the same time, and at a time when--" "when i was pairing them off so nicely, without their knowledge," added the girl. "have them come up here, won't you? it is so much more cozy than that very elegant parlor. and i always feel as if poor max had been turned out of his home since i came." so they came to the little sitting room--pretty, dark-eyed margaret, with her faultless manners and her real fondness for miss seldon, whom she kissed three times. "for i have not seen you for three days," she explained, "and those two are back numbers." then she turned to 'tana and eyed her admiringly as they clasped hands. "you look as though you had stepped from a picture of classic greek," she declared. "where in that pretty curly head of yours do you find the ideas for those artistic arrangements of form and color? you are an artist, montana, and you don't know it." "i will begin to believe it if people keep telling me so." "who else has told you?" asked lyster, and she laughed at him. "not you," she replied; "at least not since you teased me about the clay indians i made on the shores of the kootenai. but some one else has told me--mr. roden." "roden, the sculptor! but how does he know?" she glanced from one face to the other, and sighed with a serio-comic expression. "i might as well confess," she said, at last. "i am so glad you are here, miss margaret, for i may need an advocate. i have been working two hours a day in mr. roden's studio for over a month." "montana!" gasped miss seldon, "but--how--when?" "before you were awake in the morning," she said, and looked from one to the other of their blank faces. "you look as if it were a shock, instead of a surprise," she added. "i did not tell you at first, as it would seem only a whim. but he has told me i have reason for the whim, and that i should continue. so--i think i shall." "but, my child--for you are a child, after all--don't you know it is a very strange thing for a girl to go alone like that, and--and--oh, dear! max, can't you tell her?" but max did not. there was a slight wrinkle between his brows, but she saw it and smiled. "you can't scold me, though, can you?" she asked. "that is right, for it would be no use. i know you would say that in your set it would not be proper for a girl to do such independent things. but you see, i do not belong to any set. i have just been telling this dear little lady, who is trying to look stern, some of the reasons why society life and i can never agree. but i have found several reasons why art life and i should agree perfectly. i like the freedom of it--the study of it. and, even if i never accomplish much, i shall at least have tried my best." "but, montana, it is not as though you had to learn such things," pleaded miss seldon. "you have plenty of money." "oh, money--money! but i have found there are a few things in this world money can not buy. art study, little as i have attempted, has taught me that." lyster came over and sat beside her by the window. "'tana," he said, and looked at her with kindly directness, "can the art study give you that which you crave, and which money can not buy?" her eyes fell to the floor. she could not but feel sorry to go against his wishes; and yet-- "no, it can not, entirely," she said, at last. "but it is all the substitute i know of, and, maybe, after a while, it will satisfy me." miss seldon took margaret from the room on some pretext, and lyster rose and walked across to the other window. he was evidently much troubled or annoyed. "then you are not satisfied?" he asked. "the life that seemed possible to you, when out there in camp, is impossible to you now." "oh, max! don't be angry--don't. everything was all wrong out there. you were sorry for me out there; you thought me different from what i am. i could never be the sort of girl you should marry--not like margaret--" "margaret!" and his face paled a little, "why do you speak of her?" "i know, if you do not, max," she answered, and smiled at him. "i have learned several things since i came here, and one of them is mr. haydon's reason for encouraging our friendship so much. it was to end any attachment between you and margaret. oh, i know, max! if i had not looked just a little bit like her, you would never have fancied you loved me--for it was only a fancy." "it was no fancy! i did love you. i was honest with you, and i have waited patiently, while you have grown more and more distant until now--" "now we had better end it all, max. i could not make you happy, for i am not happy myself." "perhaps i--" "no, you can not help me; and it is not your fault. you have been good to me--very good; but i can't marry any one." "no one?" he asked, looking at her doubtfully. "'tana, sometimes i have fancied you might have cared for some one else--some one before you met me." "no, i cared for no one before i met you," she answered, slowly. "but i could not be happy in the social life of your people here. they are charming, but i am not suited to their life. and--and i can't go back to the hills. so, in a month, i am going to italy." "you have it all decided, then?" "all--don't be angry, max. you will thank me for it some day, though i know our friends will think badly of me just now." "no, they shall not; you are breaking no promises. you took me only on trial, and it seems i don't suit," he said, with a grimace. "i will see that you are not blamed. and so long as you do not leave america, i should like you to remain here. don't let anything be changed in our friendship, 'tana." she turned to him with tears in her eyes, and held out her hand. "you are too good to me, max," she said, brokenly, "god knows what will become of me when i leave you all and go among foreign faces, among whom i shall not have a friend. i hope to work and--be contented; but i shall never meet a friend like you again." he drew her to him quickly. "don't go!" he whispered, pleadingly. "i can't let you go out into the world alone like that! i will love you--care for you--" "hush!" and she put her hand on his face to push it away; "it is no use, and don't do that--try to kiss me; you must not. no man has ever kissed me, and you--" "and i sha'n't be the first," he added, shrugging his shoulders. "well, i confess i hoped to be, and you are a greater temptation than you know, miss montana. and you ought to pardon me the attempt." her face was flushed and shamed. "i could pardon a great deal in you, max," she answered; "but don't speak of it again. talk to me of other things." "other things? well, i haven't many other things in my mind just now. still, i did see some one down town this morning whom you rather liked, and who asked after you. it was mr. harvey, the writer, whom we met first at bonner's ferry, up in the kootenai land. do you remember him?" "certainly. we met him afterward at one of the art galleries, and i have seen him several times at roden's studio. they are great friends. he looked surprised to find me there, but, after i spoke to him, he talked to me a great deal. you know, max, i always imagine he heard that suspicion of me up at the camp. do you think so?" "he never intimated it to me," answered max; "though haydon nearly went into spasms of fear lest he would put it all in some paper." "i remember. he would scarcely allow me breathing space for fear the stranger would get near enough to speak to me again. i remember all that journey, because when i reached the end of it, the past seemed like a troubled dream, for this life of fineness and beauty and leisure was all so different." "and yet you are not contented?" "oh, don't talk of that--of me!" she begged. "i am tired of myself. i just remembered another one on the train that journey--the little variety actress who had her dresses made to look cute and babyish--the one with bleached hair, and they called her goldie. she looked scared to death when he--overton--stopped at the window to say good-by. i often wondered why." "oh, you know dan was a sort of sheriff, or law-and-order man, up there. he might have known her unfavorably, and she was afraid of being identified by him, or something of that sort. she belonged to the rougher element, no doubt." "max, it makes me homesick to think of that country," she confessed. "ever since the grass has commenced to be green, and the buds to swell, it seems to me all the woods are calling me. all the sluggish water i see here in the parks and the rivers makes me dream of the rush of the clear kootenai, and long for a canoe and paddle. contrive something to make me forget it, won't you? make up a party to go somewhere--anywhere. i will be cavalier to your lovely little aunt, and leave you to margaret." "i asked you before why you speak of margaret and me in that tone?" he said. "are you going to tell me? you have no reason but your own fancy." "haven't i? well, this isn't fancy, max--that i would like to see my cousin--you see, i claim them for this once--happy in her own way, instead of unhappy in the life her ambitious family are trying to arrange for her. and i promise to trade some surplus dust for a wedding present just as soon as you conclude to spoil their plans, and make yourself and that little girl and your aunt all happy by a few easily spoken words." "but i have just told you i love you." "you will know better some day," she said, and turned away. "now go and pacify your aunt, won't you? she seemed so troubled about the modeling--bless her dear heart! i didn't want to trouble her, but the work--some work--was a necessity to me. i was growing so homesick for the woods." after she was left alone, she drew a letter from her pocket, one she had got in the morning mail, and read over again the irregular lines sent by mrs. huzzard. "i got lavina to write you the letter at christmas, because i was so tickled with all the things you sent me that i couldn't write a straight line to save me; and you know the rheumatiz in my finger makes it hard work for me sometimes. but maybe hard work and me is about done with each other, 'tana; though i'll tell you more of that next time. "i must tell you mr. harris has got better--can talk some and walk around; can't move his left arm any yet. but mr. dan sent for two fine doctors, and they tried to help him with electricity. and i was scared for fear lightning might strike camp after that; but it didn't. lavina is here still, and likely to stay. she's a heap of company; and she and captain leek are better friends than they was. "there is a new man in camp now; he found a silver mine down near bonner's ferry, and sold it out well. he was a farmer back in indiana, and has been on a visit to our camp twice. mr. dan says it's my cooking fetches him. everything is different here now. mr. dan got sawed lumber, and put me up a nice little house; and up above the bluff he has laid out a place where he is going to build a stone house, just as if he intends to live and die here. he doesn't ever seem to think that he has enough made now to rest all his days. sometimes i think he ain't well. sometimes, 'tana, i think it would cheer him up if you would just write him a few lines from time to time. he always says, 'is she well?' when i get a letter from you; and about the time i'm looking for your letters he's mighty regular about getting the mail here. "that old akkomi went south when winter set in, and we reckon he'll be back when the leaves get green. his whole village was drunk for days on the money you had mr. seldon give him, and he wore pink feathers from some millinery store the last time i saw him. but mr. dan is always patient with him whether he is drunk or sober. "i guess that's all the news. lavina sends her respects. and i must tell you that on christmas they got some whisky, and all the boys drank your health--and drank it so often mr. dan had to give them a talking to. they think a heap of you. yours with affection, "lorena jane huzzard. "p. s.--william mccoy is the name of the stranger i spoke of. the boys call him bill." chapter xxvi. overton's wife. a few hours later, 'tana sat in a box at the theater; for the party she had suggested had been arranged, and pretty miss margaret was radiant over the evening planned for her, and 'tana began to enjoy her rôle of matchmaker. she had even managed to tell margaret, in a casual manner, that miss seldon's idea of a decided engagement between herself and max had never a very solid foundation, and now had none at all. he was her good friend--that was all, and she was to leave for italy in a month. and margaret went up to her and kissed her, looking at her with puzzled, admiring eyes. "they tried at home to make me think very differently," she said. "but you are a queer girl, miss montana. you have told me this on purpose, and--" "and i want to hear over in italy that you are going to make a boy i like very happy some of these days. remember, margaret, you are--or will be--a millionairess, while he has not more than a comfortable income; and boys--even when they are in love--can be proud. will you think of that?" margaret only blushed and turned away, but the answer was quite satisfying to 'tana, and she felt freer because her determination had been put into words, and the last bond connecting her with the old life was to be broken. ever since the snows had gone, some cord of her heart-string had been drawing all her thoughts to those northern hills, and she felt the only safety was to put the ocean between them and her. the home mr. seldon had offered her with his sister was a very lovely one, but to it there came each week letters about the mines and the people there. mr. seldon had already gone out, and would be gone all summer. as he was an enthusiast over the beauties and the returns of the country, his letters were full of material that she heard discussed each day. therefore, the only safety for herself lay in flight; and if she did not go across the ocean to the east, she would surely grow weaker and more homesick until she would have to turn coward entirely and cross the mountains to her west. realizing it all, she sat in her dainty array of evening dress and watched with thoughts far away the mimic scene of love triumphant on the stage before her. when, on the painted canvas, a far-off snow-crowned mountain rose to their view, her heart seemed to creep to her throat and choke her, and when the orchestra breathed softly of the winds, music, and the twittering of birds, the tears rose to her eyes and a great longing in her heart for all the wild beauty of her kootenai land. then, just as the curtain went down on the second act, some one entered their box. "you, harvey?" said max, with genuine pleasure. "good of you to look me up. let me introduce you to my aunt and miss haydon. you and miss rivers are old acquaintances." "yes; and that fact alone has brought me here just now," he managed to say to lyster. "to confess the truth, i have been to see miss rivers at her home this evening, having got her address from roden, and then had the assurance to follow her here. you may be sure i would not have spoiled your evening for any trivial thing, but i come because of a woman who is dying." "a woman who is dying?" repeated 'tana, in wonder. "and why do you come to me?" "she wants to see you. i think--to tell you something." "but who is it?" asked lyster. "some beggar?" "she is a beggar now at least," agreed mr. harvey--"a poor woman dying. she said only to tell miss rivers, and here is a line she sent." he gave her a slip of paper, and on it was written: "come and take some word to dan overton for me. i am dying. overton's wife." she arose, and margaret exclaimed at the whiteness of her face. "oh, my dear," sighed miss seldon, "you know how i warned you not to give your charities individually among the beggars of a city. it is really a mistake. they have no consideration, and will send for you at all hours if you will go. it is so much better to distribute charity through some organization." but 'tana was tying her opera cloak, and moving toward the entrance. "i am going," she said. "don't worry. is it far, mr. harvey? if not, perhaps i can be back to go home with you when the curtain goes down." "it is not far," he answered. "will you come, lyster?" "no!" said 'tana; "you stay with the others, max. don't look vexed. maybe i can be of some use, and that is what i need." many heads turned to look at the girl whose laces were so elegant, and whose beautiful face wore such a startled, questioning expression. but she hurried out of their sight, and gave a little nervous shiver as she wrapped her white velvet cloak close about her and sank into a corner of the carriage. "are you cold?" harvey asked, but she shook her head. "no. but tell me all." "there is not much. i was with a doctor--a friend of mine--who was called in to see her. she recognized me. it is the little variety actress who came over the great northern, on our train." "oh! but how could she know me?" "she did not know your name; she only described you, remembering that i had talked with you and your friends. when i told her you were in the city, she begged so for you to come that i could not refuse to try." "you did right," she answered. "but it is very strange--very strange." then the carriage stopped before a dingy house in a row that had once belonged to a very fashionable quarter, but that was long ago. boarding houses they were now, and their class was about number three. "it is a horrible place to bring you to, miss rivers," confessed her guide; "and i am really glad miss seldon did not accompany you, for she never would have forgiven either of us. but i knew you would not be afraid." "no, i am not afraid. but, oh, why don't they hurry?" he had to ring the bell the second time ere any one came to the door. then, as the harsh jangle died away, steps were heard descending the stairs, and a man without a coat and with a pipe in his mouth, shot back the bolt with much grumbling. "i'll cut the blasted wire if some one in the shebang don't tend to this door better," he growled to a lady with a mug of beer, who just then emerged from the lower regions. "me a-trying to get the lines of that new afterpiece in my head--chock-full of business, too!--and that bell clanging forever right under my room. i'll move!" "i wish you would," remarked harvey, when the door opened at last. "move a little faster when you do condescend to open the door. come, miss rivers--up this way." and the lady of the beer mug and the gentleman of the pipe stared at each other, and at the white vision of girlhood going up the dark, bad-smelling stairway. "well, that's a new sort in this castle," remarked the man. "do you guess the riddle of it?" the woman did not answer, but listened to the footsteps as they went along the hall. then a door opened and shut. "they've gone to goldie's room," she said. "that's queer. goldie ain't the sort to have very high-toned friends, so it can't be a long-lost sister," and she smiled contemptuously. "she's a beauty, anyway, and i'm going to see her when she makes her exit, if i have to sit up all night." "oh! and what about the afterpiece?" "to the devil with the afterpiece! it hasn't any angels in it." inside goldie's room, a big dutch blonde in a soiled blue wrapper sat by the bed, and stared in open-mouthed surprise at the new-comers. "is it _you_ she's been askin' for?" she asked, bluntly. but 'tana did not reply, and harvey got the blonde to the door, and after a few whispered words, induced her to go out altogether, and closed the door behind her. "i thought you'd come," whispered the little woman on the bed. "i thought the note would bring you. i saw you talk to him, and i dropped to the game. you're square, too, ain't you? that's the kind i want now. that swell who went for you is the right sort, too. i minded his face and yours. but tell him to go out for a minute. it won't take long--to tell you." harvey went, at a motion from 'tana. she had not uttered a word yet. all she could do was to stare in wonder at the wreck of a woman before her--a painted wreck; for, even on her deathbed, the ghastly face was tinted with rouge. "i can't get well--doctor says," she continued. "there was a baby; it died yesterday--three hours old; and i can't get well. but there is another one i want to tell you of. you tell him. it is two years old. here is the address. maybe he will take care of it for me. he was good-hearted--that's why he married me; thought i was only a little girl without a home. any woman could fool him, for he thought all women were good. he thought i was only a little girl; and i had been married three years before." she smiled at the idea of that past deception, while 'tana's face grew hard and white. "how you look!" said the dying woman. "well, it's over now. he never cared for me much, though--not so much as others did. he was never my real husband, you know, for i never had a divorce. he thought he was, though; and even after he left me, he sent me money regular for me to live quiet in 'frisco, but it didn't suit me. then he got turned dead against me when i tried to make him think the child was his. he wouldn't do anything for me after that; i had cheated him once too often." "and was it?" it was the first time 'tana had spoken, and the woman smiled. "you care, too, do you? well, yes, it was. you tell him so; tell him i said so, and i was dying. he'll take care of her, i think. she's pretty, but not like me. he never saw her. she's with a woman in chicago, where i boarded. i haven't paid her board now for months, but it's all right; the woman's a good soul. dan overton will pay when you tell him." "you write an order for that child, and tell the woman to give it to me," said 'tana, decidedly, and looked around for something to write with. a sheet of paper was found, and she went to harvey for a pencil. "'most ready to go?" he asked, looking at her anxiously. she nodded her head, and shut the door. "but i can't write now; my hands are too weak," complained the woman. "i can't." "you've _got_ to!" answered the girl; and, taking her in her strong young hands, she raised her up higher on the pillow. "there is the paper and pencil--now write." "it will kill me to lay like this." "no matter if it does; you write." "you're not a woman at all; you're like iron--white iron," whined the other. "any woman with a heart--" and the weak tears came in her eyes. "no, i have no heart to be touched by you," answered the girl. "you had a chance to live a decent life, and you wouldn't take it. you had an honest man to trust you and take care of you, and you paid him with deceit. don't expect pity from me; but write that order." she tried to write but could not, and the girl took the pencil. "i will write it, and you can sign it," she said; "that will do as well." thus it was accomplished, and the woman was again laid lower in the bed. "you are terrible hard on--on folks that ain't just square," she said. "you needn't be so proud; you ain't dead yet yourself. you don't know what may happen to you." "i know," said the girl, coldly, "that if i ever brought children into the world, to be thrown on strangers' hands and brought up in the streets to live your sort of life, i would expect a very practical sort of hell prepared for me. have you anything more to tell me? i'm going." "oh--h! i wish you hadn't said that about hell. i'm dreadful afraid of hell," moaned the woman. "yes," said the girl; "you ought to be." "how hard you are! and the doctor said i would die to-night." then she lay still quite a while, and when she spoke again, her voice seemed weaker. "you have that order for gracie, and you are so hard-hearted. i don't know what you will do--and i don't want her to grow up like me." "that is the first womanly thing i have heard you say," replied the girl. she went over to the bed and took the woman's hands in hers, looking at her earnestly. "your child shall have a beautiful and a good home," she said, reassuringly. "i am going for her myself to-morrow, and she will never lack care again. have you any other word to give me?" the woman shook her head, and then as 'tana turned away, she said: "not unless you would kiss me. you are not like other women; but--will you kiss me?" and, with the pressure of the dying kiss on her lips, 'tana went out the door. "please give her every care money can secure for her," she said to the woman at the door; while the man, minus the pipe, was there to open it. "mr. harvey, can i trouble you to look after it for me? you know the doctor and can learn all that is needed. have the bills sent to me; and let me know when it is all--over." they reached the theater just as the curtain went down on the last act, and she remained in the carriage until her own party came out. "i can hardly thank you enough for coming after me to-night," she said, as she shook hands very cordially with harvey. "you can never be a mere acquaintance to me again. you are my friend." "have i ignorantly done some good?" he asked, and she smiled at him. "yes--more than you know--more than i can tell you." "then may i hope not to be forgotten when you are in italy?" "oh!" and the color flushed over all the pallor caught from that deathbed. "but i--i don't think i will go to italy after all, mr. harvey. i have changed my mind about that, and think i will go back to the kootenai hills instead." chapter xxvii. life at twin springs. over all the land of the kootenai the sun of early june was shining. trees of wild fruits were white with blossoms, as if from far above on the mountains the snows had blown down and settled here and there on the new twigs of green. and high up above the camp of the twin springs, overton and harris sat looking over the wide stretches of forest, and the younger man looked troubled. "i think your fear is all an empty affair," he said, in an argumentative tone. "you eat well and sleep well. what gives you the idea you are to be called in soon?" "several things," said the other, slowly, and his speech was yet indistinct; "but most of all the feel of my feet and legs. a week ago my feet turned cold; this week the coldness is up to my knees, and it won't go away. i know what it means. when it gets as high as my heart i'll be done for. that won't take long, dan; and i want to see her first." "she can't help you." "yes, she can, too. you don't know. dan, send for her." "things are all different with her now," protested the other. "she's with friends who are not of the diggings or the ranges, joe. she is going to marry max lyster; and, altogether, is not the same little girl who made our coffee for us down there in the flat. you must not expect that she will change all her new, happy life to run back here just because you want to talk to her." "she'll come if you telegraph i want her," insisted harris. "i know her better than you do, dan. the fine life will never spoil her. she would be happier here to-day in a canoe than she would be on a throne. i know her best." "she wasn't very happy before she left here." "no," he agreed; "but there were reasons, dan. why are you so set against her coming back?" "set against it? oh, no." "yes, you are. mrs. huzzard and all the camp would be only too glad to see her; but you--you say no. what's your reason?" "joe, not many months ago you tried to make me suspicious of her," said overton, not moving his eyes from a distant blue peak of the hills. "you remember the day you fell in a heap? well, i've never asked you your reasons for that; though i've thought of it considerably. you changed your mind about her afterward, and trusted her with the plan of this gold field down here. now, you had reasons for that, too; but i never have asked you what they are. do the same for me, will you?" the other man did not answer for a little while, but he watched dan's moody face with a great deal of kindness in his own. "you won't tell me?" he said at last. "well, that's all right. but one of the reasons i want her back is to make clear to you all the unexplained things of last summer. there were things you should have been told--that would have made you two better friends, would have broken down the wall there always seemed to be between you--or nearly always. (she wouldn't tell you, and i couldn't.) it left her always under a cloud to you, and she felt it. many a time, dan, she has knelt beside me and cried over her troubles to me--and they were troubles, too!--telling them all to me just because i couldn't speak and tell them again. and i won't, unless she lets me. but i don't want to go over the range and know that you two, all your lives, will be apart and cold to each other on account of suspicions i could clear away." "suspicions? no, i have no suspicions against her." "but you have had many a troubled hour because of that man found dead in her room, and his visit to her the night before, and that money she asked for that he was after. all such things that you could not clear her of in your own mind, when you cleared her of murder--they are things i want straightened out before i leave, dan. you have both been good friends to me, and i don't want any bar between you." "what does all that matter now, joe? she is out of our lives, and in a happier one some one else is making for her. i am not likely ever to see her again. she won't come back here." "i know her best; she will come if she is needed. i need her for once; and if you don't send for her, i will, dan. will you send?" but overton got up and walked away without answering. harris thought he would turn back after a little while, but he did not. he watched him out of sight, and he was still going higher up in the hills. "trying to walk away from his desire for her," thought joe, sadly. "well, he never will. he thinks i don't know. poor dan!" then he whistled to a man down below him, and the man came and helped him down to camp, for his feet had grown helpless again in that strange chill of which he had spoken. mrs. huzzard met him at the door of a sitting room, gorgeous as an apartment could well be in the northern wilderness. all the luxuries obtainable were there; for, as harris had to live so much of his time indoors, overton seemed determined that he should get benefit from his new fortune in some way. the finest of furs and of weavings furnished the room, and a dainty little stand held a tea service of shell-pink china, from which the steam floated cheerily. and lorena jane herself partook of the general air of prosperity, as she drew forward a great cushioned chair for the invalid and brought him a cup of fragrant tea. "i just knew you was tired the minute i saw you coming down that hill," she said, filling a cup herself and sitting down to enjoy it. "i knew a cup of tea would do you good, for you ain't quite so brisk as you was a few weeks ago." "no," he agreed, and gulped down the beverage with a dubious expression on his face. he very much preferred whisky as a tonic; but as mrs. huzzard was bound to use that new tea service every day for his benefit, he submitted without a protest and enjoyed most the number of cups she disposed of. "i suppose, now, you got sight from up there on the hill of the two young folks going boat riding?" she remarked, with attempted indifference; and he looked at her questioningly. "oh, i mean lavina and the captain! yes, he did get up ambition enough to paddle a boat and ask her to ride in it; and away they went, giddy as you please!" "i thought you had a high regard for the captain?" remarked harris. "who? me? well, as mr. overton's relation, of course i show him respect," and her tone was almost as pompous as that of the captain used to be. "but i must say, sir, that to admire a man--for me to admire a man--he must have a certain lot of push and ambition. he must be a real american, who don't depend on the record of his dead relations to tell you how great he is--a man who will dig either gold or potatoes if he needs them, and not be afraid of spoiling his hands." "somebody like this new lucky man, mccoy," suggested harris, and she smiled complacently but did not answer. and out on the little creek, sure enough, lavina and the captain were gliding with the current, and the current had got them into dangerous waters. "and you won't say yes, lavina?" he asked, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the bottom of the boat. "i told you yes twenty-five years ago, alf leek," she answered. he sighed helplessly. his old aggressive manner was all gone. the tactics he would adopt for any other woman were useless with this one. she knew him like a book. she had him completely cowed and miserable. no longer did he regale admiring friends with tales of the late war, and incidentally allow himself to be thought a hero. one look from lavina would freeze the story of the hottest battle that ever was fought. to be sure, she had as yet refrained from using words against him; but how long would she refrain? that question he had asked himself until, in despair, a loop-hole from her quiet vengeance had occurred to him, and he had asked her to marry him. "you never could--would marry any one else," he said, pleadingly. "oh, couldn't i?" "and i couldn't, either, lavina," he continued, looking at her sentimentally. but lavina knew better. "you would, if anybody would have you," she retorted. "i know i reached here just in time to keep poor lorena jane from being made a victim of. you would have been a tyrant over her, with your great pretensions, if i hadn't stopped it. you always were tyrannical, alf leek; and the only time you're humble as you ought to be is when you meet some one who can tyrannize over you. you are one of the sort that needs it." "that's why i asked you to marry me," he remarked, meekly. and after a moment she said: "well, thinking of it from that point of view, i guess i will." far up on the heights, a man lying there alone saw the canoe with the man and the woman in it, and it brought back to him keen rushes of memory from the summer time that had been. it was only a year ago that 'tana had stepped into his canoe, and gone with him to the new life of the settlement. how brave she had been! how daring! he liked best to remember her as she had been then, with all the storms and sunshine of her face. he liked to remember that she had said she would be cook for him, but for no other man. of course her words were a child's words, soon forgotten by her. but all her words and looks and their journeys made him love the land he had known her in. they were all the treasures he had with which to comfort his loneliness. and when in the twilight he descended to the camp, joe--or his own longings--had won. "i will send the telegram for you, old fellow," he said, and that was all. chapter xxviii. again on the kootenai. another canoe, with a woman in it, skimmed over the waters in the twilight that evening--a woman with all the gladness of youth in her bright eyes, and an eagerness for the north country that far outstripped the speed of the boat. each dark tree-trunk as it loomed up from the shores, each glint of the after-glow as it lighted the ripples, each whisper of the fresh, soft wind of the mountains, was to her as a special welcome. all of them touched her with the sense of a friendship that had been faithful. that she was no more to them than any of the strangers who came and went on the current, she could not believe; for they all meant so much, so very much to her. she asked for a paddle, that she might once more feel against her strength the strong rush of the mountain river. she caressed its waves and reached out her hands to the bending boughs, and laughter and sighs touched her lips. "never again!" she whispered, as if a promise was being made; "never again! my wilderness!" the man who had charge of the canoe--a stalwart, red-whiskered man of perhaps forty-five--looked at her a good deal in a cautious way. she was so unlike any of the girls he had ever seen--so gay, so free of speech with each stranger or indian who came their way; so daintily garbed in a very correct creation of some city tailor; and, above all, so tenderly careful of a child who slept among the rugs at her feet, and looked like a bit of pink blossom against the dark furs. "you are a stranger here, aren't you?" she asked the man. "i saw no one like you running a boat here last summer." "no, no," he said, slowly; "i didn't then. my camp is east of bonner's ferry, quite a ways; but i get around here sometimes, too. i don't run a boat only for myself; but when they told me a lady wanted to get to twin springs, i didn't allow no scrub indians to take her if my boat was good enough." "it is a lovely boat," she said, admiringly; "the prettiest i ever saw on this river, and it is very good of you to bring me yourself. that is one of the things makes me realize i am in the west once more--to be helped simply because i am a girl alone. and you didn't even know my name when you offered to bring me." "no, but i did before i left shore," he answered; "and then i counted myself kind of lucky. i--i've heard so much about you, miss, from folks up at twin springs; from one lady there in particular--mrs. huzzard." "oh! so you know her, do you?" she asked, and wondered at the self-conscious look with which he owned up that he did--a little. "a little? oh, that is not nearly enough," she said, good-naturedly. "lorena jane is worth knowing a good deal of." "that's my opinion, too," he agreed; "but a fellow needs some help sometimes, if he ain't over handy with the gift of gab." "well, now, i should not think you would need much help," she answered. "you ought to be the sort she would make friends with quick enough." "oh, yes--friends," he said, and sent the canoe on with swifter, stronger strokes. the other boat, paddled by indians and carrying baggage, was left far behind. "you make this run often?" she asked, with a little wonder as to who the man was. his dress was much above the average, his boat was a beautiful and costly thing, and she had not learned, in the haste of her departure, who her boatman was. "not very often. haven't been up this way for two weeks now." "but that is often," she said. "are you located in this country?" "well--yes, i have been. i struck a silver lode across the hills in yon direction. i've sold out and am only prospecting around just now, not settled anywhere yet. my name is mccoy." "mccoy!" and like a flash she remembered the post-script of mrs. huzzard's letter. "oh, yes--i've heard of you." "you have? well, that's funny. i didn't know my name had got beyond the ranges." "didn't you? well, it got across the country to manhattan island--that's where i was when it reached me," and she smiled quizzically. "you know mrs. huzzard writes me letters sometimes." "and do you mean--did she--" "yes, she did--mentioned your name very kindly, too," she said, as he hesitated in a confused way. then, with all the gladness of home-coming in her heart and her desire that no heart should be left heavy, she added: "and, really, as i told you before, i don't think you need much help." the kindly, smiling eyes of the man thanked her, as he drove the canoe through the clear waters. above them the stars were commencing to gleam faintly, and all the sweet odors of the dusk floated by them, and the sweetest seemed to come to her from the north. "we will not stop over--let us go on," she said, when he spoke of sinna ferry. "i can paddle while you rest at times, or we can float there on the current if we both grow tired; but let us keep going." but ere they reached the little settlement, a canoe swept into sight ahead of them and when it came near, captain leek very nearly fell over the side of it in his anxiety to make himself known to miss rivers. "strangest thing in the world!" he declared. "here i am, sent down to telegraph you and wait a week if need be until an answer comes; and half-way on my journey i meet you just as if the message had reached you in some way before it was even put on paper. extraordinary thing--very!" "you were going to telegraph me? what for?" and the lightness of her heart was chased away by fear. "is--is any one hurt?" "hurt? not a bit of it. but harris thinks he is worse and wanted you, until dan concluded to ask you to come. i have the message here somewhere," and he drew out a pocket-book. "dan asked me to come? let me see it, please," and she unfolded the paper and read the words he had written--the only time she had ever seen his writing in a message to her. a lighted match threw a flickering light over the page, on which he said: "joe is worse. he wants you. will you come back? "dan overton." she folded it up and held it tight in her hand under the cloak she wore. he had sent for her! ah! how long the night would be, for not until dawn could she answer his message. "we will go on," she said. "can't you spare us a boatman? mr. mccoy has outstripped our indian extras who have our outfit, and he needs a little rest, though he won't own up." "why, of course! our errand is over, too, so we'll turn back with you. i just passed akkomi a few miles back. he is coming north with the season, as usual. i thought the old fellow would freeze out with the winter; but there he was drifting north to a camping-place he wanted to reach before stopping. i suppose we'll have him for a neighbor all summer again." the girl, remembering his antipathy to all of the red race, laughed and raised in her arms the child, that had awakened. "all i needed to perfect my return to the kootenai country was the presence of akkomi," she confessed. "i should have missed him, for he was my first friend in the valley. and it may be, mr. mccoy, that if he is inclined to be friendly to-night, i may ask him to take me the rest of the way. i want to talk to him. he is an old friend." "certainly," agreed mccoy; but he evidently thought her desire was a very peculiar one. "but you will have a friend at court just the same--whether i go all the way with you or not," she said and smiled across at him knowingly. captain leek heard the words, too, and must have understood them, for he stared stonily at the big, good-looking miner. their greeting had been very brief; evidently they were not congenial spirits. "is that a--a child?" asked the captain, as the little creature drooped drowsily with its face against 'tana's neck; "really a child?" "really a child," returned the girl, "and the sweetest, prettiest little thing in the world when her eyes are open." as he continued to stare at her in astonishment while their boats kept opposite each other, she added: "you would have sooner expected to see me with a pet bear, or wolf, wouldn't you?" "yes; i think i would," he confessed, and she drew the child closer and kissed it and laughed happily. "that is because you only know one side of me," she said. the stars were thick overhead, and their clear light made the night beautiful. when they reached the boats of akkomi, only a short parley was held, and then an indian canoe darted out ahead of the others. two dark experts bent to the paddles and old akkomi sat near the girl and the child. looking in their dusky faces, 'tana realized more fully that she was again in the land of the kootenais. it was just as she would have chosen to come back, and close against her heart was pressed the message by which he had called her. the child slept, but she and the old indian talked now and then in low tones all through the night. she felt no weariness. the air she breathed was as a tonic against fatigue, and when the canoe veered to the left and entered the creek leading to camp, she knew her journey was almost over. the dusk was yet over the land, a faint whiteness touched the eastern edge of the night and told of the dawn to come, but it had not arrived. the camp was wrapped in silence. only the watch-man of the ore-sheds was awake, and came tramping down to the shore when their paddles dipped in the water and told him a boat was near. it was the man saunders. "miss rivers!" he exclaimed, incredulously. "well, if this isn't luck! harris will about drop dead with joy when he sees you. he took worse just after dark last night. he says he is worse, though he can talk yet. i was with him a little while, and how he did worry because you wouldn't get here before he was done for! overton has been with him all night; went to bed only an hour ago. i'll call the folks up for you." "no," said the girl, hastily; "call no one yet. i will go to joe if you will take me. if he is so bad, that will be best. let the rest sleep." "can i carry the--the baby?" he asked, doubtfully, and took the child in his arms with a sort of fear lest it should break. he was not the sort of man to be needlessly curious, so he showed no surprise at the rather strange adjunct to her outfit, but carried the little sleeper into the pretty sitting room, where he deposited it on a couch, and the girl arranged it comfortably, that it might at last have undisturbed rest. a man in an adjoining room heard their voices and came to the door. "you can come out for a while, kelly," said saunders. "this is miss rivers. she will want to see him." a minute later the man in charge had left 'tana alone beside harris. all the life in him seemed to gather in his eyes as he looked at her. "you have come! i told him you would--i told dan," he whispered, excitedly. "come close; turn up the light; i want to see you plain. just the same girl; but happier--a heap happier, ain't you?" "a heap happier," she agreed. "and i helped you about it some--about the mine, i mean. i like to think of that, to think i made some return for the harm i done you." "but you never did me any harm, joe." "yes, i did--lots. you didn't know--but i did. that's why i wanted you to come so bad. i wanted to square things--before i had to go." "but you are all right, joe. you are not going to die. you are much better than when i saw you last." "because i can talk, you think so," he answered. "but i am cold to my waist--i know what that means; and i ain't grumbling. it's all right, now that you have come. queer that all the time we've known each other, this is the first time i've talked to you! 'tana, you must let me tell dan overton all--" "all! all what?" "where i saw you first, and--" "no--no, i can't do that," she said, shrinking back. "joe, i've tried often to think of it--of telling him, but i never could. he will have to trust or distrust me, but i can't tell him." "i know how you feel; but you wrong yourself. any one would give you credit instead of blaming you--don't you ever think of that? and then--then, 'tana, i tried to tell him down at the ferry, because i thought you were in some game against him. i managed to tell him you were holly's partner, but hadn't got any farther when the paralysis caught me. i hadn't time to tell him that holly was your father, and that he made you go where he said; or that you dressed as a boy and was called 'monte,' because that disguise was the only safety possible for you in the gambling dens where he took you. part of it i didn't understand clearly at that time. i didn't know you really thought he was dead, and that you tramped alone into this region in your boy's clothes, so you could get a new start where no white folks knew you. i told him just enough to wrong you in his eyes, and then could not tell him enough to right you again. now do you know why i want you to let me tell him all--while i can?" it had taken him a long time to say the words; his articulation had grown indistinct at times, and the excitement was wearing on him. once the door into the room where the child lay swung open noiselessly, and he had turned his eyes in that direction; but the girl's head was bowed on the arm of his chair, and she did not notice it. "and then--there are other things," he continued. "he don't know you were the boy fannie spoke of in that letter; or that she gave you the plot of this land; or, more--far more to me!--that you took care of her till she died. all that must give him many a worried thought, 'tana, that you never counted on, for he liked you--and yet all along he has been made to think wrong of you." "i know," she assented. "he blamed me for--for a man being in my cabin that night, and i--i wanted him to--think well of me; but i could not tell him the truth, i was ashamed of it all my life. and the shame has got in my blood till i can't change it. i want him to know, but i can't tell him." "you don't need to," said a voice back of her, and she arose to see overton standing in the door. "i did not mean to listen; but i stopped to look at the child, and i heard. i hope you are not sorry," and he came over to her with outstretched hand. she could not speak at first. she had dreamed of so many ways in which she would meet him--of what she would say to him; and now she stood before him without a word. "don't be sorry, 'tana," he said, and tightened his hand over her own. "i honor you for what i heard just now. you were wrong not to tell me; i might have saved you some troubles." "i was ashamed--ashamed!" she said, and turned away. "but it is not to me all this should be told," he said, more coldly. "max is the one to know; or, maybe, he does know." "he knows a little--not much. seldon and haydon recognized--holly. so the family knew that, but no more." it was so hard for her to talk to him there, where harris looked from one to the other expectantly. and then the child slipped from the couch and came toddling into the light and to the girl. "tana--bek-fas!" she lisped, imperatively. "bek-fas." "yes, you shall have your breakfast very soon," promised the girl. "but come and shake hands with these gentlemen." she surveyed them each with baby scrutiny, and refused. "bek-fas" was all the world contained that she would give attention to just then. "you with a baby, 'tana?" said harris. "have you adopted one?" "not quite," and she wished--how she wished it was all over! "her mother, who is dead, gave her to me. but she has a father. i have come up here to see what he will say." "up here!" "yes. but i must go and find some one to get her breakfast. then--dan--i would like to see you." he bowed and started to follow her, but harris called him back. "this spurt of strength has about done for me," he said. "the cold is creeping up fast. i want to tell you something else. don't tell her till i am gone, for she wouldn't touch my hand if she knew it. i killed lee holly!" "you didn't--you couldn't!" "i did. i was able to walk long before you knew it, but i lay low. i knew if he was living, he would come where she was, sooner or later, and i knew the gold would fetch him, so i waited. i could hardly keep from killing him as he left her cabin that first night, but she had told him to come back, and i knew that would be my time. she thought once it might be me, but changed her mind. don't tell her till i am gone, dan. and--listen! you are everything to her, and you don't know it. i knew it before she left, but--oh, well, it's all square now, i guess. she won't blame me--after i'm dead. she knows he deserved it. she knew i meant to kill him, if ever i was able." "but why?" "don't you know? he was the man--my partner--who took fannie away. don't you--understand?" "yes," and overton, after a moment, shook hands with him. "i didn't want 'tana to go back on me--while i lived," he whispered. it was his one reason for keeping silence--the dread that she could never talk to him freely, nor ever clasp his hand again; and overton promised his wish should be regarded. when he went to find 'tana, mrs. huzzard had possession of her, and the two women were seeing that the baby got her "bek-fas," and doing some talking at the same time. "and he's got his new boat, has he?" she was saying. "well, now! and it's to be a new house next, and a fine one, he says, if he can only get the right woman to live in it," and she smoothed her hair complacently. "he thinks a heap of fine manners in a woman, too; and right enough, for he'll have an elegant home to put one in and she never to wet her hands in dish-water! but he is so backward like; but maybe this time--" "oh, you must cure him of that," laughed the girl. "he is a splendid fellow, and i won't forgive you if you don't marry him before the summer is over." at that instant overton opened the door. "if you are ready now to see me--" he began, and she nodded her head and went toward him, her face a little pale and visibly embarrassed. then she turned and went back. "come, toddles," she said; "you come with 'tana." a faint flush was tingeing the east, and over the water-courses a silvery mist was spread. she looked out from the window and then up the mountain. "let us go out--up on the bluff," she suggested. "i have been shut up in houses so long! i want to feel that the trees are close to me again." he assented in silence and the child, having appeased its hunger, was disposed to be more gracious, and the little hands were reached to him while she said: "up." he lifted her to his shoulder, where she laughed down in high glee at the girl who walked beside in silence. it was so much easier to plan, while far away from him, what she would say, than to say it. but he himself broke the silence. "you call her toddles," he remarked. "it is not a pretty name for so pretty a child. has she no other one?" they had reached the bluff above the camp that was almost a town now. she sat down on a log and wished she could keep from trembling so. "yes--she has another one--a pretty one, i think," she said, at last. "it is gracie--grace--" she looked up at him appealingly. but the emotion in her face made his lips tighten. he had heard so many revelations of her that morning. what was this last to be? "well," he said, coldly, "that is a pretty name, so far as it goes; but what is the rest of it?" "overton," she said, in a low voice, and his face flushed scarlet. "what do you mean?" he asked, harshly, and the little one, disliking his tone, reached her arms to 'tana. "whose child is this?" "your child." "it is not true." "it is true," she answered, as decidedly as himself. "her mother--the woman you married--told me so when she was dying." he stared at her incredulously. "i wouldn't believe her even then," he answered. "but how does it come that you--" "you don't need to claim her, if you don't want to," she said, ignoring all his astonishment. "her mother gave her to me. she is mine, unless you claim her. i don't care who her father was--or her mother, either. she is a helpless, innocent little child, thrown on the world--that is all the certificate of parentage i am asking for. she shall have what i never had--a childhood." he walked back and forth several times, turning sometimes to look at the girl, whom the child was patting on the cheek while she put up her little red mouth every now and then for kisses. "her mother is dead?" he asked at last, halting and looking down at her. she thought his face was very hard and stern, and did not know it was because he, too, longed to take her in his arms and ask for kisses. "her mother is dead." "then--i will take the child, if you will let me." "i don't know," she said, and tried to smile up at him. "you don't seem very eager." "and you came back here for that?" he said, slowly, regarding her. "'tana, what of max? what of your school?" "well, i guess i have money enough to have private teachers out here for the things i don't know--and there are several of them! and as for max--he didn't say much. i saw mr. seldon in chicago and he scolded me when i told him i was coming back to the woods to stay--" "to stay?" and he took a step nearer to her. "'tana!" "don't you want me to?" she asked. "i thought maybe--after what you said to me in the cabin--that day--" "you'd better be careful!" he said. "don't make me remember that unless--unless you are willing to tell me what i told you that day--unless you are willing to say that you--care for me--that you will be my wife. god knows i never hoped to say this to you. i have fought myself into the idea that you belong to max. but now that it is said--answer me!" she smiled up at him and kissed the child happily. "what shall i say?" she asked. "you should know without words. i told you once i would make coffee for no man but you. do you remember? well, i have come back to you for that. and see! i don't wear max's ring any longer. don't you understand?" "that you have come back to _me_--'tana!" "now don't eat me! i may not always be a blessing, so don't be too jubilant. i have bad blood in my veins, but you have had fair warning." he only laughed and drew her to him, and she could never again say no man had kissed her. "'tana!" said the child, "'ook." she looked where the little hand pointed and saw all the clouds of the east flooded with gold, and higher up they lay blushing above the far hills. a new day was creeping over the mountains to banish shadows from the kootenai land. the end florence l. barclay's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the white ladies of worcester a novel of the th century. the heroine, believing she had lost her lover, enters a convent. he returns, and interesting developments follow. the upas tree a love story of rare charm. it dealt with a successful author and his wife. through the postern gate the story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages vanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration of abiding love. the rosary the story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all else in the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life's greatest happiness. a rare story of the great passion of two real people superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward. the mistress of shenstone the lovely young lady ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a husband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who is ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. when he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed. the broken halo the story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in childhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years older than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted. the following of the star the story of a young missionary, who, about to start for africa, marries wealthy diana rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of her uncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and are reunited after experiences that soften and purify. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york ethel m. dell's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the lamp in the desert the scene of this splendid story is laid in india and tells of the lamp of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to final happiness. greatheart the story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul. the hundredth chance a hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance." the swindler the story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith. the tidal wave tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false. the safety curtain a very vivid love story of india. the volume also contains four other long stories of equal interest. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york eleanor h. porter's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. just david the tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the hearts of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left. the road to understanding a compelling romance of love and marriage. oh, money! money! stanley fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of his relatives, sends them each a check for $ , , and then as plain john smith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment. six star ranch a wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on six star ranch. dawn the story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf of despair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to the service of blind soldiers. across the years short stories of our own kind and of our own people. contains some of the best writing mrs. porter has done. the tangled threads in these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of all her other books. the tie that binds intensely human stories told with mrs. porter's wonderful talent for warm and vivid character drawing. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york "storm country" books by grace miller white may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. judy of rogues' harbor judy's untutored ideas of god, her love of wild things, her faith in life are quite as inspiring as those of tess. her faith and sincerity catch at your heart strings. this book has all of the mystery and tense action of the other storm country books. tess of the storm country it was as tess, beautiful, wild, impetuous, that mary pickford made her reputation as a motion picture actress. how love acts upon a temperament such as hers--a temperament that makes a woman an angel or an outcast, according to the character of the man she loves--is the theme of the story. the secret of the storm country the sequel to "tess of the storm country," with the same wild background, with its half-gypsy life of the squatters--tempestuous, passionate, brooding. tess learns the "secret" of her birth and finds happiness and love through her boundless faith in life. from the valley of the missing a haunting story with its scene laid near the country familiar to readers of "tess of the storm country." rose o' paradise "jinny" singleton, wild, lovely, lonely, but with a passionate yearning for music, grows up in the house of lafe grandoken, a crippled cobbler of the storm country. her romance is full of power and glory and tenderness. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the trail of the lonesome pine. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _footprints of a girl_. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish footprints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." the little shepherd of kingdom come illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. a knight of the cumberland. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland; the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners' fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york zane grey's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the man of the forest the desert of wheat the u. p. trail wildfire the border legion the rainbow trail the heritage of the desert riders of the purple sage the light of western stars the last of the plainsmen the lone star ranger desert gold betty zane last of the great scouts the life story of "buffalo bill" by his sister helen cody wetmore, with foreword and conclusion by zane grey. zane grey's books for boys ken ward in the jungle the young lion hunter the young forester the young pitcher the short stop the red-headed outfield and other baseball stories grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. all other inconsistencies are as in the original. a man of two countries a man _of_ two countries by alice harriman author of songs o' the sound, chaperoning adrienne through the yellowstone, songs o' the olympics, etc. chapter headings by c. m. dowling the alice harriman company new york & seattle copyright , by the alice harriman company all rights reserved printed by the premier press new york u. s. a. to the reader prior to the days of the cowboy and the range, the settler and irrigation, the state and the province, an ebb and flow of indians, traders, trappers, wolfers, buffalo-hunters, whiskey smugglers, missionaries, prospectors, united states soldiery and newly organized north west mounted police crossed and recrossed the international boundary between the american northwest and what was then known as the "whoop up country." this heterogeneous flotsam and jetsam held some of the material from which montana evolved its later statehood. to one who came to know and to love the region after the surging tide had exterminated the buffalo and worse than exterminated the indian,--to one who appreciates the limitless possibilities of the splendid commonwealth of montana on the one side and the great province of alberta on the other of that invisible line which now draws together instead of separating men of a common tongue, this period seems tremendously interesting. the "local color" has, perhaps, not been squeezed from too many tubes. types stand out; never individuals. as types, therefore, the characters of this book weave their story as the shuttle of time, filled with the woof of hidden purpose and open deed, runs through the warp of their friendships and enmities. and with the less attractive strands the shifting harness of place and circumstance enmeshes a thread of love's gold. book i. the river book ii. the prairie book iii. the state table of contents book i i. twisting the lion's tail ii. the girl on the fontenelle book ii i. under the union jack ii. hate iii. the hot blood of youth iv. the return to fort benton book iii i. visitors from helena ii. charlie blair's sister iii. a man of two countries iv. the state republican convention v. despair vi. il trovatore vii. debauching a legislature viii. danvers' discouragement ix. a frontier knock x. wheels within wheels xi. the chinese legend xii. recognition xiii. the lobbyist xiv. the keystone xv. an unpremeditated speech xvi. the election [illustration] book i _the river_ _"i beheld the westward marches of the ... nations, restless, struggling, toiling, striving."_ --_longfellow_ [illustration] chapter i twisting the lion's tail philip danvers, heading a small party of horsemen, galloped around the corner of a warehouse and pulled up on the levee at bismarck as the mate of the _far west_ bellowed, "let 'er go!" "hold on!" he shouted, leaping from his mount. "why in blazes!" the mate's impatience flared luridly as he ordered the gang-plank replaced. his heat ignited the smouldering resentment of the passengers, and they, too, exploded. "we're loaded to the guards now!" yelled one. "yeh can't come aboard!" threatened another. "haven't yeh got a full passenger list a'ready, captain?" demanded a blustering, heavy-set man with beetling eyebrows, as he pushed himself angrily through the crowding men to the deck-rail. "can't help it if i have, burroughs," retorted the autocrat of the river-boat. "these troopers are recruits for the north west mounted police----" "the hell yeh say!" philip danvers noted the unfriendly eye, and realized that this burly fellow dominated even the captain. "their passage was engaged three months ago," went on the officer. "it's nothing to me," affirmed burroughs, reddening in his effort to regain his surface amenity. the young trooper, superintending the loading of the horses, resented the manifest unfriendliness toward the english recruits. a dreary rain added discomfort, and the passengers growled at the slow progress hitherto made against the spring floods of the turbulent missouri and this prolonged delay at bismarck. as he went up the gang-plank and walked along the deck, bits of conversation came to him. "he looks like an officer," said one, with a jerk of his thumb in his direction. "an officer! where? d'yeh mean the dark-haired one?" the voice was that of burroughs again, and as danvers met his insolent eye an instant antagonism flashed between the roughly dressed frontiersman and the lean-flanked, broad-shouldered english youth. "hello! 'f there ain't toe string joe!" continued burroughs, recognizing the last to come on board, as the line was cast off and the steamer backed into the stream. "what you doin' here, joe?" "i met up with these here britishers when they came in on the train from the east, an' i'm goin' t' enlist," admitted the shambling joe, his breath confirming his appearance. "where you been?" "back to the states to get my outfit. i'm goin' ter start in fer myself up to fort macleod. so you've decided to be a damned britisher, eh?" burroughs reverted to joe's statement. "yeh'll have to take the oath of allegiance fer three years of enlistment. did yeh know that?" he closed one eye, as if speculating how this might further his own interests. "you'll make a fine police, joe, you will!" he jeered in conclusion. "you goin' to fort macleod?" questioned joe. "you'll git no trade in canada!" "don't yeh ever think it!" returned burroughs, with a look that danvers sub-consciously noted. beyond the crowd he saw a child, held by a man with a scarred face. his involuntary look of amazement changed the pensiveness of her delicate face to animation, and she returned his smile. this unexpected exchange of friendship restored his self-respect and his anger evaporated. he recalled the childhood spent in english lanes with his only sister. he beckoned enticingly, and soon she came near, shy and lovely. "what's your name, little girl?" "winifred." "that's a pretty name," said the young trooper. "are you going to fort benton with your papa?" "no. papa's dead--and--mamma. that's my brother," indicating the man who had held her. "he came to get me. his name is charlie." "dear little girl!" thought philip danvers, as the child ran to brotherly arms. "howdy!" charlie gave unconventional greeting as he took a bench near by. "i've been getting acquainted with your sister," explained the englishman. "glad of it. winnie's afraid of most o' the men, an' there aren't more'n three white women up the river. i've had to bring her back with me, and i don't know much about children. but there's one good old lady at benton," the frontiersman proceeded, cheerfully. "she'll look after her. you see, i'm away most of the time. i'm a freighter between the head of navigation and the whoop up country--fort macleod." "oh!" "i got the contract to haul the supplies for the north west mounted police this spring. i'll be in fort macleod 'most as soon as you, i reckon. what is it, winnie?" he questioned, as the child drew shrinking closer to him. "i don't like that man," asserted winifred, as robert burroughs passed. "you mustn't say that, winnie," reproved charlie. "burroughs"--addressing philip--"sweet oil bob, we call him, is goin' to start a new tradin' post at macleod. he's clerked at fort benton till he knows more about the profits of an injun tradin' post than any man on the river! yeh'll likely see quite a little o' him. most of the canadian traders 'd rather he stayed this side o' the line." "surely there are other american traders in this whoop up country, as you call it." "not so many--no. but sweet oil bob is shrewd, an' the canadians are afraid he'll get the biggest share o' the injun trade. you know how it is." before danvers could answer, his attention was caught by: "the ambition of my life is to sit on the supreme bench of some state," spoken by a fair-haired young man as he passed with a taller, older one. "montana will be a state, some day," the would-be judge went on, eagerly boyish. "hello, doc," called charlie, as he sighted the elder pedestrian. "stop a minute." before the invitation was accepted the physician gave impetus to the other's desire. "hope your hopes, latimer. honorable and honest endeavor will reach the most exalted position." then he put out his hand to the child, who clasped it affectionately. "well, charlie," he smiled genially at the english lad as well as on his former river travelers. "how goes it?" "all right," returned charlie, amiably. "so latimer wants to dabble in territorial politics, eh?" "i didn't say so," flushed the embryonic lawyer. "i said i'd like to be a judge on the supreme bench, some day. i'm going to settle in montana, and----" "what do you think about politics?" suddenly quizzed charlie, turning to danvers. "i'd not risk losing your friendship," smiled philip, "by stating what an englishman's opinion of american politics are." "better not," laughed the doctor, with a keen glance of appraisal. "i'll admit they're rotten," latimer hastened to add. "but i'd love to play the game. no political affiliations should bias my decision." "bet you'll be glad to get home, doc." charlie changed the subject, so foreign to his out-of-door interests. "you can't keep the doctor away from fort benton," he explained to the two strangers. "he thinks she's got a big future, don't you, doc?" "to be sure! to be sure!" corroborated the physician, as his arm went around the little girl. "fort benton will be a second st. louis! mark my words, latimer." he turned to his companion, whose charm of manner appealed unconsciously to the reserved danvers. "i hope your predictions may prove correct, since i am to set up a law office there," replied latimer. "and you?" he turned to include philip danvers in a smile which the lonely englishman never forgot. "he an' i 's for fort macleod," explained scar faced charlie, before philip could speak. these ready frontiersmen had a way of taking the words out of his mouth. "he's for the mounted police, yeh know, an' i'm freightin' in the supplies. an' what d'yeh think, doc? toe string joe says he's goin' to enlist when we get to fort benton. burroughs won't mind havin' him in the force." "isn't it unusual for canadian troopers to come through the united states?" inquired arthur latimer. this time it was the doctor who answered the question directed toward the silent danvers. "the first companies marched overland from winnipeg two years ago, when the north west mounted police was organized, and a tough time they had. they were six months making it, what with hostile indians and one thing and another, and at last they got lost in an awful snowstorm (winter set in early that year), and they nearly died of cold and starvation--most of their horses did. an indian brought word to one of the trading posts. remember that rescue, charlie?" he turned for corroboration to the freighter, but continued, without waiting for an answer that was quite unnecessary to prod the reminiscent doctor. "fort macleod is only two hundred miles north of fort benton," he concluded, "and i understand the recruits will hereafter be taken into the whoop up country by way of the missouri." the blue eyes of the lawyer instinctively sought the dark ones of the young trooper in a bond of subtle feeling at this recital of pioneer life. it was all in the future for them. "we came from ottawa by rail to bismarck," explained danvers at the unspoken question, "and brought our horses." "they are a civil force under military discipline," added the doctor to latimer's questioning eyes. as they talked, the steamboat came to a series of rapids, and danvers and latimer went to the prow to watch the warping of the boat over the obstruction. burroughs stood near, and took no pains to lower his voice as he remarked to the mate: "jes' watch my smoke. i'm goin' to twist the lion's tail." "meanin' the feller with the black hair?" the mate looked critically at danvers. "better leave him alone, burroughs," he advised. "yeh've been achin' to git at him ever since yeh set eyes on him. what's eatin' yeh?" "yeh talk too much with yer mouth," flung back burroughs, as he moved toward the englishman. "ever been up the river before?" he demanded of danvers. "no." philip barely glanced away from the lusty roustabouts working the donkey engines. "are yeh a 'non-com' or a commissioned officer?" the young recruit turned stiffly, surprised at the persistence. "neither," he answered, laconically, returning to the survey of the swearing, sweating crew. several bystanders laughed, and the mate remarked: "you'll git nothin' outer that pilgrim that's enlightenin', bob. he's too clost mouthed." "some say 'neether' an' some say 'nayther,' but 'nyther' is right," sneered burroughs, "fer the prince o' wales says 'nyther.'" danvers, disdaining to notice the cheap wit, watched the brilliant sunshine struggling through the lessening rain as it danced from eddy to sand-bar, from rapids to half-submerged snags. the boiling river whitened as the steamboat labored to deeper water above the rapids. the islands, flushed with the fresh growth of a northern spring, and the newly formed shore-line where the capricious missouri had recently undermined a stretch of bank, gave character to the scene, as did the delicately virent leaves of swirling willow, quaking aspens and cottonwoods loosened from their place on shore to float in midstream. a party of yelling crees attracted their attention, and the stranger's indifference gave a combative twist to burroughs' remark: "them's canadian injuns." something in his tone made the men draw nearer. was it a sneer? a slur on all things english? a challenge to resent the statement, and resenting, to show one's mettle? frontiersmen on the upper missouri fought at a word in the early seventies. no need for cause. men had been shot for less animus than burroughs displayed. "a fight?" asked scar faced charlie, drawn from the cabin. "no; a prayer-meeting," toe string joe gave facetious answer. "run back to our stateroom, winnie," said charlie, as he glanced at burroughs' face. "what's the matter?" he inquired as she obeyed. "search me." joe still acted as fourth dimension. "bob and danvers seem to hate each other on sight." burroughs moved nearer the quiet trooper. "the mounted police think they're goin' to stop whiskey sellin' to the injuns," he began. "but they can't. i know----" a meaning wink at his friends implied disloyalty even in the force. the baited youth faced the trader, his countenance darkening. but his hand unclasped as he started for the cabin with latimer. why notice this loud talk? why debase himself by fighting this unknown bully? his bearing voiced his thoughts. the expectant crowd looked noncommittally at the tall smokestacks, at the snags. burroughs laughed noisily. "'the widdy at windsor' 's got another pretty!" he taunted. hate flared suddenly from his deep-set eyes; he could not have analyzed its cause. "jes' cut loose from home an' mammy," he continued, intemperately. "perhaps he's the queen's latest favorite, boys. we all know what women are!" what was it? a crash of thunder? a living bolt of fire? something threw the intervening men violently to the deck. the stripling who had accepted the traditional shilling brushed the crowd aside and knocked down the slanderer of all women--and of his queen! "take that back!" philip breathed, not shouted, as one less angry might have done. "you will not? you shall!" burroughs sprang to his feet instantly and returned the blow valiantly. he did not draw his colt's as frontiersmen were prone to do, for he thought that a knock-down fight would show that a man must not stand too much on dignity on the upper missouri. besides, the lad was english, therefore to be punished. at once the trifling affair widened into a promiscuous scrimmage of recruits against civilians. in the excitement winifred, frightened at the uproar, came searching for her brother, just as danvers again delivered a blow that sent burroughs reeling against the deck railing. it was not strong enough to withstand the collision and the aggressor in the fight barely kept his balance as the wood broke. but winifred, pushed forward by the struggling men, clutched at the air and dropped into the whirling yellow river far below. "my god!" groaned charlie, springing after her. but his leap was preceded by that of philip danvers. the alarm was given; the engines reversed. as the roustabouts jumped to lower the boats the men pressed forward, but the mate beat them back and got the crew to work. nowhere could the soft curls be seen. charlie, nearly drawn into the revolving paddles, was taken into the boat. presently the watchers saw winifred's little red dress caught on an uprooted sapling. tree and child were in the center of the current. while so much debris stayed near the shore or drifted on the shallow sand-bars, this one tree with its human freight hurried on. "save her! save her!" sobbed scar faced charlie, kept by force from jumping again into the stream. "_let me go!_" he roared. "no, charlie," said the mate firmly. "we're goin' to pick up yer sister an' danvers. no need fer yeh to risk yer life again. that english lad is goin' to turn the trick." philip swam on, strongly, while vociferous ejaculations reached him. "that feller's got sand!" he heard joe say, as he dexterously avoided a whirlpool and dodged a snag. "he's a fool!" "he'll drown, an' the girl, too!" "it's caught--he'll overtake her!" a devilfish-like snag held tree and burden. with a burst of speed philip swam alongside. winifred? thank god! still alive, although unconscious; face white, eyes closed. as he grasped her, her eyes opened. * * * * * after the excitement, the shouts and the cursings, the crashing of wood and the fighting, quiet reigned on the _far west_. robert burroughs, sitting in the long northern twilight, rubbed his sore muscles while scar faced charlie and the doctor paced the deck. "danvers did a big thing. he saved my sister's life. i'll never forget it. if the time ever comes i'll do as much for him," declared charlie. "perhaps you may," mused the doctor. "we can never tell what the future holds. perhaps you'll not save his life, but life isn't everything. he may ask you to do something that you won't want to do." the grating of the steamer on a sand-bar interrupted him. brought into high relief by the rising moon, the lead-man stationed forward called: "four feet scant--four feet--by the lead five n' a half! no bottom!" then came: "three--t-h-r-e-e--f-e-e-t--scant!" again the boat scraped the sand. as the pilot shouted down the tube to the engineers to pile on more steam charlie reverted to the rescue. "danvers looked pretty well used up when he was brought aboard. but darned if he yipped. he was all for lookin' after winnie." "i like the lad," nodded the doctor approvingly. "he has the gift of silence. shakespeare says: 'give thy thoughts no tongue.'" in their next turn they saw burroughs. "it'll never do for you to locate at macleod, bob, 'f you're goin' to aggravate every recruit you don't happen to like," suggested charlie, with the privilege of friendship. "i was a fool!" burroughs confessed. "but somehow that youngster----" "you an' he'll always be like two bull buffalo in a herd," said charlie, wisely. "i'll do him yet," snarled burroughs, as he rose to go to the cabin. [illustration] chapter ii the girl on the _fontenelle_ the passengers on the _far west_ rose early. danvers stood watching the slow sun uplift from the gently undulating prairie. he threw back his head, his lungs expanded as though he could not get enough of the air. he did not know why, but he suddenly felt himself a part of the country--felt that this great, open country was his. the banks of the missouri were not high and he had an unobstructed view of the vast, grassy sea rolling uncounted miles away to where the sky came down to the edge of the world. the song of the meadow lark, sweet and incessant as it balanced on a rosin-weed, of the lark bunting and lark finch, poured forth melodiously; twittering blue-birds looked into the air and back to their perch atop the dead cottonwood as they gathered luckless insects; the brown thrush, which sings the night through in the bright starlight, rivaled the robin and grosbeak as philip gazed over the blue-skyed, green-grassed land. the blue-green of the ocean had not so fascinated as the mysticism of this broad view. he was glad to be alive, and anxious to be in the riot of life on the plains, where trappers, traders and soldiers moved in the strenuous game of making a new world. his abounding vitality had recouped itself after the strain of yesterday and he forgot its unpleasantness in the glorious morning; yet at the sight of burroughs coming from his cabin, the sunlight dulled and involuntarily he felt himself grow tense. "i didn't mean a damn thing," began burroughs awkwardly. "that's all right," broke in philip, as uncomfortable as the other. just then the doctor, with joe and charlie, came on the upper deck. "what 'd i tell you, charlie?" triumphantly asked the physician, as he saw the trader and trooper shaking hands. "what 'd you tell us?" repeated the man with the scarred face, in doubt, as burroughs moved away and danvers turned toward the prow of the boat staring, with eyes that saw not, into the western unknown. "didn't i tell you that bob would do the right thing?" asked the charitable surgeon impatiently, unconscious that he had voiced no such sentiment. the three looked at the river and at the long lances of light streaming from the east, then at the english youth, abstracted, aloof. "perhaps yeh did," assented joe, easily. "but i know one thing. it'll stick in bob's crop that he craw-fished----." a nod indicated his meaning. "somehow danvers strikes me as a stuck-up britisher." "a man shouldn't be damned for his look or his manner," exploded the doctor, although he recognized the truth of the criticism. "he's young and self-conscious. a year or two in the whoop up country will season him and be the making of him." "he'll not always stay in the whoop up country," charlie said, presciently. "i wish i could do something for him," he added. "he'll make his mark--somehow--somewhere." "prophesying, eh?" smiled the doctor. "all right; we'll see." the light-draft, flat-bottomed _far west_ made slow progress. the dead and broken snags, the "sawyers" of river parlance, fast in the sand-bars, seemed waiting to impale the steamboat. the lead-man called unceasingly from his position. one bluff yielded to another, a flat succeeded to a grove where wild roses burst into riotous bloom, and over all lay the enchantment of the gay, palpitant, young summer. the journey was monotonous until, with a bend of the river, they sighted another steamer, the _fontenelle_, stuck fast on spread eagle bar--the worst bar of the missouri. among the passengers at the rail philip danvers saw--could it be? a woman--a white woman, young and beautiful. what could be her mission in that far country which seemed so vast to the young englishman that each day's journey put years of civilization behind him? the girl on the _fontenelle_ was evidently enjoying the situation, and danvers discovered at once that she was holding court on her own boat as well as commanding tribute from the _far west_. the men about him stared eagerly at the slender, imperious figure, while burroughs procured a glass from the mate and feasted his eyes. "i'm goin' to see her at closer range," he declared, and soon had persuaded the captain to let him have a rowboat. philip and latimer, by this time good friends, watched the trader go on board and disappear into the cabin. "the nerve of that man amazes me!" declared latimer. "what can he be thinking of?" "of the girl, and the first chance at fort benton!" answered the doctor, who joined the two in time to catch the remark. "if you'd known bob burroughs as long as i have at fort benton, you wouldn't be surprised at anything. he's determined to win, wherever you put him, and he'll make money easy enough." "but his eagerness and offensiveness----" began danvers. "it isn't so much ignorance," explained the doctor, always ready to give credit wherever due. "he can talk english well enough when he thinks there is any occasion. he's one of the self-made sort, you know. but he doesn't estimate men correctly--puts them all a little too low--and that's where he's going to lose the game." when burroughs came back he was met with a fusillade of questions. "who is she, bob?" "major thornhill's daughter, eva thornhill." "didn't know he had a daughter," quoth joe. "he never tol' me----" this created a laugh, as joe meant it should. "the major hasn't been so social since he was stationed at fort benton, as to tell us his family affairs," reminded charlie. "bob's thinkin' o' that girl," surmised the mate, openly, as burroughs looked longingly toward the _fontenelle_. the boats, obstructed by the bar, were delayed the better part of two days, and came to feel quite neighborly. the enamoured burroughs made another call, but he came back with a grievance. "she wanted to know who the fellow was with the complexion like a girl's. i told her that if she meant danvers," here he turned toward the object of his comment, "that he was nothin' but a private in the canadian north west mounted police. she wasn't interested then," maliciously. "army girls don't look at anything under a lieutenant, you bet!" seconded toe string joe. "she probably won't even take any notice of me!" "she'd heard, through the captain, about the 'hero' who saved charlie's sister, and she wanted to know all about it," sneered burroughs. "did you tell her how the railin' happened to break?" insinuated charlie. philip danvers remembered the fling. however, what did it matter what miss thornhill thought of him or his position? he would probably never meet her. yet as the _far west_ followed the _fontenelle_ up the river, he watched the girl's face turned, seemingly, toward him; and as the first steamer disappeared around a bend, the alluring eyes seemed like will-o'-the-wisps drawing him on. as he turned, other eyes, soft and affectionate, were upraised to his, and a child's hand crept into his with mute sympathy. and thus by following the endless turn and twist of the erratic missouri; warping over rapids and sticking on sand-bars; running by banks undermined by the flood; shaving here a shore and hugging there a bar; after the tie-ups to clean the boilers, or to get wood, or to wait for the high winds to abate; after perils by water and danger from roving indians, the _far west_ swung around the last curve of the river and behold--fort benton. the passengers cheered; the crowds on the levees answered, while fluttering flags blossomed from boat and adobe fort and trading posts as wild roses blossom in spring. "whew!" whistled the doctor, wiping his forehead as he joined philip and latimer on the prow of the steamer. "it's warm. here we are, at last. i wish," turning to danvers, "that you were going to stay here. latimer and i will miss you." "indeed we shall!" echoed the young lawyer. "here we've just gotten to be friends and you must leave us. but you must write, old boy, and if i don't make a success of the law business at fort benton, i'll run up to fort macleod and make you a visit, while i look over the situation." the americanism of the phrase "law business" struck oddly on british ears, as lacking in dignity. philip thought of "doctor business," "artist business," and wondered if americans spoke thus of all professions. latimer changed the subject. "is this all there is to fort benton?" with a wave of his hand. "sure," answered the doctor, offended, "what did you expect--a st. louis?" "n-o," hesitated the lawyer, divided between a desire to gird at the doctor, or to soothe his civic pride. "but i'll confess i expected a town somewhat larger, for the port of entry of the territory of montana." "thirty years from now fort benton will be a second st. louis," affirmed the doctor, oracularly. "the river traffic will be enormous by that time." the physician's faith in the ultimate settlement of the northwest and fort benton's consequent growth was shared, danvers knew, by many another enthusiast; but as he looked back, mentally, over the lonely, wind-swept miles through which the missouri flowed, uninhabited save by a few adventurers, trappers and indians, the prediction seemed preposterous. "so the town looks small to you, eh?" asked the doctor, returning to latimer's comment. "but let me tell you, fort benton does the business! our boats bring in the year's supply for the mining camps, for the indian agencies, for the military posts and for the canadian mounted police. no other town in the west has its future." the three were silent for a time. the little town was very attractive, nestling in the bend of the missouri and protected by the bluffs in their springtime tints. several stern-wheelers, many mackinaws, and smaller boats lay along the water front. the _fontenelle_, first to arrive, was discharging her cargo. danvers, boy-like, took a certain pride in knowing that even the canadians, through the establishment of the north west mounted police and their immediate needs, were adding to the prosperity of this northwestern center. much sectional talk among the passengers had strengthened his opinion that americans were unfair and unjust to their brothers of a common language, though when it came to business, he noticed that the loudest talkers were the most anxious to secure canadian trade. the longer philip looked at fort benton the more he was attracted. decisions about places are as intuitive as convictions about people. one place is liked, another disliked, and no logical reason can be given for either. fort benton, that blue and golden day, touched his heart so deeply that the sentiment never left him. others might see only a raw, rough frontier trading post; but for the trooper, the glamour of the west was mingled with the faint, curling smoke dissolving into the clear atmosphere. he had been right in his strong impulse to cross the seas! never had he been more sure. by this time the steamer had cautiously nosed its way to its moorings and tied up to a snubbing post. an officer from fort macleod came on board to look after his recruits, and in the bustle of landing philip saw scar faced charlie and little winifred but a moment. soon the doctor and latimer disappeared around the end of a long warehouse on their way to the hotel, after a promise to look him up on the morrow. the captain was ordering his men, and presently burroughs sauntered near. "well, here we are! i wonder 'f i'll see miss thornhill again?" as danvers made no reply. burroughs smiled heavily. "i'll see yeh agin. likely i'll pull m' freight soon after you do and we'll meet at macleod." * * * * * "g'bow thar! ye cussed, texas horned toad! haw, thar! ye bull-headed son of a gun, pull ahead! whoa! haw! ye long-horned, mackerel-back cross between a shanghai rooster an' a mud-hen, i'll skin ye alive in about a minute!" the pop of a bull-whip followed like a pistol shot. these vibrating adjurations, rending the balmy sunday air, would have amazed and shocked the citizens of a more cultured community, but served in fort benton merely to start scar faced charlie's bull-team, loaded almost beyond hauling. charlie's shouts, delivered in the vernacular which he avoided when his small kin was near, waked philip danvers, and soon he was outside the walls of the 'dobe fort which major thornhill had courteously placed at the service of the canadian officer and his recruits. he called to the driver and fell into step beside the bull-team heading for the western bluffs, while the bull-whacker told him that little winifred was being cared for by "a real nice old lady." as he returned to town, after a pleasant good-by, he turned more than once to note the slow, swinging plod of the bulls. finally he walked more briskly, and, finding the doctor and latimer, they sought the levees, where the bustle and hustle of the frontier town were most apparent. early as it was, the river-front was thronged with river-men, american and english soldiers; traders, busy, preoccupied and alert; clerks, examining and checking off goods; bull-whackers and mule-skinners; wolfers and trappers, half-breeds and indians, gamblers and squaws--all constantly shifting and reforming into kaleidoscopic groups and jovial comradeship. everywhere he encountered the covert hostility toward the english, but it was not until late in the afternoon that it became openly manifest. "hi there!" a staggering man hiccoughed as he turned to follow philip and his american friends. "go slow, so's folks c'n take yeh in. i'm goin' to kick yeh off'n the face of the earth," he continued, prodding uncertainly at danvers. "stop, i tell yeh! why do i want yeh to walk slow? 'cos (hic) i want to wipe the road up with yer english hide. yeh think yeh're all ri', but yeh ain't. yeh look's if yeh owned the town, an' yeh're walk's convincin', yeh----" "that's wild cat bill," said the kindly man of drugs, seeking to remove the sting whose effect danvers only partially succeeded in concealing, as they outdistanced the drunken man. "he's ostensibly a wolfer, a man who kills wolves by scattering poisoned buffalo meat on the prairies in winter, you know," he interjected, "and then makes his rounds later to gather up the dead wolves which have feasted not wisely, but too well. he's a great friend of sweet oil bob's." before danvers had time to speak they passed burroughs in close conversation with toe string joe. "those three! bob and joe and bill!" snorted the doctor contemptuously. "you'll likely see considerable of bob's friends if he goes to macleod. he might be 'most anything he liked--he's clever enough, but unscrupulous. he's crafty enough to get the most of his work done by his confreres. he can speak english as well as i can, but he thinks bad grammar will give him a stand-in with the frontiersmen. and it's easy for a man to live on a lower level. he'll be sorry some day to find himself out of practice, when the right girl comes along." "here he comes--he's behind us," warned latimer. as burroughs passed them he threw a glance of triumph that was unexplainable until a corner turned brought to view major thornhill, also walking abroad, accompanied by his daughter. burroughs, smooth, ingratiating, joined them as if by appointment. after philip retired that night the monotone of the soldiers' talk merged into confused and indistinct recollections of his first sunday at fort benton. eva thornhill's scornful yet inviting face seemed drawing him through deep waters, to be replaced by the face of the child winifred, terror-stricken as when she was in the river. then came the memory of the even-song at home, threading its sweetly haunting way through the wild shouts of a frontier town that continued joyously its night of revelry, until, at last, he fell asleep. [illustration] book ii _the prairie_ _"on darden plain the fresh and yet unbruised greeks do pitch their brave pavilions." --troilus and cressida_ [illustration] chapter i under the union jack the arrival of the troopers at fort macleod, after the long journey on horseback over the prairie, was a relief to philip danvers, and the weeks that followed were full of interest. nevertheless, he felt a loneliness which was all the greater when he remembered his new-found friends at fort benton. the two hundred miles that separated him from the doctor and arthur latimer might have been two thousand for all he saw of them, and save for an occasional letter from the hopeful southerner he had little that could be called companionship. among all the troopers and traders there were none that appealed to danvers, and had it not been for the devotion of o'dwyer he would have been alone indeed. this gay irish trooper had come out the year previous, and when the recruits arrived from fort benton had been the first to welcome them, "from the owld counthry." there was nothing in common between the silent englishman and this son of erin, but from the night when danvers had discovered him, some miles from the fort, deserted by his two convivial companions, and had assisted him to the barracks, o'dwyer had been his loyal subject and devoted slave. now, after three months, his zeal had not abated, and while danvers lay stretched on the bank of the wide slough, o'dwyer could be seen, not far distant, sunning himself like a contented dog at his master's feet. long the english lad lay looking over the infinite reaches of tranquil prairie, domed with a cloudless september sky. this island in old man's river had become the little world in which he lived. to the right was the fort--a square stockade of cottonwood logs, enclosing the low, mud-roofed officers' quarters, the barracks, the quartermaster's stores, and the stables. to the left, and separated from the fort by a gully, straggled the village of fort macleod. conspicuous, with its new board front, loomed the trading post of robert burroughs. these beginnings of civilization seemed out of place in the splendid, supreme calm of nature. against the space and stillness it appeared crude and impertinent. across the river he saw the indian lodges, and heard the distant hallo from rollicking comrades, swimming on the opposite side of the island. the troopers, the traders and the 'breeds were as dependent upon one another as if they were a colony upon an island in mid-ocean. he did not care to be with these men, but he desired comradeship. how could he overcome his natural reserve, make friends, yet not sacrifice his individuality and family traditions? he recalled his father's haughty: "associate with your own kind, or walk the path alone." but he was too young to find joy in aloofness. the facility of speech, the adaptive moulding to another's mood was not in him! "i'll have to be myself," he concluded. "i never cared before for men's good-will; but arthur latimer's camaraderie has made me see things differently." o'dwyer slept peacefully in the late afternoon, and danvers envied him the contentment of his simple nature. he drew a package of letters from his red tunic and fingered them idly as he read the addresses. he selected the last from arthur latimer and read again the already familiar lines: _i am coming to the whoop up country with scar faced charlie. he leaves again for fort macleod in about a week. the doctor says that office work is bad for me and that i ought to get out in the open for a year or two. really i am curious to see you in your giddy uniform, and shall enjoy a visit, though if i could get work i might stay permanently._ _how is burroughs progressing? is he selling beads and tea to the indians at a thousand per cent. profit, or selling them whisky on the q. t. at fifty thousand per cent. profit? how are you and he hitting it off?_ _i saw miss thornhill last week, but, between you and me, poor devils of lawyers are not what my lady wants._ as danvers folded the letter and replaced it, he felt a thrill of gladness at the thought of the meeting. there would be some one to share his joy in the sunsets and the prairie distances. then the future swept toward him; he wondered if this companionship with his friend would be all that he should ever know. the intangible, divine understanding that others knew--the possibility of an appreciation that would be sweet, came vaguely into his awakening heart. he took a newspaper clipping from his notebook and read: _there is an interesting old chinese legend which relates how an angel sits with a long pole which he dips into the sea of love and lifts a drop of shining water. with an expert motion he turns one-half of this drop to the right, the other half to the left, where each is immediately transformed into a soul, a male and a female; and these souls go seeking each other forever._ _the angel is so constantly occupied that he keeps no track of the souls that he separates, and they must depend on their own intuition to recognize each other._ the golden haze of the setting sun was not more glorious than the dreams that came of a loved one ever near, of a son to perpetuate his name; but the trumpet's brazen call sounding retreat, and its echoing reverberations, made danvers spring to his feet, romance and sentiment laid aside. the present satisfied. soldiering was good. o'dwyer sat up rubbing his eyes, with an exclamation of surprise at the late hour. as they ran through the big, open gate with its guard-room and sentry, they saw burroughs moving toward the lodges near the timber on the eastern side of the island, while toe string joe, leaving his crony, came to the fort. "sweet oil bob's a favorite in the lodges all roight," remarked o'dwyer. "there'll be trouble if he don't let scar faced charlie's squaw alone." "pine coulee?" questioned danvers. "the same!" said o'dwyer, and with a salute prompted by affection and not military compulsion he left danvers at the barracks. the arrival of arthur latimer with scar faced charlie, making his second trip since danvers came to macleod, unexpectedly settled most of the problems baffling the silent and lonely danvers. charlie's freighting outfit pulled into macleod when the troops were drilling, and philip, though attentive to the commands of his superior, looked across the gully and watched the gate-framed picture of the arrival of supplies. the lurching wagons, the bulls, the men and dogs, loomed large as their slow movements brought them into the one street of fort macleod. though there were two outfits, danvers instantly recognized scar faced charlie, and saw latimer run across the dry gully. he warmed with delight as the troops swept along in their evolutions, for he knew his friend was watching, and he smiled a welcome as arthur's cap rose high in happy salute. after the parade philip joined latimer. the clasp of their hands told more than the conventional greetings. they leaned on the rail fence of the reservation and latimer looked round eagerly. "i like it up here!" he cried. "better than fort benton?" questioned danvers hopefully. "you are here, phil," came the quick answer from the southerner, with his old, appealing charm of voice and smile. night fell as they surveyed the scene. the freighters had built camp-fires and the flare lighted the scene weirdly as they walked toward burroughs' trading-post. latimer greeted all as comrades, even the officers in mufti, and danvers, seeing the responsive smiles, realized how a sunny nature receives what it sheds. "whose outfit came in with charlie's?" inquired danvers, as they neared the store. "the mule teams? oh, that was mcdevitt--an odd character, from all i hear; charlie gave me his version on the way up." danvers waited for the narrator to continue. "he is what they call a missionary-trader--though evidently there is little difference in the varieties in this country. he's supposed, however, to be an example to the indians, and to furnish them with material supplies, as well as spiritual food." as they entered burroughs' store, the trader met them cordially. "glad to see yeh, latimer," he said, grasping the outstretched hands. "i 'spose yeh've seen that pretty miss thornhill every day since we left fort benton," he went on. "that's a girl for yeh!" danvers felt his face change. he had not yet ventured to broach miss thornhill's name. this loud mention of her in the rough crowd was unbearable. latimer made a vague reply. he sympathized with danvers' involuntary stiffening. "well, glad to see yeh!" repeated burroughs, after more questions and answers. "make yerself to home. guess yer glad to see yer friend," he said, turning to danvers. "yeh ain't seemed to take up with any of us fellers," and he passed on to other arrivals. it was not long before mcdevitt entered, having come, evidently, to provoke a quarrel with burroughs. while argument waxed hot between the rival traders over the respective shipping points for furs and the tariff on buffalo robes, danvers and latimer looked around the long building lined with cotton sheeting not yet stained or grimed. blankets, beads, bright cloth, guns, bright ribbons, scalping-knives, shot, powder and flints (the indians had not seen many matches), stood out against the light background. the bizarre effect was heightened by the garb of the men. suits of buckskin, gay sashes, blankets and buffalo robes decked traders, scouts or indians, as the case might be, while the trooper costume--red tunics, tiny forage caps, and blue trousers with yellow stripes--accentuated the riot of color. a few bales of furs, of little value, were on the high counters. in the warehouse in the rear, however, hanging from unhewn beams or piled in heaps, were buffalo robes and skins of all the fur-bearing animals, awaiting shipment to fort benton. the babel of tongues grew louder. burroughs' quick temper suffered from mcdevitt's repeated assertion that americans were ruining the fur trade by paying the indians more than the canadian traders. "i'm losing money right along," mcdevitt affirmed. "th' hell yeh are!" sneered burroughs. "yeh preach an' then rob; rob an' preach. _i_ pay a fair price an' don't invite the injuns to git religion in the same breath that i offer 'em a drink o' smuggled whiskey." "you! _you_--talking! you sell more whiskey than any other trader in the whoop up country, right here under the noses of the police!" "prove it!" taunted burroughs provokingly. "'f the police ever suspect me an' make a search, they'll not fin' me holdin' a prayer-meetin', same's they did you not so very long ago. le'me see--how much was yer fine, anyway?" with a laugh. "is that so? think yeh're smart, don' yeh?" snarled mcdevitt, furious. "look here, bob burroughs, come out an' we'll settle this right here an' now! no? well, let me tell yeh this! yeh'll be sorry yeh said that. bygones is bygones, an' i don't want that fine throwed up in my face again!" "did yeh say just the exact amount of the fine?" repeated burroughs, disdaining to fight either in or out of his trading-post. mcdevitt's voice shook with vehemence as he strode from the crowded room. "i'll have something to throw up to you, bob burroughs, some o' these days. i'm like a injun, i furgive 'n furgit, but i'm campin' on yer trail! yeh won't be so smilin' then--le'me tell yeh!" "an' the fine?" once more insisted burroughs, as mcdevitt vanished, amid a roar of laughter at the american's persistence. the moon was rising when danvers wended his way to the barracks an hour later, arthur walking to the reservation fence with him. "i wish we could prove where the indians and 'breeds get their whiskey," said danvers. "haven't you any idea?" "suspicion is not certainty," dryly. "it's a queer world," thought latimer aloud. "but we're 'pioneers of a glorious future,'" quoted danvers, lightly. "it will all come out right." he longed to hear of eva thornhill, hesitated, then inquired: "was miss thornhill at fort benton when you left?" "yes. she asked several times about you." danvers took off his cap. so she remembered him. "but she asked for bob, too." the cap went on. "we'll all make a try for her heart, old man," laughed latimer. "by the way," he added, as they paused before separating for the night, "that wasn't a bad looking squaw i saw just as we left bob's. what is her name?" "the one to our right, as we struck the trail? that was pine coulee. she's scar faced charlie's squaw, but burroughs is trying to get her away from him. however, one of her own tribe, me-casto, or red crow, will steal her some of these days. he hates the white men because they take the likely squaws." "whew!" whistled the visitor. [illustration] chapter ii hate a day or two after christmas, o'dwyer, a lonely sentinel on his midnight beat, strode with measured step, alert, on duty. outside the town, robert burroughs skulked toward the lodge, while me-casto followed covertly. an hour afterward o'dwyer heard moccasined feet approaching the stockade gate. challenging quickly, his "halt, who goes there?" was answered by me-casto. as that indian had done some scouting for the police, the postern gate was unlocked, after some delay, and me-casto admitted to the colonel's presence. when me-casto left the fort, danvers, lying deep in sleep, with others of his troop, felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. "don't speak," whispered the orderly sergeant, who roused them. "get up and dress for special duty. report at stables at once, armed." the men knew what was before them. they had been so roused before, when it was expedient to have some party leave the fort with secrecy, and it was not long before the chill water of the ford splashed them as they rode away from the sleeping town and garrison. almost before the sound of carefully led horses had died away, toe string joe was dressing, and soon was making his way through a secret opening in the stockade where he had sawed off a log near the ground and hung it with wooden pins to each adjoining post in such a manner that it would easily swing. as he lay on his cot of woven willows, he had watched, with narrowed eyelids, his comrades leave the troop room. now he must report to his chief. the fort was soon behind him. arriving at burroughs' store, he passed to the rear and tapped on the small pane of glass doing duty as a window. he tapped again, again; then turned, cursing, to find burroughs at his elbow. "what's up?" burroughs interrupted joe's blasphemy. "a party went out from the fort." "m-m-m! who was at the fort before you turned in?" "nobody." "who was ordered out?" joe told him. "danvers was one," he concluded. "always that black-haired englishman! i hate him!" "what yeh goin' to do? ain't them goods comin' this week? somebody's blabbed. me-casto's been watchin' yeh mighty clost, lately. perhaps it was him." "perhaps," concurred the trader, looking at the disloyal trooper thoughtfully. "we kin only hope fer the best. wild cat bill is bringin' it in, an' scar faced charlie is drivin'. 'f they git a chance to _cache_ the stuff they will. maybe," he concluded hopefully, "the detachment won't run across 'em, an' they'll fool the police, with their little pill boxes stuck on three hairs." meantime the mounted detail, with me-casto as scout, galloped past the lodge fires of the outlying indians and pressed their way through a falling sleet with not a sound but the muffled thud of the horses' hoofs and the moan of the wind. the stars dimmed; the east lightened. in the early morning the troopers came to a small trading-post, where they saw a group of men awaiting their arrival. "i thought it was you, danvers, the minute i piped yeh off!" wild cat bill stepped forward as he spoke, and shook hands with the young trooper as cordially as if they were old friends. bill breathed as though he had been running, but went on immediately: "we've come up here to see what the chances were fer wolfin' this winter. here's charlie, yeh see. what yeh out fer? horse thieves?" philip did not answer, as the officer in charge, singularly lacking in perspicacity, took it upon himself. "we are looking for smugglers," he frowned. "you haven't seen any loaded outfits headed this way from fort benton, have you?" "nope!" bill promptly answered. "we've been here two days, and nobody passed here--has they, charlie?" the freighter confirmed bill's assertion and the troopers were then ordered to stable their horses for an hour. "how is your sister, charlie?" danvers asked at his earliest opportunity. he was sorry to see the freighter, feeling something was amiss. "she's in the east, at boarding-school," answered charlie. "i couldn't do by her as i should," he went on. "fort benton's no place to bring up winnie." "remember me to her when you write," said danvers, walking his horse away as charlie passed inside the trading-post. "what are yeh thinkin'?" whispered one of the detail in the dark of the stables as the horses were being fed. "not much of anything," danvers whispered back. "yes, yeh are. yeh know they's _cached_ whiskey somewhere around." coming from the stables, danvers passed the conspicuously empty wagons belonging to the americans. he noticed that the pile of refuse near by was not covered with snow, although the stables had not been cleaned. walking nearer, he detected a strong odor of whiskey rising from the wagon boxes. he remembered the sweat on the men's foreheads. getting a stable fork he struck sharply into the compost. something clinked. a quick throwing of the litter uncovered a case, such as was commonly used to convey liquor. as it was his duty, danvers walked to the captain and saluted. "i've found a _cache_ of whiskey, sir," he answered, respectfully. the captain investigated. then he opened the door of the shack and surprised the americans eating breakfast. when placed under arrest, they seemed stunned, submitting without demur. "i bet danvers found that _cache_!" muttered bill. "he's too foxy fer me!" on the return trip to fort macleod, me-casto began to fear that the men would attempt to prove that the whiskey was not burroughs'. he knew what he had heard in the lodges; but what would his word be, as against these defiant men? he pondered for many miles, then thought of another way to bring disgrace on burroughs. he would yet have pine coulee, himself! riding close to the wagon where the morose charlie sat, me-casto craftily engaged in conversation. "_kitzi-nan-nappi-ekki?_" (your whiskey?) he asked. the blackfeet would make no effort to learn english, although they understood a little; but most white men had a fair knowledge of the indian dialects. "no," answered charlie. "_nee-a-poos?_" (burroughs?) "no." "whose?" was the next question in blackfoot. "i don't know." "you'll get six months in the guard-room if they get you." "i s'pose so," was the reluctant admission. the prospect was not pleasing. "then burroughs have pine coulee all time!" "what'd you mean?" thundered charlie, effectually interested. "burroughs give pine coulee a new dress--new beads--new blanket," was the candid reply. the teamster was stricken dumb. he made no comment on the gossip, but when it came his turn to be examined before colonel macleod, he swore that burroughs was the owner of the seized liquor and that he had been employed to drive these men north. in every way he could, he offset the perjured testimony of bill, who posed as the victim of circumstantial evidence. the commandant-magistrate was puzzled. me-casto had testified that he had heard burroughs in one of the lodges, arranging for the _caching_ of expected whiskey, in one of the cut banks of the river. the teamster corroborated the indian. wild cat bill and burroughs swore that neither owned the confiscated liquor. colonel macleod knew nothing of charlie or bill; but he considered the standing of burroughs, also the unreliability of most indians' testimony, and finally acquitted burroughs unconditionally, while declaring bill and charlie guilty of smuggling, and he sentenced them accordingly. burroughs promptly furnished the money for the payment of bill's fine, and latimer, believing charlie's tale, loaned him money to escape the guard-room. * * * * * great was the rejoicing in burroughs' post that night. long after midnight bill waited for a moment with his chief. "i done the best i could, bob," he said dejectedly, when they were at last alone. "'f phil danvers hadn't been along i'd 'a' made it." "i'll get even with him," growled burroughs. "the police mos' caught us red-handed," explained bill. "we hadn't more'n got the pitchforks back in the stable when they rode up." "say no more about it, bill," suggested bob. the smuggler looked comforted. "danvers is all right," mused bill, while his friend prepared a drink. "is that so?" queried bob with unpleasant emphasis. "you're as cocky as a rooster," expostulated the other. "phil danvers has swore to do his duty--an' he does it. the most of us is on the make up here, an' the police've got their traitors, as you know. danvers is sort of unusual, that's all." "he ain't my style!" was the retort. "no," was the dry comment, "i shouldn't presume he was." but the sarcasm was lost on his hearer. "what was eatin' scar faced charlie, anyway?" "he's squiffy." bill had heard the conversation between me-casto and charlie on the trail, but was in no mind to retail it. "i'm goin' out," said burroughs, presently, and at this broad hint bill rose. "i'm in yer debt," he began awkwardly. "that's all right." the trader knew and bill knew that the paid fine was another cord to bind him. "an' now we'll make a pile o' money 'f we're careful. joe's inside the fort an' you an' me are outside, an' the injuns are always dry--see? this deal's goin' to be pretty hard on me, what with the government confiscatin' all them nine hundred gallons of whiskey; but we've got more comin', an' we'll have to mix it a little thinner, that's all." burroughs went toward the indian lodges and soon discovered charlie also sneaking thither. no superfluous words were spoken. "what'd yeh do it fer?" the angry trader whirled, the teamster facing him. "you let pine coulee alone!" mumbled charlie, far gone in liquor. "that's it, eh?" commented the enlightened burroughs, turning away contemptuously. "like hell i will!" not long after arthur latimer answered a recent letter from the doctor in fort benton. he gave a vivid account of recent events and of a dinner that had been given at the military post on christmas day to which he had been invited. _"after the dinner," he continued, "the boys sang for an hour or more. they have good voices, and it was worth a long journey to hear them sing 'the wearing of the green.'_ _"colonel macleod seemed to enjoy the music immensely, and (i don't see how he happened to think of it) he called danvers up and asked him if he knew anything from 'il trovatore.' phil saluted and said that he had heard it in london. thereupon the colonel asked him if he could sing any of the airs. phil hesitated, but the commanding officer's request is tantamount to a command, and after a moment he began the 'miserere.' the men were still as death. probably they had never heard it before. you, of course, remember that superb tenor solo--the haunting misery, the despair! and what do you think? when he got to the duet i took leonora's part. phil gave a little start, but kept on singing, and we carried the duet through. my! but the men nearly tore us to shreds. o'dwyer fairly lifted phil off his feet, at this triumph of his hero, for he has taken a great liking to our silent englishman. the colonel thanked us with delightful appreciation and soon after went out--more quiet than ever. i reckon he was homesick. we all were--a bit. sweethearts and wives seemed very far away that night._ _"you speak of scar faced charlie's avowed intention of abandoning his freighting. he'll probably never come up here again. he recently sent me some cash i'd loaned him, and he intimated as much. before he left here he returned his squaw, pine coulee, to her father; then burroughs bought her for a bunch of ponies._ _"me-casto couldn't compete--poor devil. he, like all indians, had gambled away his small stock of ponies early in the fall--as burroughs well knew."_ "come on, arthur," called danvers, cheerily, as he stuck his head into the room. "there's a dance on at bob's trading-post." "all right." latimer hurriedly put away his writing and soon they ran along the trail to the rendezvous. "look, there is me-casto!" exclaimed philip. "where?" "skulking in the shadows back of bob's place." "bob better look out," said arthur, as they pushed open the store door. "me-casto is not here for any good." the candle-lighted room was well filled with traders, troopers, trappers and squaws. no buck ever participated in a white man's dance, but several stood by the door and looked on. every one was in high spirits, and when the fiddler, a french 'breed, struck up, stamping his moccasined feet to keep time, each man secured a squaw and took his place. a brazen-lunged 'breed shouted, "alleman' lef'! swing yer partners!" and the couples swung giddily around. danvers joined in with right good-will. occasionally he danced; more often he sat on the long trade counter and kept time to the emphatic music by beating his spurs heavily against the boards behind his feet. latimer and o'dwyer danced joyously; but burroughs, apparently uneasy, as the evening wore on, kept a watchful eye on the outer door. philip noticed, too, that pine coulee was less phlegmatic than usual, although she danced faithfully at the command of her lord and master. presently me-casto came in and stood by the door. with blanket muffling the lower part of his face, he looked piercingly at pine coulee--at robert burroughs. the trader caught me-casto's eye, and, ostentatiously clasping pine coulee's hand as he swung her in the dance, he smiled full in the blackfoot's face, purposely flaunting his ownership of the squaw. me-casto turned and left the room. "'on wid the dance, let j'y be unconfined!'" yelled o'dwyer, as he combined an irish jig and a red river reel. he had not noticed me-casto, but latimer and danvers exchanged glances. just then pine coulee looked wistfully toward the opening door. burroughs, ever watchful, caught a glimpse of me-casto as his lips gave an almost imperceptible signal to pine coulee. the trader's anger was quick; his discretion slight. he struck the girl flat on the cheek. "take that!" he said savagely. "i'll teach yeh to hanker after that lousy buck!" the words and the blow were simultaneous. so was the leap of the indignant danvers. "you coward!" he cried, "to strike a woman!" he took the trader by the nape of the neck and shook him soundly. before burroughs could close with the trooper there came three rifle shots. each time a singing bullet whizzed by a dodging form. only one of the shots took effect. pine coulee sank to the floor, blood flowing from her bosom. screams, oaths and shouts mingled as danvers raised the squaw. latimer assisted him in placing her on a counter, while burroughs, certain of the would-be murderer, ran outside for the assailant, the crowd following. a head pushed past the half-opened side door. "didn't i kill burroughs?" the question was in blackfoot. "you shot pine coulee!" replied danvers, sternly. in an instant renewed shouting indicated that the men had tracked the indian. a moment later the sound of fleeing hoofs told that me-casto had made a get-away. the trot of other horses followed, but soon the eternal silence of the prairie reigned alone. by the time burroughs returned to the store pine coulee had revived. as the trader was dragging the squaw to his near-by house, he paused on the threshold. "phil danvers," he said, moistening his dry lips as his rage increased, "as true as they's a god above i'll pay yeh back for interferin' to-night. i've hated yeh from the first time i set eyes on yeh! 'f i live i'll make yeh feel what hate'll do! yeh're too good fer the whoop up country, an' i've got a long score to settle with yeh! 'f ever white women come to this country an' yeh git a sweetheart i'll do my best to separate yeh! 'f yeh've got a sister i'll have her! i'll--i'll--god! but i hate yeh!" [illustration] chapter iii. the hot blood of youth the spring warmed into summer, the summer melted into autumn. autumn, in turn, chilled into the white world of winter. all thoughts of the little girl on the _far west_ had slipped from the mind of danvers, and even the memory of miss thornhill became faint--obliterated by the strenuous life of the service. promotion came in his third year of service as a reward for intelligence and efficiency. danvers was offered and accepted a commission. he felt that life was good. fears and homesickness had long since disappeared; the longings for other and more congenial, refined and feminine associates came but seldom; still, the desire for the understanding of one alone, for a loved wife and a son to bear his name was not dead--it was simply dormant in that womanless land. "the doctor will be here next week," announced arthur latimer, who had been bookkeeper in one of the trading-posts ever since he had come to macleod, soon after danvers was made a second lieutenant. "colonel macleod, i hear, has invited quite a party to visit him from fort benton." "yes. i heard from the doctor, too." philip smiled at thought of his friend's surprise at his new rank. it was not long before the visitors arrived, and, greatly to danvers' surprise, miss thornhill, accompanied by her father, the major, was among them. the first white woman that he had seen for three years! he had never before realized how dainty a lady is in comparison with her sisters of the lodges. they may be kin in the world relationship, but, oh! the difference one from the other. the squaws, standing stolidly by, were intolerable. as eva walked consciously past with colonel macleod, attended by the staff officers, she gave no sign of recognition other than a heightened color and lowered eye-lashes; but philip felt that she recognized him. before the girl reached the barracks mr. burroughs entered the stockade. with the assurance of a favored acquaintance, he advanced and pressed the hand of miss thornhill. danvers turned away. so new a mood assailed him that he went outside the stockade and prowled along the outer wall, not waiting to do more than greet the doctor. how he longed for a touch of that dainty hand, for a word from eva--from _any_ young woman of his own race! all the manhood, all the heart-hunger of the isolated years, surged within him. he smiled rather piteously. he had not realized that he was starving for the sight of fair skin, sunny hair and slender hands; for a bonny white face--white--white! that was it! a white face, a womanly face! he hardly noticed the muttered "how" of pine coulee as she passed, her young babe slung over her back. but he returned her salutation, and after they passed each other he recalled a look on her usually expressionless face that he had never seen there before. "here, phil! wait for us!" latimer was calling, and danvers soon forgot his perturbation in the pleasure of the doctor's presence and congratulations, as he came up with arthur. "got so you can talk, eh?" asked the doctor, noting how the young men vied in their efforts to entertain him. "i told the colonel that i was coming up here to see you, fully as much as him--good friends as we are. you are good to look at, both of you." "arthur always could talk," smiled danvers, "and i can--with my friends." "how is burroughs getting along?" asked the doctor, as the trader passed them, too absorbed, apparently, in the recollection of his meeting with miss thornhill to note either them or pine coulee, who followed him. "remarkably well, from a financial standpoint. his living with a squaw makes him popular with the indians, and the colonel swears by him--thinks he's perfect." "and the trade in whiskey?" latimer shrugged his shoulders expressively. "that's bob's squaw," said arthur, after an awkward pause. "she's as proud as a peacock of that papoose. she rather lords it over her former associates of the lodges." the doctor whistled. he knew pine coulee's story, but had not heard of the child. "bob will want to marry some day," was his sole comment. "has me-casto ever been caught?" "no. when he does turn up, robert burroughs may look out for trouble." "why did toe string joe leave the force?" asked the doctor presently. "he has been in fort benton for some little time." "drummed out of the service. but he wouldn't tell who supplied him with the whiskey. what is he doing now?" "joe is mining. he declares he will be a millionaire." "he'll be a millionaire when danvers turns american and runs for office," scoffed latimer, remembering joe's shiftless disposition and making the most improbable comparison that he could think of. "he will never be one, then," said philip, quietly. "i cannot think of anything that would make me break my allegiance to england. i am going to stay in the service--i like it! and as for american politics!... you know what i think of them." he smiled affectionately to atone for the words. the glimpses that the troopers and younger officers caught of eva thornhill in the following week were few. nevertheless a gust of love-madness swept through the ranks, from the officer commanding to the newest recruit. nor were the townsmen behind in their attempts to win a part of the girl's time and thoughts--if not herself. burroughs easily led in favor, and lieutenant danvers effaced himself. so rigidly did he do so that it was not long before miss thornhill found the flavor of rue in her canadian visit. the smart lieutenant had made no advances, had sought no introduction. eva demanded the homage of all, accustomed as she was to the frontier life where women were too rare to be neglected. no chaperon was thought of in the freedom of the frontier, and, indeed, none was needed among the innately chivalrous westerners. this little world of macleod revolved around her--all but the silent, unobtrusive danvers, whose acquaintance seemed the more desirable in direct ratio to his aloofness. eva resolved to win him, and arthur latimer was artfully sounded for the cause of his friend's indifference. the southerner, already playing at love with the fair-haired belle, and at no pains to conceal it, readily undertook to find out. "why don't you meet miss thornhill?" he asked. "i am very busy these days," interrupted the lieutenant, giving his excuse hastily. not even to his friend could he disclose how he was drawn toward the only white representative of her sex at macleod. "but she wants to know you. she wants to meet you," insisted the loyal arthur, who had sung danvers' praises industriously and unselfishly. "why, arthur!" philip cried, gaily, to cover the tremor in his voice that would not be subdued when he learned that this haughty maid had thought of him. "if you are as much in love with miss thornhill as you pretend to be, you want to speak for yourself. but she evidently prefers bob burroughs, and i, for one, think i'll keep out of temptation." he slapped the ardent southerner affectionately on the back. "no chance for either of us, old man! don't talk of me to her! she will think us asses--amiable idiots!" "i know there's no chance for me," replied latimer, aggrieved. "what have i to offer a wife--i'm poor as the proverbial church mouse." "anyway, leave me out of your conversations." "i'll see that you do not meet her!" returned the missourian, in mock alarm. then they laughed light-heartedly. "i know whom she'd choose--if she had the opportunity. burroughs wouldn't stand a show, nor i either." "there she is now." danvers nodded toward the ford, where he had seen, for several moments, the trader and eva riding easily. "bob's got his nerve! how about pine coulee and the child?" exploded latimer. "s-sh!" warned philip, seeing a movement of the bullberry bushes near them. as the young men looked toward the riders, whose mounts were close together and walking slowly, a dark face, with passionate eyes gleaming, pushed cautiously out from the sheltering branches, and pine coulee also watched the unconscious maid and the trader. * * * * * when colonel macleod, wishing to impress his american visitors, ordered the troops under his command to go through their cavalry exercises, miss thornhill sat on a glossy mare beside him, while troopers passed at a walk or trot, and wondered why she had found it so difficult to meet lieutenant danvers. as the lines of superb and faultlessly groomed men and horses swept past on the last mad gallop she forgot her brooding and clapped her hands enthusiastically. "oh, colonel macleod! that was splendid! make them go on, and on!" she cried. "why, of course, if you wish," assented the gallant macleod, forgetting that the rise of ground directly in front of him had the river on its farther slope. "phat's the colonel thinkin' of?" growled o'dwyer, as no halt sounded. "he's not thinkin' at all!" responded the man next in alignment, sourly. "a man can't think when a slip of a girl's near by." "he's forgot the river!" groaned the fleshy irishman, dreading the certain plunge. into the stream they dashed, many of the men over their heads, for there was no turning back. as the horses balked, lieutenant danvers' stallion threshed viciously, hitting o'dwyer, and then ceased to swim. o'dwyer groaned, "me a-r-rm!" it was over in an instant. those on shore assisted danvers and the irishman to land. o'dwyer was left in philip's care, while the rest of the men rode back, as the review must not be interrupted. eva saw the break in the ranks. "lieutenant danvers has dropped out," she exclaimed, and straightway bit her lip. "philip?" hastily asked the fort benton doctor, on a horse near by. "then there has been an accident!" the sergeant-major rode up to report, but the impulsive eva did not wait for details. she touched her mare and was after the doctor. "i'm so sorry!" cried the girl, as she met danvers and o'dwyer returning. "it's all my fault that you are wet--and hurt! which one is hurt?" she turned provocative eyes to the dripping lieutenant. "o'dwyer has a sprained elbow," answered philip, his heart dancing at her solicitude. "it was through my carelessness." "don't ye be belavin' a wor-rd he says, miss!" burst out o'dwyer. "that is (beggin' yer pardon fer spakin' to the loikes of yez, an' me a private!), don't ye belave 'tis his fault. he kep' me from drownin', that's what he did!" o'dwyer had noted his idol's preoccupation since miss thornhill's advent, the self-imposed aloofness, and had drawn his own shrewd conclusions. he determined, here and now, to do danvers a good turn, despite the frown on the doctor's face and philip's frantic signaling. "lieutenant danvers is the finest feller god ever made!" he blurted, regardless. "oh, keep still! _keep still!_" cried the exasperated englishman. this misplaced loquacity! eva reached out suddenly, frankly. "i think it's time we knew each other," she said, sweetly, and their hands met. that touch! never had the unsophisticated youth felt such a touch! a thrill of exquisite life went from her hand to his; from his hand to his feet and the vibrations went tingling back to the girl. for the first time philip looked full into the blue eyes of eva thornhill. "you're a fool, o'dwyer!" danvers heard the doctor remark, as they proceeded toward the fort. the humbled trooper, hitching his arm in the improvised sling which philip had made, groaned doleful assent. too late he remembered the barrack-room decision that miss thornhill was after every scalp in the whoop up country. and eva thornhill? her opportunity had come, and she had taken it as a gift from the gods. suddenly she knew that philip was merged in her personality, and she reveled in the bloom of quickly grown, fully developed passion. by the time the lieutenant assisted her from her mare at the colonel's headquarters she was ready to think that there was nothing to keep them apart. so quickly, hotly, does young blood run! her answer to the question that was ready to slip from his tongue--what would it be? as danvers lifted the flushing girl from her mount, her eyes gave promise beneath their long-lashed veiling that the answer would not be "no." it was not many days before major thornhill took his daughter to task for her neglect of mr. burroughs. "don't you let go of burroughs," he counseled, with brutal sordidness. "these young lawyers and lieutenants haven't a cent, so far as i can find out. burroughs has money and will have more. remember that an army officer never has anything to leave to his mourners." eva shrugged her shoulders; but her training showed her the wisdom of her father's advice, and she bestowed more favor on the trader than he had received for several days. however, she decided that one more ride with the lieutenant she must have, and so impetuous was philip that she allowed him to say more than she intended he should. his wooing was eager, headlong. as they drew near the town on their return from their long ride, the girl saw a squaw peering from the bushes beside the trail. "who is that squaw?" she asked, petulantly. "it seems to me that i never go out but she is near me!" "oh--er----" he stammered, losing, for a moment, his self-possession as he recognized burroughs' property. he knew that the trader had pledged his intimates to secrecy as to his relations with pine coulee while miss thornhill was a visitor at macleod, and he, while not pledged, would be the last one to bring her in any way to eva's notice. "oh," he began again, "she's a blackfoot." "that is evasion, pure and simple!" retorted his companion. "she wants either to speak to me--or to kill me, i've not decided which. wait here! i am going to speak to her!" "you are probably the first white woman she ever saw," philip tried vainly to make a satisfactory explanation; but, to his consternation, eva was gone. pine coulee stood motionless as the fair-haired girl drew rein beside her. never had she shown her indian blood more clearly than in the stolid awaiting of her rival. danvers drew nearer, fearing results. "do you speak english?" pine coulee was asked. "i think that you want to speak to me. what is it? what can i do for you?" the look of dejection on the dark face touched even miss thornhill. silence. "what a big baby!" was eva's next effort to gain good-will. she was sure that the squaw could, at least, understand english; and the gleam of motherhood, kindling at her praise, confirmed her belief. silence. "what is the baby's name?" silence prolonged. eva turned away, impatient that her advances should be met so churlishly. then, swift, malignant, pine coulee spoke: "him name robert burroughs! _robert burroughs!_" the words came with startling distinctness. eva's surprise was great. she shuddered uncontrollably. pine coulee understood the incredulity in the girl's eyes, and rushed on, bitterly, in broken english: "yes. robert burroughs! ask him!" pointing to danvers with her lips, as indians will. "burroughs mine! you not have him! you take this man! you have everything--pine coulee have nothing but bob and his baby! you sha'n't have him! no! no!" the squaw, crazed with jealousy, started towards burroughs' house, but turned back with real dignity. "i hate you! why you come to steal my man?" then she abruptly took her bitter way along the trail till--burroughs blocked her. he gave her one look and rode forward. "your father sent me to look for you, miss thornhill," he began, as he drew rein. he resolved to carry the matter off boldly, if eva referred to the indian woman. "if you like, we will ride back together," he added, nodding to danvers. "no, no, no!" cried eva, hysterically. "i'm afraid of--of that--squaw!" she pointed to pine coulee, who had followed burroughs like a blighting shadow. "git out of here!" burroughs emphasized his command to the squaw with a vicious kick. not realizing how much the words would reveal, he added: "i tol' yeh ter stay in the house!" "i'll care for miss thornhill, burroughs," interrupted danvers. "let us pass, please! take pine coulee back and leave decent white women to others." "to you?" sneered the trader, with suddenly loosened rage at maid and man. "yes, to me!" proudly answered philip, drawing closer to eva's mount. the girl was scarlet with rage. "oh, it's that way, is it?" snarled bob. "you told miss thornhill--that's plain to be seen!" "he did not tell!" eva slipped from her lover's protection and reined her horse toward burroughs. "lieutenant danvers tried to shield you. she--she----" eva looked at pine coulee, nursing her bruised forehead (for burroughs had kicked to hurt) and changed her words. "the lieutenant never--he never intimated--such--a--horrid--thing. of course you will understand that i no longer care for your acquaintance!" the reaction came and she begged: "oh, lieutenant danvers, take me to father!" "oh, you don't, eh?" sneered the trader. "there are many years ahead of us both, and the time may come when you will want my help! and you," turning to danvers, "i'll get even with you! if i can't win eva thornhill, you never shall, mark my words! i'll----" "you dare to threaten--us? get out of our way!" with a touch danvers quickly started both his horse and miss thornhill's. after a brief interval he slowed the pace. "and now, darling, you must let me care for you always," urged philip, after he had restored eva to some semblance of calm. "let me speak to your father to-night!" he talked on, encouraged by the girl's silent yielding and the long kiss he laid on her willing lips. she was told of his prospects, both in the army and in england, where his father and sister lived. he told her of his lovely american mother, who had died so young. he had enlisted, he said, for sheer love of a military life. "father wanted to buy a commission for me, but i knew i could get one--without money!" was the modest close. the afternoon together ended by philip's putting his mother's engagement ring on eva's hand for their plighted troth. she looked at it a moment. "i cannot wear this now," she said. "if we are engaged, i want it to be kept secret until next spring. don't you see, dear," she rubbed her face caressingly on philip's impatient hand, "that it will be better so? father will be furious when he knows that i've given mr. burroughs his congé, and you'll come into your fortune when you are twenty-one next june. father'll never consent until then. he'll make me miserable all winter!" [illustration] chapter iv the return to fort benton that autumn visit of eva thornhill glowed in danvers' heart like the riotous colors in the gray landscape that precedes the frost of winter; for winter was coming, her visit was over, and eva and her father were to leave for fort benton on the morrow. danvers inwardly chafed under the secrecy imposed upon their engagement, and yet it would have been hard for him to have spoken of his love for eva, even to the sympathetic latimer. but he longed to see more of her, to drink his fill of her beauty and fix her image in his memory that he might not famish in his loneliness during the dreary winter months when they should be separated. though it was hard to evade her father, eva thornhill granted her lover a last interview. his reserve, now softened by his love, fascinated the girl, and the element of secrecy lent a romantic touch that did not lessen her enjoyment of the situation. yet it was a relief to return to fort benton, where she could think it all over and avoid her father's anger at a possible discovery. "you will write to me?" said danvers eagerly, as he held her hands, in parting. "there are few mails in the winter, but some one will be coming up." he looked imploringly into her eyes, as she hesitated. "of course i'll answer your letters--philip," she spoke the name deliberately, as though enjoying her right to the familiarity of its use. "and when shall i hear from _you_?" "_always_; whenever you will close your eyes and listen! it may be weeks before a freighter makes the trip; but without a written message you will know that i am thinking of you, loving you! remember it, eva!" his arm drew her close, and the girl caught his ardor as she returned his good-bye kiss. "i will, dear; oh, i will!" she clung to him and for a moment caught the glory of his vision. real tears dimmed her eyes as her lover tenderly released her, and the man was satisfied. that night latimer had a long talk with his friend. "you see, old man, i may as well go now, when the doctor and the thornhills are returning to fort benton. it may be weeks before i have another chance." latimer, too! the thought sent a chill to the heart of the lieutenant, now doubly sensitive to the love of this only friend! he had long known that latimer would return to his law practice in fort benton, but the time had never been set for his going. "the years of outdoor life," continued latimer, "have made a new man of me!" patting his chest, not yet so broad as danvers'. "and if i am ever to go back to the law i must get about it before i forget all i ever knew." he gave his arguments with a half apology as if to soften the sharpness of his decision, which to his loyal heart seemed like a desertion of his friend. danvers was silent. he saw, more clearly than his companion, that the doctor's visit, the presence of major thornhill and his daughter, and the association with those of his own class, had roused in the southerner a longing for the old life of civic usefulness, had drawn him back to his office, to his books and civilized associations. "and if i get away to-morrow," went on latimer, "i must pack up my few belongings in the morning, and shall not have time for much of a good-bye--you will understand, phil?" "yes, indeed!" said danvers, realizing that he had been too long silent. "write to me when you can, arthur. you know what the winters are up in this country." they smoked in silence for an hour or more--that strange communion that men find gives greater sympathy than any speech. then danvers wrung the hand of his friend, and set out for the barracks. many sober faces clustered around eva when she said good-bye next morning, but burroughs' was not among them. he had said nothing of his humiliation, but had avoided meeting miss thornhill again. her father was greatly dissatisfied; he thought that eva's reception of the attention of other men had offended the trader, and he did not spare his blame for such a condition of things. eva maintained her equanimity, feeling that she had done well to preserve the secret of her engagement, and to win philip's pledge to silence. two months later robert burroughs sold out his trading-post, and he, too, prepared to return to the states. when he told pine coulee that she was to return to her father's lodge with the boy, he was, for the first time, afraid of the woman. all her savage blood surged in protest; his offers to support their child were spurned. he was glad when the squaw was sullenly silent in the lodges of her tribe, and he determined never to come again to macleod--to leave the past behind him. that was his dominant thought as he started out for fort benton, accompanied by his familiar, wild cat bill. their life at fort macleod had been in many ways one of jeopardy. he had run incredible risks of exposure and ruin, but he had won, through sheer audacity and bravado. he smiled covertly as he recalled the fact that he, the greatest whiskey smuggler in the whoop up country, was also the privileged friend of an unsuspecting, honorable, upright officer--colonel macleod. even his hardened conscience pricked as he thought how he had deceived one who, with somewhat more of acumen, and somewhat less of belief in men, would have been most severe on his wrong-doing. but that was over. to turn to less reprehensible and underhand ways would be easy, he was sure. or, if he found that the old ways of accomplishing his purpose were more profitable, he would exercise them on bigger projects in montana. he had made a fortune in the whoop up country. now he intended to increase it in the development of montana's resources. he proposed to marry and rear a family, as became a prosperous and respected citizen. dreams of statehood were beginning to waken into hope of reality among the sturdy men who dwelt in the territory, and during this journey south burroughs confided to bill his ambition to sit in the united states senate. fortune had favored him so far. all that was necessary to further his ambitions was to be as shrewd and cautious as he had been hitherto, and all things should be his--with bill's help. bill listened--that was his rôle for the time being. but he thought well of the plans, and said so before his chief referred to quite another subject--pine coulee and the boy. here bill found no words. burroughs opined that the episode with pine coulee was nothing. she was a fool to expect him to continue their relations simply because there was a child. he would see that they did not suffer. really sweet oil bob felt a glow of self-approval as he talked. but few men in the whoop up country gave a thought to the comfort of the squaws when they left them. and as for the children--let them go with their mothers! it was the easiest thing imaginable. to danvers it seemed that half the population of fort macleod was leaving, since scar faced charlie had departed months before, and toe string joe had been dishonorably discharged and gone out of the country. only the loyal o'dwyer remained, and to him he sometimes spoke of fort benton friends. to eva he wrote with every outgoing mail, and watched eagerly for a sign from her when a chance freighter should bring the fort benton mail. then fever broke out in the barracks and danvers spent his nights caring for the others and had little time for thought. his splendid constitution seemed able to bear any amount of fatigue, and he boasted that the loss of sleep was nothing--that he preferred to talk to some one--he had not enough to do to keep busy! but he overestimated his strength, and when a mail was brought with no letter from eva the disappointment and anxiety told on his already overtaxed constitution. o'dwyer was the last to convalesce, and even he was no longer in need of constant attention. with the relaxing of the strain came philip's utter collapse. the fever was on him, and for weeks he talked deliriously of english lanes, of his sister kate, of his rise in the service, but never of eva thornhill. it was as if some psychic power guarded his lips and loyally preserved his secret. the spring flowers were budding when he again breathed the outer air, and it was a gaunt figure which sat in the lee of the stockade one day in may and took the package of letters brought from fort benton. at last! eva's first letter lay in his hand. he forgave her the long silence. the winter had been unusually severe and to the irregularity of the mails he ascribed his love's apparent defection. with trembling fingers he opened the thin envelope. the letter had no heading. _"i have told father of my promise to you. he refuses absolutely to sanction it and declares i shall never marry an englishman. i now agree with father that it would be very unwise. i hate the army, and you say you will never leave it. it is best that we understand each other at once, and very fortunate that we agreed not to speak of our engagement. i have not heard from you in three months, and so i presume you are tired of it and as glad to break as i am."_ that was all. the dazed convalescent remembered that his letter was mailed the very day that he went to the hospital, and his promise of silence made it impossible to ask another to notify her of his condition. fate's cruelty bit deep. the heartlessness of eva's dismissal pierced his soul. mechanically he took up a letter from his sister. "_dear brother philip_," her letter began. _"we have written and written. what has become of you these last months? haven't you received the solicitor's letters or mine, telling you of father's sudden death, and the discovery that we are almost penniless--all the fortune gone?"_ danvers gasped, weakly, at the wealth of disaster. he had always regarded his father as an exceptionally acute man of business. and now.... the letters of which his sister kate wrote had never reached him. the mail service was wretched, he knew; but it seemed incredible that such important letters should be lost. he turned to the other envelopes just received. yes, there were three from the family solicitors, and one from arthur latimer. these from england had probably lain at fort benton all winter. presently he read on: _"however, you no doubt have received them all by this time. i write this, in haste, to ask you to meet me at fort benton by the middle of june, as i shall come to america in time to take the first boat leaving bismarck. i shall have about a hundred pounds when i start. i am determined to come to you."_ with some expression of grief at their bereavement, and anticipation of seeing her brother, the letter closed. come up to the whoop up country! his young, unsophisticated sister? she must not! he started up, thinking to send a rider to fort benton with a message to cable to london. but she would already have started. and how could he support her in england? how support her in any country on his small income, used as she was to every luxury? it was horrible! what to do! what to do! at last he took up latimer's letter. at least here would be something to put heart into a fellow, he thought, hopefully. the bold handwriting seemed so like the light-hearted southerner that a wan smile played over philip's ghastly face. the smile faded to be replaced by agony as the sense of the words was absorbed--words leaping at him, fiendishly: _"dear old chum--i am the happiest fellow alive. eva thornhill and i were married last week, and our only regret was that you could not be my best man. i spoke of it several times. how did this happen, you ask? why, i was fortunate enough to fall heir to something like twenty-five thousand dollars this winter, and, after settling the question whether there was any understanding between you and eva (she assured me there never had been) i sailed right in--and she is mine._ _"old boy! eva's the dearest little piece of guilelessness in the world. she's told me all about burroughs, and even confessed that she used to admire you; but she thought you very reserved. i have told how companionable you really are and how she should have captured you. but she shakes her pretty head and says that she is jealous of you--that i am fonder of you than of her! she's a rogue! i used to be dumbly jealous of the other fellows, knowing how poor i was. i had to keep myself well in hand, i tell you, especially when i used to see you two together. but if eva had cared for you (how could she help it?) i'd have been the first one to congratulate you. we could not be rivals, could we, dear old man?_ _"we are going east for the summer, and the doctor goes with us as far as st. louis. wish us well, phil! why haven't you written? i know it has been a bad winter and only two mails from macleod, but i expected to hear at least once._ _"i wish that you could find so ideal a wife as mine. dear, innocent, truthful--what more can man ask?"_ danvers pulled himself up from the bench, wondering why the day had grown so cold, where the sunshine had gone. he replaced latimer's letter in its envelope, dully, slowly: "'truthful--innocent!'" he quoted. "poor arthur!" he laughed--a dreadful sound. then he fell face downward--and so they found him. * * * * * a pale-faced youth looked with dilated eyes on the nearing town of fort benton. it was philip danvers, late second lieutenant of the north west mounted police of canada. he had lived through the shock which the three letters had brought on his fever-weakened frame, and during his convalescence determined to leave the service and seek employment at fort benton. to his colonel alone he gave his reasons. his sister kate was a delicate girl, unused to adversity. his pay was insufficient to support her, even if she could have lived at fort macleod. she must be safe-guarded. for three long, hard, lonely years he had dreamed of a commission, and now that he had secured it he must give it up, together with hope of further advancement. there was no alternative. as the band played "the girl i left behind me" (invariably rendered when men in the english service change garrison), o'dwyer stepped forward to say good-bye. "sure, phil," he blubbered, "i'll lave the service 's soon's me time's up, now ye're gone! i'll folley ye to fort benton!" danvers turned tear-dimmed eyes away from his friend, from the low fort and the weather-beaten stockade, and resolutely denied himself the pain of looking back to catch the last flutter of the union jack as the long rise of land dipped toward the south. how often had he strained his eyes to see that symbol of his country as he returned from the various forays and hunting trips! but duty called! this was the only thought that he dared allow himself--and his sister, his sister! she had no one but him to look to, and in his loneliness she was a comforting thought, and worth all the sacrifice of his life's ambitions. while he had lain unconscious, in his illness, she had arrived at the head of navigation, and had written him girlish, impatient letters. he knew that latimer would look out for her if he and eva had returned from their wedding trip, but he was sure they had not, and felt an equal relief that he need offer no congratulations. the doctor, too, arthur had told him, was in st. louis. he wondered how his sister had passed the time. once she had mentioned meeting burroughs, and he knew that she was living at the little hotel that he remembered. he was frantic to reach his destination and assume a brother's responsibility for the simple-hearted, yielding, young english girl, brought abruptly into the rough western life. as he drew near the growing town of fort benton he was astounded at the sight of what seemed quite a metropolis to his eyes, so long accustomed to the log buildings and the scant population of fort macleod. as the road dipped over the bench and led into town he saw, riding to meet him--was it his sister?--and with her, robert burroughs! but danvers was on his feet, and as he assisted the girl to dismount she slid into his arms and put up her lips for a kiss. when something like coherence was evolved from the rush of questions and answers, kate turned shyly toward burroughs, who still sat upon his horse. she took her brother by the hand. "phil, dear, you have not spoken to mr. burroughs. he has told me so much of your life together in the whoop up country, and what friends you are. he has been most kind to me. when i learned that you were ill, i was so alarmed--alone! but he--that is--i----" "why, it's this way, danvers," interrupted burroughs, speaking with more correctness than phil had before heard him, and willingly taking the onus of explanation--his hour had come. "your sister couldn't go to macleod, of course. she couldn't stay here, alone. you'll stay with the police, no doubt; and, as latimer and his wife are away, it fitted right in with my plans"--he paused to enjoy the dismay on danvers' face--"to ask kate to do me the honor of marrying me. you remember," he hastened to add, "don't you, that i once told you that you'd not only never marry eva thornhill, but that i'd marry your sister?" the dark, exultant face flashed the same look of hate that greeted philip on the _far west_, and later gloomed through the dimly lighted trading-post on the night of the dance! with a groan danvers realized, as he looked at his suddenly shrinking sister, that the sacrifice of his life's ambition had been in vain. [illustration] book iii _the state_ "_what constitutes a state?_ * * * * * _men who their duty know._" [illustration] chapter i visitors from helena philip danvers, cattleman, nearing fort benton on his return from a round-up, found his thoughts reverting to the past. the spring day was like another that he remembered when he first caught sight of the frontier town more than a dozen years before. he noted the smoke of a railroad locomotive as it trailed into nothingness, and involuntarily he looked toward the missouri river; but there was no boat steaming up the river, and the unfurrowed water brought a sadness to his face. he recalled the doctor's vigorous opposition a few years previous, when the question of a railroad came before the residents of fort benton. perhaps the doctor had been right in thinking that the river traffic would be destroyed, and with it the future of the town. certainly his derided prophecy had been most literally fulfilled. instead of becoming a second st. louis, the village lay in undisturbed tranquillity, but little larger than when the _far west_ had brought the first recruits of the north west mounted police to its levees. to those who loved the place, who believed in it, the result caused by the changing conditions of western life was well-nigh heartbreaking. instead of the terminus of a great waterway--the port where gold was brought by the ton to be shipped east from the territorial diggings; the stage where moved explorer, trader, miner and soldier--instead of being the logical metropolis of the entire northwest, fort benton lay a drowsy little village, embowered in cottonwoods and dependent upon the cattlemen who made it their headquarters for shipping. the lusty bull-whacker's yell, the mule-skinner's cry and the pop of long, biting whips were heard no more in the broad, sweeping curve of the missouri. the levees were no longer crowded with bales of merchandise, piles of buffalo hides and boxes of gold. no steamers tied up to the rotting snubbing-posts; the bustle of the roustabouts, the oaths of the mates, the trader's activity had vanished forever, as irrevocably as the buffalo on the plains. nothing in the prospect before him suggested to danvers the well-remembered past except the old adobe fort on the water's edge. one bastion and a part of a wall recalled to the anglo-american his first homesick night in the northwest. even the trading-posts on the river between bismarck and fort benton were abandoned. the man had altered as well. it was evident that the shy reserve of the kentish youth had changed to the dignity of the reticent man. the military bearing remained; the eyes were steady and observant, as of old; but the youthful red and white of his face had been replaced by a clear tan, marked by lines of thought. in a country of bearded and seldom-shaved men, philip's clean face added not a little to that look of distinction which had impressed the passengers on the _far west_ and gained the first enmity of robert burroughs. danvers was still unmarried. at rare intervals he read the old clipping of the two souls separated and seeking each other, but the legend had grown dim. the romantic dreams of boyhood were gone. he doubted that his heart would ever be roused again; that the phoenix flame of love would rise from the ashes of what he knew had been but the stirring of adolescent blood when he fancied that he loved eva thornhill. the home life of others had not impressed him as a dream fulfilled. the gradual disillusionment of the many was disheartening, and latimer's worn, unhappy face was a constant reminder. arthur latimer! that blithe southerner--believer in men--and women! philip knew what had made him seek forgetfulness in the law and politics. the success of his friend, who had reached his goal, on the supreme bench, had gratified danvers, and latimer's enthusiasm and persistent belief in the ultimate good, when the builders and founders of the newly formed state should merge personal desires into one--one that had the best good of all for its incentive, tempered his dislike for american politics. not long after the round-up, philip danvers received a call from wild cat bill, now known in montana as the honorable william moore. his ability to promote big enterprises, whether floating a mining company or electing a friend to the legislature, was publicly known, and danvers wondered silently what had brought the politician from helena to the semi-deserted town of fort benton, and induced him to favor him with a call. "yes, danvers," volunteered the affable moore, "i just thought i'd take a few days off and see what the old place looked like." danvers noticed that he had dropped the vernacular, though his speech was characteristic of the west. "it's always a pleasure to go back to the early days, when we roughed it together," bill went on. philip doubted the pleasure. he recognized this sentiment as a very recent acquisition in the honorable william moore, and waited for further enlightenment as to the real purpose of the visit. "the old bunch turned out pretty well, after all," moore commented. "robert burroughs is a millionaire! your sister was in luck, all right! and bob was tickled to death when a baby came. a big girl by this time!" a dangerous look--a look that made wild cat bill remember the night of the dance at the trading-post--warned the honorable william to drop personalities. the one fact that made the position of his sister tolerable to danvers was the knowledge that burroughs took pride in his wife and child and lavished his wealth upon them. "and you and the doctor still cling to fort benton!" the next remark of the caller was spoken with commiseration. "is the doctor still preaching its future?" danvers winced at what seemed a thrust at an old friend. "my cattle make it necessary for me to ship from fort benton and--i like the place," he acknowledged without apology. "and joe hall--you recall toe string joe?" there was ample reason why philip danvers should remember the disloyal trooper, dishonorably discharged. "queer idea of joe's to enlist in the first place," continued moore. "he made a much better miner. you're following his case in court, i suppose?" a subtle change in expression made the cattleman aware that all his visitor's remarks had been preliminary to this one. it was, then, the famous case of hall vs. burroughs that for some reason bill moore thought worth a trip from helena to discuss. "burroughs can't afford to lose that case," declared moore. "he'll lose it if joe has fair play!" cried danvers. philip felt no love for the recruit of early days, but his sense of justice asserted itself when he recalled the years that burroughs had made a tool of toe string joe at fort macleod, and later robbed him of his mining claim at helena. burroughs had grub-staked him and secured a half interest. at a time when joe was down sick, and hard pressed with debts, burroughs rushed a sale with eastern capitalists and forced joe hall to relinquish the claim for $ , . when joe discovered that it had brought $ , , and that burroughs had pocketed the difference, he went to law and won his suit. burroughs had appealed, and now the case was before the supreme court. "there are politics in the supreme court as well as elsewhere," ventured moore, with a meaning look. "it is usually thought otherwise, i believe." "i don't know what's usually thought. i know it's a fact." "perhaps corruption can be found----" "perhaps!" sneered the caller. "i tell you politics is a matter of a-gittin' plenty while you're gittin'." "i was not speaking of politics, but of corruption." "what's the difference?" cynically. "now, i say that judge latimer can be influenced." "indeed!" "i'm thinking that it would be safe to approach him in this case of bob's." "are you going to try it?" danvers' tone continued impersonal. the honorable william moore hurried on. he breathed as one having put forth more strength than was required--breathed as he had breathed when the detachment of mounted police rode up to the small trading-post where he had barely succeeded in concealing his smuggled whiskey. he laughed a little, threw his cigar away and put his thumbs firmly together with fingers clasped--a familiar mannerism. "see here, danvers! this case mustn't go against burroughs. bob's a good fellow. he did what any one else would have done. he wasn't looking out for joe hall. he did all the head-work, and at the time joe was satisfied with the price. of course you know that bob's going to run for united states senator next winter. and he's not over popular in montana; you know how it is, moneyed interest against labor (so the common herd think), and this case has made more talk than everything else put together that bob ever did." "well?" philip's eyes had a gleam that moore did not care to meet. perhaps he had been too confidential. he walked about the room, nervously, his right hand grasping the rear of his coat. at last he forced himself to say bluntly: "if you'll go to judge latimer and tell him how you feel--that burroughs is your brother-in-law--that sort of talk, and that if the case goes against bob, latimer'll never get re-elected to the supreme bench--oh, you know what to say. anyway, if you'll do this you'll be twenty-five thousand dollars better off--that's all; and i tell you, you'll need the money before next winter is over if this drouth continues. your cattle must be in bad shape now. just tell latimer how you feel." "how do you know how i feel about this case?" danvers kept himself well under control, though he felt his blood pounding. "it isn't so much what you feel as what you say." philip looked at the man. "you haven't got the money, bill." "haven't i?" boasted moore. "look at this!" he made a quick dive inside his coat. "three packages of twenty-five thousand each!" he exulted as he displayed the bills. "they were handed to me just before i took the train, and----" "bill moore," said the cattleman curiously, "did you think for a moment that i could be purchased?" the honorable mr. moore sparred. "or arthur latimer?" continued danvers. "what else am i here for?" cried moore in a rage. "every man's got his price. latimer's poor as a church mouse. he's got a wife like a vampire. and as for you--i know cattle raising isn't all profit!" "the trouble with you, bill," said danvers, dispassionately, "is that you judge every man by yourself. you can't understand a man like judge latimer--the thing would be impossible!" "it's you who are judging by yourself! we all know you're a fanatic--or used to be. i thought perhaps you'd gotten over some of those notions. i know judge latimer as well as you do. if we don't get him one way, we'll take another. we're goin' to win!" danvers made no reply. the honorable william waited for a moment, and then put back the packages he had flung on the table. he looked his surprise; he could not understand how he had been foiled with no anger. "you say you know my standards," began danvers, slowly. "then why did you come to me?" "we had to make the try; nobody could influence judge latimer like you." "but what good would the money do him?" questioned danvers, unable to follow the reasoning of the politician. "it would be found out and latimer would be ruined." "oh, no, it wouldn't." moore was hopeful again. "why didn't you approach him yourself?" it was an afterthought. "it looks more natural for you to be interested in your brother-in-law. bob said to see you." "so this is his method of beginning a campaign for a seat in the united states senate!" "we knew we could trust you!" replied moore. and danvers knew that the man believed he was paying a sincere tribute. more than a month after this conversation judge latimer also paid a visit to fort benton and straightway sought his dearest friend. "i wanted to get away from business, from--everything that distracts one," he explained, "and i wanted to see you, phil, and the doctor, and dear old sleepy fort benton again." he looked worn and distracted--thinner than philip remembered him, and in need of something more than physical relaxation. "are you quite well, arthur?" asked danvers solicitously. "i'm going to have the doctor over to give you a thorough examination, and i'll see that you carry out all his directions. you don't take a bit of care of yourself!" but in the evening, after a day in the open air, he brightened, and under the old spell of comradeship he took on the boyish manner that had been so marked a characteristic. "and how are all our friends at helena?" inquired the doctor, after he had secured a favorable report of eva and the baby. "all well, of course, or i should have heard from them!" he went on, with the geniality that latimer remembered so well. "and little arthur--he must be quite a lad now----" "six--and so proud of his new sister," replied the father, with a note of pride that danvers marked with thankfulness. the tenderness in the man's eyes told him that this little son was the sole balm of a harrassed life, and he wondered if even this great compensation was adequate for all the man had given--and lost. "why didn't you bring the little chap with you?" questioned the doctor. "i did think of it," confessed latimer, "but this is a business trip chiefly, if i must own up to it. i want to talk over the situation with someone i know--someone i can trust." "anything special?" asked the doctor. "politics!" replied the judge. "the political pot is beginning to get a scum on the top, preparatory to boiling." "how domestic a simile!" jeered the doctor. latimer laughed. "we've been without a maid lately, and i've had a chance to see the inside workings of a kitchen. not that it's eva's fault," he added hastily. "maids are hard to get." "h-m-m," assented the doctor, judicially, and soon the three were deep in montana politics. the probable nominees for state officials were gone over, and danvers remarked: "you are sure of re-election, arthur." "no, i'm not; not even of nomination," objected the judge. "the honorable william moore has been to see me----" danvers shot him a keen glance, and the doctor listened curiously. "he was interested in the hall and burroughs case." latimer hesitated, and a spot of color suddenly burned in his cheeks. "moore evidently thought it necessary to come to me and ask that burroughs have _fair play_!" the doctor laughed. it was an opportunity to tease the boy he loved; not a serious impeachment of the character of the judge of the supreme court. "he offered me a hundred thousand dollars if i'd take a rest! suggested europe!" the judge's voice trembled. "the devil he did!" burst from the physician. "he raised his price by the time he got to you," commented danvers. "what?" latimer whirled, amazed, toward the speaker. "when moore asked me to intercede with you for burroughs he had only twenty-five thousand for each of us." "what does burroughs think i am?" groaned the judge. "he should know me better than to send moore on his dirty business, but nothing i could say made any impression. he left, telling me to think it over." "do you know if he tried the others?" "no. i've not mentioned the matter to anyone--except eva. i was so outraged that i had to speak to someone. and she--she doesn't understand. she would enjoy a trip to europe, and i--i can't give it to her." his two friends were silent, and presently latimer went on. "and all this means that when it comes time to go before the convention this fall i shall have burroughs and his cohorts against me." "you seem sure of his opposition," remarked danvers. "the case isn't decided yet. if it is in favor of burroughs----" "the decision was handed down this morning. it was in favor of hall." "good!" chorused danvers and the doctor. "the election will turn out all right for you, too," prophesied the doctor, "and especially with danvers to help. the judge and i have been plotting against you for some time, phil," he explained. "we want you to go into politics." danvers shook his head. "wait a minute," urged the doctor. "it's like this, danvers. you're an american, as much as we are. you have taken out your naturalization papers. you never think of leaving montana. you have a splendid cattle business, and you love fort benton almost as much as i do." the cattleman smiled as the doctor outlined his position, and owned that he did love the country of his adoption. "and here's poor latimer struggling on alone up there at helena, while you and i devote our time to making a fortune----" "what are you offered for lots in fort benton now, doctor?" teased latimer, with a flash of his old humor. "let me explain, phil," he said. "i know it would be a sacrifice for you to leave your business here; you've made a success with your cattle, and i envy you the independent, care-free existence." "you don't appreciate the difficulties with drouths and blizzards," put in danvers, "to say nothing of competition and low prices." "nothing!" exclaimed latimer, with a gesture of his hand that swept away such trivialities like mere cobwebs that annoy but do not obstruct the vision. "all this is nothing! it is the complications with men--the relations with people--that weary and sicken and break the heart! i've tried to put up a clean record, a straight fight; i've tried to give honest service, and it seems as if the odds were all against me!" "what do you want?" asked danvers, more moved at the sight of his friend's distress than the need of his country. "we want to put you in the legislature as the senator from chouteau county!" cried latimer, flushed and eager. "if only a better class of men would go into politics! i can't blame them for wanting to keep out, and yet what is our country coming to? what can one man do alone? if you or the doctor or men of that character were in office, it wouldn't be so hard a fight. and with you in helena, phil----" the familiar name, in the soft voice of the southerner, stirred the heart of danvers like a caress. he was lonely, too--he had not realized how much so, till the hand of his friend was stretched out to him, not only for aid, but for companionship. his heart throbbed as it had not done since a woman fired his boyish imagination. in the long years on the range he had grown indifferent, and rejoiced in his lack of feeling. now he was waking, he was ready to take up his work in the world of men, ready to open his heart at the call of one who would be his mate. "i might be induced to run, since you put it so strongly," said danvers, with a lightness that did not conceal from either of his friends the depth of his feeling. "thank you, phil." danvers took the thin, nervous hand extended to him, and held it with a grasp that sent courage into the heart of judge latimer. it was a hand that had guided bucking bronchos and held lassoed steers, and the man weary with life's battles knew that a friend had come to his aid who would blench at no enemy. "do you need any more men?" inquired danvers, with a tone of assurance and natural leadership that amazed them both. "do we _need_ them? can you produce any more? that is the question," said latimer. "there's always o'dwyer, of course!" laughed danvers. "is he as devoted as ever?" inquired latimer. "the same old worshipper," declared the doctor. "and, by george! now you speak of it, he wouldn't make a bad representative!" the three men talked over the situation and planned a brief campaign, sending arthur latimer home, cheered and strengthened. nevertheless, after they had said good-bye at the station, the doctor turned to danvers with a heavy sigh. "latimer's heart is in bad condition. he's going to have trouble with it. and the nervous strain he lives under so constantly is more than i can reckon with. if he could rest at home--but i know how it was when they lived at fort benton!" "arthur has changed," said danvers, sadly. "i'll never forget," said the doctor, speaking more freely than ever before, "the time when latimer first discovered that eva did not care for him. he took it all to himself, and was broken-hearted because he had failed to keep her affections. think of it!" "did she ever care for him?" danvers could not resist asking. "i hardly think so. i always had an idea that her heart--what there is of it--was captured by an army officer." he looked slyly at his companion as they walked through the gloom. "nothing so low in rank as a second lieutenant!" evaded danvers. "you were fortunate, after all, philip, though it would have been better for eva. she needed a master--and she took our gentle, sensitive, chivalrous arthur! he will break; break like fine tempered steel when the strain becomes too great." [illustration] chapter ii charlie blair's sister the summer sped hot and with but little rain. some ten days before the state convention, the doctor and danvers went to helena. a strong opposition to judge latimer's renomination had developed, which was not traceable to any definite source. although danvers avowed a dislike for politics, in reality he had the inherent instinct for political life characteristic of the upper-class englishman, and he threw himself into the maelstrom with all his forces well in hand. office-seeking was disgusting to him, but the fight for his friend seemed worth the effort. in the midst of the political excitement, mrs. latimer gave a dinner-party, and philip danvers could not refuse his invitation without causing comment, and, what was of more consequence to his independent nature, wounding his friend arthur. he had met eva latimer occasionally when they lived at fort benton, but had preferred to lure arthur to his own quarters, or the doctor's office, for an old-time visit, rather than invade the formalities of the latimer residence. since his friend had been on the supreme bench danvers had not often seen eva, and now the great house in the suburbs of helena--so much more elaborate than latimer could afford, impressed him, as it had on previous calls, unpleasantly. it was not a home for arthur; it was an establishment for social functions, and a burden of expense; yet danvers knew it was the goal of arthur's thoughts, where his little son awaited him at the close of the day. danvers rang the bell, not a moment too early; nevertheless he found the western men standing self-conscious and ill at ease, waiting for the announcement of dinner. arthur greeted him warmly, and eva sparkled, smiled and chatted, moving among her guests and tactfully putting each at his best, while they waited for the last arrival--a miss blair, who was to be, so philip learned, his own partner at dinner. presently the tardy one arrived, beautiful in her serene, straightforward gaze from under fine brows and a wealth of dark hair that caught threads of light even under the gas-jets, and made hurriedly breathless excuses to her hostess. danvers was introduced to her immediately, and the dining-room was invaded. "so awkward of me," she explained in an undertone. "i turned my ankle as i came across the lawn, and had to wait quite a bit before i could move. i was afraid at first i couldn't come to dinner, but i hated to disappoint eva. little arthur must have left his hoop on the lawn, and i tripped on it. we live in the next house, and always come across lots. doesn't that sound new england-y?" she laughed softly. "my brother says i'll never drop our yankee phrases. i say pail for bucket, and path for trail, and the other day i said farm for ranch." "your voice has more of _old_ england than of new england," said danvers, appreciatively. he had not spoken before except to acknowledge mrs. latimer's hurried introduction. "oh, thank you!" miss blair smiled, frankly pleased. "not that i'm a bit of an anglo-maniac," she hastened to affirm, "but, do you know," she leaned toward danvers in an amusingly confidential way, "i've always felt mortified over my throaty voice--that is, i used to be." philip smiled, a smile that but few had ever seen. he listened with enjoyment. something in his companion's tacit belief that he would understand her feeling was wonderfully pleasing. he seemed taken into her confidence at once as being worthy, and it did not lessen his pleasure to observe that the honorable william moore, who sat at the left of miss blair, received only the most formal recognition, despite his effort at conversation, to the neglect of his own dinner partner. wit and merriment flashed from one to another, and all but the host seemed overflowing with animation. although latimer looked after the needs of his guests, he was often preoccupied. "why so silent, judge?" asked the doctor in a lull of conversation. "i beg your pardon," arthur apologized. "i fear i was rude. perhaps i was trying to work out the salvation of my country--from my own point of view." "planning for re-nomination?" asked moore, innocently. "and your ankle?" asked danvers of miss blair, under cover of the laugh that followed moore's attempt at wit. "i hope that you are not suffering from it." his observant eye had noted the smooth contour of the girl's face, but as the moments passed the natural lack of high coloring seemed to grow more colorless. "it hurts--a little," confessed the girl. "but it is of no consequence. mrs. latimer's dinner must not be marred by my blundering in the dark. i should have come by the walk." "you are thoughtful." danvers looked again at the girl, and wished for the first time that he could use the small talk of society. politics was debarred from the table conversation, but when they were again in the parlors miss blair turned to danvers. "aren't you the senator from chouteau?" "not yet," smiled philip. "oh, but you will be. my brother says so." "i'm glad some one is optimistic. i'm afraid i shall not be the deciding party." "who will be our united states senator?" "that is hard to tell. so many straws sticking out of the tangle make it difficult to prophesy which will be pulled out." "your party is so split up this year," said the girl. "which wing are you affiliated with?" this was not "small talk," as danvers recognized with an amused feeling that he had not expected a lady to know anything outside his preconceived idea of feminine chat. "montana politics have no wings," he quibbled. miss blair laughed. "really, haven't you decided which of the candidates you'll support for united states senator?" she ran over the names. "that's rather a leading question, isn't it?" evaded philip. "if a _man_ asked me, i'd give him no satisfaction. i will say to you, though, that i am going to do my best to send some one to washington who is pledged to place community interests before his own." "i did not mean to ask impertinent questions, or to cross-examine," quavered miss blair. "one who finds out anything from you must have taken his thirty-third degree in masonry. i am not trying my hand at lobbying," she added as an afterthought. "you mustn't think that. i'm just interested in the political situation. and brother charlie won't talk politics with me any more than he'll recount his experiences as a freighter." "charlie? brother charlie?" a dim memory revived. "i beg your pardon! is scar faced charlie your brother?" "yes. didn't you know?" "then you are the little girl----" "winifred. i thought you didn't recognize me, though i knew you at once. but you would scarcely remember me, while i--you know you saved my life." "and to think that you have so changed--grown up! and that you are here! i remember asking for you when charlie was in fort benton, shortly after i went there to live; but you were away at school. i don't recall ever hearing your brother called blair, though as a matter of fact i wasn't thinking of your name. i was thinking of you!" "what a pretty speech! and mrs. latimer is always telling what a woman-hater you are!" "i was not aware that i was of enough importance to be the subject of mrs. latimer's strictures," replied danvers, his brow contracting. "but i believe i do have that reputation," he added, and smiled into her unbelieving brown eyes. "moore is not running for office this year," said danvers presently, finding it easier to talk of matters politic. "no. charlie wants a place in the senate--perhaps you know." she changed the subject by asking, "do you think that a man should ever vote for a candidate not in his own party?" "if he votes for the better man--especially in local politics--yes. is it a political crime in your eyes?" "i believe most politicians think so." miss blair also resorted to evasion. they were joined by other guests, and the conversation became general. the honorable mr. moore, resplendent in a new dress suit, was saying pleasant things to his hostess. "what a lucky dog the judge is, my dear mrs. latimer! you would carry off any situation. you deserve a wider field than this small western city." "really?" cooed the flattered lady. as she moved away, moore's glance followed her, and a look of sudden inspiration illumined his shiny face. wild cat bill, with his rotund form, resembled a domesticated house cat far more than the agile creature which had given him his frontier title. the incongruity struck danvers, and he smiled at winifred blair as she drifted to another part of the room--a smile that she returned with a friendly nod of farewell. he did not see her again that evening, and not long afterward he and the doctor bade their hostess good-night. "not sorry you went, are you, phil?" asked the doctor, as they walked to their hotel. "goodness knows, arthur and i labored hard enough to get you there." "i have always disliked dinner parties." the observant doctor noticed the wording of the reply and drew his own conclusions. "come in and have a smoke with me," said the doctor, as they reached his room, and he bent over to insert the key. for years it had been danvers' habit to drop into the physician's office during the late afternoon or evening, to talk or smoke in silence, as the case may be. to-night he followed the doctor, and sat down for a half-hour's chat. "that was a fetching gown that mrs. latimer wore; i don't envy arthur the bills!" remarked the astute doctor, as he filled his pipe. "i didn't notice," was philip's indifferent reply. "i never know what women have on." "and how lovely miss blair looked in blue!" "soft rose!" came the correction from the man who never noticed. the doctor's mouth twitched, but he smoked on in silence, and when he bade philip good-night he gave him a god-bless-you pat on the shoulder, which the coming senator from chouteau interpreted solely as due to his long friendship. danvers was wakeful that night, and a name sang through his drowsy brain until he roused, impatient. "it was only her voice that interested me!" he exclaimed aloud. "she's probably like the rest of them." the nettle of one woman's fickleness had stung so deeply when he first took to the primrose path of love that he had never gone farther along the road leading to the solving of life's enigma, and now the overgrowth of other interests had almost obliterated the trail. although the days at helena were busy ones for philip danvers, he found time before the convention to make his dinner call at the latimer's. on the shaded lawn before the house he found miss blair entertaining little arthur while she kept watch over the baby asleep in its carriage. "mrs. latimer is away for the afternoon. she will be sorry to have missed you," exclaimed the girl, as arthur ran to greet the visitor, always a favorite. "you called on aunt winnie and me! didn't you? didn't you?" chanted the boy, tugging at the hand of the visitor. "may i stay?" asked danvers, smiling at the eager little man. "and how is the sprain?" "of course you may," assented winifred brightly. "and as for the sprained ankle, wicked and deceitful creature that i am, i made it the excuse for not going with mrs. latimer. good people, really good people, would think that i merited punishment for not doing my duty in my small sphere of life. yet see! instead of that i'm rewarded--here _you_ come to entertain arthur and me!" "it is a bad example!" decided danvers, with a stern eye that did not deceive anyone. he was amused at her naïveté, and had no wish to decry such open good-will. "but i do limp! don't i, arthur?" miss blair appealed to the child, gravely. he nodded and stooped to examine the low, narrow shoe, peeping from her sheer summer gown. winifred pulled the foot back with a sudden flush. "i am, perhaps, helping along in this world as much as though i were playing cards, by staying with the children instead of their being with the maid," she said hastily. philip leaned over to look at the baby. arthur pulled the parasol to one side proudly. "her name is winifred," he announced. "i believe i never saw a really little baby before," said danvers, looking with awe at the tiny sleeper. "my sister and i were near of an age; we grew up together. how _little_ babies are!" miss blair laughed. "winifred is a very nice baby--big for her few months of life. i'm very proud to be her godmother." danvers watched as she pulled the fleecy covering around the sleeping child. with the act a maternal look came into her lovely face, unconscious as she was of scrutiny, and a thrill of manhood shook him deeply. "so you did not care for the party?" inquired the caller, presently. "i thought all ladies adored card parties and enjoyed fighting for the prizes." "play cards when the mountains look like that?" winifred rejoined. "it would be a sacrilege!" "i do not care for cards myself," agreed danvers. "wouldn't you like to be out there?" winifred seemed scarcely to have heard him. following the direction of her gaze, he thought her wide-flung gesture a deserved tribute to the view. the prickly pear valley lay before them, checkered in vivid green or sage-drab as water had been given or withheld. the scratch gravel hills jutted impertinently into the middle distance; while on the far western side of the plain the jefferson range rose, tier on tier, the distances shading the climbing foothills, until the bear's tooth, a prominent, jagged peak, cleft the azure sky. a stretch of darker blue showed where the missouri river, itself unseen, broke through the gate of the mountains. the view took one away from the affairs of men. on their side of the valley towered mount helena and mount ascension with auriferous gulches separating and leading up to the main range of the rockies. as the foothills sank into the valley the gulches, washed of their golden treasure, were transformed into the streets of helena--irregular, uneven, unpaved often; in the residence part of the town young trees ambitiously spread their slender branches; the main street and intersecting steeper ones were bordered with business blocks as ambitious, in their way, as the transplanted trees. "'i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,'" quoted winifred, softly. "what a singer david was. but these mountains seem worthy of the grand old psalms." "yes," assented danvers, simply; and he liked her better on this second meeting than he had at the dinner party--a crucial test where a woman is concerned. "i never weary of looking," she breathed. "i think--i never should, either," he declared, and looked--at her! unconscious of his gaze, she absently jogged the carriage while the baby slept, and arthur, holding danvers' hand, waited his turn. "mamma hates helena," was his contribution. "sh-h-h!" warned winifred. "then if i can't talk, make uncle phil show us a good time." the lad turned appealing, beautiful eyes toward danvers, so like his father's that philip drew him closer. "tell us about the crow indians stealing the blackfeet ponies." this was a favorite story. "not to-day, laddie," refused philip, gently. "miss blair would not----" "yes, i should," contradicted winifred. "aunt winnie will just love to hear that story," affirmed arthur. "_i_ do! she tells me lots of stories. she was telling one when you came--the one i like the best of all. it had a be-u-ti-ful trooper in it who rescued her from a water-y grave!" the child's recital was as melodramatic as his words. "he held her just so!" arthur illustrated by a tight clasp of the embarrassed girl. "now, you tell one." philip saw that winifred had a real interest in the old days, and while relieving her embarrassment by gratifying the little story-teller, he spoke of the whoop up country. winifred had the rare gift of bringing out the best in people. danvers needed such incentive; although denying it, he was a good conversationalist. now his whole being responded to this clear-eyed, pleasant-voiced girl who sat in the low rocker beside him. she would understand. the few times he had essayed to speak to others of his service in the mounted police, he had met with such indifference that the words were killed; and with the exception of the doctor, danvers had never shared his experiences with any one. to the women he had met in helena and fort benton that lonely life had brought a shudder, and to the men unpleasant reminiscences. so far as his associates of the early days were concerned it was a closed chapter. to the child winifred, danvers had been a hero--handsome, debonair; to the woman winifred, he found himself talking as easily as to the little girl who listened years before. the life at fort macleod was the one subject that would win danvers from his silence, and in the next hour miss blair had good reason to think that she would not exchange this call for all the card parties in the world. presently he challenged, "you are bored?" "i've been delightfully entertained. it is all fascinating to me. charlie will seldom speak of the freighting days, and i remember very little of fort benton." "the old place isn't big enough for most of us. the macleod men are scattered, too." "have you ever been back?" "never! i could not bear to see the country fenced in, the old cottonwood barracks replaced, the railroad screaming in the silence, and colonel macleod dead. no, i shall never go back." the baby awoke and diverted them, and soon the maid came for both children. half-way to the house little arthur ran back. "i'm going to be a police when i grow up," he announced. "i prayed about it last night. i know god'll fix it. i put it right to him. it was peachy!" "arthur is always saying the drollest things," remarked miss blair as the child ran out of hearing distance. "yesterday he told me that when he went fishing with his papa his fish wouldn't hook on tight." "i'm afraid he'll find the same difficulty later in life," laughed philip, and rose to say good-afternoon. "i will not wait longer for mrs. latimer, but leave my card," he decided. "the doctor will be wondering what has become of me." but the doctor found him very silent over his pipe that evening. the sight of arthur latimer's little son had wakened the old longing, the inborn desire of every englishman to bestow the ancestral name upon the heir of his house. philip danvers! for eight generations a son had borne the name. would he be the last to inherit it in this far country that had come to be his own? [illustration] chapter iii a man of two countries on the sunday spent in helena the doctor proposed to danvers that they give over politics and call at the blairs. "they won't stand on formalities, and we both need to get our minds out of this political struggle. i'll be glad when i can go home to fort benton!" "charlie seems to be doing well in helena," remarked philip, as they approached the house next judge latimer's. "he's up, then down. he isn't much of a business man, and hasn't head enough to keep in the swim. he worships that sister of his, and just now he's doing pretty well. i fancy that she knows nothing of his financial standing." "i imagine miss blair knows more about charlie's difficulties than either you or he give her credit for. she sees more than she tells." the callers found brother and sister on the wide porch, and after the greetings and a half-hour of general conversation, charlie blair asked the doctor if he would come inside and give a little advice on a private matter. "good," cried winifred. "for once i'm glad that charlie can think of nothing but business. now i can talk to mr. danvers." "see that you do!" commanded philip. "yesterday i went away feeling like a garrulous dame; it is your turn to-day." winifred affected to reflect. "what shall be my theme--art, music, literature or our mutual friends?" "tell me of yourself." "as a subject of conversation, that would be soon exhausted. women, you know, are too idle to be good; too conventional to be bad." "indeed!" returned the cattleman, catching her mood. "i have known many women of that description. pardon me, but i had imagined you were a different type." "you say the nicest things! i feel that we are going to be very good friends." danvers bowed. "thank you. i think we are." she returned his frank gaze, and settled herself comfortably for an afternoon's enjoyment. "now talk!" she in turn commanded, with the sweeping imperialism she sometimes manifested toward a chance companion. "i refuse. it is your turn." "how you like to put on the mask of silence! do you bolt the door to everyone but the doctor and judge latimer?" "thoughts are hard things to express, unless one forgets himself, and they come spontaneously." "go ahead and forget yourself, then!" "you are inexorable," laughing. "your demand makes me think of an indian council. of course, you know that when they meet to discuss problems, they sit silent for hours. the avowed purpose of conferring paralyzes their tongues, apparently, as you have paralyzed mine. if i ever had an idea i could not produce it now." "the quakers have a prettier custom. they sit in silence till the spirit moves. i will be the spirit that moves you;" and so adroitly did she continue that unconsciously the man spoke of more serious things--his likings, his beliefs. "why did you become an american?" she asked at length, the question that had often puzzled her. "my mother was an american." his voice took a note of tenderness which winifred remembered long. "but when i left the service it was with no thought of choosing this as my country. i had no desire to return to england, however, and the chances for business seemed greater on this side of the line." the girl's deep eyes gazed directly into his with flattering intentness. "and so the years slipped by until i found that my interests were all here, and i could not leave, even if i had cared to. isn't that true, judge?" he remarked, as arthur latimer came across the lawn. "you wanted to make a voter of me, for your own dark purposes----" "philip always hits the bull's-eye," admitted the judge, interrupting with a menacing gesture of affection at the implication. "you would not leave the state. that's just it. the most of us came into the northwest, as we thought, to make a fortune and go back east or south to enjoy it. but whether we have made money or not, we discovered that we are here to stay. the old ties in other communities are gone. old friends are dead. old memories faded. we aren't all such enthusiasts as the doctor, who lives at fort benton for sheer love of the place, but----" "i know just how he feels," cried winifred, quick to defend her old friend. "i could go back there myself to live. we have a love-feast every time we speak of the dear old town, and that's every time i see him." "i think," said danvers, slowly, making sure of his words, "that i have come to love montana more than my native land, though that was certainly very far from my feeling when i came back to fort benton as a civilian, and asked for work. i told the man that i was an englishman, but i made a mistake. there was a long list of applicants ahead of me--americans--to whom preference would be given. i thanked the manager, but from that day i determined to succeed without being forced into citizenship. i did succeed, and of my own choice i became an american!" "words, words! what are you talking about?" the doctor asked, breezily, as he appeared with blair. "let us into your charmed circle. i, for one, promise to be silent. any occasion gains dignity by having an audience, and i'll promise not to be critical. i will consider your youth." after a general laugh, the judge gave the trend of the conversation, and the doctor quite forgot his promise. the discussion of good citizenship became general, and presently philip was appealed to for testimony on the subject of foreigners becoming naturalized. "i hardly think i can tell you much that you do not already know," he said, "concerning englishmen becoming american citizens. we must give the inhabitants of every great european country the credit for believing their own country to be the greatest. with the possible exception of russia and turkey, i am inclined to the opinion that they think their liberty is not infringed upon, any more than it should be; and they are, i suppose, contented with their lot. john bull has every reason to think himself a favored being. he is proud of the institutions of his country--royalty, aristocracy. the knight, the 'squire, the merchant, manufacturer, skilled workman and laborer--each has his place. the laborer, cap in hand, bows to his master. so, too, aristocracy bends the knee to royalty--being taught to keep allotted rank in society, and to defer to those above. what is more, all have a supreme regard for the law itself, as well as for those who administer it." winifred listened. her bright, upturned face was an incentive for danvers to continue. "when we englishmen come to this country," he said, "knowing but little of the government, we care nothing for it. we generally come to better our condition financially, not politically. when we see the actions of political heelers at elections we are often astounded. we hear of tweed, of tammany, and it is not surprising that we have a certain contempt for american politics. if we watch very closely we see men elected to office who are entirely incompetent, and we even have suspicions of their honesty." the girl laughed lightly. "you choose to be very sarcastic," she commented. but danvers had more to say. "as time goes on we watch events, comparing the government of this country with that of our own. little by little we are brought to feel that these states are being fairly well governed, after all. in my own case, when judge latimer asked me to take an active part in politics, i hesitated. but i had cast my lot in fort benton, and it seemed wrong to accept all that america had to give with no return from myself." the anglo-american looked around his circle of friends. never before had he expressed himself so fully. he could not understand how he had been beguiled. but never before had he felt that a woman's brain would grasp every reason adduced, and understand--that was it; he felt that he was understood! "montana politics are like an englishman's game--high. they smell to heaven," said charlie blair, after the men had further discussed the political situation. "i don't believe that montana is any worse than many other states," defended winifred, quickly. "we are building history," said the doctor, dreamily, "and history repeats itself. as the powerful nobles of greece and rome dictated harsh terms to the common people and ruined their nations, so it will be with us. machine politics, money and whiskey, millionaires and monopolies--truly the outlook is depressing." "you are not usually so pessimistic, doctor," reproached winifred. "well"--blair's contented philosophy was refreshing--"politicians seldom get more than one-fourth their money's worth, when they use it unlawfully. three-quarters of it is wasted by giving it to hangers-on." "public men should be unhampered by demands for spoils." "they invite the demands, phil," replied the doctor, dryly. "if it were not openly known that a man could get a position as a corporation lawyer, or timekeeper in a big mine, or some other inducement, do you think any would-be senator, for instance, would be troubled by distributing 'spoils of office'?" "he would not be troubled with superfluous votes, either," remarked the judge, caustically. "oh," cried winifred, with a vision of what might be, "if only the candidates and the voters could be brought to see that public office is a public trust; that the honor of election is enough!" "that is the way it is in england," answered danvers. "there, for instance, a man is elected to a city council for his personal fitness and ability to hold office. no questioning of his political affiliations. no perquisites--no privileges. only the honor of his fellow citizens, which is enough. it is the same in other positions, even in parliament." "here comes mrs. latimer." miss blair rose and advanced to meet her friend. "i see by your eyes, eva," she said gaily, "that i have to placate you for monopolizing all the men in sight." mrs. latimer laughed, and the circle widened to admit her. "you are talking of politics," she accused, lazily. "either that or of fort macleod." "madam," the doctor affected remorse, "we were talking of politics. but when you burst upon our enchanted vision, as beautiful as when you dazzled us sixteen----" "oh, don't!" shuddered eva. "why--why will men be so exact as to dates? why not say 'some years ago'?" she looked around rebelliously. "i will not grow old, even if you, dear doctor, have silvery hair, and arthur's is growing thin, and mr. blair--well, i'll admit the years have dealt kindly with charlie and mr. danvers." "and with you, dear," added her husband, loyally. "how do you like my gown?" asked eva, turning to miss blair as the men began to talk of other subjects. "it's lovely! you are so artistic! it must please your husband to have you so perfectly gowned." "oh, arthur--as for one's husband, i simply can't imagine dressing for one man." "i can," breathed the girl, her thoughts afield. but the sentiment was lost upon eva. "if i lived nine miles from nowhere i would dress and walk among the cow corrals or on the range for the cowboys--if there were no other men to admire me!" "you say such dreadful things," winifred answered, gently, "but i know you do not mean them." "but i do!" wilfully. "i have grown away from the east," the doctor was saying, when the ladies again listened. "i want more room than the crowded cities can give. "'room, room to turn 'round in, to breathe and be free.' "i fancy the puritans wanted physical as well as religious freedom, if the truth were known." he mused; then suddenly: "how can you make one who has never experienced it _feel the west_?" "you can't," laughed latimer. "i tried once, but my companion looked bored, and i stopped. 'oh, go on,' he said, politely; '_you_ are interested!'" when the merriment had subsided, eva exclaimed: "i'm sick and tired of the west! i want to live in new york, washington, abroad--anywhere but montana!" "i wish that we might, dear," said the judge, patiently; "perhaps we can some day." "by the way," remarked eva, her thoughts flying inconsequently to another subject, "i've promised to read a paper on 'the judiciary of montana' before our club to-morrow. tell me all about it, arthur, and i'll write the essay this evening." she looked at the group in surprise. what had she said to raise such shouts? as soon as her husband could speak he wiped his eyes. "it's a pretty big subject for me to discuss now," he said; "but i'll write something. that will be better than confusing your mind with it. these club-women," he went on indulgently, addressing the others, "are so fervid--so much in earnest." "are you a club-woman, too?" the doctor asked winifred, and danvers waited her reply. "i used to be," dolefully. "but i am a renegade, or a degenerate. i was allowed to join the classic circle of a dante club, and for two years we (perhaps i'd better say i) agonized over the prescribed study--the course was sent out by the university. but when the third year arrived i wearied of well-doing. i was horrid, i know; but the subject was remote as to time, and dead as to issues. i like live topics, real issues--montana politics, for instance." "you might have joined the current events club," reproached mrs. latimer. "to be sure, it's sometimes hard to find topics for the next meeting, but we get along. club work broadens our minds and widens our sphere," she concluded, with a pretty air of triumph. "and when topics fail--to write about," put in blair, "you can talk. you ladies always find enough to talk about!" "why, charlie blair! you're just as horrid as you used to be!" responded eva, hotly. "didn't i hear something about one lady's stabbing to death another lady's imported hat, just on account of too much talk at one of the club meetings?" blair was persistent. "that story about the hat has been grossly exaggerated! it is nothing but gossip." "'current events,' too," murmured charlie, properly deprecatory. not long afterwards danvers made the first move toward breaking up the group. "must you be going?" winifred rose also. "i suppose i shall not see you again before the assembly meets. you'll be sure to be here then, as senator from chouteau." "thank you for your optimism. may i call?" "certainly. i should feel hurt if you didn't. we are friends of many years' standing, you know." never before had he asked to call upon a lady. the importunity had always been on the other side. late in the evening the doctor came to danvers' room for the good-night call; but the talk was wholly of judge latimer's interests. "i'm afraid that arthur will have a hard pull," regretted the old friend, "but we will do all we can for him. i've had a telegram calling me back to fort benton, and must leave on the midnight train." danvers walked to the little depot, a mile from the city proper, with his friend, and after the train pulled out he again thought of winifred. as he passed, on his way back to town, the huge piles of loose rock that the miners had left in their sluicing for gold in bygone days, his thoughts followed the girl back into the long years since he had first met her on the _far west_--a child eager for sympathy. it was odd that he had never seen her in all that time--the years when he had unconsciously longed for friendship, and the sight of a woman's face--a white face. the rings from his cigar melted around him, softening his face until it took on the boyish fairness of youth. [illustration] chapter iv the state republican convention the evening before the convention found judge latimer at the club in conference with his friends. his nomination seemed doubtful, yet there was a possibility that he might win, and danvers was working hard and hopefully. the honorable william moore had arrived from butte that day, and as he greeted various members of the club, watched for a chance to approach judge latimer. "what are the prospects?" he inquired, after a chat on politics in general. "i calculate you'll need the support of silver bow county, and we'd like to help you out." "of course, i shall be glad of your support," responded latimer, who knew it would be impossible to win without this important section of montana. "very well. what can you do for us--that is, for burroughs?" the judge moved uneasily. "it doesn't seem to me that i can do very much for a man who has practically the whole state at his command." "you know what we want!" scowlingly. "i shall have no influence." "bah! what's the use talking? he'll make it worth your while. get danvers to vote for burroughs when it comes time to elect united states senator. he never will unless you can persuade him. you know his feeling toward burroughs, although bob's been a good husband and father. and there's charlie blair, get him pledged and he'll be elected; and----" "hold on, moore!" latimer's voice trembled with anger. "why should you oppose me? haven't my decisions always been just and----" "i'm not saying anything about your decisions," broke in moore, "although it would have paid you to be amenable. i knew the time would come when you'd want our political help." "i _don't_ want your help!" cried the judge, passionately. "if i should be elected through your instrumentality i should feel as though every man in the state believed that a decision handed down by the supreme court was tainted with your money. as yet the supreme court of montana has been above suspicion, and so far as it is in my power, it shall remain so!" he struck out, his slight form quivering righteously. across the room danvers saw him, and walked quickly toward the men. "i want to speak to you, arthur," he said, and drew the judge into the street. "the elephant and the gazelle are trotting together," said latimer, presently, trying to be facetious in an effort to regain control of himself. he looked up at his stalwart companion. "yes, and the gazelle is always looking for trouble when the elephant is around, so he can be pulled out!" returned danvers, in the same strain; yet with the undercurrent of affection that always crept into his tone when speaking to latimer. words failed the harassed judge as he attempted to reply. this friend of his! this dear friend! "it is just as i thought, phil," he remarked, after they had walked for a time in silence. "burroughs will block me." "that's bad; but it might be worse. let me see. who are the delegates from silver bow?" "bill moore is the chairman. no need to specify the individual men, for every one of them will vote as instructed. oh, burroughs has that county well organized!" "h-m-m!" mused danvers, nodding affirmation. "silver bow is not the only county, and moore is not the only chairman. i am chairman of the chouteau county delegation, and we are solid for you. i have more or less influence in other counties," modestly. as they walked they canvassed the situation. without silver bow it did look dubious. turning a corner they met o'dwyer, ruddy and smiling as ever. "here's o'dwyer!" cried danvers. "he is always good in an emergency. his fertile brain will contrive some method of procedure that will land you safely on the bench for a second term." a conference ensued. o'dwyer shook his head doubtfully when he learned of burroughs' strong following, but said nothing until the three were in danvers' room. "i heard wild cat bill talking to yeh," he acknowledged, "and i think i've got something up my sleeve." but he refused to disclose his plans, only warning danvers not to be surprised if he was late to the convention, and they separated. * * * * * the convention was called to order. campaign issues did not appear to be of great moment; but when the chairman announced that the candidates for chief justice would now be considered, there suddenly arose so much controversy and ill-feeling that the meeting was adjourned until evening. an active canvass was begun by danvers for judge latimer, and by moore for his candidate. o'dwyer of chouteau county, seemingly not so much interested in the business in hand as in looking up old friends whom he had known at fort macleod, circulated joyously among the men. it was not long before he was cheek by jowl at the hotel bar with wild cat bill (moore never objected to the old nickname), and after sundry refreshments and their accompanying chasers, he proposed that they dine together. mr. moore was agreeable, and suggested a private room for the meal, being under the impression that o'dwyer would look favorably on an effort to turn his allegiance from latimer's candidacy. as the dinner progressed he told o'dwyer that he had in mind a lucrative position which mr. burroughs would gladly bestow on an old friend, if the irishman saw fit to accept. moore carefully explained, as the glasses were filled and emptied, that he had no ulterior motive. oh, certainly not! o'dwyer must not think that burroughs ever offered a bribe, even in so small a matter as this of defeating judge latimer in state convention! "of course not!" agreed o'dwyer, and surreptitiously glanced at his watch. he redoubled his efforts to be the good fellow, and apparently coincided with moore's views on politics. the clock in the court house struck half after eight. the convention was called to order, and mrs. latimer, thrilling with the sense of unknown possibilities, sat in the crowded gallery, and settled expectantly to the excitement of the balloting. strong and spicy speeches were anticipated. silver bow, notoriously the hotbed of political agitation in the state, possessed in mr. moore a star speaker. he always had something to say, and was the chief factor in filling the ladies' gallery. his fiery remarks and impassioned appeals were as exhilarating as cocktails. full well did mr. burroughs know the value of his trusted henchman, both in caucus and on the floor, and he had left his cause against judge latimer wholly in moore's hands, with no understudy. he had made the trip over from butte the day before, and now expectantly awaited the appearance of the honorable william. as the delegates and spectators listened to the blaring band they watched the rapidly filling seats and noted the tall staffs and placards indicating the various counties. danvers looked in vain for latimer; burroughs for moore. o'dwyer had not appeared, and the chairman of the chouteau county delegation smiled as he thought of the irishman's devotion to his friends, and the possible discomfiture of their common enemy. but latimer's absence was disquieting. he had said something about little arthur's having a cold, but surely that would not keep him from so important an occasion. nine o'clock. the chairman declared the convention ready to proceed. burroughs, hovering near the doors of the auditorium, looked anxious as he saw danvers rise to make his nomination speech for judge latimer. moore--the invaluable moore--was not in the hall. the moments were slipping by, and burroughs hastily dispatched a messenger to his hotel and to the club. as danvers gave a simple, earnest recital of judge latimer's qualifications and the need for such men in the state of montana, he saw the judge enter. he spoke of his devotion to his family, his business integrity, his high ideals; and ended with the plea that in this day of corruption in high places, his own state preserve her prestige by maintaining in office one who had been found able and incorruptible in discharging his duties as judge of the supreme court of the state of montana. as danvers returned to his seat he was met by the recalcitrant moore, walking carefully, and blandly indifferent to burroughs' angry oath with which he had been greeted at the door. danvers tried to avoid the wavering path, but the honorable william had a set purpose in his muddled brain. he fell upon the neck of the delegate from chouteau, and his arms met around danvers' neck. "i d'know yer name," he hiccoughed, enthusiastically, "but i know yeh're a gen'lmun." the unexpected followed. holding himself upright by the embarrassed danvers, he bellowed: "mishter chairman! i seconsh the nomination!" pandemonium ensued--laughter in the galleries, drowned by the roar of disapproval from burroughs' candidate and his following. o'dwyer hastily gained the recognition of the chairman and again seconded the nomination of latimer, and the balloting began. burroughs, not being a delegate, had no place on the floor, and was powerless. the leaderless flock from silver bow made weak efforts to assert themselves, but o'dwyer saw to it that moore did not get to them until affairs were well settled. the first ballot was taken, and latimer had a majority. he had received the nomination! there were cheers and loud calls for latimer, and he responded briefly. in the excitement burroughs succeeded in enticing the torpid bill into the lobby, and so effective were his words, emphasized by his fists, that moore returned to the hall a chastened man, and demanded that the nomination be set aside. in the uproar burroughs ventured onto the floor and yelled to the cheering delegation from chouteau county, "howl, ye hirelings!" he violently accused danvers of collusion with o'dwyer in detaining mr. moore. o'dwyer was in no mood to permit this. for years he had idolized the englishman. in a moment he placed himself in front of the ex-trader, and reaching, grabbed for burroughs' nose. "do i understand yeh're talkin' agin me friend, philip danvers?" he shouted, with a twist of the olfactory member. "if i hear anither whimper out of yez, i'll smash yeh one! i got bill moore drunk--i! yeh can settle wid mesilf!" in the tumult the meeting adjourned, and danvers was glad to get out of the hall and have a word with his friend. "why were you so late, arthur?" questioned danvers, as soon as they had a moment together. "my boy is not well," arthur explained, as his eye roved anxiously around the circling balcony. "eva had set her heart on hearing the nomination speeches, and so i stayed with the laddie until the last minute. i couldn't bear to leave him alone with the nurse-girl." "let me go for a doctor!" begged danvers, anxious to be of some help. "no, he isn't sick enough for that--i did call a physician about dinner time. perhaps i'm foolish," he smiled wanly, "but if anything should happen----" "tut! tut!" danvers put his hand on the stooping shoulders. "i'm going home on the midnight train, and i'll send the old doctor up to see the lad; or," with a sudden thought, "why not wire him? i will do it as i go to the station." "perhaps you'd better," agreed latimer. "i wish he had remained here for the convention; but i know he will be glad to make the trip for the sake of the boy, and the sight of his face will do me good." "you've been working too hard. take it easy now and don't worry," counseled danvers. "i shall be up again in a few weeks, and in the meantime write to me, arthur." he stood a moment as judge latimer waited for eva. he felt, somehow, that his friend needed him. but his train would soon be due, and with a hearty hand-clasp he said good-night and hurried away for the fort benton express. [illustration] chapter v despair the days that followed the convention were like a dream to danvers when he remembered them afterwards. he had scarcely picked up the old life at fort benton--looked over his cattle and gone over his neglected correspondence, when a telegram from the old doctor recalled him to helena. arthur latimer's tragedy had come, and danvers, unfamiliar with death, knew no words of consolation for the father bereft of his firstborn. a numbness mercifully comes during those first hours, which makes it possible to move about and go through strange, meaningless ceremonies with a calm that surprises those who have not known the searing touch of the death angel. a few days later he and the doctor were back at fort benton again, and life moved on as before. only there was always the memory of latimer's drawn face that no laddie's voice would lighten, no little hand caress. the doctor hoped that the political campaign would occupy his thoughts for the present, but when the election went against latimer he shook his head. "read this letter," he said to danvers one evening. "it came to-day, and i should have sent for you if i hadn't felt so certain you would drop in. you're the one to go." it was a letter from winifred, and danvers felt a peculiar sensation of satisfaction in seeing her handwriting, as if it gave him an added bond to their friendship. but he forgot winifred in his anxiety over the message her letter conveyed. _"i wish that you or mr. danvers could come to helena," she wrote. "judge latimer is so changed since little arthur's death that we sometimes fear for his reason. since the election has gone against him there is no direct interest to take his attention and he has sunk into a deep melancholy. you could rouse him as no one else could. please come--one or both of you."_ danvers read no further, but looked up to catch the doctor's eye. he nodded. "all right, doctor. i'll go to-night." his heart was drawn still more closely to the stricken man. he longed to bring back to that sad face the smile that he remembered on the _far west_, when latimer's buoyancy had been like wine to his lonely heart. he felt confident that the friendship of one man for another could reach the heart of his friend, now closing against all human sympathy. it was noon before danvers reached helena and made his way to judge latimer's residence. he was startled by the absence of life, the silence and drawn shades. turning, he saw miss blair entering her own gate. "i'm so glad you've come!" cried the girl, with unaffected pleasure, as he hastened towards her. "but didn't you know that the latimers had gone to the hotel for the winter?" danvers had not known. "come in and have lunch with charlie and me," she urged; "it will be ready in just a minute. charlie will be here soon and will want to congratulate you on your majority." "but arthur--i feel i must get to him." "come in and telephone. he has opened offices down town and you may find him there. i call up eva every morning, but judge latimer is out a great deal." while she was speaking danvers had followed her into the house. it was a homelike room; a canary's trill greeted them, and a glimpse of old-fashioned plants in the bay-window wakened memories of english homes. how different it was from his rooms at fort benton! winifred smiled brightly as she made him at home, and excused herself for a moment. "and how is judge latimer?" questioned danvers, as she reappeared from the dining-room with a big apron, which she fastened about her waist in a most businesslike manner. "he needs cheering--needs loving! with the old routine of office suddenly lacking, and little arthur gone, the man is lost--aimless. there seems to be nothing worth while--nothing to keep him with us! and there are other troubles--i don't understand them myself, but you will know how to help him. i'm so glad you have come!" she repeated, with a warmth that made his heart beat faster. what would it be like to find such a welcome for his own sake--and every night when he came home! "did you 'phone the office?" the words recalled him. "yes. he is down in the valley; the clerk didn't know when he would return." "we won't wait for charlie. he's often late, and i know you are anxious to find the judge." after a few minutes' absence winifred announced that luncheon was ready. as philip held the curtains for her to precede him to the dining-room he looked longingly at the sweet-scented blossoms in the window. "i have seen nothing more delightful in years," he explained. "i am old-fashioned enough not to care for palms or rubber plants." "another bond of friendship," smiled winifred, lightly. "shall i make the salad dressing, or would you prefer to mix it yourself?" she asked, after she had persuaded him to take the head of the table. "i make a dressing that is the despair of my friends," she continued. "so i make them shut their eyes when i mix it, else my one accomplishment would be mine no longer." philip promised, with a smile, to "play fair." he delighted in the housewifely nonsense, and ate the salad, though he hated olive oil. "salads are a woman's folly," he had once said. but he did not repeat it. "how do you like it?" her mood suited the visitor. the light conversation took his mind from the more serious purpose of his visit, and winifred's accent implied accepted friendship. he needed this relaxation. "i never cared for salads, before," he replied truthfully. "why did you eat it?" "i ate it, and i liked it because you made it for me. i am not used to being waited upon, and i rather like the experience." "you poor man!" winifred sympathized without reflection. "it must be horrid not to have anyone to do things for you. i should think--i mean----" she colored as she met philip's eyes, "i mean--charlie says that i have spoiled him completely." the advent of blair relieved the girl from her condition of fragmentary speech, and they talked of the latimers and the political outlook for the coming winter. danvers took his leave with a feeling of regret at parting from unexpectedly congenial friends. how little he had known of blair--the good fellow. how cheery and unaffected winifred was! the years were bridged which had separated him from his kind, and as he walked down the street he felt a glow of kindness toward all the world. he called at the hotel, thinking latimer might have returned, but mrs. latimer pettishly denied any knowledge of his whereabouts. he often went for long walks, she said, and seldom returned until late. "won't you stay until he returns?" she invited, but danvers pleaded business. twice during the afternoon danvers ran up to the judge's office, but failed to find him until evening. seeing a light in the inner office, he opened the door and entered. the judge did not look up. he sat with his back to the door, and gazed intently at a revolver, while his hand played idly with the trigger. danvers stepped forward and silently reached for the weapon. "no, no, arthur! not that!" "phil! you?" latimer sprang from his chair. "why--why----" danvers was shocked at the haggard face. "i ran up from fort benton, arthur, just to see you. i've been looking for you all the afternoon." he gently pushed the trembling man back into his chair. "why--why did you stop me? it would have been over--now--if----" "life is not so bad as that, old friend." "isn't it?" bitterly. "if you----" "i can understand--i know. but you must promise me that you will not attempt this--again." danvers spoke firmly, feeling that he could never leave his friend if he were not given a pledge. the broken man looked into the kind eyes opposite. "you think me a coward, don't you? i promise." "no," refuted danvers, warmly. "you are worn out, mentally and physically; that is all. take a run to the coast with me for a month or two----" latimer began to laugh, mirthlessly. "i couldn't take a run to fort benton, phil. i haven't a dollar--not a dollar. i'm a ruined man!" "arthur!" latimer took a paper-knife and checked off his sentence. his voice was impersonal. "you made a mistake, phil, when you interrupted me. no, do not speak," he raised his hand. "i was in possession of what sanity i've had since arthur----" he did not complete the sentence. "i've deliberately decided that a quick shot was the only solution of my problem. boy gone; home gone; my dearest ambition frustrated; hopelessly in debt----" "i can help you in that." "and disbarment proceedings about to be instituted," finished latimer. "what!" ejaculated danvers. "who will institute them? on what grounds?" "burroughs. he has trumped up some infamous charge. i got a hint of it only this morning--a straight tip." "he shall not do it! i shall have something to say to him--to the papers. he would not like to have them get hold of moore's interviews with you and me on the matter of that supreme court decision. i----" "papers!" latimer threw out his hands with a helpless gesture. "burroughs _owns_ every paper in the state!" "well, then, i have another card to play. you leave this matter to me. you are not going under, and you are not going to--die--not yet! bob will drop the disbarment proceedings, i promise you; and if he is not amenable to reason--why--he does not own the associated press!" grimly. "n-no. but i'm broke--ruined." "what do you think a friend is for, arthur?" said danvers, reproachfully. "if i had had any idea that financial matters were troubling you, i would have fixed you out in short order!" "i can't accept favors." "favors!" slightingly, to cover his feeling. "i shall be a shylock--never you fear!" then a hand, heavy with love, fell on latimer's shoulder. "what is mine is yours, arthur." within a week, not only were the judge's difficulties relieved, but the proposed disbarment proceedings were dropped. "i had means," said danvers, sternly, when pressed for details by the grateful judge, and none but burroughs ever knew of the threatened exposure. before danvers returned to fort benton, he had the pleasure of seeing judge latimer off for the east on legal work and knew that his low mental condition was replaced by a more healthy one. mrs. latimer he avoided. the gratitude of winifred blair came as a surprise, and strengthened their sympathy in this common cause. he called to say good-bye, but found her not at home, and he left helena with a distinct feeling of disappointment. * * * * * the state election in november gave danvers a handsome majority, and it was as the senator from chouteau county that, early in the new year, he attended the governor's reception to the legislators. he came in late, and after paying his respects to the governor and his wife, wandered rather helplessly toward the hall, seeing many whom he knew, but finding little pleasure in their casual greetings. mr. and mrs. burroughs, as well as the hon. william moore, had come from butte to attend the brilliant society function. other acquaintances who now lived at the capital were among the guests whom danvers recognized. his sister he seldom saw, and the lack of any common interest between them made it possible to meet her husband in only the most formal way. presently he saw winifred blair at the salad table, who, chancing to look up from her task, smiled invitingly. "may i not serve you with salad?" she asked, as he approached. "if you will make the dressing," recalling their lunch of the late summer. "it is already dressed," laughed the girl. "then you will let me get you some punch; come with me for it." she was perishing of thirst (by her own statement), and danvers finding some one to take her place for a time, discovered a quiet corner of the library past which swept the tide of callers. hither he enticed miss blair, and soon brought the refreshing drink. she sank on the window couch. "how nice to be looked after," she said, gratefully. "i believe that you knew i was tired of the silly things one must say to men whom one never expects--or wants--to meet again." "never say silly things to me or i shall think i am in the category." "very well, i will not. i've always had to be to other people what they wanted me to be--what they expected. somehow, with you--i am myself." "you could not pay me a higher compliment." for some minutes they chatted of the coming assembly and then wandered to the discussion of a book which denied love to be the greatest thing in the world. by that instinct which prompts men and women to talk of this one subject they enlarged on the topic, impersonally at first, as if it were a matter of the price of cattle. "then you do believe in the great passion?" "certainly; don't you?" "i used to think that i did--years ago. but one sees the counterfeit so often." "there could be no counterfeit unless the real existed." "you are right. the real is so rare, then, that one despairs of knowing it." the subject grew more personal. "but we all want the genuine." "i don't care for paste diamonds myself, no matter how well they imitate." "you have had opportunity to discriminate?" tentatively. "i--think so," winifred replied, reflectively, as if he had asked whether she liked cucumbers, and his face clouded, for no reason. "vicarious experience," she added, mischievously. "oh!" "i have admired men; liked a few immensely," she admitted, frankly. "but the mysterious glow which comes--it has never enveloped me," she ended abruptly. "since we are getting so personal, how about yourself?" "i----" he hesitated. "you needn't finish!" winifred nodded, laughing. "other men swear by the little god that they have never loved--never--until----" once more winifred found her facile tongue had led her into difficulties. "other men lie--i do not; yet you evidently do not believe me." "yes, i do! that is what i so like about you. people believe you, trust you, know where you are to be found." "i know no other way," replied the senator. "it is no merit. i simply find it awkward and inconvenient to prevaricate." "you are to be congratulated," murmured the girl, ransacking her memory for another man who could say as much. an eddy of the flowing stream of guests brought mrs. burroughs towards them. mrs. latimer, too, came into the deep window space, the ladies talking animatedly. "am i not right, winnie?" appealed mrs. latimer, after the felicitations of the day had been exchanged. "i say that a woman has never had a love affair worthy of the name who hasn't had a lover called 'jack.' jack--the care-free; jack--the debonair; jack--the dare-devil! it's all in the name, jack." "alas!" moaned winifred, entering into the gay spirit of the moment. "alack, woe is me! that i must confess my poverty before woman"--she glanced at danvers--"and man! i've had lovers of many names--henry and jim and--and--bi----" she seemed out of names--"and of many hues--brown and green and black; but never a jack for me!" "if you haven't had an adorer by that name," laughed mrs. latimer, "it's because no man in the state answers to the name of jack!" they all joined in the merriment, to winifred's confusion. "'thou, too, brutus!'" she quoted reproachfully. "what will senator danvers think of me, with such a reputation as you give." "suppose i have my name changed," suggested danvers. "philip suits you very well," miss blair answered, sedately. "you intimated a few minutes ago that you were rather inexperienced," she went on daringly. "if this winter you will try for such a reputation as mrs. latimer gave me, i'll agree to meet you on the field of battle." as she concluded the doctor came up and the joke was explained to him. he turned to the senator. "_you're_ too old to have your name changed, or to affect the tender passion, phil. leave that to younger men--to me! i'll have my name changed to jack, right away; and as for loving, i have always loved thee!" bowing to winifred. a chorus of shrieks greeted the doctor's declaration. "no," insisted philip, when his voice could be heard, "i am going to enter the lists, inexperienced as i am." the challenge in his eyes was good to see, but winifred could not meet them. delighted at the sight, the doctor changed the subject, and soon the group broke up. as danvers greeted others, he noticed eva latimer in earnest conversation with mr. william moore. he bowed in passing, but their lowered voices paused only long enough for the conventional greeting. after making the round of the parlors, danvers found the doctor and soon afterward they returned to their hotel. [illustration] chapter vi il trovatore the next morning judge latimer was surprised to find his wife taking a sudden interest in politics. "why is there so much opposition to mr. burroughs for united states senator?" she inquired. "several reasons," he answered, evasively, thinking she would not be interested to pursue the subject. "but he will be elected." "that remains to be seen." "he has thirty pledged out of the whole ninety-four, and several----" "how do you know? where did you get your information?" latimer spoke sharply. "mr. moore--nobody talked of anything else, it seems to me," amended mrs. latimer, with what carelessness she could assume. "since the legislators have been arriving i have heard nothing discussed so much as mr. burroughs' chances of winning the election." "that comes of living in a hotel," said the judge, bitterly. "burroughs' headquarters are on this floor, too, confound it! i wish we had not given up our home." "i don't," cried eva. "politics are lots of fun! i had no idea how much until this winter. it's so exciting!" she did not tell her husband that the honorable william moore had been at considerable pains to interest her in the coming struggle, even prolonging his frequent calls unduly, in giving her an insight (so far as he thought necessary) into the workings of practical politics as expounded and promulgated by mr. burroughs and himself. so delicately had he broached what had been in his mind since the night of eva's dinner party that before she was aware she had promised that she would do what she could to forward burroughs' cause with recalcitrant members. the political manager had assured her that his patron, in his gratitude, would make the reward for her services magnificently great. mrs. latimer had not been cajoled into this without some scruples, for she well knew what her husband would think. she remembered, too, certain interviews of her own with burroughs, which she would have liked to forget; but it was many years ago that he had made love to her, and she succeeded in allaying the troublesome reproaches of conscience by the justification of the urgent need of retrieving their fortunes. if arthur could be made minister to some foreign capital (her ambition had vaulted to berlin) he need never suspect her share in its offer. mr. moore had told her that only a rich man could afford to be at the head of one of the larger legations, and had most thoughtfully placed certain mining shares in her name, whose value had already increased gratifyingly. when arthur should ask her how he could accept such a position, she would triumphantly produce the fortune made from these shares, and explain that she had judiciously invested the small patrimony from her father's estate. it all seemed easy to the ambitious woman. only a little effort to interest certain men--could anything be easier? and the gold which she had found after moore's last call! when she had sent him word he told her that he had its duplicate; to use the money, since she had found it. the temptation was great. arthur was always complaining of unpaid accounts. she settled certain debts with a light heart. he would never think to inquire about them. so now she merely looked misunderstood as she continued: "it is nothing to us, of course, whether mr. burroughs is elected; but"--she hesitated, not knowing how best to proceed--"i'm sure a word from you would have great influence with the members." latimer was dumfounded. then he began to laugh. "you would make a first-class lobbyist!" he said lightly. "have a care! a word from you would be worth ten of mine." then, more seriously: "don't talk too much of this, eva. it is going to be a bad business before a senator is elected. ugly rumors are heard already. i know of----" he changed his words. "mr. burroughs is not respected among men of integrity. not even among men of low standards. his wealth is his only asset. unscrupulous, defying investigation----" he pulled himself up. never before had he expressed so definite a judgment on the millionaire. but though he cautioned his wife, latimer had no suspicion that it might be necessary. she had lived purely on the surface, showing no interest in anything but dress, society, herself. it did not occur to him that ambition might render her something more than a butterfly. in this respect moore read the woman more accurately. that week helena was billed for italian opera. the announcement of _il trovatore_ made danvers' heart leap with desire to hear it once more. he knew it was doubtful whether the company could sing, but it could not be wholly bad. when he first heard the opera, during a boyish holiday in london, it was at the height of its popularity, and every evening of his vacation found him enthralled in the boxes. the isolation of the frontier had but made the old music more loved, and philip decided to make up a box party of his friends. miss blair had told him that she had never heard it in its entirety. she should be the guest of honor. judge and mrs. latimer, blair, the doctor from fort benton and o'dwyer should complete the party. "the opera has been given for the last twenty years," said senator danvers to miss blair, as she expressed herself delighted to accept his invitation. "you could hardly get a corporal's guard to go across the street to hear it in new york, i fancy; but it was the first opera i ever heard, and i love the old airs." the theater was filling fast as danvers held the curtain aside for his guests to enter the box. the distractions of the opposing forces at the capitol were, for the time, dismissed, and he listened with amusement to miss blair as he assisted to remove her light opera cloak. "i've never been in a theater box before," she confessed. "it makes one feel exclusive, doesn't it? and, oh, dear! dreadfully self-conscious. suppose i fall out--over the railing? i'm sure i shall bring disgrace upon us!" she looked gaily at her host. "suppose i should fall over?" she repeated, her eyes wide with pretense. "somebody would catch you," said matter-of-fact eva. "if you think that you are growing dizzy from looking over that fearful, two-foot precipice," said danvers, adopting winifred's tone, "i'm going to be the one to save you from a tragic death! i'll go around now, and get ready to be a hero!" "don't! a lady in an opera box is worth two in the orchestra seats," paraphrased winifred, blithely. "i will not fall out." as danvers pulled her chair a little further from the low rail, winifred noticed his face change. "what is it?" she asked, in quick response. philip smiled a little sadly. "'my heart is on the ground,'" he answered, using an expressive indian phrase. "i cannot be light and witty. i am cursed with seriousness." "your friends like you just as you are." but in this frank avowal the senator found no consolation. danvers' enjoyment of the familiar opera was augmented by the appreciation shown on winifred's earnest, mobile face. the company proved to be exceptionally good, the voices above the average, the acting intelligent and _con amore_. the passionate intensity of the italians soon enthused miss blair into forgetfulness of those around her. while her brother and o'dwyer sat stoically, the doctor contentedly, and mrs. latimer indifferent in her secret musing, arthur and philip followed, with her, the fortunes of _leonora_. not until the curtain fell on act three did she readily join in the chatter of her friends, and then only when judge latimer said to his wife: "you should have heard phil sing '_di quella pira_' when we were at fort macleod. he reached that high note quite as easily as this italian." "don't you believe him, mrs. latimer," besought danvers. "make allowance for his well-known partiality." "certainly," responded eva, trying to make her tone indifferent. she never was quite sure of her voice when speaking directly to this man who ignored the past. "do you sing?" winifred turned with a quick motion which was characteristic. "do you, senator danvers?" "i do not." "but you did?" "you bet he did!" blurted out o'dwyer, ever ready to recite the good qualities of danvers. thereupon he told of the christmas supper, colonel macleod's request, and the duet. "but they sang in english, so a christian could understand--not this dago lingo," he concluded. the irishman's contempt for the soft italian syllables was irresistible. "oh," sighed winifred, after the laugh had died away, "i wish that i could have been at fort macleod that christmas night!" she included judge latimer in her friendly glance. "mr. o'dwyer did not tell you that he could sing!" chortled latimer. but o'dwyer begged to be spared, and after some good-natured raillery the judge acquiesced. "has that particular duet already been sung?" winifred's eyes shone as she leaned toward her host. "if it has i shall insist upon its being repeated." "you are so used to having people do as you ask that i believe you would," volunteered eva. "of course i would. everybody does as i wish." "perhaps that is because you do not ask impossible things," put in senator danvers. "but to relieve your anxiety, and to prevent your rising and asking for something that might be refused, i hasten to assure you that the duet has not been sung. mr. o'dwyer forgot to say that it was the _miserere_ that we tried to sing for dear old colonel macleod. i'm afraid we did it pretty poorly." from this the conversation drifted to other matters. "i don't see mr. burroughs, senator danvers, although your sister and niece are in one of the opposite boxes," said eva, sweeping the house with her glasses. "nor mr. moore, nor senator hall--although his wife is here," she added. "politics are more exciting than italian opera, i fancy," said winifred. "the politicians are pretty busy," confirmed the judge. "whom do you think i saw on the street to-day, danvers?" asked blair, suddenly. "mcdevitt!" he announced, waiting for no speculations. "no!" the men were surprised, for mcdevitt, the missionary-trader, had long since been forgotten. "he says that he lives in montana now, somewhere near the canadian line." just then a messenger boy brought a telegram for danvers, who excused himself to read and answer it. as he returned the opening bars of _leonora's_ florid song sounded, and under cover of the music the doctor whispered to o'dwyer: "you did better to-night in your whole-souled praise than when your elbow was sprained at fort macleod. _this_ is the girl!" "betcher life she is! an' what's more, she's on!" the irishman reverted to trooper slang in his ardor, and got a sharp nudge from the doctor in consequence. the beautiful melodies followed in swift succession. miss blair gave a sigh of appreciation as the _miserere_ "_ah che la mort_" was sung, and unconsciously put out her hand. the sleeve of her soft evening gown brushed danvers' arm, and instantly his heart began to sing. not so had he been stirred by eva's conscious touch, years before. eva had not struck the chord divine--this thrill revealed it. "i want to live," breathed winifred, "while there is such music and such love in the world. i don't care if it is old--the opera. music and love never grow old." as the duet ended, winifred and philip, each in the thrall of the divine song, looked deep into each other's eyes. confused, startled, the spell was broken, and winifred turned again to the stage. * * * * * when the latimers were alone in their apartments the judge remarked on danvers' generosity. "i never knew a man who so delighted in giving pleasure to other people. he sent tickets to a family of four to-night because he heard me speak of their love for music; and they'll never know their benefactor." "you're always ready to sing the praises of senator danvers!" mrs. latimer stifled a yawn. "i really get tired of hearing his good qualities enumerated." * * * * * while danvers and his friends were enjoying the opera joseph hall sat in a hotel office in helena, watching the crowd and grumbling at the excitement and bustle of the politicians and hangers-on. he was something of a power in the political affairs of the state, but to-night the swarming activity of the candidates for the appointive offices displeased him mightily. so did the well-organized methods of one man who wanted to go to congress--robert burroughs. hall did not belong to the party in power, although he had been elected from his county. as he saw burroughs' friends hobnobbing with the country legislators he shut his eyes, cursing all men impartially. like a thorn in the flesh the memory of burroughs' trick and the resultant lawsuit pricked his anger into poisonous hate. outwardly he showed no enmity, but revenge would be sweet. to be sure, he had won his suit and recovered his share of the proceeds from the sale of the mine, but the cause rankled, and had become a mania, not the less dangerous because it was nursed secretly. in the jostling, good-natured throng of senators, representatives, boys who wanted to be pages, and girls who boldly or coyly tried to interest unintroduced men in their clerical abilities, joe hall saw no one with whom he cared to speak. montana was not yet populous enough to make its leading men unknown to each other, especially the old-timers. as he rose to go he heard his name spoken, and turned to face a man whom he could not for the moment place. "mcdevitt!" he finally exclaimed. "to command," was the fawning response. "may i speak to you for a moment?" hall hesitated; he thought that the man would hardly be seeking an office at the capital, and he motioned the canadian to follow. they passed into a small room reserved for semi-private conversations. "what shall it be?" he asked as they took seats at a small table. "lemonade." mcdevitt had never drunk openly. joe smiled grimly at the call-boy's amazement. lemonade was not often called for at that hotel. hall's own order was gin. "well?" mcdevitt was disconcerted. he had thought to receive a cordial greeting, forgetting that joseph hall had left the north west mounted police in disgrace, and might wish to ignore his past. he hesitated; then, seeing that there were to be no questionings, he began autobiographically: "i've been living in montana for some time. i run a little store. say, look here," his voice changed to anxiety as he breathed his desire, "i'm here looking for a job. i'm no lobbyist, but i want a position at the capital." "oh, you do?" "yes. i thought maybe you could give me a good word. i know you're a leading light in montana politics. i seen by the papers that you was state senator." "oh, you did?" little encouragement could be gathered from the noncommittal responses. hall's restless, drumming fingers and lowered gaze threw the suppliant out of countenance. mcdevitt, in turn, grew silent and drank the last of his mild refreshment. hall looked up, with shifty eyes. "can you pray?" "now?" gasped the startled ex-preacher. joe relaxed in spite of himself. "well, not just now. this is not a church." the jingle of glasses in the adjoining bar corroborated his statement. "when were you in macleod last?" the question came suddenly, with intent to surprise truth. "oh, some little time ago," evaded mcdevitt, deftly. why tell that he had been caught smuggling whiskey, and after serving his sentence had left canada? hall looked at him, thoughtfully, with a curious cunning in his eyes. "then you don't happen to know where bob burroughs' squaw is?" "pine coulee? why--she's--that is--perhaps i could find out? what do you want to know for?" the caution of a possible bargain appeared. hall did not answer immediately, but went back to mcdevitt's request. "so you want a job? why don't you go to burroughs? he isn't in the legislature, but he seems to be promising 'most everything to 'most everybody these days." joe spoke bitterly, and light dawned on the not over acute mcdevitt. "h-m-m! _me_ asking bob burroughs for anything! i see myself!" "or him giving it!" supplemented hall, remembering the rivalry of the traders. again he did deliberate thinking. if he should place mcdevitt it would be a small but irritating way to annoy burroughs. he was not above seeking even infinitesimal means of stinging, and this chance encounter might lead to something more to his set purpose. so he went on: "get you a job, eh? se-ve-ri-al others want sinecures." he grew facetious as his thought took shape. "i'm out of it this year, mac. still, i think i've influence enough to help an old friend if----" his look suggested an exchange of favors. mcdevitt was shrewd enough to wait. joe mused an appreciable time, beating his tattoo on the table. "yes," he finally said, "they've got to give the minority something, and i know one of the members who can get what i want. he's owing me a little favor--see? i needn't figure in the deal at all, and burroughs will be mad as thunder." again he thrummed, decisively this time. "if i get you on the pay-roll as chaplain at five per (or whatever the legislators pay for prayers which, if answered, would put 'em out of business), i'll expect you to find pine coulee and burroughs' half-breed brat. he must be a chunk of a youngster now, if he's alive. and," impressively, "after that i'll expect you to keep your mouth shut--see?" "oh, the 'breed's alive, all right," threw out the ex-preacher in the expansion of his soul at the thought of a comfortable per diem. "the hour i sign the pay-roll i'll tell yeh several surprisin' things. i'd like to get even, too. and as for talking too much with my mouth, i reckon selling whiskey in the whoop up country after the police came in taught me the necessity of occasionally being a mute." [illustration] chapter vii debauching a legislature the rumors of vote-buying before the legislature convened were forgotten in the facts of the days following. the first ballot for united states senator, as provided for by the federal statutes, was cast in each branch of the assembly separately on the second tuesday after organization; and it was, as usual, scattered by honoring different men of state repute. the next day, and the next, the ballot was taken in joint session. the first test of each candidate's strength showed that robert burroughs had but thirty of the entire ninety-four. thereafter began a systematized demoralization of the men of all parties who constituted the legislative assembly. sumptuous headquarters were maintained at the leading hotel by mr. burroughs, and the honorable william moore, past master in chicanery and rascality, extended a well-filled hand to all who entered the spider's parlor. burroughs was seldom in evidence. in fact, he was not often in the city. "my friends are working for me," he would explain, nonchalantly. "i have placed myself in their hands completely. it is not necessary for me to trouble about the minor details. they have urged me to allow my name to be used; but, really, it is immaterial to me--i have other interests to look after." then, plaintively, "i am far from well." this last statement was a self-evident fact. years of crafty plotting had seamed burroughs' face with lines that come from secret connivings--an offer here, a lure there; a sword of damocles held low; an iron hand and a velvet glove--all these things made for age in heavy retribution. he complained of the heat, of the cold; of his breathing and of his digestion. a sense of suffocating fullness oppressed him as he climbed the steep incline of the streets of the capital. yet he retained his pride in the english girl whom he had married, as he avowed, to vent malice on her brother. his family affection was the one redeeming sentiment of his life. when he was away from butte not a day passed that he did not communicate with his wife, either by post or telegraph. he took pains that no newspapers speaking ill of him should gain admittance to his house--a superfluous task, since politics were of no interest to his home-loving wife. william moore sometimes looked meditatively at his old friend as he fumed over trifles. invariably after such reflection he saw to it that his own private exchequer was bettered from the flow of gold streaming from the millionaire's store. it was well to be on the safe side, thought the ex-wolfer, sagely. yet on the whole his arduous work as burroughs' manager was conscientiously done. these men had worked together too long for moore not to feel a personal pride in his work of debauching a legislature. other candidates there were, too, who used illegal methods to obtain votes. not that no reputable man was a candidate; not that honest, incorruptible men could not be found in the legislative halls of montana; but moore's extravagance in behalf of his chief shattered all precedents, defied integrity and exposure and eclipsed the good that would not be submerged. in fact, his prodigality defeated its purpose; when men found that they could get five thousand dollars for a vote as easily as one thousand, they held their decision in abeyance until the consideration was increased fourfold. this not once, nor twice; not by one man, but by the indefinite many, until it was current talk that certain men had received one, five, ten, even fifteen thousand dollars for their votes. why should legislators talk of "their duty," or "the principle of the thing," when a lifetime of ordinary business methods and dealings would bring but little more than might be obtained by speaking a man's name in joint assembly? to listen to any group of men discussing the political situation one unacquainted with the law would never mistrust that bribery in legislatures was a state's prison offense. so wary did members become that burroughs, possessing small faith in the impeccability of his fellow men, grew peevish at the delay in securing the requisite majority, while those who held montana's best interests at heart breasted the tidal wave of corruption with sinking hearts. as in every contest of its kind, the full vote for burroughs was not cast at any joint assembly until moore knew he had the number required to elect. in this way no legislator was sure from day to day of the man sitting beside him; some one known to be pledged to another candidate, or professing himself under no obligations to any man, would swaggeringly or shamefacedly, as the case might be, announce as his name was called from the alphabetical list by the brazen-voiced reader in front of the speaker's desk that his choice for a united states senator was robert burroughs. days went by, with no decisive vote; there was less good-fellowship, more caution; less talking, more secrecy; each member looking askance at his neighbor, wondering if he was or would be bought. lobbies and halls of capitol, hotels, saloons and offices swarmed with men talking of burroughs. o'dwyer, member from chouteau county, took to walking in the middle of the streets to ward off burroughs' emissaries--greatly to the amusement of his friends, in days when amusement was seldom indulged in by the small band of honest men in the legislature. state senator danvers grew more grave as time went on. the onus of his party's opposition had fallen on him, for he was working for the governor's election as united states senator as against burroughs, also a republican. he felt more alone than at any time since he had lived in the northwest, for the doctor was back at fort benton, and judge latimer away on professional matters. hall grew unctuous, and had many a sly wink with chaplain mcdevitt. senator blair was moody, restless and irritable, except in the hours which he spent with mrs. latimer. winifred, in her anxiety, became a stranger to sleep, but she made no complaint of her haunting fear. a reserve, unnatural to her, became apparent. with eva latimer it was different. she was intoxicated with the excitement, and missed no noon hour when the senate marched in, two by two, to the representatives' chamber for the daily balloting. with a list of the members of both houses in hand, she sat watching the proceedings and checking off each name on the roll-call. her absorption in the varying sum totals for burroughs made her unconscious of the glances in her direction; and moore, secluded in his retreat, knew nothing of her open interest in the capitol. often senator blair was at her side at the convening of the legislature, or provided her a seat near his own, and in the intervals of routine work they would chat in low tones. she often cast furtive eyes at danvers, eyes that revealed so much that those who watched her smiled meaningly. but danvers, absorbed in his arduous duties, saw nothing personal in her self-revealing glance; he resented only her carelessness in protecting her absent husband's interests. the contest was not without its amusing features. a nervous representative shied violently at a piece of writing paper one night which had been left on his floor by a careless chambermaid; for the member rooming next him had the night before opened his innocent eyes on a thousand-dollar bill miraculously floating through the transom. if bills of such denomination materialized as cleverly as roses at a medium's seance, what might not develop at any moment? it was disquieting! beds were feverishly ripped open instead of being slept in; mattresses were overhauled and pillows uncased; chiffoniers were turned upside down in hope that bills were tacked on the bottom; envelopes in unfamiliar handwriting were opened cautiously, with no witnesses; papers were signed making one legislator an indian agent, another a doctor in a coal camp, another a lawyer in a large corporation--all positions contingent on burroughs' election. the list of pledged men grew, yet still moore's outlay did not buy the united states senatorship for robert burroughs. "yes, the whole number of ninety-four," confided moore, patiently, as burroughs asked for the hundredth time how many members were in the assembly. they were sitting before a large desk in the inner room of burroughs' suite, and the assembly had been in session nearly six weeks. "i surely have forty-five of 'em now?" anxiously. "that's the way i've got it figured," soothingly. "good men? men who would vote for me anyway?" burroughs had lately developed an exasperating desire to believe that some man was his friend with no thought of reward. mr. moore, knowing the aspirant's record and reputation, thought that this portended senility. "yes--i suppose so. thirty of 'em, anyway." "and the others?" "oh, so-so," indifferently. what did it matter? "how many are there who can't be approached?" "it's pretty hard to tell who can and who can't," parried moore, cautiously, and lighted a cigar. "i fancy the lantern business would experience a gigantic boom if one went hunting for an honest man in politics." "in montana," supplemented burroughs, smiling at his pleasantry. "in montana," acquiesced the arch-briber, suavely. "how many more must i get?" this was a question that any child could answer, but burroughs had a nervous desire to talk which irritated his companion almost beyond endurance. the day had been a trying one, and burroughs asked for repetitions of statements and figures unceasingly. "three or four, to make certain," answered moore, with what urbanity he could command at the moment. "how much have you paid out already?" the change in subject was not so unexpected as might appear. like most millionaires, the magnate kept closer account of his expenditures than many a working man. "i haven't the exact figures. men often come in and ask for money to grease their gabbers with, and i give it to them without making a note of the item." "i wouldn't believe you under oath--unless i chose," burroughs said, equably. moore shrugged his shoulders. it was all a matter of a day's exigencies. "seems to me we've got a lot of bribe-brokers who are earning easy money," continued the candidate for congress. "that's no dream. but the saloons must be worked, and the men who are talking for you all the time seem to think it is worth cash money right along. they've cultivated the politician's faculty of making themselves indispensable." "oh, well, that's all right. i'll go to congress if it costs me--no one knows what it costs to buy a legislature, but i'm going to find out this winter." burroughs looked thoughtfully at a slip of paper on the desk, then raised his eyes. "haven't got o'dwyer, i see." "no." "what do you think he'll do?" "i'm no mind reader." "can't get danvers?" "what are you thinking of? of course we can't get him. he's the head of the opposition. we won't even try. i've had one experience with him in that hall case. that's enough for me, and," defiantly, "i rather admire him." burroughs lifted his eyebrows. "besides----" "how about joe hall?" burroughs interrupted. "joe will be in this evening. first time i've been able to get him to promise to come here. he's sore yet, bob." "that's all right. better be liberal with him. i always liked joe well enough. but he's sold out so often in politics that he's a little risky, after all. weren't you out with him last night?" moore laughed admiringly. so burroughs knew of a drive to a roadhouse and a convivial night. his chief kept an omniscient eye on everybody with whom he was dealing. "well, yes. i thought that i'd jolly him up a little without any hint of trying to get his vote. i had half a mind to commit suicide this morning, but my head was so sore that i hated to shoot a hole in it." burroughs grinned. "joe's always telling of what he's done. according to his talk he's developed the state from cattle to copper--from sheep to sapphires. a man who's always telling what he's done isn't doing very much now. i'll bet he'll be the easiest in the bunch if you tackle him right." "don't be too sure. a man that's been everything from a populist to a justice of the peace is likely to be hard to convince. queer how mcdevitt turned up this winter," moore went on, after a drink. "chaplain of the house, too!" "i don't much like that!" "oh, we must throw something overboard to the sharks," said moore, carelessly. "a member asked me to see that mcdevitt got the job, and i thought it an easy way to get the member--see? quite a number of the old whoop up crowd here this winter." "yes. got blair yet?" "no. he'll be the toughest nut of all. he's hard up, but he's a pretty decent sort of man these days, and his sister has considerable influence over him. besides, he feels in duty bound to stick to danvers--the old story of danvers saving his sister's life, you know." "i suppose so," admitted burroughs. "get a woman after him." "i have. mrs. latimer is interesting him in your behalf. but the idiot has lost his head over her, instead of taking her advice and voting for you." "he's a fool!" snarled burroughs, remembering eva's dismissal of himself. "i thought the time would come when she'd be anxious to get my help--in some way! but get blair--get him!" he repeated. "he'll do to take along as a political exhibit. i've never forgiven him for squealing in the matter of that whiskey in the whoop up country. fix it so his change of face will smirch eva latimer. that'll hurt her virtuous and law-upholding husband more than anything i can do to get even with that decision _in re_ hall. offer him--anything in reason. he's probably banking on a big haul. give it to him, and i'll see that his sister knows that he was bought like a steer in open market. her scorn will be like hell for him. i can see that danvers is gone on her. she'll send him flying if her brother gets bit--mark my words. or, rather, danvers would hardly want to marry her--the sister of a bribe-taker!" "i hate to touch charlie, or to offer him more than any of the others," objected moore. "i'll try to get you elected without him. i will if i can, and in the meantime i don't give a hang if mrs. latimer's reputation is scorched." "i know why you don't want to touch blair. that sister of his is what you're after. look out for danvers if you undertake to stick your brand on _her_! but my interests must come first--remember. and as for eva----" bill let no smile indicate his mental amusement. mr. burroughs had not been gone long before senator hall looked into the hospitably open door of the outer room. "you here, bill?" "yes. walk right in." moore stepped forward and stood aside for hall to precede him to the inner room, closing and locking the door. "we'll not be interrupted here. i've been wanting to see you for six weeks--never made it until last night." after a little talk of the weather and of the political outlook, moore thought best to approach his subject boldly. "how are you feeling towards burroughs, joe?" "just like a kitten--a soft, purry kitten." hall was heartily metaphorical, as he opened his pocket knife mechanically. "if you want to feel my claws, just ask me to vote for that damn thief! you'll think that i live in four different atmospheres. you and bob burroughs may be able to buy the rest of the legislature, but you can't buy me--so don't ask my price!" senator hall had thought long on what he should say when solicited by the honorable william, and he had his bluster volubly perfect. "any man but burroughs may go to congress, but he never shall!" he continued to pare his nails. moore was not at all deceived. he had heard men talk before, and he detected the false ring of hall's words. herein joe miscalculated. he thought to deceive a man steeped in conspiracy and deceit. nevertheless, moore was politic, and made no haste. "why not forget bygones, joe? you would have done the same thing yourself in your deal with burroughs if you had had the first chance at those easterners." "would i?" snorted hall. "isn't there any inducement that we can offer you to support burroughs?" "none whatever. my constituents would hang me in effigy if i voted for him. i was on the stump last fall and went on record." "your constituents! the voters! what are they? cattle driven into a chute! they don't know the true inwardness of state politics. there aren't six men who do." "politics must be purified," hall announced, solemnly. "that's so," acquiesced moore. "every politician i know, nearly, is so desirous of being purified that he steps right up here, as though this was the disinfecting vat! our legislators seem to think that burroughs is the chief purifier, and that i am the one who cares for the shorn lambs!" "well, i can't change now." "you're mighty conscientious. if you had been as much so at fort macleod you probably wouldn't have been run out of the police for----" "i'm as conscientious as most office-holders," hall interrupted. something in the twist given the words inspired moore with renewed courage to press his point. after he had talked earnestly for several moments, his guest interrupted: "where is bob to-night? you said last night that he would be here." "he's instructing the conscientious legislator." hall laughed, and it was not long before he allowed himself to say: "of course, if there's any money going, i want to get my share. i'd do as much for burroughs' money as anybody." after a guarantee of good faith had passed from a safe to his pocket he left. "what do i care whether bob burroughs goes to congress or goes to hell?" he muttered delightedly, as he felt the roll of bills in his pocket. "i've got a pricker coming that will sting his rhinoceros hide! this money ain't half what's coming to me from that mining deal; take it all in all, i'll even up with him before the session closes. just you wait, joe," he apostrophized, as he entered the elevator; "just you wait until the time comes!" [illustration] chapter viii danvers' discouragement "good evening, senator!" danvers was waiting at the elevator door as hall stepped through it on the ground floor. "good evening, senator," returned joe, thinking how little danvers had changed in appearance since he first came to fort benton. the senator from chouteau county took the lift to the third floor. he went to the doctor's room, for he knew that his old friend from fort benton, who had but just come to the capital, would be waiting for the evening call and friendly smoke on the first day of his arrival. to-night the younger man was unusually silent, and after the first greetings nearly an hour passed before a word was spoken. but the doctor felt the silence--pregnant with the heart-ache of his friend, and at last he spoke. "how goes it, phil?" "pretty heavy luggage." "he'll get it?" no need to be more specific. "i'm afraid so," soberly. "i never dreamed it could be possible to mow down an assembly as burroughs is doing." "he would sell his soul for the senatorship," affirmed the doctor, "and yet he pretends that he doesn't want the office. he would have people think that he is in mortal fear of being politically ravished, and all the while he, and every man that he can control, are actively engaged in promoting a campaign of ravishment." "and bill moore is his chief procurer," added danvers. "but the whole legislature can't be bought." "every one!" "you include yourself there, phil," smiled the doctor. "but i know what you mean. it's damnable!" the believer in mankind felt the foundations of the state totter. "i did not mean to be quite so bitter, but i am sick of the lack of principle that i find in the men sent to helena. burroughs has a long string of men who are now scattering their votes, on the pretext that our republican caucuses do not pledge them clearly to any one candidate. this split in the party is bad for burroughs, of course, and he is not only trying to get my men away from the governor, but is angling for members of the democratic party." after a moment he smiled. "of course we are sure of o'dwyer!" he then named several others who could be depended upon not to enter burroughs' camp, either by reason of their own integrity or the pledges they had given to other candidates. "so many in the field scatters the vote," he continued, "and that gives us a chance to work." "how about hall?" asked the doctor. "senator hall seems safe. he is one enemy whom bob cannot buy. i never saw a man hold the idea of revenge as hall does." "if joe hall doesn't vote for burroughs it is the first time that he ever resisted easy money," quoth the doctor. "however, hate will make even money seem of small account. but hall will do some dirty trick, one of these days, to get even on that mining deal. those two are a good pair to draw to." "as politics now are it would not be hard to find three of a kind," added danvers. the old man took up the evening paper, containing the list of the legislators and their city addresses. he checked off the names as he read, and presently looked up. "as far as we can tell burroughs is shy several votes for a majority." "looks that way." "we don't know who moore's holding back--worse luck! but we do know who are solid against burroughs. by the way, what's charlie blair up to?" "politically or personally?" "i think one means the other these days, according to all i hear." "possibly." after a moment danvers added: "blair has promised me on his honor not to vote for burroughs. i do not think that he will deliberately go back on his word. as for--i can't speak of it, doctor! poor arthur!" "eva's not a bad woman--she's only an ambitious fool," asserted the doctor, touching one of the sore spots in danvers' aching heart. "i can overlook a woman's folly if it is the result of an overwhelming passion--some women are as intense as men. but to play with fire--while she is as cold as ice--as calculating as a machine----" the speaker made a gesture of disgust. "be sure that she is promised something she thinks worth her while, by bob or by moore, for her sudden interest in politics and--charlie blair. she is a good catspaw. i thought she was making eyes at charlie at the opera, but i couldn't believe my own. she and moore are working the members of this legislature by concerted action, or i am very much mistaken." "you haven't heard any open talk of mrs. latimer--arthur would--i should fear for his reason--for his life--if scandal----" "well, i can't say there hasn't been any," compromised the doctor. "but there'll be more if she doesn't turn blair down pretty quick. he's drinking, too; something he hasn't done since his sister came back from school to live with him. he could always stand liquor in abnormal quantities; but he can't stand"--abruptly he blurted it out--"first eva knows there will be hell to pay--and i doubt if her credit is good." "she doesn't care for him, then?" "nah!" the negative was drawn out contemptuously. "all she wants of charlie is his vote for burroughs. she never loved but one man in her life." a glance went to the senator, but he did not apply the words. "poor winifred!" sighed the young man. the doctor caught the baptismal name. "winifred's a plucky woman. i'll wager she knows practically every move being made in all this rotten business--all," the old man added significantly. "yet you would never mistrust it to see her. it is well to put on the cheerful face and tone, yet when in trouble is it best? it is deceiving to one's best friends, robbing them of the opportunity to extend sympathy. winifred blair is worrying over charlie, yet she keeps her troubles to herself and cheats her friends of a just privilege." "i wish," began danvers, then closed his lips. no one should see his heart. "i wish she would give you the right to protect her," said the doctor, heartily. "what has come between you two? i had thought----" "i do not know," acknowledged the disconsolate lover. "she was friendly. we've seen each other quite a good deal. i thought she was one to understand. i cannot talk as most men do--i am aware of my failing." his eyes were more eloquent than words, as he paused. "and now she hardly speaks to me--makes some trivial excuse to leave me with charlie when i call; or if he is not there she pleads an engagement. you have noticed how moore has been paying her marked attention? it is for her to choose----" when danvers began again it was of another phase of his trouble. "miss blair has doubtless heard of my financial loss, caused by that early snowstorm and later rain, which crusted the snow until my cattle were almost wiped out. my foreman wired me the night of the opera, you remember. those that were not frozen were starved to death. my political life here in helena is costing me a fortune." danvers rose and paced the floor. "it gives me the jigs, even to think of those cattle," he burst out. "not the financial loss, you understand, but the suffering of dumb animals!" "you did all you could, phil." "yes. but what with a three years' drouth and no hay in the country, and the railroads blocked so that no feed could be shipped in, even if we could have gotten to the cattle on the range--oh, well----" the cattleman dropped to his chair with a sigh of helplessness. the doctor took a new turn. "i have known you for fifteen years or more, my boy, and i never knew you to be jealous before, much less unjust." "i--unjust!" danvers was startled. never before had he faced such accusations. "yes, you. you should know winifred blair better than to think such thoughts as you are harboring." "my experience with women has been unfortunate, probably; i do not pretend to understand them--they are too complex for me." "tut, tut!" the gentle friend tried to turn the tide. "not winnie. she is a woman to trust." "but how can she have anything to do with bill moore? that is what i can't get over." "you shouldn't speak so of moore. it shows a spirit i'm sorry to see you cultivate. go in and win. you have probably told winifred something of your standards of public morality and the sacredness of the ballot, and she fears that charlie will disgrace both himself and her. she perhaps fears your disgust if----" "she is mistaken if she thinks so poorly of me. her brother's conduct could never change my feeling for her; rather, pity would come to plead for love. do you think she does care for me?" "do i? you had better ask her--not go tilting at political windmills when more important matters should be----" "if charlie's foolishness is the only thing in my way, i'll force him to be a man if i have to gag him in joint assembly!" cried the lover, joyously. "what transformations love will work!" sighed the matchmaker after he had bidden the light-hearted danvers good-night. "standing practically alone against the might of burroughs' millions--holding his scant forces by sheer force of character, yet downed by the mistaken attitude of a mere slip of a girl!" [illustration] chapter ix a frontier knock the next afternoon winifred lay back in a low chair before a leaping wood fire. she wanted to think, to puzzle out all that was taking place around her. she recognized, yet refused to accept the verdict of her common sense. she was no unsophisticated school girl; she was a woman of the world. the social and political atmosphere in which she moved seemed charged with dynamic possibilities. her closed eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. winifred let them fall unheeded, feeling miserable consolation in her self-pity, as women will. apart from the senatorial contest lay her personal interest in the game being played by the scheming burroughs, the unscrupulous moore and the ambitious eva, on the one side, and her brother on the other. what chance had charlie against such a combination? robert burroughs had judged truly; blair's degradation would hurt winifred inexpressibly. he had chuckled as he had watched the growing attachment between his brother-in-law and the girl, and thought of his vow. he realized that here was a way to bring vicarious suffering upon the man whose distinction had first roused his envy and whose rectitude had won his hatred. as winifred groped in the tangle of state and private intrigues that enmeshed her, the fire burned low and the snapping of an occasional spark checked and soothed until her mind slipped into more peaceful channels. she looked about the quiet room. the firelight threw her face into relief and accentuated the faint lines of pain that had come during the last few weeks; a pensive touch had been added to a countenance that combined loveliness with strength. the yellow puff-ball in the gilded cage by the window stirred drowsily, with a faint, comforting chirp. the white and gold of blossoming narcissi, rising from their sheaths of green, gleamed purely from a tabouret, and their incense filled the room. presently she took up events of recent occurrence with clearer mind. she had probably exaggerated the seeming coherence of disconnected happenings. she longed to think so. eva took great interest in the senatorial contest. should that be an indictment? she craved excitement--expected to hold the stage in any episode; her position as the wife of an eminent jurist gave her a certain prestige in the political arena where pretty women were not unwelcome. the power they wielded, whether consciously or not, was almost unlimited--winifred had seen enough of the average legislator to appreciate that fact. in thinking it over, winifred admitted that mrs. latimer had known for many years mr. burroughs, mr. moore, mr. danvers and her brother charlie--four of the men who were playing their part in the drama fast drawing to its climax. what cause for apprehension in this? ever since the latimers' marriage their home had been a rendezvous for the politicians of the state--at least, of arthur's party. surely mrs. latimer could receive the same guests, even if the judge was away--even if some among her satellites were men whose reputations excluded them from all but the very smartest set. if she talked politics she did so in the pursuit of her affirmed desire to learn of politics at first hand. it could not be that she would descend to the plane of a lobbyist! but what would judge latimer think of this surprising fervor? he would not care to express himself as opposed to burroughs. did not eva care for her husband's opinions--for his reputation? winifred did not feel called upon to judge her friend; she was only trying to account for the circumstantial evidence accumulating against eva. when the girl turned her thoughts to her brother, she was sucked into a whirling maelstrom. the doctor's opinion of her had been correct. she knew her brother and his fluctuating fortunes as only a sister of infinite love and infinite tact could know. but she never had dreamed that he could be enmeshed by the wiles of the wife of his friend. the crux of the whole matter lay in the possibility of saving him, not only from eva's hypnotic charm, but from the less intricate and more thinly concealed machinations of mr. moore. winifred felt her first smart of anger revive toward mrs. latimer as she recalled how ingenuously charlie had been led to the juggernaut of burroughs' ambition. it was horrible--horrible! afresh came the intolerable loathing of it all--this overshadowing political machine, that could scatter ruin in its wake even if it did not obtain control. winifred knew that danvers was studying every move and checkmating where he could. she felt that if possible he would prevent this crime of buying a united states senatorship. he would protect charlie. through the doctor she learned how strong a bulwark of the state the senator from chouteau county was proving to be. she gloried in these recitals, and longed to confide in her old friend, but always the woman's reticence withheld her. presently a tap came at the door, and mrs. latimer appeared on winifred's invitation to enter. "how fortunate," she said, "that you came to the hotel for the winter! it's not only more convenient for you and charlie, but for me. would you sit by baby for a half hour, winnie, dear?" she entreated. "the nurse is out, and i must run downtown before six." "yes, indeed! i'd love to." they passed into the latimers' apartments, and when eva finally left, winifred sat down beside the crib where the child slept. heavy portieres hung behind her, evidently covering the double doors leading into other rooms beyond. in the stillness she heard a voice. "i tell you i don't want any paltry thousand dollars! i know of three men who've got five thousand. you promised----" the rest was indistinct. a soothing voice followed that winifred recognized; then: "i don't care a damn if everybody can hear. i want what you promised if i vote for----" the speaker must have walked from the dividing wall, for the girl heard no more. after a time an almost inaudible scratch, scratch came from behind the draperies. winifred rose in dismay, throwing down the book she was reading. who was seeking entrance through this private door? it was evidently a preconcerted signal, for it came again, impatiently; then cautious footsteps retreated. winifred choked the shudder that swept over her. mr. burroughs' headquarters took all the rooms on that side of the hall except those occupied by judge latimer and his family. she had heard the unmistakable voice of mr. moore. had he used that frontier knock--a scratch on the door as he might scratch on the flap of a tent? in a frenzy the girl walked through the suite. "i will not believe--i will not!" she said to herself. "i do not understand; but it is all right--i'm sure it is. i'll stand by eva--she shall not be talked about--shall not do foolish things. oh, this contest! and poor judge latimer!" her thoughts raced on. "how much worse if someone else had heard that signal! but it meant nothing--of course, it meant nothing!" she smiled, with a conscious effort, when mrs. latimer returned, with apologies for delay; and resolved again not to abandon eva to the innuendos that were already circulating. "shall we go down to dinner together, eva?" she asked, gently. "i'm alone to-night; charlie is dining at the club." "thank you, dear. i believe i'll have my dinner sent up. thank you so much!" after her lonely meal winifred remembered her unfinished book, and thought to get it as she stepped from the elevator. she knocked lightly at mrs. latimer's door. she heard a faint rustle inside, then all was still. again she gave a soft, playful battering of open palms on the panels; then she fled to her own apartments, and flung herself face downward on the pillowed couch, weeping as though her heart would break. [illustration] chapter x wheels within wheels on the other side of the closed door stood eva latimer, lips parted, hands clasped on her breast in terror. the honorable william moore came from between the portieres over the door which he had used for entrance from burroughs' apartments into the latimer suite. "that's just like a woman!" he grumbled, as he returned to the morris chair. "fly to open a door!" "but i didn't open it!" "no, but you meant to," severely. "i was frightened," pleaded eva. "no, you were not," contradicted moore. "you wanted to get that door open. it wasn't necessary that it be opened at once. you should have given me time to get out of here into those rooms that burroughs reserved for just such emergencies. it would never do for me to be found here. but, no! that door must be opened! i've noticed that trait in other women. they don't reason; they don't think. but they must have a door opened the moment there is a knock." "it might have been winnie. after you told me that you gave our signal--that you wanted to go over this list before dinner--i've been sick with fear that she heard your scratch. but evidently she didn't, for she asked no questions when i returned. i don't want her to suspect anything. i never wanted you to come through those connecting doors, anyway. why not come openly, as everyone else does?" "i tell you it would never do!" angrily. "miss blair had better suspect--than know," grimly. "what people don't see they can't prove." "it might have been arthur," still seeking justification. "well, it wasn't," replied the political manager, coolly. "besides, he has a latch-key, and we should have heard its click. now, let's get to work. i've got a dinner engagement with charlie blair to-night at eight-thirty. here's the list. let's check up." the honorable was very methodical, very systematic. he called off senators and representatives in alphabetical order, and checked or drew a line through their names as eva told of her efforts in burroughs' behalf. "how do you do it?" asked the man with admiration, as she reported that one particularly obdurate senator, too rich to be influenced by money, had promised his vote. "i told him frankly that it was a personal affair," admitted the fair lobbyist. "he knows women well enough to understand why i have never been satisfied to live in this little hill city----" "and he thought it his duty to see that your brilliancy lighted wider domains--i see." moore finished the sentence to suit himself. "he was very nice about it," returned eva, haughtily. "he thinks that arthur should have some recognition from the government for all that he has done for the party; and he added that arthur was too big a legal light to be eclipsed by the shadow of mount helena." she paused, evidently hesitating to speak further. "can't you get the others on the list yourself? i'm getting tired of----" she was shaken by the unexpected knock; suddenly, but too late, she was afraid of what her husband would think--would say. her aspirations seemed of small account after that tap that could not be answered. "get charlie blair's promise, and we'll be satisfied," said moore, not unkindly. "you have done very well." "will mr. burroughs keep his promise? he knows that i----" eva could not speak to moore of her fear of the man whose money she would accept. "burroughs is all right. words don't count, these days; it's money that turns the trick." "but i want more than money. i want that place for arthur." "my dear lady," urbane william rose and bowed. "if robert burroughs is elected to the united states senate, the judge shall be minister to berlin. it is practically arranged already. bob's a big man in his party. what he asks for he'll get, never you fear. that is--in washington." "i'm glad to be assured." mrs. latimer intimated by a look that the interview was over, and rose. but moore did not choose to go. "when do you think that you can get senator blair? heaven knows you've spent more time on him than on all the rest put together." "i begin to wish that i had never seen charlie blair," petulantly. "oh-h! it's that way, eh? he's getting a little--a lit----" "don't you dare!" flashed mrs. latimer. "you promised to ask no questions." "pardon me. i said i didn't care what means you used," corrected moore, with delicate emphasis. he added, reflectively: "blair has always been something of a recluse; but i've noticed that when a puritan once feels a little of the warmth of the devil's presence that he's rather loath to step out into the cold again." the look of anger from mrs. latimer made him change both tone and words. "we have depended on you to get charlie," he said, reproachfully. "i never wanted to tackle him. you know how it is? i've never had but one weakness----" "yes. she was here this afternoon when you signaled," interrupted eva, glad to repay him in ever so little for his insult. "what a pity that you could not have known it. you might have come in." "thank god i didn't!" "winifred is too good for you. senator danvers is the sort she will marry." not relishing the information, moore turned to go. but he had one more sting. "it'll be pretty hard for you to see danvers married, won't it?" then, satisfied to see the quick flush on eva's cheeks, he added casually: "i'll talk with blair to-night. you needn't bother with him further." he knew how to frighten the woman. it was understood that she must follow instructions or receive no pay. "give me one more chance," begged eva, trembling. as mr. moore walked briskly toward the club where he was to have dinner with blair he thought of all that underlay this winter's work, and it seemed but a continuance of the days of fur and whiskey smuggling in the whoop up country. it was a series of wheels within wheels--this work of electing a man to congress; and the man's soul reveled in the intrigue of it. he was quite content to be the one to superintend their revolutions and to watch the havoc which they might cause. burroughs' vaulting ambition was the greatest need of all, but revolving around it were the triple, lesser desires of the ex-trader; of wreaking vengeance on judge latimer through his wife's folly; of causing charlie blair's downfall, to repay the old grudge of the queen's evidence; and of wounding the hated danvers through his friends, as well as separating him from winifred. and now but one vote was needed to give burroughs his heart's desire. moore had not told eva this. but if charlie could be secured to-night, to-morrow or the next day he would give the signal, and the men, bought but not yet delivered, would vote for burroughs--and the battle be won! oh, it was glorious! bob _was_ lucky. how often he had said it of himself. yet sudden fear came. a certain corsican had thought that he was the darling of the gods, and confused his luck with destiny. had burroughs made the same mistake? certainly not. moore's habitual confidence returned manifold. the opposition was divided among too many men to amount to anything more than to keep burroughs in uncertainty, and no stretching of his imagination could conceive any one man fusing their warring elements. moore already saw his winter's work crowned with success. blair was waiting on the club steps for his host, and the dinner was ready. they were unusually silent until the black coffee and the cigars were brought. then moore leaned forward to reach the cognac for his coffee and asked: "how much does it cost you a year to live, charlie? expenses run pretty high?" the questions were unexpected. blair knew the motive of his host in giving a dinner, for moore seldom entertained without an underlying reason. certainly he never spent his own or burroughs' money without expecting fair returns. but charlie had thought the attack would be more direct. therefore he answered lightly: "i might reply as a colored man did who was asked how little he could live on. 'i live and work on three cents' worth of peanuts a day, but i'm a little hungry sometimes.'" mr. moore smiled perfunctorily. he had no sense of humor. "what have you been doing all summer?" "prospecting." "prospecting is like trying to raise money without security. neither pans out." "precious little you know about either," retorted blair. "you're a poor man," said moore, abruptly. the announcement struck the senator as superfluous. he nodded. "i am familiar with the fact." the honorable william resolved to strike. he had never thought to speak to charlie, but if mrs. latimer could not bring him to the point he would have to do it himself. one more member must be secured, and blair was the only possible man. the other legislators who had not already succumbed seemed impregnable. moore became impatient as he remembered how easy it had seemed at first to secure enough votes to elect his chief. "charlie," he began, clearing his throat, "we want you in this fight we are making, and we want you hard. we are going to win. we are going to get the votes; if we don't get them one way, we're going to get them another." "so i've understood." the host felt on unstable ground at the noncommittal answer, but he boldly pushed ahead. no time to fear quicksands--the end of the session was too near! he dwelt on the good that burroughs could do the state if he went to congress, and finally repeated: "bob's going to be elected. he's gaining votes every day. but we need to get the thing over with, and--it will be to your financial interest to work with us." moore played nervously with his teaspoon. senator blair watched his smoke rings fade, and made no response. both men were silent for a time. moore occupied himself by placing, with infinite exactness, three cubes of sugar on his spoon and pouring brandy over them. when the liquor was fired the blue flame lighted his face weirdly. so might _mephistopheles_ have looked when tempting _faust_. he was thinking that blair had always been a failure, and always would be--slow, methodical, too dull to see his best interests. he was a plodder, content with moderate means, when infinite opportunities in montana waited a man's grasp--if he was sharp enough. but silent charlie was thinking that his opportunity had come. during the past weeks he had observed, with his usual calm, the trend of events. he had been inclined to promise mrs. latimer the boon she asked, for he would be glad to promote judge latimer's advancement (remembering the fine that latimer had paid at fort macleod), even if in doing so he should aid the man he hated for stealing his squaw. but charlie was beginning to forget the judge's kindness in his passion for the judge's wife. he realized that as soon as he cast his vote for burroughs all the advances and marks of favor which stamp a lobbyist of the sex without a franchise would be a thing of the past--an episode to be forgotten. he had quite lost sight of the commandment, "thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife." instead, he was dreaming over the fact of a possible possession. knowing too well the paucity of his bank account, he was tempted to play both sides--to make a big strike with moore, and to press his half-repulsed, half-accepted passion until eva latimer should consent to his plans for the future. to sum the matter up: he meant to get more than anyone else from this business of electing a united states senator. never mind winifred. the lure of inviting eyes had so completely ensnared him that during these days of intrigue he had almost forgotten the existence of his sister in the alternate intoxication of eva's companionship and the less dangerous one of liquor. the host grew impatient as his guest made no effort to reopen the conversation. he drank his coffee with a jerk and drew an envelope from his pocket. it was stuffed with bills, and a torn corner showed the figures " ." moore pulled it out and threw it across the table. "there! that's what burroughs and i do business with," he exclaimed. "'tisn't so heavy as gold, nor as pretty; but it's a pretty good substitute. it's not intended to influence your vote," he hastened to add, as he noted the senator's expression; "it just shows you that my feelings are agreeable toward you--and that pretty sister of yours." "leave my sister out of it, please," commanded blair, with dignity. "i can't use a thousand-dollar bank note. i'm not in the habit of flashing bills of that denomination." "you will be if you tie to us," suggested the tempter. "thousand-dollar bills will be as common in helena in a few days as nickels in a contribution box. i'm about out of 'em myself, but the old man's bringing in a stack to-night. they come in right handy for contingent expenses." "i suppose so," assented blair, pocketing the money with a fine air of preoccupation that made the honorable william smile the smile of the canary-nourished cat. "if there's any money going i'd like to get my share of it, of course, if it could be done without my sister knowing it. but i'll not vote for burroughs until the last one. perhaps then i'll see about changing if you are sure that you have a majority." moore rapidly ran over a list of names. "will that satisfy you?" he demanded. "you see, i trust you. every man i have named will vote for burroughs whenever i say so. i may never call on them all--i won't unless i have to. but"--the pause was purposely impressive--"they are to have their money whether they are called upon or not, and so will you, provided that burroughs is elected." "you'll never make me believe that joe hall can be bought--not until i hear him give his vote for robert burroughs. i notice you have him listed. he hates bob more than i do, and that's saying a good deal." "he was the easiest one of the whole bunch. he was the cheapest, and he's afraid he won't earn his money." "does burroughs sanction all this?" senator blair was amazed, not so much at the men bought as at the sum total that must have been expended. why was burroughs so anxious to go to congress? he did not need the money that was popularly supposed to accrue to senators in washington from land grants, timber lands and other large steals; he had millions already. "well, he's putting up the dough, but i don't trouble him with all the minor details," admitted moore. "bob's not the only one who's offering good money for votes," said blair. "who has approached you?" "that's like asking who yelled fire at a theater. there are some seven candidates, and a thousand workers--i can't name them all." "we expect to pay every member who votes for burroughs--of his own party or not. the man who votes for him without being paid is a fool." "might as well have a red flag of auction placed on the speaker's desk." senator blair was inclined to moralize. "money is a legitimate source of influence in a legislature." moore was on the defensive. "i judge that you think so, if no one else. but, see here! i can't vote for burroughs, any way i see it!" (moore thought of his vanished thousand-dollar bill!) "i've promised danvers to vote for the governor. my friendship for phil--you know he saved my sister's life----" "friendship be damned! what difference does it make when you can get cash and get it easy? say!" moore leaned forward in his earnestness. "if you've been approached before, let me get my work in." he held up ten fingers as indicative of what he would pay. "ten thousand dollars doesn't make much of a stir in montana," spoke blair, scornfully. "fifteen, then!" the senator's eyes narrowed. "twenty? come, now! how's that? burroughs will pay it. no one else has got that, charlie." "if burroughs is good for twenty thousand, he's good for more." "how much do you want? spit it out!" the briber was disgusted. this was not the blair whom he had known in fort benton days. "i'm not soliciting nor making a proposition. but if my vote is worth anything it's worth twenty-five thousand--yes, thirty thousand dollars!" blair, for the first time, looked burroughs' manager in the eye. if he got that sum he could leave montana--and not alone! "are you mad?" moore was aghast. even his own rapacity had not thought to hold up burroughs for such a sum. thirty thousand dollars for speaking a man's name in joint assembly! thus he interpreted selling a vote. "no, i'm not mad. but that is my price." blair also rose, unexpectedly committed to a fixed statement. "you'll never get it!" roared moore. "i'll see you damned first! we'll find others who aren't so high-priced! you have over-reached this time, charlie blair!" and they parted in unfriendly fashion. the next day the honorable mr. moore notified mrs. latimer that all she had done for mr. burroughs would avail nothing if she failed to secure the vote of senator blair. [illustration] chapter xi the chinese legend "well, well, well! what does this mean?" the doctor looked in amazement at miss blair as she opened the door to his rap, the same evening that moore gave his dinner to her brother. traces of tears were to be seen; indeed, more tears seemed ready to fall, despite her effort to restrain them. "come right in, doctor!" winifred made no pretense of answering his question, but busily engaged herself in pulling the easiest chair to the cheerful grate fire. "i believe that i am more glad to see you than anyone else in the world," she added, affectionately, as she motioned her caller to the comfortable corner. "now we'll have a nice, long, cozy evening." "what does this mean?" repeated the doctor, with the privilege of friendship, not to be put off. "you should know better than to ask a woman why her eyes are red--it isn't polite! are mine very red?" she asked, ruefully. before he could answer: "let us talk of fort benton, and of what good times we'll have when we are there again to live happy ever after. really, i mean it," she said, earnestly, seeing his questioning face. "i want to forget--everything but fort benton." still her visitor looked at her keenly, until she sat silent under his scrutiny. he was not deceived. nevertheless he humored her for the moment, knowing that she was no match for his astuteness when the time came to probe her hurt. "fort benton, eh? you know the weak spot of the old doctor, you 'rastical'," whimsically. then, more seriously: "i, too, wish we were there. like you, i am sick of helena. we were all happier, better off, in the little old trading-post--before--the railroads came." he ascribed all evils to the course of empire as exemplified in the steel rails of commerce. "the latimers, the burroughs, the halls, bill moore, you and charlie--every one of you moved away. phil and i are the only ones left; and since he is in the legislature i spend almost as much time in helena as at fort benton." "there's mr. o'dwyer." "i forgot him. yes, o'dwyer stays near danvers--he left the police to go to him, you know." as he looked around the room he asked, "where's charlie to-night?" "he's dining with mr. moore at the club." "with moore?" the doctor, surprised, repeated her words. "yes. i--didn't know--they weren't friends." something in her hesitation gave her visitor an opportunity to ask: "you do not care very much for the honorable william?" "no, i do not!" came the quick response. "yet he is accounted quite a ladies' man; and," tentatively, "i can see that he is quite infatuated." "he can get un-infatuated," interrupted winifred, with no pretense of misunderstanding. the doctor was pleased at this outburst. he had been an observer of advances and repulses between these two. now he was thinking of another affair whose recent complications were giving him much concern. "you wouldn't call him a gentleman?" "oh, no. he's a politician." "that's rather hard on the rest of us who are dabbling in politics." "you know what i mean!" winifred made a pretty _moue_, her chin upturned, showing clear against the leaping flame. as her companion noted her sweetness he almost longed for his bygone youth. "i sometimes think i have missed a good deal by not marrying," mused the doctor, with seeming irrevelance. "but the rôle of husband was too exacting a one for me!" miss blair gave his hand a gentle pressure which conveyed her disbelief. "we bachelors are rather a forlorn class, when the years begin to count up; and as for the women who do not marry----" he left her to complete the observation. "they are not all forlorn," defended winifred. "but i will admit that the unsuspected longings of some of them are pathetic. here is a case in point. i had a caller this very afternoon--a woman of middle age who used to work for us. she was in distress because she had received an offer of marriage. from a worldly standpoint she is foolish not to accept the man, for he is worthy of her, and could provide a home. when i ventured to say as much she cried, and showed me this clipping from some old paper. shall i read it?" the doctor assented, and winifred rose and took a slip from the mantel. "'_there is an interesting old chinese legend_,'" she read, "'_which relates how an angel sits with a long pole which he dips into the sea of love and lifts a drop of shining water. with an expert motion he turns one-half of this drop to the right, where it is immediately transformed into a soul; the other half to the left--a male and a female; and these two souls go seeking each other forever. the angel is so constantly occupied that he keeps no track of the souls that he separates, and they must depend upon their own intuition to recognize each other._'" the old man reached for the paper as winifred ceased. she was silent as he glanced it over. "that old legend did not seem trite to her; it does not to me," said the girl, as the doctor looked up. "i asked her to leave it for me to copy." "and the woman?" reminded the doctor. "she stood before me, gaunt, unlovely, growing old. as i read her clipping she clasped her hands tensely. 'don't you see why i don't marry him?' she cried, and all the romance and persistent hope of her lifetime came to her faded eyes. 'because i want to find my other half. because i want--love.'" "she is all right, and i respect her," said the doctor. "too many women sacrifice their personality in loveless marriages." "i am in doubt," speculated winifred, "whether the women who lead colorless, unloved and unloving lives are not happier after all. they have fewer troubles. men are very interesting, but they can make a woman's life so miserable, too." more than a hint of pathos in this, thought the listener. "how about a girl making a man miserable?" he inquired. "a girl who has love--deep, sincere love waiting her recognition?" the surgeon took the knife resolutely. "i don't know what you--i was speaking in general----" "somewhere in the bible, i think, somebody goes about seeking whom he may devour. nowadays women go about looking for trouble. i've known that kind before, winnie, but i never saw anyone fairly gallop after it as you do." "why, doctor!" "my dear," the friend put his hand caressingly on her own, "why do you repulse danvers' love? do not be offended," he said gently, as she pulled away. she hid her face in her upturned hands. suddenly it was sweet to feel the solicitude of a love so like what she had dreamed a father's might be. "i can see, dear child. i know philip as i know my own heart. i think i know you (so far as a man can understand a woman)," he stroked her hair fondly, "and you are making a mistake." "no, i'm not," came in a whisper. "i--you don't know--about--charlie----" tears fell fast, relieving the suppressed anguish of weeks. "oh, yes, i do." his words fell like balm. "charlie has been so good to me all these years. i can't bear to see him--drift. you know--i can't say it----" "don't say it," counseled the doctor. "i understand perfectly." "and yet," with quivering voice, "you ask me why i turn mr. danvers away! can't you understand--knowing his love for judge latimer? oh, what shall i do? what shall i do?" she gasped; but soon controlled herself. "and i'm afraid charlie will vote for mr. burroughs because----" "exactly!" the doctor used the truth unsparingly. "eva has secured many votes for burroughs. but we'll hope that charlie can be held in line. he has promised danvers to vote for his candidate--the governor." "oh, but i'm afraid!" wailed the girl. "and if--oh, he would despise us both--we are of the same blood! if it were not for this dreadful contest i might be so happy!" confession shone in her eyes. "thank god!" said the old man, reverently. "he has been good to you--both." he kissed the hand that trembled in his. "you have made me happy, too." they sat in silent communion, the old man watching the play of emotion on the girl's sensitive face, now free from the look of anxiety that had been so apparent. "love is one long heartache," said the girl, plaintively. "wouldn't you think, doctor, that if a man cared----" "if that isn't just like a woman!" interrupted her companion, thinking he knew what winifred was trying to say. "women must have it in words. you want philip to chatter away like a society man. he will talk fast enough when you quit your foolishness and give him a chance." "i only wanted to say that he is undemonstrative," explained the girl, flaming red. "i should think that if he--oh, but i am glad he does not speak!" she interrupted herself, vehemently, remembering her brother's peril. "he must not speak!" "don't allow any false pride to come between you," urged the doctor. "nothing kills a man's love so quickly as indifference, real or feigned." "do you think so?" she was glad to be impersonal again. "i imagined a little indifference piqued a man to further effort." "the heat of propinquity feeds the flame of love," oracularly. "i do not agree with you there, doctor. i think men grow tired of women's solicitude and company." "of their wives?" winifred nodded. "precious few have the experience! but i agree with you that most married people see too much of each other. men seem to realize the fact. that is why they go on hunting and fishing trips. do they hunt? a few of the party, but the rest sit around and enjoy themselves, because they are a party of _men_. women will never understand this feeling--this insulation, so to speak; it is the cause of much of the unhappiness we see. most men fall short of the standard a woman demands from her husband. the first rapturous love, with its utterance and reciprocity, is expected to last after years of intimacy. in love, as in a dinner, comes the gradual relaxation, the ease of well-being, which is the greatest compliment (if she but knew it) to a woman's power to evoke and to hold love. she has not lost it; to reiterate what is a self-evident fact seems to the man unnecessary. a happy married life is one of content, comradeship, loyalty. words are not needed where such conditions exist." "i'll remember all you have said," sighed the girl, "but i shall never have an opportunity to prove it!" "nonsense, girl!" the comforter rose as he heard charlie's voice in the outer hall. "you are depressed to-night. life will look brighter to-morrow. these tangled trails are going to be straightened--i'm sure of it! love will crystallize that chinese legend into reality--for you and for phil. good-night! good-night!" [illustration] chapter xii recognition for years danvers had shunned women. yet he had not spent his life in melancholy over eva's defection; known to many, but understood by few, his real nature withdrew from the light. his intuitive attitude toward strangers of either sex was a negative indifference that gave him time to estimate their character or their motives--a habit desirable enough in business, but unsatisfactory in social life. the growth of his regard for winifred had been so gradual that he had not thought it might prove to be love. her unaffected interest in the only life he had enjoyed--the old days at fort macleod--had roused him from apathy, and her comprehension of his motives and activities exhilarated him. he delighted in her intelligent comradeship when discussing the real world. one subject, only, did she avoid, and that but recently. state politics were never mentioned after her brother became the keystone to the situation. though she had no proof that charlie's vote was the one vote necessary to burroughs' election, she had no doubt that it was a fact. when this shadow of another's crime crept over the brightness of their friendship, danvers was bewildered--repulsed by her unusual reserve. the doctor's explanation gave him somewhat of courage, and he had the fine perseverance that conquers. a few days after he had talked with the doctor danvers saw miss blair crossing the street just ahead of him. he hastened to overtake her--he would put an end to her coldness and her repulses. as he dodged a car, he noted in her walk the pride and courage that had recently been added to her bearing. he thought he understood her attitude toward him--toward the whole world; and a flood of loving pity swept over him. reaching the other side of the street, he found that she had disappeared. he looked up and down in the dusk, but caught no further sight of the elusive miss blair; and after lingering on the street for a half hour, he returned to the hotel. as he ascended the stairs to the first floor he caught a glimpse of charlie blair, just entering the latimers' apartments. his vexation at winifred's avoidance was a small matter to the anger that now flamed within. small wonder that miss blair wished to meet no one while this folly was unchecked! yet he felt that he must share her trouble, and resolved to make one more attempt to see her that evening. she opened the door in response to his firm knock after dinner, hesitating perceptibly when she saw him. but philip would not be denied, and entered with a determined resolution. the girl's heart rose high--fluttered, and almost ceased to beat. he was going to speak; she must not allow it. "where did you go to-night?" he asked, as he put his hat and stick on the table. "i saw you on warren street and tried to overtake you, but you disappeared. i prowled around hoping to find you again; and i had my new shoes on, too, and they hurt me." the whimsical gaiety of the complaint took away winifred's reserve, and without attempting to explain her disappearance, she smiled a welcome, though she soon fell silent under the burden of her heart. philip had called with a set purpose, yet he found no words as he sat before the smouldering fire. he had time, waiting for the moment of speech, to note the pathetic droop of her shoulders and the weariness of her beautiful eyes. evidently the courage and strength of the day had been exhausted. she played idly with a book, but laid it aside while she roused the half-burned wood into a shower of sparks. philip reached and took up the book abstractedly, and carelessly turned the leaves, wondering how he should say what was in his heart. a loose paper fluttered to the floor. he picked it up. it was the newspaper cutting that winifred had saved, but had forgotten to copy, in the stress of her anxieties. danvers was about to replace it when something familiar made him scan it eagerly. radiant with joy, he glanced at his companion, but winifred stood at the mantel with averted face. he took out his note-book, found a little, old, yellow scrap, and held both slips in his hand as he rose. he drew the girl to him, startled, resisting. "haven't we found each other?" he asked, simply, showing her the twin copies of the legend, old, yet ever new. "this little clipping has been close to my heart for years--waiting for you, dear. won't you take its place?" winifred was silent. she had guarded against all ordinary appeals, but this--how could she answer him? to refuse this tender sympathy, this yearning love, when she most needed it--the thought was bitterness! still silent she drew away from him, and lifted a face so drawn with suffering that danvers was startled at the change. "you do not love me?" he questioned, more to himself than to the shrinking woman. "you do not understand?" he stood before her struggling with his disappointment--that she should fail to understand--she who had always felt his thought so subtly; it was this, almost as much as her lack of response to his love, that hurt him. they stood before each other, separated by a thing which the woman would not put into words, and the man dared not question. "mr. danvers--philip," said the girl, gently, "i am sorry----" she hesitated at the trite words, her voice faltering as she looked up into his sad face; it had grown thin and tired these last days. she longed to go to him, to tell him that he should find rest at last. "no," she went on, finally, "i am not sorry that you found the clipping," she altered her words; "why should i not be honest with myself--and you?" she spoke so simply, so easily, that danvers almost believed that she did not care. "you saved my life once, dear friend," she said, "and that makes me dare to ask you to be generous now. do not judge me! wait a little. forget this evening, and let us go back to the old days. will you?" she smiled into his face, so sad a little smile in its evident effort at bravery, that he responded to her mood, eager to help her keep the mastery over her heart, that she might fight her battle in her own proud way. almost, he was reconciled to her woman's judgment; and he sat down and talked of fort benton days. for that hour winifred was grateful to danvers all her life; and when he rose to say good-night she was quite herself again. "you will understand if i tell you that i must go now?" inquired danvers. "judge latimer was to come in on number four, and i must see him to-night." winifred met his look with comprehension, and gave him her hand. a faint sound reached them from the latimer's apartment across the way as danvers opened the door. he listened, then ran across the hall. "what's that?" cried winifred, startled. [illustration] chapter xiii the lobbyist fate, woman-like, cares not what means she employs to hurt. she takes what comes first to hand. sometimes the more unlikely the weapon, the more effective is its use. the same afternoon that danvers tried to overtake miss blair, two talkative drummers boarded the west-bound train at a small montana station, doubling back to helena. as they entered the smoking compartment of a sleeper they found it empty save for a slight, weary-looking man who was gazing abstractedly at the wintry plains. "here, don't sit that side," said one; "the sun glares on the snow too much." as the drummer spoke to his friend he gave a passing glance at the preoccupied stranger, and chanced to take the seat directly in front of him. the other followed his advice, facing him. "what's doing in helena? i've been gone a week, but i see by the paper you haven't elected a senator yet." "naw," returned his companion; "hadn't yesterday, when i took the train." "pretty stiff contest." "pretty slick man bound to win out." "wish i was a member, with all the swag there is floating 'round." "wish i was a member with a right pretty woman coaxing for my vote!" "what's that? i hadn't heard of that yet." the speaker leaned forward, scenting scandal. "aw! it's no secret in helena. it's the talk of the town." "i never heard a word. i thought politics was free from petticoats out here." "they never are--anywhere. you know charlie blair?" the drummer interrogated shook his head. "well, he's a helena man, and one of the state senators. there's a woman lobbyin' for burroughs, so they say, and she's got blair batty! last man in the world you'd expect to be caught by a woman. they say he's a great friend of her husband's, too--judge latimer." a stifled moan came from the seat behind the drummers. "you don't say! any talk about her before?" "search me!" "probably there's nothing in it," concluded the other, with unexpected charity. "you know how people surmise the worst. she doesn't care for him, i take it." "naw! at least, not if i size her up correct. she's a good-looker, all right; she was pointed out to me one night in the hotel dining-room. it was easy to see where _she_ was stuck! she couldn't keep her eyes off a tall, good-looking fellow, that i was told was the senator from chouteau county." the other nodded. "i've heard of him. he's the head of the opposition to burroughs in the republican party. danvers, his name is--englishman--in the cattle business." "i saw the situation right away. bill moore, burroughs' political boss, you know, says that years ago they had an affair over in the whoop up country--wherever that is, and----" "bozeman!" said the porter, interrupting the conversation. "i got to see a man here," said one of the drummers. "come along. it won't take but a minute. he'll be waiting on the platform; i wired him." "that man looked bad," commented the other, jerking his thumb backward as they stepped from the car. "did you notice how ghastly his face was? i thought for a moment he was going to speak to you." they passed on, and the conductor, who followed a moment later, stopped abruptly at sight of the limp figure, and hurried into the next coach. "is there a doctor on board?" he asked. "a man has fainted--or had a stroke. it's judge latimer, of helena." and the instruments of fate never knew what a deadly blow they had delivered. * * * * * that evening mrs. latimer, exquisitely gowned and radiating magnetism, was again trying to persuade senator blair to vote for mr. burroughs. "burroughs is capable of more skulduggery than any man in the state," declared her caller, after they had talked somewhat of the senatorial candidate. "i can't see why you keep on harping on his fitness for the place." "do you know, i admire him," responded mrs. latimer, with apparent frankness. "he may be unscrupulous; but he has been successful. the end justifies the means, i think." "i've promised senator danvers that i would not vote for burroughs," affirmed blair, stubbornly. eva had treated him coolly for a few days, and he had practically decided that he wanted neither judge latimer's wife nor burroughs' money. but as he gazed at the lady's ripe beauty he became more infatuated than before. he changed the subject abruptly. "i must go down to the valley to-morrow, after the session adjourns. will you come with me for a ride?" "are you crazy?" mrs. latimer spoke with scorn. "no one will see us," he pleaded. "i can pick you up where you used to live. you can wear a veil if you like. what do we care if we do meet somebody we know? you belong to the smart set--you can do anything you like." charlie laughed loud. "my dear friend," eva began, cynically, believing that her position had so far made her exempt from comment, "the world is too suspicious. no man and woman can foregather without some pure soul interpreting that companionship to its own satisfaction. besides, i expect arthur any day now. he neither writes nor wires me just when he can come." "you'll never do a thing to please me!" cried blair, hotly. "i am the one who must grant favors. i----" "aren't you a man, and therefore to be compliant?" returned eva, her smile tempering her insolence. then, pleading, although her eyes grew no softer: "only one thing do i ask, senator. please, please grant me that! don't you care for me more than for senator danvers? break your promise to him--for me." she was very enticing as she bent towards him, and he was conscious of the faint perfume about her. "mr. burroughs needs your vote," she went on, persuasively; "and if you give it to him--as i've told you a hundred times--he has promised that he will provide for arthur; and you like arthur." "and what do _i_ get out of it?" "you'll please _me_," was the caressing answer. "and--i never thought of it before," she hastened to add, as the scar grew more conspicuous--a sure register of his emotions--"why not ask mr. burroughs to get you to berlin, too--as first secretary or something, if we go there?" she must throw him some encouragement. "i hate helena. you do yourself. if we were in berlin, we'd be where life is--a whirl of----" "madness," senator blair finished her sentence for her, thickly. "i do not have to go away from helena for that sensation!" he lost control of himself. "you drive me mad, eva! you are more tempting than ever! give me one kiss--one--and i'll vote for burroughs till hell freezes over!" the language of the frontier returned, in his abandon. "not now!" the temptress was thoroughly alarmed. she had thought to control any situation, but--charlie's eyes--so near her own! "perhaps--when you have voted for----" she must secure this man's vote for burroughs, even if she bartered her self-respect. "now, by god! now!" "no! no!" in terror eva gave a suppressed cry and turned to escape the arms of the man she had maddened. with his hot lips brushing her own she turned away her face in impotent writhing, and saw her husband standing in the doorway. "pardon me," apologized latimer, courteously, as though in a trance. he stepped forward, closed the door and took off his coat and hat. he sat down absently, as if he had returned after only a few hours' absence. he took no notice of the presence of senator blair nor of his hasty exit. the scene he had interrupted seemed to have no meaning for him. he could not have told how he reached home, and his one thought was of danvers--his supposed judas--and of the wife who had lived a lie even while bearing his children. but eva could not know this, and strove hurriedly to form some excuse for her predicament. latimer made no response to her explanations. instead he said, quite gently: "i'll go and see if little arthur is asleep. i want to kiss him good-night," and disappeared through the portieres. eva stood motionless, voiceless, in chill terror at her husband's solicitude for the dead child! had he forgotten--or was he going mad? what had happened? what was to happen? when latimer returned, his eyes had lost their dazed expression. "my name is a reproach--it is handed around by coarse gossips!" he said, hoarsely. his look went beyond accusation. eva suddenly sank to her knees in mortal fear. the tones were not loud, but she never could have believed that those mild, blue eyes would flash at her such a menace of death. "arthur!" she wailed; "what have you heard? why have you come home like this? i have not been untrue? who said so? i have not! i have lied to you sometimes about little things--but not now!" the silence was terrible! she began again, miserably: "i've been helping mr. burroughs; but surely that's not--it was for your advancement--arthur!--speak to me!" she broke into gasping sobs. the pale, emaciated face above her never softened; the eyes never wavered. yet a reasoning anguish crept into the insane glare. after all, nothing mattered except this one great pain in his heart. what was it he wanted to know? yes--he remembered! the truth!--the truth! "and philip danvers?" the change in tone gave so great relief that eva became hysterical, not understanding the obscure connection. "oh, senator danvers? he has had nothing to do with the lobbying. you know he is against mr. burroughs." she rose, again self-possessed, feeling herself able to explain all untoward circumstances. "come, you are worn from your journey. lie here on the couch and i'll get you some wine." but her husband resisted, dumbly, looking at her as a starving dog might look at the hand that had enticed him by pretending to offer food. words came, at last, while he beat his hands together in agony. "i cannot bear it--i cannot! they said you and phil had an affair in the whoop up country----" "what are you saying?" came from eva, sharply. she went from fear to fury. "you've been listening to some malicious gossip," she screamed; "and now you come home to frighten me into spasms!" the rage covered her fright. "there's not a word of truth in it!" "tell me the truth!" the god on high could not have been more mandatory. the woman dared not lie again. her anger, rather than her self-respect, brought the truth like a charge of dynamite from the muddy waters of her soul. "well, then, it _is_ the truth! i was engaged to philip danvers at fort macleod. i threw him over afterwards, because he had no money and you had. now are you satisfied?" the cruel desire to hurt gave this added thrust. "no? then let me tell you that i have never loved you, never! i've always loved philip danvers--always--always--always!" her voice rose in crescendo. at last it was spoken. eva stood at bay, her jewels glittering on bare shoulders and arms as balefully as her eyes flashed hate. "god!" latimer reeled, and put his hand on his heart, but recovered himself. "and philip"--the words came in a chill whisper--"did he love--you?" "you'd better ask him!" eva was wholly beside herself, in the reaction of a weak woman's fear. "phil--my friend!" he choked, started and winced, putting his hand again over his heart; then fell heavily. the woman screamed in fright and knelt beside him. "arthur, he never cared--after i dismissed him. he despised me. he despises me now--more than you ever can. oh, god in heaven! what have i done?" remorse followed swiftly on her anger. latimer was conscious as his wife raised his head. he had understood her confession, and although he could not speak he motioned for her to seek assistance; but the effort was too much, and he again sank back, moaning. eva laid him gently down, and flew to the door. as she opened it she fell against danvers, coming from winifred's side. "you've killed him, at last!" philip flayed her with word and look as she sped for other help; but he forgot her as he knelt and raised latimer's head to his knee. he would have carried him to a couch, but arthur motioned that he could not endure that pain. the look of trust that greeted danvers was returned with one of love and fidelity. with a sigh of utter content latimer, by a supreme effort, raised his hands to philip's shoulders. "arthur!" danvers groaned, holding him close as he looked into the glazing eyes. "did i doubt you?" whispered the judge. "forgive me--my dear--friend--phil!" [illustration] chapter xiv the keystone when senator blair learned of judge latimer's death he thought himself its prime cause and suffered as only a man can who is not wholly heartless. how poorly he had rewarded the friendship which had relieved him in his need at fort macleod! all his passion for mrs. latimer had died in that fearful moment when he looked on the curiously passive husband in the doorway; remorse bit like acid into the depths of his heart. the meaning glances and the interrupted conversations that met him everywhere the morning after the judge's death drove him to solitude. he even avoided his sister, danvers and the doctor; but most of all he shunned the honorable mr. moore. he had had enough of temptation! he would not allow himself again to be approached! his belief that in the sight of god he was a murderer made blair collapse during the day. he was confined to his room; and it was then that he told the fort benton physician all that was haunting him, hour by hour. blair did not attempt to palliate his sin, and although the doctor had known much and suspected more, he could hardly find it in his heart to forgive either winifred's brother or the woman who had led him on. the only ray of mercy he felt was that matters were not so bad as he had feared between these old friends of his; but in his bitterness at arthur's death, he would not give blair the consolation of knowing that it was only a question of a short time, at best, when the judge's weak heart must have failed. let him suffer! arthur had! for the first time the lenient doctor did not want to relieve pain. neither he nor blair knew of what had taken place between eva and her husband after charlie had left their rooms. the doctor's bitterness, however, was as nothing to the inward storm which shook danvers when eva, in the height of her hysterical remorse and fear of exposure, told him the sorry tale of her first flutterings around the arc-light of mr. burroughs' ambition; of her consent to aid mr. moore in his efforts to influence uncertain legislators to vote for burroughs, and that gentleman's acceptance thereof; of the clandestine meetings in her apartments with the honorable william, and of the more open but far less harmless friendship with senator blair, pursued until she was singed with the flame of her own kindling and nearly consumed by its fires. and lastly, her husband's reproaches; her miserable evasions and the hurt that she had deliberately given him. when she told her silent listener of that last half hour danvers held himself forcibly in his fear of doing the woman bodily harm. that she should have done this cruel thing! her indiscretions had been bad enough, but they had been prompted by an ambition second only to mr. burroughs'. but to turn the knife wantonly in arthur's heart of gold!... how nearly his friend had gone from him, believing that he was false!... and now he was dead!... dead! philip's agony broke its restraint, and mrs. latimer never forgot his scathing denunciation. "you killed arthur," he concluded, white to the lips, "as surely as if you used a stiletto! so that was what arthur meant." for a few moments danvers could not speak as the recollection of that look of love and trust came surging back. "no one must ever know the truth," he went on, huskily. "let it be buried with poor arthur. there will be more or less gossip; but we will stand by you for the judge's sake--and for miss blair's as well. she, of all persons, must know nothing of what you have told me." mrs. latimer's sobs only roused his wrath at all the misery she had wrought. he knew her tears were for herself, not for her husband. as he turned to leave the room she caught at his hand. "i did not mean----" she began in weak defense. "you are too hard," she protested, feeling him recoil. "hard!" philip laughed harshly in his pain. "you did not expect me to condole with you on the outcome of your folly? all that i can say is, may god forgive you!" and he was gone. so resolutely did latimer's friends ignore all previous conditions that the ready tongue of rumor was silenced immediately. surely if senator danvers and the doctor from fort benton, as well as miss blair, were ever at mrs. latimer's side, there could have been no breath of wrong in her sudden cultivation of senator blair. only three persons--danvers, the doctor and moore--knew of the hidden octopus of burroughs' insatiable vindictiveness, whose tentacles, first fastening on eva, had finally crushed latimer. moore knew, if the others did not, that blair was doomed if he once again came within its radius. then for the others! but he made no immediate move, and decorously gave regard to the proprieties, both for himself and as a substitute for mr. burroughs. his chief was almost as hysterical as eva herself over the judge's untimely death, for he thought his prospects endangered thereby. his panic made him hasten to leave helena for a few days. moore had tried to secure some other man to change to burroughs, someone who did not hold himself as high as blair had done on the night of the club dinner; but he had finally been obliged to report his non-success. he suggested to burroughs that he approach senator blair once more, offering twenty thousand dollars. he felt sure that charlie would take less--now! just before burroughs ordered a special train to hurry him away from the prevailing gloom, the two conspirators had their final word on the subject of senator blair. "we've got to get this thing over," said burroughs, savagely. "there's too much talk. we'll be hung as high as haman or sent to the pen for twenty years if we don't get a move on. and there are but six days more of the session. give charlie blair his price--and be damned to him!" "that's all right, bob," retorted moore, angrily. "i'll give him the money if you say so. but i don't think the whole business of being a united states senator is worth thirty thousand dollars. and if i do get it to him (and the lord knows how i can)--what then? he is sick in bed, and who can tell when he can get to the capitol?" "_get_? we'll _take_ him, alive or dying! thirty thousand! it's my money, isn't it? you are nothing out of pocket. get it to him while the rest of his folks are at the--the funeral!" the word chilled them both. were they responsible for this death? "get it to him! he'll keep it! montana'll be too hot for him from now on, let me tell you! he'll take the money, vote for me, and skip--all in the same day. there's been too much talk to be agreeable to a man who's never before been mixed up with a woman--except that squaw!" burroughs walked nervously back and forth, then: "you wire me when you've given the money to him and i'll come back. it'll all be clear sailing then." this delay! as burroughs reviewed the results of his schemes he felt that he had been hardly used. not so had fortune treated him in the past. most of all he bewailed the inclusion of a woman in the necessary chicanery of diverting votes. catch him again being over-persuaded by bill moore's sophistry! in truth senator blair had begun to think that he should have to take burroughs' money. how could he ever face his sister, his world again? he made sure that he was not only called a murderer, but that he was one. he might as well be other things. no appellation could be so terrible as that first. he would take the thirty thousand dollars if it should be forthcoming, vote and take the first train west the same day. in the orient he could lose his identity as a bribe-taker and a murderer. the torture never relaxed during the days preceding the judge's funeral. late on the afternoon of the day of the burial of the man whom he had so nearly wronged the senator's attention was drawn to a low rustle near the door opening from his room to the hall outside. something white and long was being cautiously pushed under the door. charlie was alone, and he weakly pulled himself to that mysterious package. the soft _feel_ of it thrilled him like brandy. burroughs had come to his terms! he could get away! but he must previously acknowledge before all men that he had been bought at a price. the odium.... a flirt of the devil's tail brought a new thought to his fevered brain--fevered by remorse and the effects of long-continued and unwonted alcoholic stimulants. suppose that he did not vote? suppose that he kept this fortune (he counted it over to assure himself of its reality), pleading his sickness until the last day of the session, and go ... go.... the thought swung him to uneasy sleep. while he slept the doctor and the senator from chouteau came into the room as they returned from the cemetery. blair had been too much occupied in his dizzy thought to remember to hide his ill-gotten money, and on the white counterpane lay those proofs of burroughs' infamy. "thirty thousand dollars!" gasped the doctor, in undertones, counting the large bills and sheafing them in one trembling hand. "what shall we do?" "nothing," responded danvers, very quietly. "when charlie wakes i will talk with him. i do not believe that he will keep that money or vote for burroughs." "how fortunate that winifred did not come in with us!" said the older man. "you stay here, phil, and i will keep her away for an hour. he will not sleep long. he is too feverish." danvers nodded acquiescence, and the physician tiptoed away. before many minutes the sick man awoke. danvers sat near the bed, reading the evening paper. blair looked around with the impersonal eyes of the sick, then saw the pile of bank notes on the stand beside his bed. he started and gave a furtive look at philip. their eyes met squarely. "you will send that money back, charlie." the words were not so much query as certainty. blair, shamed, was long in replying. "i can't afford to, danvers," he said finally. "i'm not only a poor man, but a ruined one as well. i may keep it and--get out of the state." "and vote for bob burroughs?" the head of the opposition still kept his calm acceptance of his discovery. curiously enough it threshed the sick senator, after a few words, into stubborn silence. "maybe i will and maybe i won't. i have the money, and bob or bill will never dare to ask for it back. if you ever see me in the assembly again you'll know that i'm going to vote for burroughs--curse him!" "let me have that money, charlie," danvers pleaded. "think of your sister. it will break her heart if you do this thing. and," he continued huskily, for he suddenly found that he could not control his voice, "hearts enough have been broken over this business of electing a united states senator." he reached out his hand, persuasively, expectantly. "i will see that it goes to the men who gave it to you." but senator blair was obdurate; and when philip left him he felt that his long fight was to end in defeat, and that robert burroughs would be elected by the high-priced vote of winifred's brother. senator danvers had kept in too close touch with the situation not to know that moore would never have paid such a sum to senator blair if he were not their last hope for a majority of even one. the next day of the legislature senator blair was again reported not present on account of sickness, and william moore thought it best not to show his full strength. the next, and the last day of the session, blair was still absent. ballot after ballot was taken. one by one men responded to the crack of moore's whip and changed their votes to burroughs, while the spectators indulged in significant laughter. one by one the several candidates withdrew their names as their former adherents shamelessly went over the fast increasing list for burroughs. still senator danvers held most of his men, and not until long after nightfall did the ballots come within one of electing burroughs. the last man to change, amid hoots of derision, was joseph hall. mr. burroughs and the honorable william were both in the rear of the house of representatives, for the first time during the session. "we must get charlie blair here!" hissed burroughs, hearing senator danvers make a motion for a ten minutes' recess. senator hall opposed the motion. he did not know that senator blair's vote would elect burroughs, or he would not have tried to block danvers' desire to speak to some of the turncoats. but the motion prevailed and there was much seeking of the various places where a man might refresh himself after such arduous toil. "he _shall_ come," continued the candidate for congress, "if he dies in the next hour!" moore, feeling sure of the men he had already lined up, consented to be the one to bring the sick senator from the hotel, only five minutes away. in the meantime senator danvers was vainly trying to stem the tide. the doctor reported that senator blair was in bed and apparently sleeping, so philip was comparatively easy. all that remained for him to do was to see that no other man went over to the enemy; and it had been agreed that the legislature should adjourn at two o'clock that night. senator blair, meanwhile, had made up his mind to get away that very hour. no matter if he were too sick to stand, he would get up and dress, get a carriage and go.... it was better than staying and going mad. the hotel was practically empty, he knew, for everybody who could be at the capitol was there to witness the closing hours of the assembly. word had spread that robert burroughs would surely be elected before midnight. the whole city and most of the state's inhabitants of voting age and sex were crowded into the capitol. charlie knew that winifred was with mrs. latimer across the hall. hurriedly he dressed, trembling with fear and physical weakness, packed a suit case, felt to see if the thirty thousand dollars was safe, and cautiously opening the outer door, peeped into the hall to see if the way was clear. but it was not. there stood the honorable william, in the very act of putting his hand on the door-knob! "no, you don't, my beauty!" snarled moore, pushing the sick man back and seeing in a glance what was planned. "you'll not leave helena until you've earned that thirty thousand! don't you ever think it! you're coming over to the capitol right now, with me, and vote for bob! we need you in the business! and, if you don't, by god i'll make you sorry for it! it's come to a show down. this business has killed judge latimer and it may as well kill you--you miserable, white-livered----" moore's language and voice were raised to the highest power. "charlie!" at the disturbance, winifred came from eva's rooms. "you up--and out in the hall! what is the trouble? you surely are not going to the capitol in your condition?" blair was past all words in his rage, and moore explained with what grace he might that it was imperative for charlie to cast his vote. winifred insisted that she accompany them if her brother must go, and moore did not dare to delay long enough to argue the matter. every moment counted now. in the cab winifred, knowing nothing of the blood-money in her brother's pocket, begged him not to vote for mr. burroughs. she had heard the last of moore's tirade. but he would not answer, and she felt moore's foot seeking blair's to freshen his resolve. though her tears wet the hand she held, it did not return her caress. [illustration] chapter xv an unpremeditated speech as the three entered the crowded chamber where the joint assembly had been once more called to order, they passed mr. burroughs, his wife and daughter. they had come from butte to witness his triumph. surely the wife would congratulate, the daughter be proud of her father. moore was left at the rail which separated the legislators from the spectators, but senator blair's sister went with him and found a seat at his side. charlie's face was ghastly, and the doctor, surprised beyond measure at sight of him, kept guard with a watchful eye. blair's entrance into the chamber with its atmosphere of suspense drew every nerve taut. senator danvers saw him and his heart sank. his efforts had been in vain! he bowed to winifred, though he had not seen even his own sister, far in the rear of the hall--there were no galleries for spectators. it was a moment long remembered by that breathless crowd. men, drowning, see their whole lives as in a flashlight's glare. so did danvers see his past. he was again a boy, embarking on the _far west_, and he breathed the wet spring air, blowing over prairie and river. he was with the men on the upper deck, and noted their glances of curiosity. their youth seemed never to have faded, as he remembered the delicate face of the joyous latimer, the kind glance of the doctor, the western breeziness of toe string joe and the quieter manner of scar faced charlie; while the debonair arrogance of sweet oil bob stirred his fighting blood afresh. eva thornhill's beautiful face came, bewitching in its youth, and little winnie's trusting smile again reached his heart. even fort benton, a busy port of entry, as he first saw it, and wild cat bill's drunken animosity, leaped out as the searchlight of recollection swept the past. then memory's moving picture brought the same faces, shaded or illumined as each temperament exposed its impulse; changed and moulded by hidden thoughts, unexploited forces of character and assimilated environment. came a sigh for arthur latimer, asleep after life's bright beginning and shadowed close. a thought of eva, broken and undone; of winifred---- every thought and act of his life led up to this moment. could he let this plot be consummated? not while the blood so pounded in his veins. he must speak--no one else would. outraged decency demanded. the honor of the state demanded. he forgot that he was an alien by birth--that he must expose many of his friends; it did not occur to him that he had never made a public speech, that his denunciation would ruin his political future and would be altogether futile. the disgraceful contest had killed his dearest friend--driven the wife into retirement to avoid the glare of scandal, and it was likely to lose him winifred. his hand went up, and the president of the senate recognized him. he rose. "mr. president: i rise to a point of personal privilege." "the senator from chouteau," announced the presiding officer of the joint assembly, surprised but courteous. philip danvers was not one to be ignored, no matter how inopportune the time. as he stood there for the moment silent, he conveyed the impression of perfect poise, and the honesty and sincerity of his purpose was patent to all. "mr. president: in the struggle to elect a united states senator which has lasted this entire session of our legislative assembly, the party with which i have the honor to be affiliated, ever since i foreswore allegiance to my native country, has, unfortunately, never been able to fix on a caucus nominee; and i have been forced, unwillingly, to lead the minority of my party against the man whose name led all others in the last ballot. as a result of the division, the election of a senator has descended to a contest of one individual, with the known antagonism of not only the best element of his party, but the ill will of the whole state, irrespective of party. "the shameless condition that this has fostered is now familiar to every man in the united states. when that politician, ravenous for his spoil, could not get enough supporters from his own party, he went into the highways and byways of democrats, populists and laborites; he gathered not only the poor and needy, but some few men hitherto possessing apparent respectability, and good standing at home and abroad. "personal reasons have kept me silent on the floor of this house, however much i may have worked in other ways against this crime. but the time has come when i must put aside all thought of self in the greater interest of the reputation of montana. "gentlemen: a most outrageous crime is being committed upon this state! i can keep my seat no longer while the very walls reek with bribery! yes, bribery! no one has dared to voice that sinister word in this assembly, but we all know that in every hotel corridor, on every street, in every home in this state that damnable word is handed from mouth to mouth as claim and counterclaim, that certain men have been purchased like cattle in open market, and that they would deliver themselves to a certain candidate when called upon. they have been called upon to-day! that is why this room is filled to overflowing! the curious, the sensation-seeker want to look upon those men, so lost to decency that they will rise here, and with no blush of shame, tacitly admit that they have been bought with a price. even the open enemies of this candidate have voted for him, as the last ballot shamelessly proclaimed. how one senator, opposed to the candidate in every walk of life, has been debauched, we can imagine as well as though we saw the thousands counted out to him by the money-changer who has had charge of the bartering of votes." as danvers looked straight at senator hall, the bribe-taker half rose, then sank back in his degradation. one thought sustained him. his revenge on burroughs was nearing its hour, and he felt that the mortification of this bold accusation could be endured, if that other matter was never traced to him. he knew too well what the enmity of burroughs could compass to invite it openly, and he had become fearful of the results of his long-delayed scheme of vengeance. meantime the voice of the senator from chouteau county went on, clear and distinct, creating consternation as might the voice from sinai. in his earnestness he stepped nearer the speaker's desk, and faced the hushed audience, fearlessly. he made no pretence of oratory, but his words were terribly effective. "in olden times, bribers were branded on the cheek with the letter b. if we had the time, i would suggest that we pass a law, before this session is over, to brand not only the bribers, but the bribed with a white-hot iron, so that the owner might identify his property. this brand should be burned into the political mavericks who, since the convening of this assembly, have run with every herd, and openly sought the highest bidder for their worthless carcasses. for these cattle of unknown pedigree i have only words of contempt. "mr. president: the state in which we find ourselves on this, the last night of the session, should make us pause. we are apt to be dim-sighted to our own failings, and clear-sighted to the faults of others; but i ask you in all candor, do the men who have so nearly elected a united states senator believe that he is the choice of the state for that high office, or that he would be considered by that legislative body if it were not for the influence of his wealth? we would better be unrepresented in congress than misrepresented, and i ask you, gentlemen," turning again to the legislators, "if you are going to vote again as you did in the last ballot, and allow a sick man to cast his vote for robert burroughs and thus elect him? i know," he added with impressive slowness, "whereof i speak! that we are democrats or republicans, labor or fusion, should not figure in this contest. instead, each man should consider whether we, a young state, shall enter washington tarred with the ineradicable pitch of bribery or shall we send a man who will show the elder states that montana is proud of her newly acquired statehood, and that no star in the northwest firmament shines more pure? "to those who have allowed themselves in this fiery ordeal to swerve from their duty to their state, through the temptation of personal gain, let me say that they will be branded and dishonored, despised at home and abroad; that they will be political pariahs forever, unless they reconsider their votes while yet there is time. they have been clay, moulded on the potter's wheel of the political manipulator behind whom the leading candidate has worked his nefarious will. because a man is rich shall we condone his base acts? a poor man is as likely to commit crime as a rich one; but he would do so for very different reasons. the rich man in politics, sins for his own self-gratification; the poor man, to better himself or his family, often not comprehending the enormity of his crime. "so long as i possess the faculties of a man, i purpose to fight against the election of robert burroughs to a seat in congress. i do not want it said that i was a state senator in a legislature which seated a man so notoriously lost to a sense of political decency as he. i would rather go back to the whoop up country to spend my days in toil and obscurity, and be able to hold up my head and look the world in the face." for a moment he paused. the awed, sullen, furious faces before him seemed individually seared on his soul as he swept the crowded room. many a man sat in a cold sweat of fear, with haunted eyes and compressed lips that proclaimed his guilt with deadly certainty. for the first time philip became aware that his sister was present, and had heard his denunciation of her husband. but it was too late to retract, and he would not if he could. truth-telling, like the cauterizing of the snake's bite, must sometimes be done, no matter what the immediate suffering. his eyes sought winifred's, misty with apprehension, admiration, love. and charlie? his temple pulse beat visibly in his effort to control his nerves. his face was fixed as the face of one dead. could any appeal snatch him from being the keystone of that elaborate structure builded by burroughs and moore--so nearly completed? if he refused to become that apex, even for this one ballot to be called as soon as danvers finished speaking, there was a faint hope that the apparently inevitable could be averted. stepping nearer his colleagues in his vehemence, senator danvers brought his unpremeditated speech to an end. "for god's sake, are there not men enough in this body to help me to drive out corruption and fraud and dishonor, and establish integrity and justice? i ask in the name of women and children, wives and sweethearts, pioneers and posterity! let us not become a disgrace to the nations of the world! we can clean these augean stables by one concentrated effort, even as england cleaned her corrupt borough elections of a century and a half ago. let us fix on one man who will stand for civic purity, virtue and honor, no matter what his party. let us elect a united states senator who is above reproach, above the taint of gaining a victory by the downfall of his fellow men! in the next ballot, let us each vote as his conscience dictates!" it was said. senator danvers stepped back to his seat amid a buzz of blended approval and hisses, which came to his brain as the sound of swarming bees. he felt sick and weak. his appeal seemed hopelessly futile. but he sat erect, with no sign of discouragement, and looked fixedly at senator blair in the hope of seeing some inkling of change from his declaration that if he came to the capitol he should vote for burroughs. but blair would not look his way. [illustration] chapter xvi the election danvers did not hear the clerk of the senate as he began the roll-call of the senators after the presiding officer had rapped for order. the first three men in the a's were irrevocably opposed to burroughs and danvers concentrated his whole thought on senator blair's change of heart. while the men preceding charlie were voting, winifred whispered to her brother. he did not seem to hear, and his dazed eyes were still fixed straight ahead. the flaming red of the scar made his face look still more ghastly, and at times his form swayed dizzily. "do not vote for mr. burroughs," winifred entreated. "for my sake, charlie. you've always been willing to please me. vote for any one else. philip expects your loyalty. vote for him, even. show him that you, if no one else, appreciate his courage in facing these men and denouncing them before the entire assembly." "blair!" came the stentorian voice from the desk. necks were craned and men rose to whisper and to look as this man's name was called. how would he vote? burroughs' throat grew dry to suffocation. moore's gaze was imperturbable, but the muscles in his neck twitched perceptibly, while sweat beaded his upper lip. danvers still kept his eye on the miserably shaken blair, and still hoped. suddenly charlie turned and threw him one look. then he rose, slowly, with painful effort, holding his sister's supporting arm. he showed the effect of stormy weeks of passion as he stood a moment, silent. "vote for philip, charlie," whispered winifred, under cover of assisting him. blair looked around the room. "mr. president," he began, in a trembling voice. "before i cast my vote in this ballot, i wish to say that i have listened to my honored colleague from chouteau county with mingled feelings of shame at my own unworthiness and admiration for the courage which had dared to say what every man of us should have said six weeks ago. senator danvers beseeches us to send to washington a man who will guard the fair name of montana, who will work for our best interests, and reflect honor on every inhabitant of the state. he asks us to vote for one above reproach, one who would accept no position at the expense of his fellows. i am inclined to give his plea serious consideration. but before i cast my ballot," his voice gained in strength and firmness, and he stepped forward with a gesture of irrevocable decision and placed upon the speaker's desk a long white envelope, "i will place here thirty thousand dollars, to be redeemed by the party who shoved it under my door two days ago. "and now," turning to the gasping assembly, "as the senator from chouteau has unconsciously suggested the very man to represent our state in congress--the man on whom, i am sure, we can all agree--i take great pleasure, mr. president, in casting my vote, the first vote, for the honorable philip danvers of fort benton!" quick applause rang out as blair took his seat, and winifred kissed his hand as it lay trembling on his desk. danvers gasped in dismay. had blair's sickness quite turned his head? but, no! never had his eye been clearer; never had he looked more the man as he returned full and strong philip's amazed gaze. danvers half rose to protest, but the doctor pulled him down. winifred began to cry behind her veil as the applause continued. a responsive note had been struck. when quiet was somewhat restored, the automatic clerk called the next name--the name of the senator who had promised eva his vote. since latimer's death he had heartily wished for some excuse to be absolved from that promise. here was his opportunity. "philip danvers!" he called loudly, defiantly, perhaps. he owed burroughs nothing. but as a rolling stone gathers momentum, so did this unexpected addition to the new name on the list of candidates give impetus to a stampede which soon made itself understood, as much to the surprise of blair as danvers. "never mind, bob," whispered moore, hoarsely. "it's only a spurt that will die out. they often run like a flock of sheep. you'll get there on the next ballot." when senator hall's name was called, he rose airily. he not only wished to hide his hand, but to get even with danvers for many an upright act unconsciously done while they two were troopers together at fort macleod. "i wish to explain my vote," began the lanky senator. "my esteemed colleague from chouteau county has made a very pretty speech, intended, i take it, for the ladies who are honoring us with their fair presence, and also to enhance his own reputation. his accusations can hardly be proven. and while i voted for burroughs for reasons which no man has a right to question, i wish to state that even if i had not so voted in the past, i should feel it incumbent on me as a native born american to vote for him at this time. i do not approve of a foreigner, an englishman, a man who has been one of that force across our northern border which has frequently done grave injustice not only to many of our citizens, but, i dare say, to burroughs himself, undertaking to teach us anything in a political way." o'dwyer rose at this. his red face was redder than ever, and he shook his fist at the speaker; but the doctor pulled him down, and he reluctantly subsided. for hall to speak thus of the north west mounted police when he had been drummed out of the force! "i may also say," went on hall, "that i believe this thirty thousand dollars (if there is such a sum of money in the envelope which senator blair has just placed on the desk) was put up for the purpose of stampeding the assembly for this man who professes to be so honest and so upright--senator danvers!" hisses came from all over the room, but hall was impervious. "mr. president: i hereby make my protest against such spectacular performances by casting my vote, altogether uninfluenced, for the honorable robert burroughs," he gave a quick glance to the rear of the room where a new group had just crowded in, "and i defy anyone to detect 'a blush of shame' on my brow." the speech and the bravado fell flat. the crowd was not with this bribe-taker. the voting proceeded, and danvers' name was spoken with gusto by many who thought, on the next ballot, to return to their respective candidates. "philip danvers!" yelled representative o'dwyer, hardly waiting for his name as the representatives were called. "danvers! danvers! danvers!" he repeated, in a frenzy of friendly fervor. pounding feet and canes accentuated the irishman's cry. "you've given him the deciding vote, o'dwyer!" shouted the doctor, forgetting decorum in the delirium of the moment. he had kept close check on the various candidates while the angry moore and burroughs, purple and speechless, stood aghast, not believing that this flurry could abolish the results of their expensive campaign. "philip danvers it is!" yelled o'dwyer, overjoyed, leaping to the top of his desk and jumping madly. "danvers forever! hooray!" "danvers! danvers! danvers!" the name was taken up as a slogan by the cheering legislators and citizens--men and women alike. shouts and hisses, congratulations and curses, laughter and consternation mingled over this unexpected denouement of the long-drawn-out contest. the speaker's gavel came near to breaking, and the desk was cracked before the tumult could be quieted sufficiently to proceed with the balloting. the remaining numbers, almost to a man, voted for danvers; and when o'dwyer moved that the vote be made unanimous, the noise and enthusiasm which had preceded was as silence to what followed when the motion was put, seconded and carried, that philip danvers of fort benton be declared unanimously elected as the united states senator from montana to fill the vacancy for the four years beginning march four, eighteen hundred and ninety----. even senator hall joined the majority--for did he not already have his money safely invested? besides, he could be censured by burroughs no more than many others who had taken his money and betrayed him. "speech! speech!" yelled the crowd. but danvers could not speak. "let us go," whispered mrs. burroughs, as the demonstration continued. she looked half in scorn, half in pity, on her husband, frustrated in the ambition of years by the man he most hated--her brother. "let us go, robert," she repeated. the young daughter crept nearer and clasped her father's icy hand. she did not understand the accusations made against a father who had shown her nothing but love. "better luck next time, bob," consoled moore. "don't let everybody see how hard hit you are. danvers is elected only for the short term, you know--four years." choking, burroughs attempted to force his way through the cheering, struggling mob, and to clear a path for his wife and daughter. but as the crowd gave way, in deference to the women, a new obstruction presented itself. robert burroughs did not recognize the slouching, dirty buck blocking his way as me-casto, the once haughty pride of the blackfeet federation, or the obese, filthy squaw as pine coulee. the work of civilization had obviously been in vain. but this tall, strapping 'breed reaching out his unwashed hand! burroughs gazed at a replica of himself as he had been at fort macleod. "him you father?" questioned the half-breed, addressing the frightened daughter. he had been well coached by the grinning mcdevitt, so close behind him. "she you mother?" he pointed to kate danvers, high bred and aristocratic in her scorn. "she _my_ mother," the 'breed went on, fiendishly, indicating the toothless, loathsome squaw, whose vindictive eyes never wavered from burroughs' craven face. "him both our father!" the common parent was given a fillip of a contemptuous thumb and finger. burroughs could not look at his wife, but he threw a furtive glance at the flower-like face of his daughter. her look of terror and of shame was more than he could bear. before all men he had been confounded; before the wife whose love he had never won, his own passion proving his torment; before his daughter, the idol of his heart. as the surge of curious men pressed nearer he saw the malevolent joy of joseph hall and of chaplain mcdevitt, and he knew who had planned his disgrace. he saw danvers, vainly striving to reach his sister. "let me out!" came in a thick gurgle from his swelling throat. something in his face made the throng give way and moore quickly pushed him outside into the midnight cold. "go back for my wife and daughter," burroughs commanded. "go back!" the street was empty, for everybody had stayed within the capitol to feast on the sensation of the indians and the fainting women. moore hesitated. "they'll be right out, bob. let me call a cab." "go!" the old, imperious fire came from the deep-set eyes. moore had no sooner turned his back to obey than a pistol shot broke the stillness. the rabble poured from the capitol at the sound of the shot. moore, the only friend that burroughs ever had, raised his companion. the plotting and planning was over. robert burroughs, having forced his way through life's stockade, stepped out, alone, into the dark trail. in the confusion of that midnight scene danvers was conscious of but one desire, held in abeyance by the tragic necessities of the moment. at last the surging crowd dispersed, the officers of the law performed their hasty duty, and moore drove away in a closed carriage with mrs. burroughs and her daughter. then danvers turned wearily, eagerly, like a man famished and athirst, to the woman who meant peace and rest and inspiration. she stood in the dim light, clinging to her brother's arm, while the doctor waited beside the carriage. charlie reached out a trembling hand and looked into philip's face. then he bent and kissed his sister, and gently withdrawing his arm, gave her to danvers. the doctor hurried the sick man into the carriage, and it drove into the night. the lovers clung together like tired, frightened children, and walked silently. 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"miss smith's verse rings as clear and true as a clarion call." _$ . net; postage, cents_. the alice harriman company fifth avenue new york _and_ seattle denny building * * * * * transcriber's note the following changes have been made to the text: page : "she clnug to him" changed to "she clung to him". page "like the the cauterizing" changed to "like the cauterizing". by mary roberts rinehart through glacier park. illustrated. k. illustrated. the street of seven stars. the after house. illustrated. houghton mifflin company boston and new york through glacier park seeing america first with howard eaton [illustration: the author] through glacier park seeing america first with howard eaton by mary roberts rinehart _with illustrations_ [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge copyright, , by p. f. collier & son, incorporated copyright, , by mary roberts rinehart all rights reserved _published may _ _foreword_ _there are many to whom new places are only new pictures. but, after much wandering, this thing i have learned, and i wish i had learned it sooner: that travel is a matter, not only of seeing, but of doing._ _it is much more than that. it is a matter of new human contacts. it is not of places, but of people. what are regions but the setting for life? the desert, without its arabs, is but the place that god forgot._ _to travel, then, is to do, not only to see. to travel best is to be of the sportsmen of the road. to take a chance, and win; to feel the glow of muscles too long unused; to sleep on the ground at night and find it soft; to eat, not because it is time to eat, but because one's body is clamoring for food; to drink where every stream and river is pure and cold; to get close to the earth and see the stars--this is travel._ contents i. the adventurers ii. "fall in" iii. the sporting chance iv. all in the game v. "running water and still pools" vi. the call vii. the black marks viii. bears ix. down the flathead rapids illustrations the author _frontispiece_ baring creek, citadel mountain, and blackfeet glacier a rainy day in camp, showing howard eaton hikers on piegan pass gold dollar, the author's buckskin horse eaton party climbing to piegan pass _photograph by a. j. baker, kalispell, montana_ eaton camp near altyn mountain pumpelly's pillar and eaton party members of the eaton party tobogganing without toboggans _photograph by a. j. baker_ gunsight lake and mount jackson from fusillade mountain dawson pass party crossing triple divide mountain goat and kid on ptarmigan pass _photograph by a. j. baker_ upper two medicine lake view from dining-room, many glaciers hotel cut bank chalets on cut bank river _photograph by kiser photo company_ luncheon on flathead river trip photographing a bear appistoki falls near two medicine chalets through glacier park i the adventurers this is about a three-hundred mile trip across the rocky mountains on horseback with howard eaton. it is about fishing, and cool nights around a camp-fire, and long days on the trail. it is about a party of all sorts, from everywhere, of men and women, old and young, experienced folk and novices, who had yielded to a desire to belong to the sportsmen of the road. and it is by way of being advice also. your true convert must always preach. if you are normal and philosophical; if you love your country; if you like bacon, or will eat it anyhow; if you are willing to learn how little you count in the eternal scheme of things; if you are prepared, for the first day or two, to be able to locate every muscle in your body and a few extra ones that seem to have crept in and are crowding, go ride in the rocky mountains and save your soul. if you are of the sort that must have fresh cream in its coffee, and its steak rare, and puts its hair up in curlers at night, and likes to talk gossip in great empty places, don't go. don't read this. sit in a moving-picture theater and do your traveling. but if you go--! it will not matter that you have never ridden before. the horses are safe and quiet. the western saddle is designed to keep a cow-puncher in his seat when his rope is around an infuriated steer. fall off! for the first day or two, dear traveler, you will have to be extracted! after that you will learn that swing of the right leg which clears the saddle, the slicker, a camera, night-clothing, soap, towel, toothbrush, blanket, sweater, fishing-rod, fly-hook, comb, extra boots, and sunburn lotion, and enables you to alight in a vertical position and without jarring your spine up into your skull. [illustration: baring creek, citadel mountain, and blackfeet glacier] now and then the united states government does a very wicked thing. its treatment of the indians, for instance, and especially of the blackfeet, in montana. but that's another story. the point is that, to offset these lapses, there are occasional government idealisms. our national parks are the expression of such an ideal. i object to the word "park," especially in connection with the particular national reserve in northwestern montana known as glacier park. a park is a civilized spot, connected in all our minds with neat paths and clipped lawns. i am just old enough to remember when it meant "keep-off-the-grass" signs also, and my childhood memories of the only park i knew are inseparably connected with a one-armed policeman with a cane and an exaggerated sense of duty. there are no "keep-off-the-grass" signs in glacier park, no graveled paths and clipped lawns. it is the wildest part of america. if the government had not preserved it, it would have preserved itself. no homesteader would ever have invaded its rugged magnificence or dared its winter snows. but you and i would not have seen it. true, so far most niggardly provision has been made. the government offices are a two-roomed wooden cabin. the national warehouse is a barn. to keep it up, to build trails and roads, to give fire protection for its fourteen hundred square miles of great forest, with many millions of dollars worth of timber, are provided thirteen rangers! thirteen rangers, and an annual allowance less than half of what is given to yellowstone park,--with this difference, too, that yellowstone park has had money spent on it for thirty-two years while glacier park is in the making! it is one of the merry little jests we put over now and then. for seventy-five miles in the north of the park there is no ranger. government property, you see, and no protection. but no niggardliness on the part of the government can cloud the ideal which is the _raison d'être_ for glacier park. here is the last stand of the rocky mountain sheep, the rocky mountain goat. here are antelope and deer, black and grizzly bears, mountain lions, trout--well, we are coming to the trout. here are trails that follow the old game trails along the mountain-side; here are meadows of june roses, true forget-me-nots, larkspur, indian paintbrush, fireweed,--that first plant to grow after forest fires,--a thousand sorts of flowers, growing beside snow-fields. here are ice and blazing sun, vile roads, and trails of a beauty to make you gasp. a congressional committee went out to glacier park in and three of their machines went into the ditch. they went home and voted a little money for roads after that, out of gratitude for their lives. but they will have to vote more money, much more money, for roads. a government mountain reserve without plenty of roads is as valuable as an automobile without gasoline. nevertheless,--bad roads or good or none, thirteen rangers or a thousand,--seen from an automobile or from a horse, glacier park is a good place to visit. howard eaton thinks so. last july, with all of the west to draw from, he took his first party through glacier. this year in june, with his outfit on a pack-horse, he is going to investigate some new trails and in july he will take a party of riders over them. [illustration: a rainy day in camp (howard eaton is fifth from left of those standing)] forty-two people set out with howard eaton last summer to ride through glacier park. they were of every age, weight, and temperament. about half were women. but one thing they had in common--the philosophy of true adventure. howard eaton is extremely young. he was born quite a number of years ago, but what is that? he is a boy, and he takes an annual frolic. and, because it means a cracking good time, he takes people with him and puts horses under them and the fear of god in their hearts, and bacon and many other things, including beans, in their stomachs. he has taken foreign princes and many of the great people of the earth to the tops of high mountains, and shown them grizzly bears, and their own insignificance, at one and the same time. he is a hunter, a sportsman, and a splendid gentleman. and, because equipment is always a matter of much solicitude on the part of the novice, i shall tell you what he wears when, on his big horse, he leads his long line of riders over the trails. he wears a pair of serviceable trousers, a blue shirt, and a vest! worn by howard eaton, believe me, they are real clothes. he has hunted along the rockies from alaska to mexico. he probably knows montana, wyoming, and idaho as well as any man in the country. when howard eaton first went west he located in the bad lands. those were the "buffalo" days, and it was then that he began taking his friends with him on hunting trips. at first they went as his guests. even now they are his guests in the truest sense of the word. by their own insistence, as the parties grew larger, they determined to help defray the cost of the expeditions. every one who knows howard eaton knows that his trips are not made for profit. probably they barely pay for themselves. it is impossible to talk to him about money. save as a medium of exchange it does not exist for him. life for him is twenty-four hours in the open air,--half of that time in the saddle,--long vistas, the trail of game, the camp-fire at night, and a few hours of quiet sleep under the stars. roosevelt's ranch was near the eaton ranch when it was in the bad lands. roosevelt and howard eaton have taken many hunting trips together. titled foreigners of all sorts have come over and hunted elk, deer, and other game with him. he has supplied museums, parks, and animal shows in every part of america with game. he was and is a crack shot, of course. he says he always treated the indians with respect. "i was always a little shy when indians were in the same country with me, and once when hunting i retired so fast that the boys said i beat my shadow six miles in fifteen minutes." in those days the town of sentinel butte consisted of a canvas saloon with the sign:-- rev. c. a. duffy _best wines, liquors, and cigars_ "i had a fine chance to steal that sign once," says howard eaton, "but some folks are fools, and i overlooked a bet." the eaton "boys"--for there are three--left pittsburg and went west many years ago. howard was the first. he went in . in theodore roosevelt went out to the same country. it was in when the eatons left the bad lands and went toward the big horn mountain. there, at the foot of wolf creek and in the center of the historic battle-ground of the arapahoes, sioux, crows, and cheyennes, they established a new ranch at wolf, wyoming. ii "fall in" the rendezvous for the eaton party last summer was at glacier park station on the great northern railway. getting to that point, remote as it seemed, had been surprisingly easy--almost disappointingly easy. was this, then, going to the borderland of civilization, to the last stronghold of the old west? over the flat country, with inquiring prairie dogs sitting up to inspect us, the train of heavy pullman diners and club car moved steadily toward the purple drop-curtain of the mountains. west, always west. now and then we stopped, and passengers got on. they brought with them something new, rather electric. it was enthusiasm. the rest, who had been eastern and greatly bored, roused and looked out of the windows. for the newcomers were telling fairy tales, with wheat for gold and farmers for princes, and backing everything with figures. they think in bushels over rather a large part of america to-day. west. still west. an occasional cowboy silhouetted against the sky; thin range cattle; impassive indians watching the train go by; a sawmill, and not a tree in sight over a vast horizon! red raspberries as large as strawberries served in the diner, and trout from the mountains that seemed no nearer by mid-day than at dawn! then, at last, at twilight, glacier park station, and howard eaton on the platform, and old chief three bears, of the blackfeet, wonderfully dressed and preserved at ninety-three. it was rather a picturesque party. those who had gone up from the eaton ranch in wyoming--a trifle of seven hundred miles--wore their riding-clothes to save luggage. khaki was the rule, the women mostly in breeches and long coats, with high-laced shoes reaching to the knee and soft felt hats, the men in riding-clothes, with sombreros and brilliant bandannas knotted about their throats. one or two had rather overdone the part and were the objects of good-natured chaffing later on by the guides and cowboys. "hi!" cried an urchin as we walked about the streets of billings, montana, to stretch train-tired muscles. "here's the ranch!" not very long before i had been to the front in belgium and in france. i confess that no excursion to the trenches gave me a greater thrill than the one that accompanied that start the next morning from the glacier park hotel to cross the continental divide. for we were going to cross the rockies. our route was three hundred miles long. it was over six passes, and if you believe, as i did, that a pass is a valley between two mountains, i am here to set you right. [illustration: hikers on piegan pass] a pass is a bloodcurdling spot up which one's horse climbs like a goat and down the other side of which it slides as you lead it, trampling ever and anon on a tender part of your foot. a pass is the highest place between two peaks. a pass is not an opening, but a barrier which you climb with chills and descend with prayer. a pass is a thing which you try to forget at the time and which you boast about when you get back home. for i have made it clear, i think, that a horseback trip through glacier park, across the rockies, and down the pacific slope, is a sporting proposition. it is safe enough. howard eaton has never had an accident. but there are times-- [illustration: gold dollar, the author's buckskin horse] once, having left the party to make a side trip, my precious buckskin horse--called "gold dollar"--was "packed" over. now, gold dollar was a real horse with a beard. he was not a handsome horse. even when i was on him, no one would have turned to admire. but he was a strong horse, and on a trail up a switchback--do you know what a switchback is?--well, a mountain switchback bears about as much relation to the home-grown amusement-park variety as a stepmother to the real thing--on a switchback he was well-behaved. he hugged the inside of the trail, and never tried to reach over the edge, with a half-mile drop below, to crop grass. he was not reckless. he was a safe and sane horse. he never cared for me, but that is beside the question. so, having temporarily left gold dollar, i had to get back to him. i had to go fifty miles to do it, and i was provided with a horse by the man who holds the horse concession in the park. a horse? a death-trap, a walking calamity, a menace. if the companies who carry my life insurance had seen me on that horse, they would have gone pale. he was a white horse, and he was a pack-horse. now, the way of a pack-horse is on the edge of the grave. because of his pack he walks always at the outer side of the trail. if his pack should happen to hit the rocky wall, many unpleasant things would follow, including buzzards. so this beast, this creature, this steed of death, walked on the edge of the precipice. he counted that moment lost that saw not two feet dangling blithely over the verge. now and then the verge crumbled. we dislodged large stones that fell for a mile or two, with a sickening thud. once we crossed a snow-field which was tilted. he kept one foot on the trail and gave the other three a chance to take a slide. there was a man riding behind me. when it was all over, he shook my hand. off, then, to cross the rocky mountains--forty-two of us, and two wagons which had started early to go by road to the first camp: cowboys in chaps and jingling spurs; timorous women, who eyed rather askance the blue and purple mountains back of the hotel; automobile tourists, partly curious and partly envious; the inevitable photographer, for whom we lined up in a semi-circle, each one trying to look as if starting off on such a trip was one of the easiest things we did; and over all the bright sun, a breeze from the mountains, and a sense of such exhilaration as only altitude and the west can bring. then a signal to fall in. for a mile or two we went two abreast, past a village of indian tepees, past meadows scarlet with the indian paintbrush, past--with condescension--automobile busses loaded with tourists who craned and watched. then to the left, and off the road. the cowboys and guides were watching us. as we strung out along the trail, they rode back and forward, inspecting saddles, examining stirrups, seeing that all were comfortable and safe. for even that first day we were to cross mount henry, and there must be no danger of saddle slipping. quite without warning we plunged into a rocky defile, with a small river falling in cascades. the shadow of the mountain enveloped us. the horses forded the stream and moved sedately on. did you ever ford a mountain stream on horseback? do it. ride out of the hot sun into a brawling valley. watch your horse as he feels his way across, the stream eddying about his legs. give him his head and let him drink lightly, skimming the very surface of the water with his delicate nostrils. lean down and fill your own cup. how cold it is, and how clear! uncontaminated it flows down from the snow-covered mountains overhead. it is living. iii the sporting chance the trail began to rise to the tree-covered "bench." it twisted as it rose. those above called cheerfully to those below. we had settled to the sedate walk of our horses, the pace which was to take us over our long itinerary. hardly ever was it possible, during the days that followed, to go faster than a walk. the narrow, twisting trails forbade it. now and then a few adventurous spirits, sighting a meadow, would hold back until the others had got well ahead, and then push their horses to the easy western lope. but such joyous occasions were rare. up and up. the trail was safe, the grade easy. at the edge of the bench we turned and looked back. the great hotel lay below in the sunlight. leading to it were the gleaming rails of the great northern railway. we turned our horses and went on toward the snow-covered peaks ahead. the horses moved quietly, one behind the other. as the trail rose there were occasional stops to rest them. women who had hardly dared to look out of a third-story window found themselves on a bit of rocky shelf, with the tops of the tallest trees far below. the earth, as we had known it, was falling back. and, high overhead, howard eaton, at the head of the procession, was sitting on his big horse silhouetted against the sky. [illustration: eaton party climbing to piegan pass _copyright, a. j. baker_] the first day was to be an easy one--twelve miles and camp. "twelve miles!" said the experienced riders. "hardly a sunday morning canter!" but a mountain mile is a real mile. possibly they measure from peak to peak. i do not know. i do know that we were almost six hours making that twelve miles and that for four of it we led our horses down a mountain-side over a vacillating path of shale. knees, that up to that point had been fairly serviceable, took to chattering. riding-boots ceased to be a matter of pride and emerged skinned and broken. the horses slid and stumbled. and luncheon receded. down and down! great granite cliffs of red and blue and yellow across the valley--and no luncheon! striped squirrels hiding in the shale--and no luncheon! a great glow of moving blood through long-stagnant vessels, deep breaths of clear mountain air, a camera dropped on the trail, a stone in a horse's foot--and no luncheon! two o'clock, and we were down. the nervous woman who had never been on a horse before was cinching her own saddle and looking back and up. the saddle tightened, she sat down and emptied her riding-boots of a few pieces of rock. her silk stockings were in tatters. "i feel as though my knees will never meet again," she said reflectively. "but i'm so swollen with pride and joy that i could shriek." that's what it is, partly. a sense of achievement; of conquering the unconquerable; of pitting human wits against giants and winning--a sporting chance. you may climb peaks in a railroad coach and see things as wonderful. but you are doing this thing yourself. every mile is an achievement. and, after all, it is miraculously easy. the trails are good. the horses are steady and sure-footed. it is a triumph of endurance rather than of courage. if you have got this far, you are one of us, and you will go on. for the lure of the high places is in your blood. the call of the mountains is a real call. the veneer, after all, is so thin. throw off the impedimenta of civilization, the telephones, the silly conventions, the lies that pass for truth. go out to the west. ride slowly, not to startle the wild things. throw out your chest and breathe; look across green valleys to wild peaks where mountain sheep stand impassive on the edge of space. let the summer rains fall on your upturned face and wash away the memory of all that is false and petty and cruel. then the mountains will get you. you will go back. the call is a real call. above the timber-line we rode along bare granite slopes. erosion had been busy here. the mighty winds that sweep the crests of the rockies had bared the mountains' breasts. beside the trails high cairns of stones were piled, so that during the winter snow the rangers might find their way about. remember, this is northwestern montana; the canadian border is only a few miles away, and over these peaks sweeps the full force of the great blizzards of the northwest. the rangers keep going all winter. there is much to be done. in the summer it is forest fires and outlaws. in the winter there are no forest fires, but there are poachers after mountain sheep and goats, opium smugglers, bad men from over the canadian border. now and then a ranger freezes to death. all summer these intrepid men on their sturdy horses go about armed with revolvers. but in the fall--snow begins early in september, sometimes even in august--they take to snowshoes. with a carbine strung to his shoulders, matches in a waterproof case, snowshoes and a package of food in his pocket, the glacier park ranger covers unnumbered miles, patrolling the wildest and most storm-ridden country in america. he travels alone. the imprint of a strange snowshoe on the trail rouses his suspicion. single-handed he follows the marks in the snow. a blizzard comes. he makes a wikiup of branches, lights a small fire, and plays solitaire until the weather clears. the prey he is stalking cannot advance either. then one day the snow ceases; the sun comes out. over the frozen crust his snowshoes slide down great slopes with express speed. generally he takes his man in. sometimes the outlaw gets the drop on the ranger first and gets away. during the winter of one of these rangers was frozen to death. he was caught in a blizzard, and he knew what was coming. when at last he sat down beside the trail to wait for death he placed his snowshoes points upward in the snow beside him. he sat there, and the snow came down and covered him. they found him the next day by the points of his snowshoes. the snow melts in the summer on the meadows and in the groves. but the peaks are still covered, and here and there the trail leads through a snow-field. the horses venture out on it gingerly. the hot sun that blisters the face seems to make no impression on these glacier-like patches, snow on top and ice beneath. flowers grow at their very borders. striped squirrels and whistling marmots, much like eastern woodchucks, run about, quite fearless, or sit up and watch the passing of the line of horses and riders, so close that they can almost be touched. great spaces; cool, shadowy depths in which lie blue lakes; mountain-sides threaded with white, where, from some hidden lake or glacier far above, the overflow falls a thousand feet or more, and over all the great silence of the rockies! nerves that have been tightened for years slowly relax. there is not much talking. the horses move along slowly. the sun beats down. some one, shading his eyes with his hand, proclaims a mountain sheep or goat on a crag overhead. the word passes back along the line. also a thrill. then some wretched electrical engineer or college youth or skeptical lawyer produces a pair of field-glasses and announces it to be a patch of snow. here and there we saw "tourist goats," rocks so shaped and situated as to defy the strongest glass. the guides pointed them out and listened with silent enjoyment to the resulting acclamation. after that discovery, we adopted a safe rule: nothing was a goat that did not move. long hours we spent while our horses wandered on with loose reins, our heads lifted to that line, just above the timber, which is goatland. and the cry "a goat!" and the glasses, and skepticism--often undeserved. the first night out of doors i did not sleep. i had not counted on the frosty nights, and i was cold. the next day i secured from a more provident member of the party woolen pajamas. clad in those, and covered with all the extra portions of my wardrobe, i was more comfortable. but it takes woolen clothing and bed socks to keep out the chill of those mountain nights. one rises early with howard eaton's party. no matter how late the story-tellers have held the crowd the night before around the camp-fire, somewhere about five o'clock, howard--he is either howard or uncle howard to everybody--comes calling among the silent tepees. "time to get up!" he calls. "five o'clock and a fine morning. up with you!" and everybody gets up. there are basins about. each one clutches his cake of soap and his towel, and fills his basin from whatever lake or stream is at hand. there is plenty of water in glacier park, and the camps are generally beside a lake. the water is cold. it ought to be, being glacier water, cold and blue. the air is none too warm. a few brave spirits seek isolation and a plunge bath. the majority are cowards. [illustration: eaton camp near altyn mountain] now and then a luxurious soul worried the cook for hot water. they tell of a fastidious lady who carried a small tin pail of water to the cook tent and addressed the cook nervously as he beat the morning flapjacks with a savage hand. "do you think," she inquired nervously, "if--if i put this water on your stove, it will heat?" he turned and eyed her. "you see it's like this, lady," he said. "my father was a poor man and couldn't give me no education. damned if i know. what do you think?" before one is fairly dressed, with extra garments thrust into the canvas war-sack or duffle-bag which is each person's allowance for luggage, the tents are being taken down and folded. the cook comes to the end of the big tent. "come and get it!" he yells through hollowed hands. "come and get it!" is repeated down the line of tepees. that is the food call of an eaton camp. believe me, it has the butler's "dinner is served, madame," beaten forty ways for sunday. there is no second call. you go or you don't go. the long tables under the open end of the cook tent are laden with bacon, ham, fried eggs, flapjacks, round tins of butter, enameled cups of hot coffee, condensed milk, sometimes fried fish. for the cook can catch trout where the most elaborately outfitted eastern angler fails. the horses come in with a thudding of hoofs and are rounded up by the men into the rope corral. watched by night herders, they have been grazing quietly all night in mountain valleys. there is not much grass for them. by the end of the three hundred-mile trip they are a little thin, although in good condition. it is the hope of the superintendent of the park and of others interested that the government will soon realize the necessity for planting some of the fertile valleys and meadows with grass. there are certain grasses that will naturalize themselves there--for instance, clover, blue-joint, and timothy. beyond the first planting they would need nothing further. and, since much of the beauty of this park will always be inaccessible by motor, it can never be properly opened up until horses can get sufficient grazing. sometimes, at night, our horses ranged far for food,--eight miles,--even more. again and again i have watched my own horse nosing carefully along a green bank and finding nothing at all, not a blade of grass it could eat. with the second day came a new sense of physical well-being, and this in spite of a sunburn that had swollen my face like a toothache. already telephones and invitations to dinner and tailor's fittings and face powder belonged to the forgotten past. i carried over my saddle and placed it beside my horse, and a kindly and patronizing member of howard eaton's staff put it on and cinched it for me. i never learned how to put the thing on, but i did learn, after a day or two, to take it off, as well as the bridle and the red hackamore, and then to stand clear while my buckskin pony lay down and rolled in the grass to ease his weary back. all the horses rolled, stiff-legged. if the saddle did not come off in time, they rolled anyhow, much to the detriment of cameras, field-glasses, and various impedimenta strapped thereon. iv all in the game day after day we progressed. there were bright days and days when we rode through a steady mist of rain. always it was worth while. what matters a little rain when there is a yellow slicker to put on and no one to care how one looks? once, riding down a mountain-side, water pouring over the rim of my old felt hat and pattering merrily on my slicker, i looked to one side to see a great grizzly raise himself from behind a tree-trunk, and, standing upright, watch impassively as my horse and i proceeded. i watched him as far as i could see him. we were mutually interested. the party had gone on ahead. for a long time afterward i heard the crackling of small twigs in the heavy woods beside the trail. but i never saw him again. it is strange to remember how little animal life, after all, there seemed to be. there was plenty, of course. but our party was large. we had no chance to creep up silently on the wild life of the park. the vegetation was so luxuriant in the valleys. beyond an occasional bear, once or twice the screaming of a mountain lion, and the gophers and marmots, we saw nothing. there were not many birds. we never saw a snake. it was too high. one day, riding along a narrow trail on a mountain-side, the horse in front of mine stampeded, and for a moment it looked like serious trouble. for a stampeding horse on a two-foot trail is a dangerous thing. it developed that there was a wasp's nest there, and the horse had been stung. we all got by finally by lashing our horses and running past at a canter. [illustration: pumpelly's pillar and eaton party] another time, working slowly up a mountain-side, i told the chief ranger of the park of having seen many western horses at the front in france. "do you remember any of the brands?" he asked. i did. a diamond-z, a flank brand on a black horse at ypres. "that's curious," he commented. "that man just ahead of us has shipped a carload of montana horses to the front, and i believe that is his brand." we called to the man ahead, and he halted. up we rode and demanded his brand. it was the diamond-z. to be quite certain, he showed it to me registered in his notebook. so there, where we could see out over what seemed unlimited space, where the earth appeared a vast thing, we decided that, after all, it was a small place. the rocky mountains and ypres! having risen at five, by eleven o'clock thoughts of luncheon were always obtrusive. people began stealthily to consult watches and look ahead for a shady place to stop. by half-past eleven we were generally dismounted in some grove and the pack-train was coming up with its clattering pans, its coffee-pot, its cold boiled ham. howard eaton always made the coffee. it was good coffee. apparently nobody ever thought of tea. in the out-doors it is coffee--strong coffee, as hot as possible--that one craves. there was one young woman in the party to whom things were always happening--not by her own fault. if there was a platter of meat to be dropped, it fell in her lap. and so i remember that one day, the coffee having been made at a luncheon stop, the handle came off the coffee-pot and this same young woman had an uncomfortable baptism. but it was all in the game. hot coffee, marmalade, bread and butter, cheese, sardines, and the best ham in the world--that was luncheon. often there was a waterfall near, where for the mere holding out of a cup there was ice water to drink. the horses were not unsaddled at these noonday stops, but, having climbed hard all morning, they were glad to stand in the shade and rest. sometimes we lunched on a ledge where all the kingdoms of the earth seemed spread out before us. we sprawled on rocks, on green banks, and relaxed muscles that were weary with much climbing. there was much talk of a desultory sort. we settled many problems, but without rancor. the war was far away. here were peace and a great contentment, food and a grassy bank, and overhead the trail called us to new vistas, new effort. one young man was the party poet. he hit us all off sooner or later. i have the ode he wrote to me, but modesty forbids that i give it. the poet having pocketed his pad and pencil, and the amateur photographers having put up their cameras, the order to start was given. the dishes were piled back in the crates and strapped to the pack-horses. the ruin of the ham was wrapped up and tied on somewhere. dark glasses were adjusted against the glare, and we were off. sometimes our destination towered directly overhead, up a switchback of a trail where it was necessary to divide the party into groups, so that no stone dislodged by a horse need fall on some one below. always at the head, riding calmly, with keen blue eyes, that are like the eyes of aviators and sailors in that they seem to look through long distances, was howard eaton. every step of the trail he tested first, he and his big horse. and i dare say many a time he drew a breath of relief when the last timid woman had reached a summit or descended a slope or forded a river, and nothing untoward had happened. [illustration: members of the eaton party tobogganing without toboggans _copyright a. j. baker, kalispell, montana_] there were days when we reached our camping-places by mid-afternoon. then the anglers got their rods and started out for trout. there were baths to be taken in sunny pools that looked warm and were icy cold. there were rents in riding-clothes to be mended; even--whisper it--a little laundry work to be done now and then by women, some of them accustomed to the ministrations of a lady's maid at home. and there was supper and the camp-fire. charley russell, the cowboy artist, was the camp-fire star. to repeat one of his stories would be desecration. no one but charley russell himself, speaking through his nose, with his magnificent head outlined against the firelight, will ever be able to tell one of his stories. there were other good story-tellers in the party. and howard eaton himself could match them all. a hundred miles from a railroad, we gathered around that camp-fire in the evening in a great circle. there were, you will remember, forty-two of us--no mean gathering. the pine and balsam crackled and burned, and overhead, often rising in straight walls around us for thousands of feet, were the snow-capped peaks of the continental divide. little by little the circle would grow smaller until at last only a dozen choice spirits remained for a midnight debauch of anecdote. i have said that the horses ranged wide at night. occasionally they stayed about the camp. there was one big horse that was belled at night. now and then toward dawn he brought his ungainly body, his tinkling bell, and his satellites, the other horses, into the quiet streets of tepee town. more than once i have seen an irate female, clad in pajamas and slippers, with flying braids, shooing the horses away from her tent in the gray, cold dawn, and flinging after them things for which she vainly searched the next morning. v "running water and still pools" holidays are rare with me. so, on those occasional days when the party rested, i was up and away. i happen to like to fish. the same instinct which sent me as a child on my grandaunt's farm, armed with a carefully bent pin, an old cigar box full of worms, and a piece of twine, to sit for hours over a puddle in a meadow and fish for minnows; the same ambition which took me on flying feet up the hillside to deposit my prey, still wriggling, in a water barrel, where for days i offered it food in the shape of broken crackers, and wept to find eventually its little silver belly upturned to the morning sky--that joy of running water and still pools and fish is still mine. i cannot cast for trout. i do it, but my technique sets the boat to rocking and fishermen to grinding their teeth. but i had taken west with me a fly book and a trout rod, and i meant to use them. now and then, riding along the trail, we met people who drew aside to let us pass, and who held up such trout as i had never dreamed of. or, standing below a waterfall, would be a silent fisherman too engrossed to more than glance at our procession as it wound along. but repeated early attempts brought me not a single strike. once in my ardor i fell into an extremely cold lake and had to be dried out for hours. i grew caustic about the trout. then somebody, with the interests of the park at stake, said that he would make up a party and see that i caught some trout. he would see that i caught something, he said, if he had to crawl into the lake and bite my hook himself. so we went to red eagle lake. there are trout in that lake; there are cutthroat trout weighing four pounds. i sat in a boat with a man who drew one in. i saw two college boys in their undergarments standing up to the waist in ice water and getting more large trout than i knew were in the world. i ate trout that other people caught. but they were bitter in my mouth. i threatened to write up glacier park as being a fishing failure. the result was calamitous. earnest-eyed fishermen spent hours in rowing me about. they imperiled my life, taking me into riffles; they made me brave pneumonia and influenza and divers other troubles in the determination that i should catch a mammoth fish. and nothing happened--nothing whatever. once a man in the boat hooked a big one and it ran under the boat. i caught the line and jerked the fish into the boat. that was the nearest i came to catching a large cutthroat trout at red eagle lake. later on--but i haven't come to that yet. i did catch some fish at red eagle. i caught some dolly varden and rainbow trout. one of the earnest fishermen led me on foot over several miles of rocky mountain scenery, stopping ever and anon to show me where a large bear had just passed. the trail was fresh. here were the stones he had turned over for ants, the old trunks he had scratched for grubs. then we arrived at the foot of a waterfall. what a place it was! the water poured down in clouds of spray on which the afternoon sun painted a rainbow. tiny water ouzels bathed and played in the pools in shallow rocks. and here, in deep holes, there were trout for the catching. the fisherman stationed me on a rock, weighted my hook, told me to drop in about forty feet of line, and stand still. they would hook themselves. they did. i caught eight in fifteen minutes. but it was not sport. it was as interesting as fishing for gold-fish in an aquarium. i lay that night at red eagle in a tent on a bed built of young trees driven into the ground and filled with balsam branches. a pack-horse had carried up the blankets and pillows. it was a couch for a queen. in the forest a mountain lion screamed like a woman, and at two o'clock in the morning one of the college boys got up from the cook tent where he was sleeping, and said he thought he would go fishing! as i look back, that was a strange gathering at the fishing-camp at red eagle--so very far from anything approaching civilization. there was a moving-picture man and his outfit, there were the two college men, there was the chief ranger of glacier park. there was a young couple from new england who were tramping through the park, carrying their tent and other things on their backs. they were very young and very enthusiastic. i suspected them of being bride and groom, although i did not know, and the most vivid recollection i have is of seeing the young woman washing their camp-dishes in the cleanest, soapiest dishwater i had seen since i left home. and there was a cook who is a business man in the winter, and who made excellent soda biscuit and talked books to me. [illustration: gunsight lake and mount jackson from fusillade mountain] that night, around the camp-fire, there were more stories told. the college boys--"pie" way, the yale pitcher, was one--related many marvelous tales. they said they were true. i hope so. if they were, life is even more interesting and thrilling a thing than i had believed. if they were fiction, they had me beaten at my own game. the next day was lowering and cold. i spent the morning trying to get fish, and retired sour and disappointed when every one else succeeded and i failed. sometime i am going back to red eagle lake, and i shall take with me a tin of coral-colored salmon eggs--a trick i learned from george locke on the flathead river later on. and then i intend to have my photograph taken with strings of fish like bunches of bananas around me. vi the call as the days went on there was a subtle change in the party. women, who had to be helped into their saddles at the beginning of the trip, swung into them easily. waistbands were looser, eyes were clearer; we were tanned; we were calm with the large calmness of the great outdoors. and with each succeeding day the feeling of achievement grew. we were doing things and doing them without effort. to some of us the mountains had made their ancient appeal. never again should we be clear of their call. to those of us who felt all this inevitably in the future would come times when cities and even civilization itself would cramp. i have traveled a great deal. the alps have never held this lure for me. perhaps it is because these great mountains are my own, in my own country. cities call--i have heard them. but there is no voice in all the world so insistent to me as the wordless call of the rockies. i shall go back. those who go once always hope to go back. the lure of the great free spaces is in their blood. we crossed many passes. dawson pass was the first difficult rocky mountain pass i had ever seen. there was a time when i had thought that a mountain pass was a depression. it is not. a mountain pass is a place where the impossible becomes barely possible. it is a place where wild game has, after much striving, discovered that it may get from one mountain valley to another. along these game trails men have built new paths. again and again we rode through long green valleys, the trail slowly rising until it had left timber far below. then at last we confronted a great rock wall, a seemingly impassable barrier. up this, by infinite windings, back and forward went the trail. at the top was the pass. [illustration: dawson pass] "i'm getting right tired," said charley russell, "of standing in a cloud up to my waist." each new pass brought a new vista of blue distance, of white peaks. each presented its own problems of ascent or descent. no two were alike. mountain-climbing is like marriage. whatever else it may be, it is always interesting. there was the day we went over the cutbank pass, with instructions to hold our horses' manes so that our saddles would not slip back. i shall never forget my joy at reaching the summit and the horror that followed when i found i was on a rocky wall about twenty feet wide which dropped a half-mile straight down on the other side to a perfectly good blue lake. there was triple divide. there was the piegan pass, where, having left the party for a time, i rode back to them on the pack-horse i have mentioned before, with my left foot dangling over eternity. triple divide. the trail had just been completed, and ours was the first party after the trail-makers. i had expected to be the first woman on the top of triple divide. but when i arrived, panting and breathless and full of the exaltation of the moment, two girls were already there sitting on a rock. i shall not soon recover from the indignant surprise of that moment. perhaps they never knew that they had taken the laurel wreath from my brow. triple divide is really the culminating point of the continent. it is called triple divide because water flows from it into the gulf of mexico, into the pacific ocean, and into hudson bay. [illustration: party crossing triple divide] there was the day when, on our way to gunsight, we rode for hours along a trail that heavy rains had turned into black swamp. the horses struggled, constantly mired. it was the hardest day of the trip, not because of the distance, which was only thirty-five miles, but on account of the constant rocking in the saddle as our horses wallowed out of one "jack pot" into another--jack pots, i presume, because they are easy to get into and hard to get out of! there was some grunting when at the end of that day we fell out of our saddles, but no complaining. that night, for the first time, the eaton party slept under a roof at the gunsight chalet, on the shores of a blue lake. the blackfoot glacier was almost overhead. it was the end of a hot july, but we gathered around a fire that evening, and crawled in under heavy blankets to the quick sleep of fatigue. one more pass, and we should be across the rockies and moving down the pacific slope. the moon came up that night and shone on the ice-caps of the mountains all around us, on the glacier, on the gunsight itself, appropriately if not beautifully named. as far up the mountain-side as the glacier our tired horses ranged for grass, and the tiny fire of the herder made a red glow that disappeared as the night mist closed down. no "come and get it" the next morning, but a good breakfast, nevertheless: a frosty morning, with the sun out, and the moving-picture man gone ahead to catch us as we climbed. there was another photographer who had joined the party. he had been up at dawn, on the chance of snapping a goat or two. late the next night, when after a hard day's ride we had reached civilization again at lake macdonald, and had dined and rested, the ambitious young man limped into the hotel on foot. for more than twenty miles he had tramped, carrying a heavy plate camera and extra plates. the zeal of the artist had made him careless. he left his horse untied, and it promptly followed the others. of the last part of that trip of his afoot i do not care to think. the trail, having scaled great heights, below the sperry glacier dropped sharply into the dense forest of the pacific slope. there were bears there. we saw seven at one time the next day, six black and one silver tip, on the very trail he had covered. but he got the picture. once over the crest of the gunsight, there was a change in the air. it blew about us, warm with the heat it had gathered in the south pacific. such animal life as the altitude permitted was out, basking in the sun. there were still snow-fields in the shadows, but they were not so numerous. the rocks threw back the sun-rays on to our burned faces. the trail dipped, climbed, dipped again. here on a ledge was a cry, "pack-train coming," and we halted to let pass by a train of men on horseback and of laden little burros, tidy and strong. climbing again, the trail was lost in the shale, and arrows painted on the rocks gave us the direction. two lakes lay together below. one appeared from our elevation rather higher than the other. rather higher! the rock wall that separated them was fourteen hundred feet high, and vertical. as we began the last descent, the party grew silent. it was the last leg of the journey. a day or so more and we should be scattered over the continent on whose spine we were so incontinently tramping. back to civilization, to porcelain bathtubs and course dinners and facial massage, to stays and skirts, to roofs and servants and the vast impedimenta of living. [illustration: mountain goat and kid on ptarmigan pass (the white objects about two thirds of the way down) _copyright, a. j. baker, kalispell, montana_] sperry chalet and luncheon. no more the ham and coffee over a wood fire, the cutting of much bread on a flat stone. here were tables, chairs, and linen. alas, there was a waitress who crumbed the table and brought in dessert. back, indeed, with a vengeance. but only to the ways of civilization itself. all afternoon we went on, descending always, through the outriders of the forest to the forest itself. dusk came, dusk in the woods, with strange soft paddings of unseen feet, with a gray light half-religious, half-faëry, that only those who penetrate to the hearts of great forests can know. "it makes me think of death," some one said in a low tone. "just a great shadow, no color. nothing real. and silence, and infinite distance." then lake macdonald. we burst out of the forest on a run. the horses had known, by the queer instinct of horses, that just ahead would be oats and a corral and grass for the eating. they broke into a canter. the various things we had hung to ourselves during the long, slow progress over the mountain rattled and banged. we hung on in a kind of mad exultation. we had done it. we had crossed the continental divide, the lewis overthrust, whatever geographers choose to call it. the trail led past a corral, past a vegetable garden such as our eastern eyes had seldom seen. under trees, around a corner at a gallop. then the glacier hotel at lake macdonald, generally known as "lewis's." soft winds from the pacific blew across lake macdonald and warmed us. great strawberries were ripening in the garden. our horses got oats, all they could eat. in a pool in front of the hotel lazy trout drifted about. there was good food. again there were people dressed in civilized raiment, people who looked at us and our shabby riding-clothes with a disdain not unmixed with awe. there was fox-trotting and one-stepping, in riding-boots, with an orchestra. and that night at lewis's they gave howard eaton a potlatch. a potlatch is an indian party. an indian's idea of a party is to give away everything he possesses and then start all over again. that is one reason why our indians are so poor to-day. we sat in a great lobby hung with indian trophies and bearskins, sat in a circle with howard eaton in the center. there were a few speeches and some anecdotes. then the potlatch went on. there were hot fried trout, sandwiches, and chips of dried meat--buffalo and deer, i believe. there was beer. after that came the gifts. everybody got something. howard eaton received a waistcoat made of spotted hide, and the women got necklaces of indian beads. it was extraordinary, hospitable, lavish, and--western. to have a party and receive gifts is one thing, but to have a party so you can give away things is another. vii the black marks the visit to the executive department of the park was disappointing. i found the superintendent's office in a two-room frame shack; the government warehouse an old barn: five miles from a railroad, too. that's management for you! why, o gentlemen at washington who arrange these things, why not at belton, on the railroad, five miles away? the park extends to belton. inadequate appropriations, the necessity for putting the entire heavy machinery of the government in motion for the long-distance control of the park, poor automobile roads, and insufficient rangers--these are the black marks against us in glacier park. on every hand the enthusiasm of a most efficient superintendent must contend with these things. that marvels of trail-making and road-building in this vast domain have been done with so little money and encouragement is due, primarily, to the faith the men closely connected with the park have had in its future. doubtless all these things will remedy themselves in time. but they make the immediate problems of the park difficult to cope with. the chief ranger must live where he can. no building erected by the superintendent must cost over one thousand dollars. it is not easy in that country of cheap wood and dear labor to build a house for one thousand dollars. and there is always the difficulty of long-distance supervision. in the former superintendent of national parks, mr. daniels, spent a week in glacier park. last year he was at the entrance, glacier park station, for a half a day, and not in the park at all. there are several parks, and it is easy to believe that mr. daniels found it difficult to visit them all. but the method must be wrong. it is washington that must order and pay for each bit of new trail- and road-building. if washington does not come to the park, the park cannot go to washington. there is something lacking in efficiency in a system which depends on across-the-continent supervision. this year i hope the superintendent of national parks will go out to glacier park, not by automobile, but on a horse, and ride over his great domain. then i hope he will go back to washington and arrange for enough rangers to make the park safe and to save its timber from forest fires. yellowstone park has soldiers. it is not soldiers, but woodsmen, trail-riders, rangers, that are needed. canada, in this same country, has her northwest mounted police. they want real men out there. but the mountains take care of that. the weaklings don't stick. from just north of glacier park went a band of twenty-five cavalrymen that i met last year in flanders. they were rangers: mountain riders. for weeks during the german invasion they rode on skirmish duty between the advancing germans and the retiring armies. they became famous. where there were reckless courage and fine horsemanship needed, those men were sent. if we ever have a war, we shall draw hard on the west for cavalry. our national parks should be able to send out trained skirmishers. under present conditions glacier park could furnish about a dozen. and, now that we are criticizing,--every one may criticize the government: it is the english blood in us,--why is it that, with the most poetic nomenclature in the world,--the indian,--one by one the historic names of peaks, lakes, and rivers of glacier park are being replaced by the names of obscure government officials, professors in small universities, unimportant people who go out there to the west and memorialize themselves on government maps? each year sees some new absurdity. what names in the world are more beautiful than going-to-the-sun and rising-wolf? here are almost-a-dog mountain, two-medicine lake, red eagle--a few that have survived. [illustration: upper two medicine lake] every peak, every butte, every river and lake of this country has been named by the indians. the names are beautiful and romantic. to preserve them in a government reservation is almost the only way of preserving them at all. what has happened? look over the map of glacier park. the indian names have been done away with. majestic peaks, towering buttes are being given names like this: haystack butte, trapper peak, huckleberry mountain, the guard house, the garden wall. one of the most wonderful things in the rocky mountains is this garden wall. i wish i knew what the indians called it. then there are iceberg lake, florence falls, twin lakes, gunsight mountain, split mountain, surprise pass, peril peak,--that last was a dandy! alliterative!--church butte, statuary mountain, buttercup park. can you imagine the inspiration of the man who found some flowery meadow between granite crags and took away from it its indian name and called it buttercup park? the blackfeet are the aristocrats among american indians. they were the buffalo hunters, and this great region was once theirs. to the mountains and lakes of what is now glacier park, they attached their legends, which are their literature. the white man came, and not content with eliminating the indians, he went further and wiped out their history. any government official, if he so desires, any white man seeking perpetuation on the map of his country, may fasten his name to a mountain and go down in the school geographies. it has been done again and again. it is being done now. and the lover of the old names stands helpless and aghast. is there no way to stop this vandalism? year after year goes by, and just as the people connected with the park are beginning to learn new names for the peaks, they are again rechristened. there must be seven goat mountains. here and there is a peak, like reynolds peak or grinnell mountain, and some others, properly named for men intimately associated with the region. but reynolds's indian name was death-on-the-trail. when you have seen the mountain you can well believe that death-on-the-trail would fit it well. there are many others. take an old peak that the indians have known as old-man-of-the-winds or red-top plume and call it mount thompson or mount morgan or mount pinchot or mount oberlin--for oberlin college, presumably--or mount pollack--after the wheeling stogie, i suppose! there is hardly a name in the telephone directory that is not fastened to some wonderful peak in this garden spot of ours. not very long ago i got a letter--a pathetic letter. it said that a college professor from an eastern college had been out there this summer and insisted that one of the peaks be named for him and one for his daughter. it was done. here, then, the government has done a splendid thing and done it none too well. it has preserved for the people of the united states and for all the world a scenic spot so beautiful and so impressive that i have not even attempted to describe it. it is not possible. but it has failed to open up the park properly. it has been niggardly in appropriation. it has allowed its geographers to take away the original indian names of this home of the blackfeet and so destroy the last trace of a vanishing race. were it not for the great northern railway, travel through glacier park would be practically impossible. probably the great northern was not entirely altruistic, and yet i believe that mr. louis warren hill, known always as "louie" hill, has had an ideal and followed it--followed it with an enthusiasm that is contagious. and with an inspiring faith. the great northern has built huge hotels in three places and at a dozen other locations has built groups of log houses, swiss fashion, so that it is possible to follow the trails by day and to be comfortably housed and fed each night. these hotels, built by the great northern, are now owned and controlled by the glacier park hotel company. at the entrance to the park is the glacier park hotel that cost half a million dollars and is almost as large as the national capitol at washington. like all the hotels and chalets in the park, it is constructed largely of the huge trunks of the trees of the northwest. the indians call the glacier park hotel the "great log lodge." there is everything from a store to a swimming-pool. fifty miles away in the very heart of the park there is the new many glaciers hotel. it also cost a half-million dollars. there is an automobile road leading to many glaciers. [illustration: view from dining-room, many-glacier hotel] the chalet system, also built by the great northern, has done more than anything else to make the park possible for tourists. automobile roads and trails alike touch the chalets, and, although i am firm in my conviction that it is impossible to see the park properly from an automobile, i realize that there are many who will not take the more arduous and sportsmanly method. for them, then, a short trip of twelve or fifteen miles each day takes them from chalet to chalet. there are chalets at two-medicine lake, at cutbank canyon, at going-to-the-sun, at st. mary's lake, at gunsight pass, at the sperry glacier, at granite park, and at belton. there are inclusive and very moderate rates for various tours to take up a certain number of days. a saddle-horse costs two dollars a day; a pack-horse two dollars a day; a guide, who will furnish his own horse and board himself, five dollars a day. there are rates from chalet to chalet--including a night's lodging in comfortable beds, morning breakfast, evening dinner, and a carefully packed luncheon--that are astonishingly cheap. for those who wish to go even more simply, there are the tepee camps. there are three of these, at st. mary's, going-to-the-sun, and many glaciers. they comprise a number of indian tepees grouped about a central cabin which includes a kitchen provided with a range and cooking utensils. the tepees themselves are wooden-floored and each is equipped with two single cot beds and bedding. at all of the tepee camps the charge for lodging is fifty cents per bed per night; the use of the range and cooking utensils is free. at the chalets near by, hikers may purchase food at very reasonable prices. it is, you see, possible to go through glacier park without howard eaton. it is even safe, and, to those who have never known howard, highly satisfactory. but there will be something missing--that curious thing called personality, which could take forty-two entirely different, blasé, feeble-muscled, uncertain, and effete easterners and mould them in a few days into a homogeneous whole: that took excursionists and made them philosophers and sportsmen. [illustration: cut bank chalets on cut bank river _copyright, , kiser photo co._] he was hunting in arizona later on. the party ate venison, duck, and mountain lion--which tastes like veal. "we have had several fights with grizzlies," he wrote. "they are so strong that they have whipped the hounds and carved them up some in each fight. country pretty rough and considerable fallen timber, which delays us. i was kicked the other day by a horse when almost up to a bear. the boys thought i had a broken leg or two, so they let the bear escape." he was sending a rider off to the nearest post-office and wondering what was doing in the war. "has port arthur fallen yet?" he inquired whimsically. a hunter who puts the greenest tenderfoot at ease and teaches him without apparently teaching at all; a host whose first thought is always for his guests; a calm-faced man with twinkling blue eyes, who is proud of his "boys" and his friends all over the world--that is howard eaton as nearly as he can be put on paper. wherever he is when he reads this, hunting in arizona or the jackson hole country, or snowed in at the ranch at wolf, i hope he will forgive me for putting him into print, in memory of those days when the entire forty-two of us followed him, like the tail of a kite, across the great divide. viii bears it was the next day that i made my first close acquaintance with bears. there are many bears in glacier park. firearms are forbidden, of course, and the rangers kill them only in case of trouble. naturally, so protected, they are increasing rapidly. they find good forage where horses would starve. mr. ralston, the park supervisor, saw a she bear with three cubs last spring. there are no tame bears, as in the yellowstone. there are plenty of animals. some fifty moose graze along the flathead. beavers have colonies in many of the valleys and industriously build dams that deepen the fords. i remember one place along the cutbank trail where the first horses found themselves above the belly in water and confronting a perpendicular bank up which one or two scrambled as best they could. the rest turned and, riding in the stream for a half-mile détour, made the trail again. that was the work of beavers. there are coyotes a-plenty. because they kill the deer and elk, the rangers poison them in the winter with strychnine. a few mountain lions remain. as one can make a whole night hideous, a few are sufficient. there is something particularly interesting about a bear. perhaps it is because he can climb a tree. in other words, ordinary subterfuges do not go with him. reports vary--he is a fighter; he is a craven; the fact being, of course, that he is, like all wild animals and most humans, a bit of each. the trip was over, and i had seen but one bear. at lewis's that last sunday i voiced my disappointment. soon after i received word quietly that frank higgins, guide and companion on many hunting trips to stewart edward white and other hunters, had offered to show me some bears. he had horses saddled under a tree when i went back, and two men, one of them a chicago newspaper artist, were with him. we mounted and rode up the trail back of the hotel. i was dubious. for days i had tried to see bears and failed, and now to have them offered with certainty by mr. higgins made me skeptical. i had an idea that under his tall impassiveness he was having a little fun at my expense. he was not. we went out into the forest, to where the hotel dumps its garbage. that was rather a blow, at first. and there were no bears. only a great silence and a considerable stench. we got off our horses, tied them, and sat down on a log. almost immediately there was a distant crackling of branches. "one coming now," said frank higgins. "just sit quiet." that first bear, however, was nervous. he circled around us. i set my camera for one hundred feet, and waited. but the creature, a big black, was shy. he refused to come out. mr. higgins went after him. he snarled. i looked after mr. higgins with a new respect, and the chicago newspaper man said he was perfectly satisfied with the bear where he was, and that enough was enough. the bear suddenly took to a tree, climbing like a cat. he looked about the size of a grand piano. urged by mr. higgins, we approached the tree. finally we stood directly beneath. he growled--the bear, of course, not frank higgins. but my courage was rising. wild bear he was, but he was a craven. i moved up the focus of my camera and took his picture. we left him there and went back to the log. all at once there were bears in every direction, six in all. i moved my camera to thirty feet and snapped another. they circled about, heads turned toward us. now and then they stood up to see us better. we were between them and supper. [illustration: luncheon on flathead river trip] [illustration: photographing a bear] the newspaper man offered to sketch me with a "bear" background. and he did. now and then he would say:-- "isn't there one behind me?" "about twenty feet away," i would say. "good lord!" but he went on drawing. i have that picture now. it is very good, but my eyes have the look of a scared rabbit. our friend still clung in the tree. the other man had ridden back to the hotel for camera films. time went on and he did not return. we made would-be facetious remarks about his courage--from our own pinnacle. almost an hour! the sketch was nearly finished, and twilight was falling. still he had not come. then he appeared. he had taken the wrong trail, and had been riding those bear-infested regions alone. he was smiling, but pale. to visit bears in a party is one thing; to ride alone, with fleeting black and brown figures skulking behind fallen timber, is another. not for a long time, i think, will that gentleman forget the hour or so when he was lost in the forest, with bears "thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks, in vallombrosa." the poetic quotation is my own idea. what he said was entirely different. as a matter of fact, his own expression was: "hell, the place is full of them!" at last, very quietly, mr. higgins got up. "here's a grizzly," he said. "you might stand near the horses." we did. the grizzly looked the exact size of a seven-passenger automobile with a limousine top, and he had the same gift of speed. the black bears looked at him and ran. i looked at him and wanted to. the artist put away his sketch, and we strolled toward the horses. they had not objected to the black bears, beyond watching them with careful eyes. but now they pulled and flung about to free themselves. wherever he goes, a grizzly bear owns his entire surroundings. he carries a patent of ownership. he could have the woods, for all of me. the black bears were in full retreat. a hound dog came loping up the trail and caught the scent. in an instant he was after them. any hope i had ever had of outrunning a bear died then and there. the dog was running without a muffler. one of his frantic yelps changed to a howl as the rearmost bear turned and swatted him. a moment, and the chase was on again. there is only one thing to do if a bear takes a sudden dislike to one. it is useless to climb or to run. go toward it and try kindness. ask about the children, in a carefully restrained tone. make the indian sign that you are a friend. if you have a sandwich about you, proffer it. then, while the bear is staring at you in amazement, turn and walk quietly away. it was growing dark. the grizzly, having driven off the black bears, turned his attention to us. we decided that it was almost dinner time, and that we did not care to be late. anyhow, we had seen enough bears. enough is enough. we mounted and rode down the trail. not all game is as plentiful as bears in glacier park or thrives so well. with the cutting-up of the range many of them have lost their winter grazing-grounds. practically the last of the rocky mountain sheep and goats are in glacier park. last winter numbers of these increasingly rare animals were found dead by the rangers. that is another thing the government will do eventually. it may never see that the blackfeet indians have a square deal, but it will feed what is left of the game. there is little of the old west left. irrigation, wheat, the cutting-up of the indian reservations into allotments, the homesteader, all spell the end of the most picturesque period of america's development. not for long, then, the cow-puncher in his gorgeous chaps, the pack-train winding its devious way along the trail. the boosting spirit has struck the west. settlements of one street and thirteen houses, eleven of them saloons, are suddenly becoming cities. the railroads and the automobiles, by obliterating time, have done away with distance. the old west is almost gone. now is the time to see it--not from a train window; not, if you can help it, from an automobile, but afoot or on horseback, leisurely, thoroughly. ix down the flathead rapids the trip was over. i had seen such things as i had never dreamed of. i had done things which i intended to relate at home. but i had caught no fish to amount to anything. on a monday night i was to take the train east. on sunday came great tales of the flathead river. but i had only one more day. how was it possible? it was possible. everything is possible to those westerners. i could put on my oldest clothes and fish the flathead for twenty miles or so the following day under the guidance of one george locke, celebrated trout-sleuth. then, rod and fish and all, i could take the great northern eastern express at a station and start on my three days' journey home. i did it. i can still see the faces of the people in that magnificent club car when a woman in riding-clothes, stained and torn, wearing an old sweater and a man's hat, and carrying a camera, a fishing-rod, and a cutthroat trout weighing three and a half pounds, invaded their bored and elegant privacy. the woman was burned to a deep cerise. she summoned the immaculate porter and held out the trout to him. he was very dubious about taking it. thereupon the woman put on her most impressive manner and told him how she wished it placed on the ice and how the cook was to fix it and various other details. it had been a day to live for. the flathead river does not flow; it runs. it is a series of rapids, incredibly swift, with here and there a quiet pool. attempts to picture the rapids as we ran them were abortive. we reeled and wallowed, careened and whirled. and always the fisherman-guide was calm, and the gentleman who engineered the party was calm, and i pretended to be calm. at the foot of each rapids we fished. i was beginning to learn that twist of the wrist that sends out the line in curves, and drops the fly delicately on to the surface of the water. as i learned, so that he did not close his eyes each time i raised my rod, george locke told of the easterner he had taken down the river some time before. "he wanted a lesson in casting," he said. "and i worked over him pretty hard. i told him all i knew. then, after i'd told him all i knew, and he'd had all the fun with me he wanted, he just stood up in the bow of the boat and put out ninety feet of line without turning a hair. cast? he could have cast from a spool of thread." in a boat behind us was a moving-picture man. for weeks he had always been just behind or just ahead. when the time came to leave the west, i missed that moving-picture man. he had come to be a part of the landscape. i can still see him trying to get past us down those rapids, going at lightning speed to gain some promontory where he could set up his weapon and catch our boat in case it upset or did anything else worth recording. [illustration: appistoki falls near two medicine chalets] he had two pieces of luck on that trip. i had hooked my first trout and was busy trying to throw it in the boatman's face when it escaped. he caught me at the exact instant when the triumph of my face turned to a purple rage; and later on in the day he had the machine turned on me when i caught two trout on two flies at the same time. incidentally, i slipped off the stone i was standing on at the same moment. he probably got that, too. i caught twelve trout in as many minutes from that same rock and furnished the luncheon for the party. i took back loudly everything i had said against the fishing in glacier park. i ate more trout than anybody else, as was my privilege. if there were nothing else to it, i would still go back to the montana rockies for the fishing in the flathead river. at noon we stopped for luncheon. the trout was fried with bacon, and coffee was made. we ate on a little tongue of land around which the river brawled and rushed. from the time we had left lake mcdermott we had seen no single human being. mostly the river ran through tall canyons of its own cutting; always it looked dangerous. generally, indeed, it was! but never once did the boatman lose control. it reminded me of the story mark twain told of the passenger who says to the pilot something like this:-- "i suppose you know where every hidden rock and sunken tree and sandbar is in this river?" to which the pilot replies: "no, sir-ee. but i know where they ain't." * * * * * the train swung on into the summer twilight, past the ruins of old mining-towns, now nothing but names, past brawling streams and great deep woods. the large trout was cooked and served. it had been worth the effort. there were four of us to eat it--the moving-picture man, the chief ranger of the park, the gentleman from st. paul who had engineered the fishing-trip, and myself. at glacier park station my wardrobe, which i had not seen for weeks, was put on the train. "they do you very well," as the english say, in the west. everything was pressed. even my shoes had been freshly polished. a crowd of people had gathered at the station. my supper companions left the train. there were many good-byes. then the train moved slowly off. i stood on the platform as long as i could and watched the receding lights. behind the hotel rose the purple-black silhouette of the mountains, touched with faint gold by the lingering finger of the sun. stealthy coyotes had taken advantage of the dusk to creep close to the track. a light glimmered from a tent on the indian reservation. flat, treeless country, a wagon drawn by tired horses, range cattle that were only shadows. then night--and the east. the end the riverside press cambridge, massachusetts u.s.a. the golden woman a story of the montana hills by ridgwell cullum author of "the way of the strong," "the law breakers," "the trail of the axe," etc. with frontispiece in colors a. l. burt company publishers new york published by arrangement with george w. jacobs & company copyright, , by george w. jacobs & company published february, _all rights reserved_ printed in u. s. a. [illustration: "it's the same book, dear, only a different chapter."] contents i. aunt mercy ii. over the telephone iii. the pariah iv. two men of the wilderness v. the steeps of life vi. out of the storm vii. a simple manhood viii. the secret of the hill ix. gathering for the feast x. solving the riddle xi. the shadow of the past xii. the golden woman xiii. the call of youth xiv. a whirlwind visit xv. the claims of duty xvi. gold and alloy xvii. two points of view xviii. when life holds no shadows xix. a study in mischief xx. the abilities of mrs. ransford xxi. the meeting on the trail xxii. a man's support xxiii. the bridging of years xxiv. beasley plays the game xxv. buck laughs at fate xxvi. irony xxvii. the web of fate xxviii. a black night xxix. beasley in his element xxx. the moving finger xxxi. the joy of beasley xxxii. stronger than death xxxiii. the tempest breaks xxxiv. the eyes of the hills xxxv. from out of the abyss xxxvi. the cataclysm xxxvii. alone-- xxxviii. --in the wilderness xxxix. love's victory the golden woman chapter i aunt mercy an elderly woman looked up from the crystal globe before her. the sound of horse's hoofs, clattering up to the veranda, had caught her attention. but the hard, gray eyes had not yet recovered their normal frigidity of expression. there were still traces in them of the groping mind, searching on, amidst the chaos of a world unseen. nor was mercy lascelles posing at the trade which yielded her something more than her daily bread. she had no reason for pose. she was an ardent and proficient student of that remote science which has for its field of research the border-land between earthly life and the ultimate. for some moments she gazed half-vacantly through the window. then alertness and interest came back to her eyes, and her look resumed its normal hardness. it was an unlovely face, but its unloveliness lay in its expression. there was something so unyielding in the keen, aquiline nose and pointed chin. the gray eyes were so cold. the pronounced brows were almost threatening in their marking and depression. there was not a feature in her face that was not handsome, and yet, collectively, they gave her a look at once forbidding, and even cruel. there was no softening, there never was any softening in mercy lascelles' attitude toward the world now. years ago she may have given signs of the gentler emotions of her woman's heart. it is only reasonable to suppose that at some time or other she possessed them. but now no one was ever permitted beyond the harsh exterior. perhaps she owed the world a grudge. perhaps she hoped, by closing the doors of her soul, her attitude would be accepted as the rebuff she intended to convey. "is that you, joan?" she demanded in a sharp, masterful tone. "it certainly is, auntie," came the gentle, girlish response from the veranda. the next moment the door of the little morning-room opened, and a tall girl stood framed in its white setting. joan stanmore possessed nothing whatever in common with her aunt. she was of that healthy type of american girl that treats athletics as a large part of her education. she was tall and fair, with a mass of red-gold hair tucked away under the mannish hat which was part of her dark green, tightly-fitting riding habit. her brow was broad, and her face, a perfect oval, was open and starred with a pair of fearless blue eyes of so deep a hue as to be almost violet. her nose and mouth were delicately moulded, but her greatest beauty lay in the exquisite peach-bloom of her soft, fair skin. joan stanmore was probably the handsomest girl in st. ellis city, in a suburb of which she and her aunt lived. she was certainly one of the most popular girls, in spite of the overshadowing threat of an aunt whom everybody disliked and whom most people feared. her disposition was one of serene gentleness, yet as fearless and open as her beautiful eyes suggested. she was of a strongly independent spirit too, but, even so, the woman in her was never for a moment jeopardized by it; she was never anything but a delightful femininity, rejoicing wholesomely in the companionship of the opposite sex. she and her aunt had lived for five years in this suburb of st. ellis. they had left new york for the southwest because the profession of the elder woman had gained unpleasant notoriety in that city of contradictions. the calling of the seer had appealed well enough to the citizens individually, but a wave of moral rectitude, hurling its municipal government spluttering upon a broken shore of repentance, had decided it to expurgate such wickedness from its midst, lest the local canker become a pestilence which might jeopardize the immortal soul of the citizen, and, incidentally, hand the civic control over to the opposition party. so aunt and orphaned niece had moved westward, seeking immunity in a region where such obscure professions were regarded with a more lenient eye. joan had little enough sympathy with her relative's studies. she neither believed in them, nor did she disbelieve. she was so young, and so full of that vitality which makes for the wholesome enjoyment of life, as viewed through eyes as yet undimmed by the bitterness of experience, that she had neither time, place, nor serious thought for such matters. her only interest, if interest it could be called, was an occasional wonderment at the extent of the harvest aunt mercy reaped out of the credulity of the merchant and finance-princes of the city. this, and the state of her aunt's health, as pronounced by dr. valmer, were the only things which ever brought such matters as "crystal gazing" and scientific astrology into her mind. otherwise horoscopes, prognostications, warnings, omens, passed her by as mere words to raise a smile of youthful derision at the expense of those who heaped money for such readings into the seer's lap. joan was in no way dependent upon her aunt. living with her was a matter of personal choice. mercy lascelles was her only relative for one thing, and the elder woman being a lonely spinster, it seemed only right that joan should make her home under her scarcely hospitable roof. then, too, there was another reason which influenced the girl. it was a purely sentimental reason, such as at her age might well appeal to her. a whisper had reached her to the effect that, hard and unsympathetic as her aunt mercy was, romance at one time had place in her life--a romance which left her the only sufferer, a romance that had spelt a life's disaster for her. to the adamantine fortune-teller was attributed a devotion so strong, so passionate in the days of her youth that her reason had been well-nigh unhinged by the hopelessness of it. the object of it was her own sister's husband, joan's father. it was said that at the moment of his death mercy lascelles' youth died too. all softness, all gentleness passed out of her life and left her the hard, prematurely aged woman she now was. as a consequence joan felt that her duty lay beside a woman whom fate had treated so ill; that duty demanded that an effort must be made to bring a little brightness into so solitary and loveless a life. so her choice was made. and as she grew accustomed to the stern companionship she often found herself wondering how a woman of such curiously harsh disposition could ever have been the victim of such a passion as was attributed to her. it was almost inconceivable, especially when she tried to picture the father, whom she had never known, but who was reputed to be such an intensely human man, so full of the many frailties of a wall street gambler. joan now saw the crystal lying in her aunt's lap. she saw, too, the fevered eyes lifted to her face. and with an uncomfortable feeling of disaster pending she moved across to the window-seat and flung herself upon the pile of down cushions. "i do hope you're not--not seeing things again, auntie," she said in an anxious voice, her eyes fixed resentfully upon the detested crystal. "you know dr. valmer forbade you--practicing for at least six months," she added warningly. "dr. valmer's a fool," came the sharp retort. the girl flushed. it was not the words: it was the manner that could so hurt. but this time she felt it her duty to continue. her aunt's health was seriously affected, and the doctor had warned her personally about it. "i dare say he is, auntie," she protested. "but you pay him good dollars for being one. what is the use of it if you don't take his advice?" just for a second a peculiar look flashed into mercy's eyes. then she allowed them to drop to the crystal in her lap. "go and change your habit. it will keep you busy on your own affairs. they need all your attention--just now." the rudeness left joan untouched. she was too seriously concerned. mercy lascelles had only recently recovered from a bad nervous breakdown, the result, so dr. valmer, the specialist, assured her, of the enormous strain of her studies. he had warned joan of the danger to her aunt's mental balance, and begged her to use every effort to keep her from her practice. but joan found her task well-nigh impossible, and the weight of her responsibility was heavy upon her. she turned away to the window and gazed out. she was feeling rather hopeless. there were other things worrying her too, small enough things, no doubt, but sufficiently personal to trouble her youthful heart and shadow all her thought with regret. she was rapidly learning that however bright the outlook of her life might be there were always clouds hovering ready to obscure the smiling of her sun. she looked at the sky as though the movement were inspired by her thought. there was the early summer sun blazing down upon an already parching earth. and there, too, were the significant clouds, fleecy white clouds for the most part, but all deepening to a heavy, gray density. at any moment they might obscure that ruddy light and pour out their dismal measure of discomfort, turning the world from a smiling day-dream to a nightmare of drab regret. her mood lightened as she turned to the picture of the garden city in which they lived. it was called a garden city, but, more properly, it was a beautiful garden village, or hamlet. the place was all hills and dales, wood-clad from their crowns to the deepest hollows in which the sandy, unmade roads wound their ways. here and there, amidst the perfect sunlit woodlands, she could see the flashes of white, which indicated homes similar to their own. they were scattered in a cunningly haphazard fashion so as to preserve the rural aspect of the place, and constructed on lines that could under no circumstances offend the really artistic eye. and yet each house was the last word in modernity; each house represented the abiding-place of considerable wealth. yes, there was something very beautiful in all this life with which she was surrounded. the pity of it was that there must be those clouds always hovering. she glanced up at the sky again. and with a shiver she realized that the golden light had vanished, and a great storm-cloud was ominously spreading its purplish pall. at that moment her aunt's voice, low and significant, reached her from across the room. and its tone told her at once that she was talking to herself. "you fool--you poor fool. it awaits you as surely as it awaits everybody else. ride on. your fate awaits you. and thank your god it is kept hidden from your blinded eyes." joan started. "auntie!" a pair of cold, gray eyes lifted to her face. the shaking, bony hands clutched nervously at the crystal. the eyes stared unseeingly into the girl's face for some moments, then slowly the fever crept into them again--the fever which the doctor had warned joan against. "oh, auntie, put--put that away." joan sprang from her seat and ran to the other's side, where she knelt imploringly. "don't--don't talk so. you--frighten me." then she hurried on as though to distract the woman's attention. "listen to me. i want to tell you about my ride. i want to tell about----" "you need tell me nothing. i know it all," mercy broke in, roughly pushing the clinging hands from about her spare waist. "you rode with young sorley this morning--dick sorley. he asked you to marry him. he told you that since he had known you he had made a small fortune on wall street. that he had followed you here because you were the only woman in the world for him. he told you that life without you was impossible, and many other foolish things only fitted for the credulity of a young girl. you refused him. you regretted your refusal in conventional words. and he rode away, back to his hotel, and--his fate." the girl listened breathlessly, wondering at the accuracy of this harsh recapitulation of the events of her morning ride. but as the final words fell from the seer's lips she cried out in protest-- "oh, auntie. his fate? how? how? what do you mean? how do you know all this?" joan had risen to her feet and stood eyeing her aunt in wonder and amazement. the elder woman fondled her crystal in her thin hands. a look akin to joy suddenly leapt into her burning eyes. her lips were parted so that they almost smiled. "it is here, here. all here," she declared exultingly. "the mandates of fate are voiced amongst the stars, and the moving hand delineates unerringly the enactments--here--here." she raised the crystal and gazed upon it with eyes alight with ecstasy. "it is for the eye to see, and for the mind to read. but the brain that comprehends must know no thought of human passions, no human emotions. there is nothing hidden in all the world from those who seek with the power of heart and brain." joan's amazement passed. it was replaced by something like horror and even terror as she listened. to her the words were dreadful, they spoke of the woman's straining brain, and her thoughts flew to the doctor's verdict. was this the madness he had feared? was this the final crash of a brain driven to breaking-point? the questions flew through her mind only to be swept aside by the recollection of what her aunt had told her of her morning ride. it was true--true. every word of it. where could the insanity lie? no--no. it could not be. but--but--such a power! her thoughts were cut short. again her aunt was speaking. but now her voice had once more resumed its customary harshness. the fire had died out of her eyes. again the dreaded crystal was lying in her lap, fondled by loving fingers. and something approaching a chuckle of malice was underlying the words which flowed so rapidly from her thin lips. "haven't you learned yet? can't you read what the hand of fate is trying to point out to your blinded eyes? did not the man cahusac ask you to marry him? did not you refuse him? and did not he die of typhoid within two weeks of committing that foolishness? and charlie hemming. he dared to make love to you. what then? didn't he make a fortune on the cotton exchange? didn't he tell you that it was you who brought him his luck? luck? your luck is disaster--disaster disguised. what happened? hemming plunged into an orgie of riotous living when you refused him. didn't he squander his fortune, bolt to mexico, and in twelve months didn't he get shot as a rebel and a renegade, and thus add himself to the list of the victims of your--so-called 'luck'? luck! oh, the madness, the blindness of it!" the woman's passionate bitterness had lost all sense of proportion. she saw only through her straining nerves. and the injustice of it all brought swift protest to joan's lips. "you are wrong. you are cruel--bitterly, wickedly cruel, auntie," she cried. "how am i responsible? what have i done?" in an instant the gray eyes were turned upon her with something akin to ferocity, and her voice rang with passion. "wrong? cruel? i am stating undeniable facts. i am telling you what has happened. and now i am going to tell you the result of your morning's ride. how are you responsible? what have you done? dick sorley has gone to his fate as surely as though you had thrust a knife through his heart." "aunt! how--how dare----?" "how dare i say such things? because i am telling you the truth--which you cannot bear to face. you must and shall hear it. who are you to escape the miseries of life such as we all have to suffer? such as you have helped to make _me_ suffer." "don't--don't!" joan covered her face with her hands, as though to shut out the sight of that cruel, working face before her--as though to shut out of her mind the ruthless accusation hurled at her. but the seer was full of the bitterness so long stored up in her heart, and the moment had come when she could no longer contain it beneath the cold mask she had worn for twenty years. the revelation was hers. her strange mind and senses had witnessed the scenes that now held her in the grip of their horror. they had driven her to the breaking-point, and no longer had she thought for anything but her own sufferings, and the injustice that a pariah should walk at large, unknown to the world, unknown to itself. "don't?" the woman laughed mirthlessly. her thin lips parted, but the light in her eyes was unrelenting. "i tell you it is so. dick sorley has gone to his fate. straight to his doom from your side. you sent him to it. i have witnessed the whole enactment of it here--in this crystal. you, and you alone, have killed him--killed him as surely as though you had deliberately murdered him! hark! that is the telephone bell ringing----" she paused as the shrill peal of the instrument rang through the room. there was a prolonged ringing. then it broke off. then again and again it rang, in short, impatient jerks. "go to it, girl. go and listen to the message. you say i am cruel. hear what that senseless thing has to tell you. listen to the voice at the other end. it is at the hospital. the doctor is there, and he will speak to you. and in a ward adjacent, your discarded lover lies--dead." chapter ii over the telephone from the depths of her high-backed chair mercy lascelles stared at the white door beyond which joan had just vanished. her gaunt figure was no longer huddled over the fateful crystal she still clutched in her two hands. her brain was busy, and her eyes were hot and feverish. she was not thinking of the girl. she was not even thinking of the message traveling over the wire at that moment. that she knew. for her it had no greater significance than that it was the corroboration necessary to convince the girl who was receiving it--to convince her of the truth of that which she had charged her with. her mind was far away, back in the dim years of her earlier womanhood. back amidst scenes of disaster through which she had long since passed. all the old pain and suffering was at the surface again. again was she torn by the bitterness and injustice that had robbed her of all that seemed good to her in life. again through her mental picture moved the figures of two men and one woman, the characters who went to make up the cast of her wretched drama. her feelings were once more afire with hatred, hatred for one, and, for the others, a profound, contemptuous bitterness. but hatred was dominant. the memory of one of those men had always power to drive her to the verge of madness. he was a handsome, brown-haired man of powerful physique. a man whose gentle manner and swift, hot temper she abhorred, and the memory of whose influence upon her life had still power to grind to ashes every gentle feeling she ever possessed. it was of one of his terrible tempers she was thinking now. he had displayed a fury she could never, would never forget. it was a memory that tripped her even now at every turn, till it had become something akin to an obsession. every detail of the scene was as clear cut in her mind as a hideous cameo, every word he had uttered, the accusations, the insinuations he had made. even the room, with its simple furnishings, its neatness, its air of care--her care--stood out sharply in her memory. she remembered it all so well. she was in the midst of preparing charles stanmore's supper, and joan, only a couple of weeks old, was fast asleep in an adjoining bedroom. he had chosen this time to call, because he knew that she, mercy, would be alone. she remembered his handsome face clouded with sullen anger and jealousy when she let him in at the door of the apartment. and then his first words when he took up his position before the hard-coal stove in the parlor-- "so you've pitched everything to the devil, and taken up your abode with charlie," he began, in tones of jealous fury. "and he--he is your brother-in-law." there was no mistaking his meaning. he intended that she should make no mistake, for he added a laugh--a hateful laugh--to his words. this was the man who had asked her to marry him almost numberless times. this was the man whom she had refused time and again, making it plain that, however hopelessly, her love was given to another. this was the man who knew that she had come at her sister's death to care for the little, new-born, motherless, baby girl, and help the man whom she had always loved out of the hopeless dilemma in which he found himself. this was the man who was the lifelong friend of charles stanmore, whose mistress he was accusing her of having become. she remembered the sudden anger which leapt to her brain. she remembered, too, the thought which came in its midst, and formulated her instant retort. "yes," she said coldly. "i have." then she saw the real man as she had now come to regard him. she remembered the sudden blaze of his eyes, the ghastly pallor of his face, the look of almost insane jealousy which he turned upon her. and then came that never-to-be-forgotten insult, those words which had seared themselves upon her woman's heart as though branded thereon with red-hot irons. "and you are the woman i have loved. woman?" he laughed. "it's too good for you. do you know what we men call such creatures as you? all this time you have waited--waited, and the moment your poor sister is in her grave, almost before the blood in her veins is cold, you seize your opportunity to fulfil your mad desire. taking advantage of charlie's wretchedness and trouble, you force yourself upon him. you force a position upon him from which there is no escape. the world will accept the position at the value you intend, and he is powerless to do anything but accept it too. you meant to have him, and i suppose he is yours by now. and all this time i have wasted an honest love on you--you----" and she had answered him, calmly and deliberately, before he could utter the filthy epithet she knew he intended. "please keep your voice down, or--or you'll wake little joan." even now she could never quite understand her own attitude at the moment. something inside her was urging her to fly at his throat and tear the foul words from it. yet there was something gripping her, something compelling her to a calmness she was powerless to resist. then, as swiftly as he had blazed into fury, had come a miraculous change in the man. perhaps it was the effect of her calm, perhaps it was something in the man himself. anyway the madness abruptly died out of his eyes and left him shaking. he strove to speak, but no words came. he passed his hand across his forehead as though to remove something that was clouding his brain. he turned from her fixed stare as though he could no longer support it. he moved across the room. he hesitated. he turned to her. she did not see the movement, for her back was now turned, but somehow she felt it. then she heard his footsteps again, and, finally, the rattle of the door handle as he clutched it. after that came his voice. all the anger, the jealousy, had gone out of it. it was low, gentle, imploring. but she did not move. "mercy, mercy! for--forgive me. i----" "never!" oh, the scorn, the hatred she had flung into the word! the next she remembered was that he passed swiftly and silently from the room. then, then at last her woman's weakness, a weakness she now so cordially despised, overcame her, and she fell into a chair and wept. but her weakness was short-lived. her spirit rose in rebellion, and her tears ceased to flow as the cruel iron entered her soul. she pondered long and deeply, and presently she went on with her preparations for charles stanmore's supper as though nothing unusual had occurred. nor, when he came home, did she tell him, nor did she ever by word or act permit the secret of that interview to pass out of her keeping. but the memory of it was forever with her. day and night she hugged it to herself, she nursed it, and fostered it for all those twenty years, the bitterness, the cruel injustice of the insult, grinding its way till it became a part of the very essence of her being. suddenly a cry broke in upon her reverie. she started, and her eyes lit with a gleam of satisfaction. her mind had returned to the present, and she called out-- "joan!" without waiting for an answer she left her seat, and, crossing swiftly to the door, flung it wide open. joan staggered in, and, dropping into the welcoming arms of a rocking-chair, she buried her face in her hands. mercy lascelles stood silently contemplating the bowed head. there was no sympathy in her attitude. her heart was cold and hard as steel. but she was interested in the cause rather than the effect. after a while the storm of grief slackened. the racking sobs came at longer intervals. then it was that mercy lascelles broke the silence. "well?" she demanded sharply. the tear-stained face was slowly lifted, and the sight of the girl's distress was heart-breaking. "he is dead," joan said in a choking voice. then, with something like resentment--"are--are you satisfied?" mercy went back to her chair and her beloved crystal. and after a moment she began to speak in a low, even tone, as though reciting a well-learnt lesson. "it was at the crossing of th street and lisson avenue, here the street cars cross, here some also turn off. it was the fault of his horse. the creature shied at a heavy truck. two cars were approaching from east and west. the shying horse slipped on the granite paving, fell, and was caught between the two meeting cars before they could pull up. the horse was killed on the spot, and--the rider was----" "don't, auntie! don't say it! yes, yes, he was taken to the hospital, and died of his injuries. but don't speak of his terrible mutilations. i--i can't bear it." again joan buried her face in her hands as though to shut out the horror of it all. but the elder woman had no such scruples. "why harrow yourself with the picture?" she demanded brusquely. "imagination can add nothing to the fact. tears will not change one detail. they will only add to your distress. dick sorley left your side to go to certain death. nothing could have averted that. such was his fate--through you." chapter iii the pariah joan suddenly threw up her head. there was resentment in the violet depths of her eyes, and her whole expression had hardened. it was as though something of her youth, her softness, had passed from her. "you must tell me, auntie," she demanded in a tone as cold as the other's. "i--i don't understand. but i mean to. you accuse me with the responsibility of--this. of responsibility for all that has happened to those others. you tell me i am cursed. it is all too much--or too little. now i demand to know that which you know--all that there is to know. it is my right. i never knew my father or mother, and you have told me little enough of them. well, i insist that you shall tell me the right by which you dare to say such things to me. i know you are cruel, that you have no sympathy for any one but--yourself. i know that you grudge the world every moment of happiness that life contains. well, all this i try to account for by crediting you with having passed through troubles of which i have no knowledge. but it does not give you the right to charge me with the things you do. you shall tell me now the reason of your accusations, or i will leave this home forever, and will never, of my own free will, set eyes on you again." mercy's thin lips parted into a half-smile. "and i intend that you shall know these things," she replied promptly. "you shall know them from my lips. nor has any one more right to the telling than i." the smile died abruptly, leaving her burning eyes shining in an icy setting. "i am cruel, eh?" she went on intensely. "cruel because i have refused to bend beneath the injustice of my fellows and the persecutions of fate. cruel because i meet the world in the spirit in which it has received me. why should i have sympathy? the world has robbed me of the only happiness i ever desired. what obligation, then, is mine? you are right. i have no sympathy for any living creature--none!" joan offered no comment. she was waiting--waiting for the explanation she had demanded. she was no longer the young girl just returned flushed with the healthy glow of her morning ride. life had taken on a fresh tone for her since then. it seemed as if years had suddenly passed over her head and carried her into the middle of life. "you shall have your explanation," mercy went on after a moment's pause. "i will give it you from the beginning. i will show you how it comes that you are a pariah, shedding disaster upon all men who come under your influence." "a pariah!" joan's eyes suddenly lit with horror at the loathsome epithet. "yes. pariah!" there was no mistaking the satisfaction which the use of the word seemed to give the other woman. in her eyes was a challenge which defied all protest. as joan had no further comment she went on-- "but they were all blind--blind to the curse under which you were born--under which you live. you shall have your wish. you shall know the right which i have for charging these things at your door. and the knowledge of it will forever shatter the last castle of your day-dreams." something of awe took hold of the listening girl. something of terror, too. what was the mystery into which she was blindly delving? knowing her aunt as she did, she felt, by her manner, that her words were the prelude to disclosures that meant disaster to herself. and as the other proceeded her half-frightened eyes watched her, fascinated by the deliberateness of manner and the passionate sincerity underlying every word of the story she told. "listen," she said, checking her voice to a low, even monotone. "you are the child of disaster if ever woman was. your father was a poor, weak fool, a big, handsome, good-hearted fool whom nature had endowed with nothing more than a perfect exterior. he was a wall street man, of a sort. one of those gamblers who live on the fringe of the big financial circles, and most of whom gather their livelihood from the crumbs falling from the rich man's table, but are ready to steal them when the fall is not sufficient to fill their hungry mouths. for three years he and i were engaged to be married." she paused, and her hot eyes dropped to the crystal in her lap. then she went on, with harsh sarcasm breaking the level of her tone-- "for three years we waited for the coming of that trifling luck which would enable us to marry. for three years i worked silently, joyfully, to fill the wonderful bottom drawer which never failed to inspire me with courage and hope. you see i--loved your father." again she paused, and joan forgot something of her own trouble as she noted the evident pain these memories gave to her aunt. "the luck came. it was small enough. but with the little money i had it was just sufficient. the license was procured. the wedding was fixed. and i--well, god was good, the world was good, and life was a joy beyond all dreams. you see i, too, was young then. my only relative was a younger sister. she was a beautiful girl with red-gold hair. and she was in business in california. i sent for her to come to the wedding." joan gave a tense sigh. she knew what was to follow. the red-gold hair told its own story. mercy lascelles raised a pair of stony eyes, and her thin lips were smiling. "i can see you understand," she said, without emotion. "yes, she came, and she stole your father from me. oh, yes! she was handsome enough to steal any man. she was even more beautiful than you are. it was just before we were to be married. less than a week. a good time to steal him from me--after three years of waiting." she laughed bitterly. "she stole him, and i--i cursed her. oh, i didn't cry out! i simply cursed her, i cursed her offspring, and burned every garment i had made or bought for the wedding in my parlor stove. i sat by and watched the fire as it hungrily devoured each record of my foolish day-dreams. and as each one vanished in cinder and smoke i cursed her from the very bottom of my heart." the woman laughed again, and joan could not repress a shudder at the sound. "twelve months she had of him. and during those twelve months both he and she nearly drove me mad in their efforts to make me marry your father's great friend and fellow gambler. his name doesn't matter. he was a brown-haired creature, who was, if possible, a greater gambler than your father. but unlike your father his luck was phenomenal. he grew rich whilst charles stanmore, with every passing week, grew poorer. and for twelve long months he persecuted me with his attentions. he never left me alone. i sometimes think he was crazy in his desire to marry me. he knew the whole of my wretched story, yet it made no difference. he swore to me in his mildly deliberate way that i should marry him. perhaps i ought to have read the real character of the man underlying his gentle manner, but, poor fool that i was, i didn't. it was left to later events to open my eyes, events which were to teach me that under the guise of friendship he hated charles stanmore, because--because, in spite of everything, i still loved him. "at the end of those twelve months my cup of bitterness was filled to overflowing. you were born. you, with your deep-blue eyes and red-gold hair. you, charles stanmore's child--but not mine." her voice died out, and joan understood something of the passion in this strange woman's soul. but the next moment a hard laugh jarred her nerves. it was a laugh that had no mirth. only was it an audible expression designed to disguise real feelings. "oh, i had no grudge against you. you--you with your crumpled face and big blue eyes. you could make no difference to my life as i saw it. and yet you did." the woman's fingers suddenly clutched the crystal in her lap with a force that left the thin tips of them white and bloodless. "you did. a difference that in my maddest dreams i could never have hoped for. you brought with you the curse of disaster from which there was no escape for those to whom you belonged. "i can see it all now," she went on exultingly. "i can see it as i saw it then, every detail of it. your father's gambling had brought him down to something like want. a week before you were born his home was sold up, and he and your mother took shelter in a tiny three-roomed apartment for which they had no money to pay the rent. in desperation he came to _me_--to _me_ for help. and i gave it him. the day before you were born i gave him the money for the expenses of your birth and to tide him over for three months. it was almost all i had in the world." again came that mirthless laugh. then she hurried on. "but the temptation was too much for charles stanmore, gambler that he was. he suddenly found himself with money in his pocket and hope in his foolish soul. there was a big wheat operation going on at the moment, and every penny of the money, along with all the credit he could procure, he plunged into it." "and lost it all?" joan whispered. the other shook her head. "no. the influence of your strange fate was at work. on the day that you saw light charles stanmore was a comparatively rich man. and your mother--was dead." joan breathed a deep sigh. "yes, wheat went up by leaps and bounds, and your father was delirious with joy. he stood over you--i can see him now--and talked at you in his foolish, extravagant way. 'you're the brightest, happiest, luckiest little hoodlam that ever came into the world,' he cried. 'and your name is "golden," my little golden woman, for if ever there was a golden kiddie in the world you are she. gold? why, you've showered it on me. luck? why, i verily believe if you'd been around you'd have brought luck to jonah when he got mixed up with the whale's internals.' and then, just as he finished, the bolt fell. the doctor came in from the next room and took him aside. your mother was dead." a sob broke from the listening girl, a great sob of sympathy for the kindly, weak, irresponsible father she had never known. "your father's disaster looked like my blessing. i had no regrets for the woman," mercy went on. "he was mine now by every right. the thief had come by her reckoning. so i seized the opportunity that was thrust in my way. mine was the right to care for him and help him in his trouble, nor have i shame in saying that i took it. "but the curse of your life was working full and sure. but for your existence i should never have taken that step. but for that step other matters would never have occurred. when your father's--friend discovered what i had done his fury knew no bounds. his insults were unforgettable--at least by me. but i persisted. for a great hope was at work within me that now your mother was gone eventually charles stanmore might come back to his allegiance, and i might step into her place. it was a foolish hope, but--i loved your father. "bah!" she went on impatiently. "it is no use raking amongst those ashes. the details don't matter to you. those things are dead. and only is their effect alive to-day. my hopes were never to be fulfilled. how should they be with the curse of your father's golden girl involving us all in disaster. let me cut the wretched history as short as i can. at first money was plentiful enough, and luck in that direction seemed to border on the marvelous. to give you an instance your father--imbecile that he was--swore he would test it in your own interests. he hunted round till he found the most hair-brained, wildcat company ever floated for the purpose of robbing moneyed fools, and invested ten thousand dollars in it as a life-dowry for you. it was the joke of all his gambling friends. it was like pitching dollar bills into the hudson. and then in a month the miraculous happened. after a struggle the company boomed, and you were left with a competence for life. yes, at first money was plentiful enough, but your father never got over his shock of your mother's death. sometimes i used to think his brain was weakening. anyway, he plunged into a wild vortex of gambling. he drank heavily, and indulged himself in excesses from which he had always kept clear up to that time. he took to cards in a manner that frightened even me, used as i was to his weaknesses. and in all these things his friend encouraged and indulged him. "the end was not far off. how could it be? your father's luck waned and his debauches increased. he grew nervous and worried. but he persisted in his mode of life. then, in a little while, i knew that he was borrowing. he never touched your money. but he was borrowing heavily. this man whom i had come to regard as his evil genius undoubtedly lent him money--much money. then came a particularly bad time. for two days charles stanmore went about like a madman. what the trouble was i never knew--except that it was a question of money. and this terminated in the night of disaster toward which everything had been driving." mercy lascelles' voice dropped to a low, ominous pitch, and she paused as though to draw all the threads of memory into one firm grasp. her look, too, changed. but it was a change quite unnoticed by joan. "it was one night in the apartment. i had gone to bed. they, your father and his--friend, were in the parlor. they had quarreled during the evening over some money affairs which i did not understand. your father was headstrong, as he always was, and the other, well, he rarely raised his voice--he was one of those quiet men who disguise their purposes under a calm atmosphere--as a rule. however, on this occasion high words had passed, and i knew that stormy feelings were underlying the calm which finally ensued. at last, when they sat down to a heavy game of baccarat, i crept away to bed. "i don't know how long i had been in bed when it happened. i know i was asleep, for i wakened suddenly with a great sense of shock, and sat up trying to realize what had happened. it took me some moments. i know my mind ran over a dozen things before i decided what to do. i remembered that we were alone in the place. the servants had been dismissed more than a week before. there was only you, and your father, and me in the place. then i remembered that his friend was there, and i had left them playing cards. instantly i got out of bed. i slipped on a dressing-gown and crept out into the passage. i moved silently toward the door of the sitting-room. it was wide open. i had left it shut. the gas was full on. i reached the door and cautiously peered in. but there was no need for caution. your father had fallen forward in his chair, and lay with his head, face downward, upon the table. he was dead and--the other had gone. i ran to the dead man's side and raised him up. it was too late. all--all i had or cared for in the world had been taken from me by the hand of the murderer." "murdered?" joan whispered in horrified tones. "yes, murdered!" came the swift, vehement retort. "shot--shot through the heart, and in the stomach--and his murderer had fled. oh, god, shall i ever forget that moment!" the woman fell back in her chair, her whole withered body shaking with emotion. then with an effort she pulled herself together and went on more calmly-- "i hardly know what i did. all i remember is that i gave the alarm, and presently had the police there. i told them all i could, and gave the name and description of--the man who had done the deed. but it was useless. he had gone--bolted. nor was he ever seen or heard of again. the curse had worked out. you, your father's golden girl, were left orphaned to the care of the woman to whom your very existence was an ineradicable wrong, and who, through your coming, had been robbed of all that made life possible." she raised her crystal and held it poised on the gathered finger-tips of one hand. and when she spoke again her voice had gained strength and tone. "since those days i have learnt to read the words that are written by the hand of fate. and here--here is the open book. it is all here. the storm of disaster that brought you into the world will dog your footsteps. you are cursed with the luck that leads to disaster. wherever you go men will bless your name, and, almost in the same breath, their blessings shall turn to the direst curses. it is not i who am speaking. my tongue utters the words, but the writing of fate has been set forth for me to interpret. wherever you go, wherever you be, you cannot escape the destiny set out for you. i tell you you are a leper, a pariah, whom all men, for their own safeguarding, must shun." all through the final pronouncement joan sat transfixed with horror. a leper! a pariah! nor, in the light of those things which to her own knowledge had happened, could she doubt the hideous denunciation. she had heard and understood that ill-luck could and did pursue its victims. but this! oh, it was too terrible--too cruel! for an instant she thought of the doctor and his words of warning. but one glance at the bowed figure, again intent upon her crystal, and the thought passed. the story she had listened to was too real, too full of those things which had driven her poor aunt to her present unyielding attitude toward the world to be the ravings of an insane mind. and suddenly panic gripped her, that panic which, in a moment of weakness, so easily tends toward self-destruction. "is--is there no hope, auntie?" she asked helplessly. mercy lascelles looked up from the crystal. she eyed her niece steadily, as though to read all there was hidden behind the desperate blue eyes. slowly she shook her head. again came that spasm of panic, and joan seemed to hurl her whole young strength into denial. "but there is. there must be," she cried, with a fierceness that held the other in something like astonishment. "there must be," she reiterated desperately. "no god could be so cruel--so--so wicked. what have i done to deserve this? the injustice is demoniacal. far better go and throw myself before a passing train than live to carry such a pestilence with me wherever i go through life. if you can read these things--read on. read on and tell me, for i swear that i will not live with this curse forever tied about my neck." "you will live--you must live. it is written here." mercy pointed at the crystal. then she laughed her cold, mirthless laugh. "there was one power that served me, that helped me to save my reason through all those early days. god knows how it may help you--for i can't see. i loved your father with a passion nothing, no disaster could destroy. i loved him so that i could crush every other feeling down, subservient to my passion. go you, child, and find such a love. go you and find a love so strong that no disaster can kill it. and maybe life may still have some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse from your suffering shoulders. it--it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than disaster. it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than--death." joan had no answer. she stared straight ahead of her, focusing some trifling detail of the pattern on the wall paper. her face was stony--stony as the face of the woman who was watching her. the moments passed rapidly. a minute passed, and neither spoke. then at last the girl abruptly rose from her seat. almost mechanically she moved over to a mirror, and, removing her hat, deftly patted her beautiful hair till it assumed its wonted appearance. and quite suddenly she turned about. "i have nearly fifty thousand dollars, auntie. i am going to realize that capital. i am going to leave this house--i am going to leave it forever. i shall change my name, and cover up my tracks, for i intend going where i am not known. i am going where men cannot figure in my life, which i intend to begin all over again. the burden fate has imposed upon me is too great. i am going to run from it." she laughed. and her laugh was as mirthless as her aunt's had been. chapter iv two men of the wilderness the westering sun was drooping heavily toward its fiery couch. the purple of evening was deepening from the east, meeting and blending softly with the gold of the dying day. a great furnace of ruddy cloud rose above the mountain-tops, lighting the eternal snows of the peaks and ancient glaciers with a wealth of kaleidoscopic color. viewed from the plains below there might have been a great fire raging among the hill-caps, where only snow and ice could provide the fuel. the radiant colors of sunset held the quiet eyes of a solitary horseman riding amidst the broken lands of the lesser foot-hills. he was a big man, of powerful shoulders and stout limbs. he was a man of fifty or thereabouts, yet his hair was snow white, a perfect mane that reached low upon his neck, touching the soft collar of his cotton shirt. his face was calm with something of the peace of the world through which he was riding, something of the peace which comes to those who have abandoned forever the strife of the busy life beyond. it only needed the garb of the priest, and his appearance would have matched perfectly his sobriquet, "the padre." but moreton kenyon was clad in the rough moleskin, the riding boots and general make-up of the western life to which he belonged. even he carried the protecting firearms by which to administer the personal laws of the wilderness. his whole appearance, the very horse under him, a prairie-bred broncho of excellent blood, suggested a man who knew the life amidst which he lived, and was more than capable of surviving it. whatever his appearance, whatever his capacity for the rougher corners of earth, moreton kenyon was a man of great kindliness, of great sympathy, as the mission from which he was now returning might well have testified. those who knew him best held him in deep affection. those who knew him less withheld their judgment, but never failed to treat him with a courtesy not usual amongst the derelicts of an out-world camp. just now something of the smallness of human life, of human aims and efforts, of human emotions, was occupying the busy brain behind his reflective eyes. the scene before him, upon which he had so often looked, never failed to remind him of the greatness of that which lay beyond the ken of man. somehow it exalted his thoughts to planes to which no association with his kind could ever have exalted them. it never failed to inspire him with a reverence for the infinity of power which crowned the glory of creation, and reduced self to a humble realization of its atomic place in the great scheme of the creator. his horse ambled easily over the ribbon-like trail, which seemed to rise out of the eastern horizon from nowhere, and lose itself somewhere ahead, amidst the dark masses of forest-crowned hills. the journey was nearly over. somewhere ahead lay the stable, which could be reached at leisure in the cool of the evening, and neither master nor beast seemed to feel the need for undue haste. as the light slowly faded out and left the snow-white hill-crests drab with the gray of twilight, the man's mind reverted to those things which had sent him on his journey. many doubts had assailed him by the way, doubts which set him debating with himself, but which rarely made him turn from a purpose his mind was once set upon. he knew that his action involved more than his own personal welfare, and herein had lain the source of his doubt. but he had clearly argued every point with himself, and through it all had felt the rightness of his purpose. then, too, he had had the support of that other with whom he was concerned. and he smiled as he thought of the night when his decision had been taken. even now the picture remained in his mind of the eager face of his youthful protégé as they discussed the matter. the younger man had urged vehemently, protesting at every objection, that they two had no right to live in comparative comfort with women and children starving about them. he remembered young buck's eager eyes, large dark-brown eyes that could light with sudden, almost volcanic heat, or smile their soft, lazy smile of amusement at the quaintnesses of life about him. the padre understood the largeness of heart, the courage which urged him, the singleness of purpose which was always his. then, when their decision had been taken, he remembered the abrupt falling back of the man into the quiet, almost monosyllabic manner which usually belonged to him. yes, buck was a good lad. the thought carried him back to days long gone by, to a time when a lad of something less than eight years, clad in the stained and worn garb of a prairie juvenile, his feet torn and bleeding, his large brown eyes staring out of gaunt, hungry sockets, his thin, pinched, sunburnt face drawn by the ravages of starvation, had cheerfully hailed him from beneath the shelter of a trail-side bush. that was nearly twenty years ago, but every detail of the meeting was still fresh in his memory. his horse had shied at the sudden challenge. he remembered he had thrashed the creature with his spurs. and promptly had come the youthful protest. "say, you needn't to lick him, mister," the boy piped in his thin treble. "guess he'll stand if you talk to him." strangely enough the man had almost unconsciously obeyed the mandate. and the memory of it made him smile now. then had followed a dialogue, which even now had power to stir every sympathy of his heart. he started by casually questioning the starving apparition. "where you from, sonny?" he asked. and with that unequivocal directness, which, after twenty years, still remained with him, the boy flung out a thin arm in the direction of the eastern horizon. "back ther', mister." the natural sequence was to ask him whither he was bound, and his answer came with a similar gesture with his other hand westward. "yonder." "but--but who're your folks? where are they?" the padre had next hazarded. and a world of desolation was contained in the lad's half-tearful reply-- "guess i ain't got none. pop an' ma's dead. our farm was burnt right out. y' see there was a prairie fire. it was at night, an' we was abed. pop got me out, an' went back for ma. i never see him agin. i never see ma. an' ther' wa'an't no farm left. guess they're sure dead." he fought the tears back manfully, in a way that set the padre marveling at his courage. after a moment he continued his interrogation. "what's your name?" he asked. "buck," came the frank response. "buck--what?" "buck--jest plain, mister." "but your father's name--what was that?" "pop." "yes, yes. that's what you called him. what did the folks call him?" "ther' wa'an't no folks. jest pop, an' ma, an' me." a great lump had risen in the man's throat as he looked down into those honest, hungry eyes. and for a moment he was at a loss. but the boy solved his dilemma in a way that proved the man in after-life. "say, you ain't a farmer?" he inquired, with a speculative glance over his general outfit. "well, i am--in a small way," the padre had replied, with a half-smile. the boy brightened at once. "then mebbe you can give me a job--i'm lookin' for a job." the wonder of it all brought a great smile of sympathy to the man's eyes now, as he thought of that little starving lad of eight years old, homeless, wandering amidst the vastness of all that world--looking for a "job." it was stupendous, and he had sat marveling until the lad brought him back to the business in hand. "y' see i kin milk--an'--an' do chores around. guess i can't plough yet. pop allus said i was too little. but mebbe i kin grow--later. i--i don't want no wages--on'y food. guess i'm kind o' hungry, mister." nor, for a moment, could the man make any reply. the pathos of it all held him in its grip. he leant over and groped in his saddle-bag for the "hardtack" biscuits he always carried, and passed the lad a handful. he remembered how the boy snatched the rough food from his hands. there was something almost animal in the way he crammed his mouth full, and nearly choked himself in his efforts to appease the craving of his small, empty stomach. in those moments the man's mind was made up. he watched in silence while the biscuit vanished. then he carried out his purpose. "you can have a job," he said. "i've only a small farm, but you can come and help me with it." "do you mean that, mister?" the boy asked, almost incredulously. then, as the padre had nodded, a sigh of thankfulness escaped the young lips, which were still covered with the crumbs of his recent meal. "say, i'm glad. y' see i was gettin' tired. an' ther' didn't seem to be no farms around--nor nuthin'. an' it's lonesome, too, at nights, lyin' around." the man's heart ached. he could stand no more of it. "how long have you been sleeping--out?" "three nights, mister." suddenly the padre reached out a hand. "here, catch hold, and jump." the boy caught the strong hand, and was promptly swung up into the saddle behind his benefactor. the next moment they were speeding back over the trail to the lad's new home. nor was the new-born hope solely beating in the starving child's heart. the lonely farmer felt that somehow the day was brighter, and the green earth more beautiful--for that meeting. such had been the coming together of these two, and through all the long years of weary toil since then they still remained together, working shoulder to shoulder in a relationship that soon became something like that of father and son. the padre remained the farmer--in a small way. but the boy--well, as had been prophesied by his dead father, later on he grew big enough to plough the furrows of life with a strong and sure hand. the man's reflections were broken into abruptly. the time and distance had passed more rapidly than he was aware of. the eager animal under him raised its head, and, pricking its small ears and pulling heavily on the reins, increased its pace to a gallop. then it was that the padre became suddenly aware that the home stretch had been reached, and before him lay a long, straight decline in the trail which split a dense pine-wood bluff of considerable extent. * * * * * a man was lounging astride of a fallen pine log. his lean shoulders were propped against the parent stump. all about him were other stumps left by those who had made the clearing in the woods. beyond this the shadowy deep of the woods ranged on every side, except where the red sand of a trail broke the monotony of tone. near by two horses stood tethered together by a leading rein. one was a saddle-horse, and the other was equipped with a well-loaded pack-saddle. it was no mean burden of provisions. the carcass of a large, black-tailed deer sprawled across the back of the saddle, while on one side were secured three bags of flour, and on the other several jack-rabbits were strung together. but the powerful beast remained unconcernedly nibbling at the sparse green peeping here and there through the carpet of rotting pine cones and needles which covered the ground. the man's eyes were half-closed, yet he was by no means drowsing. on the contrary, his mind was essentially busy, and the occasional puckering of his dark brows, and the tightening of his strong jaws, suggested that his thoughts were not always pleasant. after a while he sat up. but his movement was only the restlessness caused by the worry of his thought. and the gaze he turned upon his foraging horses was quite preoccupied. a change, however, was not long in coming. simultaneously both horses threw up their heads, and one of them gave a sharp, comprehensive snort. instantly the man's large brown eyes lit, and a pleasant expectancy shone in their depths. he was on his feet in an instant, and his tall figure became alert and vibrant with the lithe activity which was so wonderfully displayed in his whole poise. he, too, had become aware of a disturbing element in the silent depths of the woods. he moved across to the trail, and, glancing down it, from out of the silence reached him the distant, soft plod of hoofs in its heavy covering of sand. his look of satisfaction deepened as he turned back to his horses and tightened the cinchas of the saddles, and replaced the bits in their mouths. then he picked up the winchester rifle propped against a tree stump and turned again to the trail. a moment later another horseman appeared from beyond the fringe of pines and drew up with an exclamation. "why, buck, i didn't reckon to find you around here!" he cried cordially. "no." the young man smiled quietly up into the horseman's face. the welcome of his look was unmistakable. no words of his could have expressed it better. the padre sprang from his saddle with the lightness of a man of half his years, and his eyes rested on the pack-saddle on buck's second horse. "for the--folks?" he inquired. "guess so. that's the last of the flour." for a moment a shadow passed across the padre's face. then it as suddenly brightened. "how's things?" he demanded, in the stereotyped fashion of men who greet when matters of importance must be discussed between them. "so," responded buck. the padre glanced quickly round, and his eyes fell on the log which had provided the other with a seat. "guess there's no hurry. let's sit," he said, indicating the log. "i'm a bit saddle weary." buck nodded. they left the horses to their own devices, and moved across to the log. "quite a piece to leeson butte," observed buck casually, as he dropped upon the log beside his friend. "it surely is," replied the padre, taking the young man in with a quick, sidelong glance. buck was good to look at, so strong, so calmly reliant. every glance of his big brown eyes suggested latent power. he was not strikingly handsome, but the pronounced nose, the level, wide brows, the firm mouth and clean-shaven chin, lifted him far out of the common. he was clad simply. but his dress was perfectly suitable to the life of the farmer-hunter which was his. his white moleskin trousers were tucked into the tops of his wellington boots, and a cartridge belt, from which hung a revolver and holster, was slung about his waist. his upper covering was a simple, gray flannel shirt, gaping wide open across his sunburnt chest, and his modest-hued silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck. "leeson butte's getting quite a city," buck went on presently. "that's so," replied the padre, still bent upon his own thoughts. after that it was quite a minute before either spoke. yet there seemed to be no awkwardness. finally it was the padre who broached the matters that lay between them. "i got ten thousand dollars for it!" he said. "the farm?" buck's interrogation was purely mechanical. he knew well enough that the other had purposely gone to leeson butte to sell the farm on which they had both lived so long. the padre nodded. "a fancy price," he said. "the lawyers closed quick. it was a woman bought it. i didn't see her, though she was stopping at the hotel. i figured on getting seven thousand five hundred dollars, and only asked ten thousand dollars as a start. guess the woman must have wanted it bad. maybe she's heard they're prospecting gold around. well, anyway she ought to get some luck with it, she's made it easy for us to help the folks." buck's eyes were steadily fixed on the horses. "it makes me feel bad seeing those fellers chasin' gold, and never a color to show--an' all the while their womenfolk an' kiddies that thin for food you can most see their shadows through 'em." the eyes of the elder man brightened. the other's words had helped to hearten him. he had felt keenly the parting with his farm after all those years of labor and association. yet, to a mind such as his, it had been impossible to do otherwise. how could he stand by watching a small community, such as he was surrounded with, however misguided in their search for gold, painfully and doggedly starving before his very eyes? for the men perhaps his sympathy might have been less keen, but the poor, long-suffering women and the helpless children--the thought was too painful. no, he and buck had but their two selves to think of. they had powerful hands with which to help themselves. those others were helpless--the women and children. there was compensation in his sacrifice when he remembered the large orders for edible stores he had placed with the merchants of leeson butte before leaving that town. "there's a heap of food coming along for them presently," he said after a pause. buck nodded. "i've been settin' that old fur fort to rights, way up in the hills back ther'," he said, pointing vaguely behind them. "guess we'd best move up ther' now the farm's--sold. we'll need a few bits of furniture from the farm. that right--now you've sold it?" "yes. i made that arrangement. she didn't seem to mind anything i suggested. she must be a bully sort of woman. i'm sorry i didn't see her. the lawyer says she comes from st. ellis." "young?" suggested buck. the padre shook his head. "i wouldn't say so. a young woman with money wouldn't be likely to hide herself in these hills." "that's so. guess it's the gold fetching her--the gold that isn't here." "gold's a cursed thing," said the padre reflectively. "yet none of 'em seem to shy at the curse." buck smiled in his slow way. "no. not without experiencing it." the padre's eyes were still serious. then he went on, "we shan't farm any up there--at the fur fort?" buck shook his head. "it means clearing every inch of land we need. guess we best hunt, as we said. we'll make out with pelts. there's the whole mountains for traps." the other stared over at the horses, and his face was very grave. after a while he turned directly to his companion, and his eyes were mildly anxious. "see here, buck," he said, with what seemed unnecessary emphasis. "i've thought a heap on the way back--home. it seems to me i'm not acting square by you. and i've made up my mind." he paused. buck did not change his position, and his eyes were carefully avoiding those of his companion. then the padre went on with a decision that somehow lacked confidence. "you must take half the money, and--and get busy your own way. we've done farming, so there's no reason for you to hang around here. you're a man now, and you've your way to make in the world. you see, when we had the farm i thought it was good for you. it would be yours when i died, and then who knows, in time, how valuable it might become? now it's all different. you see the hills are best for me." he smiled strainedly. "they've always been good friends to me. but----" "yes, you don't fancy leavin' the hills." buck's eyes wore a curious expression. they were half-smiling, half-angry. but the other could not see them. the padre jumped eagerly at his words. "just so. i've known them so long now that there doesn't seem to be any other world for me. even leeson butte makes me feel--er--strange." buck nodded. then he changed the subject. "say, we don't sleep at the farm to-night," he said. "the blankets are up at the old fort. that's why i got around here. when's she comin' along?" "in two or three days." the padre had no choice but to follow the younger man's lead. "she's sending along a farm woman first. she's going to run the place herself." "ther's no man comin'?" buck half turned to his friend. "i don't think so." "they can't do it--hereabouts," buck retorted quickly. "that farm needs a man." "yes." buck rose abruptly and went over to the horses. "going?" inquired the padre. "i'll get along with the vittles, and hand 'em over to the boys. guess i'll git back to the fort in a few hours." the padre sat hesitating. he watched the movements of his companion without observing them. "buck!" the other paused as he was about to put his foot into the stirrup. he glanced over his shoulder. "yes?" "about that money. there's five thousand of it yours." "not on your life, padre!" the elder man sighed as he stood up, and his look changed so that it almost seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his mind. their eyes met as buck swung himself into the saddle. "then we're going to the hills--together?" he said smilingly. "sure," responded buck promptly. then he added, "but we're goin' to hunt--not farm." his decisive manner left no room for doubt, and the padre, moving over to him, held out his hand. they gripped till the elder man winced. "i'm glad i found you on the trail that time," he said, looking squarely into the steady brown eyes. "i've always been glad, but--i'm gladder still now." "me, too," said buck, with a light laugh. "guess i'd have hated to ha' fed the coyotes." buck swung round to the trail, leading his packhorse, and the padre went back to his horse. just as he was about to mount the younger man's voice reached him again. he paused. "say, what's the woman's name?" buck inquired. "eh?" the padre looked startled. "the woman that bought the farm?" "yes--sure." the elder man's face flushed painfully. it was a curious sight. he looked as stupidly guilty as any schoolboy. "i--i can't say. i never asked." he felt absurdly foolish and tried to explain. "you see, i only dealt with the lawyer." buck shook his head, and smiled in his slow fashion. "sold the farm, an' don't know who to! gee!" it was good to hear his laugh as he rode away. the padre watched him till he was out of sight. chapter v the steeps of life buck leant over his horse's withers as the laboring creature clawed tenaciously up the face of the rugged hill. his whole poise was that of sympathetic straining. nor were his eyes a whit less eager than those of the faithful animal under him. he was making the last twenty yards of the climb up devil's hill from the side on which lay the new home adopted by the padre and himself. hitherto this point of approach had been accepted as inaccessible for a horseman, nor, until now, had buck seen reason to dispute the verdict. but, to-day, a sudden impulse had constrained him to make the attempt, not from any vainglorious reason, or from the recklessness which was so much a part of his nature, but simply that somewhere high up on the great table-land at the summit of the hill he hoped to find an answer to a riddle that was sorely puzzling him. it had been a great struggle even on the lower and more gradual slopes, for the basaltic rocks were barren, and broken, and slippery. there was no gripping soil, or natural foothold. just the weather-worn rocks which offered no grip to cæsar's metal-shod hoofs. yet the generous-hearted beast had floundered on up to the last stretch, where the hill rose abruptly at a perilous angle. it was a terrible scramble. as he looked above, at the point where the sky-line was cut by the broken rocks, even the reckless heart of the man quailed. yet there was no turning back. to do so meant certain disaster. no horse, however sure-footed, could ever hope to make the descent by the way they had come. buck had looked back just for one brief second, but his eyes had instantly turned again for relief to the heights above. disaster lay behind him. to go on--well, if he failed to reach the brow of the blackened hill it would mean disaster anyway. and a smile of utter recklessness slowly lit his face. so, with set jaws and straining body, he urged cæsar to a last supreme effort, and the great black creature responded gallantly. with head low to the ground, his muscles standing out like ropes upon his shoulders, his forelegs bent like grappling-hooks, his quarters tucked beneath him, he put his giant heart into the work. step by step, inch by inch he gained, yawing and sliding, stumbling and floundering, making way where all way seemed impossible. slowly they crept up, slowly, slowly they neared that coveted line. buck was breathing hard. cæsar was blowing and had thrown his mouth agape, a sign that beyond this he could make no further effort. five yards--two yards. the jagged line seemed to come down to meet them. at last, with a final spring, the great horse trampled it under foot. buck heaved a sigh of relief. "gee!" he murmured. then with the wide, black plain stretching before him, its limits lost in a strange mist, he flung out of the saddle. he stared about him curiously. devil's hill was in no way new to him. many a time he had visited its mysterious regions, but always had he approached it from the prospecting camp, or his own farm, both of which lay away on the northern side of it. a wide plateau, nearly two miles in extent, stretched out before him. it was as flat as the proverbial board, with just one isolated rock towering upon its bosom. this was the chief object of interest now. away in the distance he beheld its ghostly outline, almost lost in the ruddy atmosphere which, just now, seemed to envelop the whole of that western world. it was a desolate scene. so desolate as to carry a strange sense of depression to the heart of the horseman. there was not a tree in sight--nor a single blade of grass. there was nothing but the funereal black of basaltic rock, of which the hill seemed to be one solid mass. such was its desolation that even the horse seemed to be drooping at the sight of it. it was always the same with buck. there was an influence about the place which always left him feeling rather hopeless. he knew the old indian stories of superstition. he knew the awe in which the more ignorant among the white folk held this hill. but these things left him unaffected. he only regarded it from his own personal observations, which were not very enlivening. apart from the fact that not one atom of vegetation would grow either upon the surface or slopes of devil's hill, no snows in winter had ever been known to settle upon its uninviting bosom. long before the snow touched its surface, however low the temperature of the atmosphere, however severe a blizzard might be raging--and the montana blizzards are notorious for their severity--the snow was turned to water, and a deluge of rain hissed upon its surface. then, too, there was that mystery rock in the distance of the great plateau. it was one of nature's little enigmas with which she loves to puzzle the mind of man. how came it there, shot up in the midst of that wide, flat stretch of rock? it stood within a few hundred yards of the eastern brink of the hill which, in its turn, was another mystery. the eastern extremity was not a mere precipice, it was a vast overhang which left yellow creek, upon whose banks the mining camps were pitched, flowing beneath the roof of a giant tunnel supported by a single side. the rock on the plateau reared its misshapen head to the heavens at a height of something over two hundred feet, and its great base formed a vast cavern out of which, fanwise, spread a lake of steaming water, which flowed on to the very brink of the hill where it overshadowed the creek below. thus it was, more than half the lake was held suspended in mid-air, with no other support than the parent hill from which its bed projected. it was an awesome freak of nature, calculated to astonish even eyes that were accustomed to the sight of it. but buck was not thinking of these things now. he was looking at the view. he was looking at the sky. he was looking from this great height for an explanation of the curious, ruddy light in the sunless sky, the teeming haze which weighted down the brain, and, with the slightest movement, opened the pores of the skin and set the perspiration streaming. in all his years of the montana hills he had never experienced such a curious atmospheric condition. less than an hour ago he had left the padre at the fur fort under a blazing summer sky, with the crisp mountain air whipping in his nostrils. then, quite of a sudden, had come this change. there were no storm-clouds, and yet storm was in every breath of the superheated air he took. there was no wind, nor anything definite to alarm except this sudden blind heat and the purple hue which seemed to have spread itself over the whole world. thus it was, as he neared the mysterious mountain, he had made up his mind to its ascent in the hope of finding, there upon the unwholesome plateau, the key to the atmospheric mystery. but none seemed to be forthcoming, so, turning at last to the patient cæsar, he once more returned to the saddle and rode on to the barren shores of devil's lake. the lake was a desolate spot. the waters stretched out before him, still, and silent, and black. there was not even a ripple upon its steaming surface. here the haze hung as it always hung, and the cavern was belching forth deep mists, like the breathing of some prehistoric monster. he glanced up at the birdless rock above, and into the broken outlines of it he read the distorted features of some baleful, living creature, or some savage idol. but there was no answer here to the questions of his mind, any more than there had been on the rest of the plateau, so he rode on along the edge of the water. he reached the extreme end of the lake and paused again. he could go no farther, for nothing but a rocky parapet, less than twenty feet wide, barred the waters from tumbling headlong to the depths below. after a moment cæsar grew restless, his equine nerves seemed to be on a jangle, and the steadying hand of his master had no effect. his eyes were wistful and dilated, and he glanced distrustfully from side to side, snorting loudly his evident alarm. buck moved him away from his proximity to the water, and turned to a critical survey of the remoter crests of the rocky mountains. the white snowcaps had gone. the purple of the lesser hills, usually so delicate in their gradings, were lost in one monotony of dull red light. the nearer distance was a mere world of ghostly shadows tinged with the same threatening hue, and only the immediate neighborhood was in any way clean cut and sharp to the eye. his brows drew together in perplexity. again, down there in the valley, beyond the brink of the plateau, the dull red fog prevailed, and yet through it he could see the dim picture of grass-land, of woods, of river, and the rising slopes of more hills beyond. no, the secret of the atmospheric phenomenon was not up here, and it was useless to waste more time. so he moved off, much to his impatient horse's relief, in a direction where he knew a gentle slope would lead him from the hilltop to the neighborhood of the old farm and the ford across yellow creek. but even this way the road required negotiation, for the same bald rocks and barrenness offered no sure foothold. however, cæsar was used to this path, and made no mistakes. his master gave him his head, and, with eyes to the ground, the sure-footed beast moved along with almost cat-like certainty. at last the soft soil of the valley was reached again, and once more the deepening woods swallowed them up. the end of buck's journey lay across yellow creek, where a few miserable hovels sheltered a small community of starving gold-seekers, and thither he now hastened. on his way he had a distant view of the old farm. he would have preferred to have avoided it, but that was quite impossible. he had not yet got over the parting from it, which had taken place the previous day. to him had fallen the lot of handing it over to the farm-wife who had been sent on ahead from leeson butte to prepare it for her employer's coming. and the full sense of his loss was still upon him. wrong as he knew himself to be, he resented the newcomer's presence in his old home, and could not help regarding her as something in the nature of a usurper. the camp to which he was riding was a wretched enough place. nor could nature, here in her most luxuriant mood, relieve it from its sordid aspect. a few of the huts were sheltered at the fringe of the dark woods, but most were set out upon the foreground of grass, which fronted the little stream. as buck approached he could not help feeling that they were the most deplorable huts ever built. they were like a number of inverted square boxes, with roofs sloping from front to back. they were made out of rough logs cut from the pine woods, roofed in with an ill-laid thatch of mud and grass, supported on the lesser limbs cut from the trees felled to supply the logs. how could such despairing hovels ever be expected to shelter men marked out for success? there was disaster, even tragedy, in every line of them. they were scarcely even shelters from the elements. with their broken mud plaster, their doorless entrances, their ill-laid thatch, they were surely little better than sieves. then their surroundings of garbage, their remnants of coarse garments hanging out upon adjacent bushes, their lack of every outward sign of industrial prosperity. no, to buck's sympathetic eyes, there was tragedy written in every detail of the place. were not these people a small band of regular tramp gold-seekers? what was their outlook? what was their perspective? the tramp gold-seeker is a creature apart from the rest of the laboring world. he is not an ordinary worker seeking livelihood in a regular return from his daily effort. he works under the influence of a craze that is little less than disease. he could never content himself with stereotyped employment. besides, the rot of degradation soon seizes upon his moral nature. no matter what his origin, what his upbringing, his education, his pursuit of gold seems to have a deadening effect upon all his finer instincts, and reduces him swiftly to little better than the original animal. civilization is forgotten, buried deep beneath a mire of moral mud, accumulated in long years, and often in months only of association with the derelicts and "hard cases" of the world. rarely enough, when fortune's pendulum swings toward one more favored individual, a flickering desire to return to gentler paths will momentarily stir amidst the mire, but it seldom amounts to more than something in the nature of a drunkard's dream in moments of sobriety, and passes just as swiftly. the lustful animal appetite is too powerful; it demands the sordid pleasures which the possession of gold makes possible. nor will it be satisfied with anything else. a tramp gold-seeker is irreclaimable. his joy lies in his quest and the dreams of fortune which are all too rarely fulfilled every nerve centre is drugged with his lust, and, like all decadents, he must fulfil the destiny which his own original weakness has marked out for him. buck understood something of all this without reasoning it out in his simple mind. he understood with a heart as reckless as their own, but with a brain that had long since gathered strength from the gentle wisdom of the man who was a sort of foster-father to him. he did not pity. he felt he had no right to pity, but he had a deep sympathy and love for the strongly human motives which stirred these people. success or failure, he saw them as men and women whose many contradictory qualities made them intensely lovable and sometimes even objects for respect, if for nothing else, at least for their very hardihood and courage. he rode up to the largest hut, which stood beyond the shadow of a group of pine-trees, and dropped out of the saddle. with careful forethought he loosened the cinchas of cæsar's saddle and removed the bit from his mouth. then, with one last look at the purpling heavens, he pushed aside the tattered blanket which hung across the doorway and strode into the dimly-lit apartment. it was a silent greeting that welcomed him. his own "howdy" met with no verbal response. but every eye of the men lying about on blankets outspread upon the dusty floor was turned in his direction. the scene was strange enough, but for buck it had nothing new. the gaunt faces and tattered clothing had long since ceased to drive him to despairing protest. he knew, in their own phraseology, they were "up against it"--the "it" in this case meaning the hideous spectre of starvation. he glanced over the faces and counted seven of them. he knew them all. but, drawing forward an upturned soap-box, he sat down and addressed himself to curly saunders, who happened to be lying on his elbow nearest the door. "say, i just came along to give you word that vittles are on the way from leeson butte," he said, as though the fact was of no serious importance. curly, a short, thick-set man of enormous strength and round, youngish face, eased himself into a half-sitting position. but before he could answer another man, with iron-gray hair, sat up alertly and eyed their visitor without much friendliness. "more o' the padre's charity?" he said, in a manner that suggested resentment at the benefit he had no intention of refusing. curiously enough, too, his careless method of expression in no way disguised the natural refinement of his voice. buck shook his head, and his eyes were cold. "don't guess there's need of charity among friends, beasley." beasley melford laughed. it was not a pleasant laugh. "guess it makes him feel good dopin' out stuff to us same as if we was bums," he said harshly. "shut up!" cried a voice from a remote corner. buck looked over and saw a lean, dark man hugging his knees and smoking a well-burnt briar pipe. the same voice went on: "guess you'd sicken most anybody, beasley. you got a mean mind. guess the padre's a hell of a bully feller." "he sure is," said montana ike, lolling over on to his side and pushing his canvas kit-bag into a more comfortable position. "you was sayin' there was vittles comin' along, buck? guess ther' ain't no 'chawin'' now?" "tobacco, sure," responded buck with a smile. one by one the men sat up on their frowsy blankets. the thought of provisions seemed to have roused them from their lethargy. buck's eyes wandered over the faces peering at him out of the murky shadows. the squalor of the hut was painful, and, with the knowledge that help was at hand, the sight struck him even more forcibly. "quit work?" he asked a moment later, in his abrupt fashion. somebody laughed. buck looked round for an answer. and again his eyes caught the steely, ironical gleam in the man beasley's. "the last o' slaney's kids 'passed in' last night. guess we're goin' to bury her." buck nodded. he had no words. but he carefully avoided looking in the direction of slaney dick, who sat in a far corner smoking his pipe and hugging his great knees. beasley went on in the same half-mocking tone-- "guess it's up to me to read the service over her." "you!" buck could not help the ejaculation. beasley melford was an unfrocked churchman. nor was it known the reason of his dismissal from his calling. all buck knew was that beasley was a man of particularly low morals and detestable nature. the thought that he was to administer the last rites of the church over the dead body of a pure and innocent infant set his every feeling in active protest. he turned to slaney. "the padre buried the others?" he said questioningly. it was dick's partner, abe allinson, who took it upon himself to answer. "y' see the padre's done a heap. slaney's missis didn't guess we'd orter worrit him. that's how she said." buck suddenly swung round on beasley. "fix it for to-morrow, an' the padre'll be right along." he looked the ex-churchman squarely in the eye. he was not making a request. his words were an emphatic refusal to allow the other the office. it was slaney who answered him. "i'm glad," he said. then, as an afterthought, "an' the missis'll be glad, too." after that nobody seemed inclined to break the silence. nor was it until somebody hawked and spat that the spell was broken. "we bin holdin' a meetin'," said curly saunders heavily. "y' see, it ain't no good." buck nodded at the doorway. "you mean----?" "the prospect," beasley broke in and laughed. "say, we sure been suckers stayin' around so long. ther' ain't no gold within a hundred miles of us. we're just lyin' rottin' around like--stinkin' sheep." curly nodded. "sure. that's why we held a meeting. we're goin' to up stakes an' git." "where to?" buck's quick inquiry met with a significant silence, which montana ike finally broke. "see here," he cried, with sudden force. "what's the use in astin' fool questions? ther' ain't no gold, ther' ain't nuthin'. we got color fer scratchin' when we first gathered around like skippin' lambs, but ther's nuthin' under the surface, an' the surface is played right out. i tell you it's a cursed hole. jest look around. look at yonder devil's hill. wher'd you ever see the like? that's it. devil's hill. say, it's a devil's region, an' everything to it belongs to the devil. ther' ain't nuthin' fer us--nuthin', but to die of starvin'. ah, psha'! it's a lousy world. gawd, when i think o' the wimminfolk it makes my liver heave. say, some of them pore kiddies ain't had milk fer weeks, an' we only ke'p 'em alive thro' youse two fellers. say," he went on, in a sudden burst of passion, "we got a right, same as other folk, to live, an' our kids has, an' our wimmin too. mebbe we ain't same as other folks, them folks with their kerridges an' things in cities, mebbe our kiddies ain't got no names by the chu'ch, an' our wimmin ain't no chu'ch writin' fer sharin' our blankets, but we got a right to live, cos we're made to live. an' by gee! i'm goin' to live! i tell youse folk right here, ther's cattle, an' ther's horses, an' ther's grain in this dogone land, an' i'm goin' to git what i need of 'em ef i'm gettin' it at the end of a gun! that's me, fellers, an' them as has the notion had best foller my trail." the hungry eyes of the man shone in the dusk of the room. the harsh lines of his weak face were desperate. every word he said he meant, and his whole protest was the just complaint of a man willing enough to accept the battle as it came, but determined to save life itself by any means to his hand. it was beasley who caught at the suggestion. "you've grit, ike, an' guess i'm with you at any game like that." buck waited for the others. he had no wish to persuade them to any definite course. he had come there with definite instructions from the padre, and in his own time he would carry them out. a youngster, who had hitherto taken no part in the talk, suddenly lifted a pair of heavy eyes from the torn pages of a five-cent novel. "wal!" he cried abruptly. "wot's the use o' gassin'? let's light right out. that's how we sed 'fore you come along, buck." he paused, and a sly grin slowly spread over his features. then, lowering his voice to a persuasive note, he went on, "here, fellers, mebbe ther' ain't more'n cents among us. wal, i'd sure say we best pool 'em, an' i'll set right out over to bay creek an' git whisky. i'll make it in four hours. then we'll hev jest one hell of a time to-night, an' up stakes in the morning, fer--fer any old place out o' here. how's that?" "guess our few cents don't matter, anyways," agreed curly, his dull eyes brightening. "i'd say the kid's right. i ain't lapped a sup o' rye in months." "it ain't bad fer soapy," agreed beasley. "wot say, boys?" he glanced round for approval and found it in every eye except slaney's. the bereaved father seemed utterly indifferent to anything except his own thoughts, which were of the little waxen face he had watched grow paler and paler in his arms only yesterday morning, until he had laid the poor little dead body in his weeping woman's lap. buck felt the time had come for him to interpose. he turned on beasley with unmistakable coldness. "guess the padre got the rest of his farm money yesterday--when the woman came along," he said. "an' the vittles he ordered are on the trail. i'd say you don't need to light out--yet." beasley laughed offensively. "still on the charity racket?" he sneered. buck's eyes lit with sudden anger. "you don't need to touch the vittles," he cried. "you haven't any woman, and no kiddies. guess there's nothing to keep you from getting right out." he eyed the man steadily, and then turned slowly to the others. "here, boys, the padre says the food and canned truck'll be along to-morrow morning. and you can divide it between you accordin' to your needs. if you want to get out it'll help you on the road. and he'll hand each man a fifty-dollar bill, which'll make things easier. if you want to stop around, and give the hill another chance, why the fifty each will make a grub stake." the proposition was received in absolute silence. even beasley had no sneering comment. the kid's eyes were widely watching buck's dark face. slaney had removed his pipe, and, for the moment, his own troubles were forgotten under a sudden thrill of hope. curly saunders sat up as though about to speak, but no words came. abe allinson, ike, and blue grass pete contented themselves with staring their astonishment at the padre's munificence. finally slaney hawked and spat. "seems to me," he said, in his quiet, drawling voice, "the padre sold his farm to help us out." "by gee! that's so," exclaimed curly, thumping a fist into the palm of his other hand. the brightening eyes lit with hope. the whole atmosphere of the place seemed to have lost something of its depression. ike shook his head. "i'm gettin' out. but say, the padre's a bully feller." abe nodded. "ike's right. slaney an' me's gettin' out, too. devil's hill's a cursed blank." "me, too," broke in the kid. "but say, wot about poolin' our cents for whisky?" he went on, his young mind still intent upon the contemplated orgie. it was buck who helped the wavering men to their decision. he understood them. he understood their needs. the ethics of the proposition did not trouble him. these men had reached a point where they needed a support such as only the fiery spirits their stomachs craved could give them. the padre's help would come afterward. at the moment, after the long weeks of disappointment, they needed something to lift them, even if it was only momentarily. he reached round to his hip-pocket and pulled out two single-dollar bills and laid them on the dusty ground in front of him. "ante up, boys," he said cheerfully. "empty your dips. the kid's right. an' to-morrow you can sure choose what you're going to do." then he turned to the kid. "my plug cæsar's outside. guess you best take him. he'll make the journey in two hours. an' you'll need to bustle him some, because ther's a kind o' storm gettin' around right smart. eh?" he turned and glanced sharply at beasley. "you got a dollar?" "it's fer whisky," leered the ex-churchman, as he laid the dirty paper on the top of buck's. in two minutes the pooling was completed and the kid prepared to set out. eight dollars was all the meeting could muster--eight dollars collected in small silver, which represented every cent these men possessed in the world. buck knew this. at least he could answer for everybody except perhaps beasley melford. that wily individual he believed was capable of anything. he was sure that he was capable of accepting anything from anybody, while yet being in a position to more than help himself. buck went outside to see the kid off, and some of the men had gathered in the doorway. they watched the boy swing himself into the saddle, and the desperate shadows had lightened on their hungry faces. the buoyancy of their irresponsible natures was reasserting itself. that bridge, which the padre's promise had erected between their despair and the realms of hope, however slight its structure, was sufficient to lift them once more to the lighter mood so natural to them. so their tongues were loosened, and they offered their messenger the jest from which they could seldom long refrain, the coarse, deep-throated jest which sprang from sheer animal spirits rather than any subtlety of wit. they forgot for the time that until buck's coming they had contemplated the burial of a comrade's only remaining offspring. they forgot that the grieving father was still within the hut, his great jaws clenched upon the mouthpiece of his pipe, his hollow eyes still gazing straight in front of him. that was their way. there was a slight ray of hope for them, a brief respite. there was the thought, too, of eight dollars' worth of whisky, a just portion of which was soon to be in each stomach. but buck was not listening to them. he had almost forgotten the messenger riding away on his treasured horse, so occupied was he by the further change that had occurred in the look of the sky and in the atmosphere of the valley. presently he lifted one strong, brown hand to his forehead and wiped the beads of perspiration from it. "phew! what heat! here," he cried, pointing at devil's hill, away to his left, "what d'you make of that?" for a moment all eyes followed the direction of his outstretched arm. and slowly there grew in them a look of awe such as rarely found place in their feelings. the crown of the hill, the whole of the vast, black plateau was enveloped in a dense gray fog. above that hung a mighty, thunderous pall of purple storm-cloud. back, away into the mountains in billowy rolls it extended, until the whole distance was lost in a blackness as of night. it was curly saunders who broke the awed silence. "jumpin' mackinaw!" he cried. then he looked after their departing messenger. "say, that feller oughtn't to've gone to bay creek. he'll never make it." beasley, whose feelings were less susceptible, and whose mind was set on the promised orgie, sneered at the other's tone. "skeered some, ain't you? tcha'! it's jest wind----" but he never completed his sentence. at that instant the whole of the heavens seemed to split and gape open. a shaft of light, extending from horizon to horizon, paralyzed their vision. it was accompanied by a crash of thunder that set their ear-drums well-nigh bursting. both lightning and the thunder lasted for what seemed interminable minutes and left their senses dazed, and the earth rocking beneath their feet. again came the blinding light, and again the thunder crashed. then, in a moment, panic had set in, and the tattered blanket had fallen behind the last man as a rush was made for the doubtful shelter of the hut. chapter vi out of the storm the challenge had gone forth. in those two vivid shafts of light, in the deafening peals of thunder the war of elements had been proclaimed, and these men of the wilderness understood something of their danger. thereafter, for some moments, a threatening silence reigned everywhere. the birds, the insects even, all life seemed to crouch, hushed and expectant. the valley might have been the valley of death, so still, so dark, so threatening was the superheated atmosphere that hung over it. the men within the shelter of the hut waited, and only buck and blue grass pete stood near the blanket-covered doorway. there was little enough confidence in the inefficient shelter of the hut, but it was their natural retreat and so they accepted it. then the moment of tension passed, and buck, glancing swiftly round the hut, seized a hammer and hastily secured the covering of the doorway. "she'll be on us right smart," he observed to pete, who assisted him while the others looked on. "yes," replied pete resignedly. "guess we're goin' to git it good." there was not only resignation, but indifference in his tone. buck glanced up at the roof, and the rest followed his gaze curiously. he shook his head. "it's worse than----" but he did not finish what he had to say. a strange hissing broke from the distance, like the sound of rushing water, and, with each passing moment, it grew in volume until, out of the heart of it, a deep-throated roar boomed over the hilltops. it was a great wind-storm leaping down from the everlasting snows of the mountains, tearing its way through the lean branches of the forest-tops, the wide-gaping valleys, and rushing up the hillsides with a violence that tore limbs from the parent trunks and rooted out trees that had withstood a thousand storms. it was the deep breath of the storm fiend launched upon a defenseless earth, carrying wreck and destruction whithersoever its blast was turned. "by jing'!" it was montana ike who voiced the awe crowding every heart. but his exclamation brought the practical mind of buck to consideration of their needs. his eyes turned again to the roof, and pete voiced his thoughts. "she'll carry away like--like a kite when it hits us," he declared. several more pairs of eyes were turned helplessly upward. suddenly buck swung round upon the doorway. "here she comes," he cried. "holy----!" with a rush and a deafening roar the wind hit the building and set it rocking. buck and pete flung themselves with arms outspread against the ballooning blanket, and it held. again the wind crashed against the sides of the hut. some one flung himself to the two men's assistance. then came a ripping and tearing, and the thatch hissed away on the breath of the storm like straw caught in a whirlwind. the men gazed stupidly up at the blackened heavens, which were now like night. there was nothing to be done. what could they do? they were helpless. and not even a voice could make itself heard in the howling of the wind as it shrieked about the angles of the building. then came the rain. it fell in great drops whose sheer weight and size carried them, at the moment of impact, through the ragged shirts to the warm flesh beneath. in a second, it seemed, a waterspout was upon them and was pouring its tide into the roofless hut. with the deluge, the elemental battle began in desperate earnest. peal after peal of thunder crashed directly overhead, and with it came such a display of heavenly pyrotechnics that in their wildest moments these men had never dreamed of. their eyes were blinded, and their ear-drums were bursting with the incessant hammering of the thunder. but the wind had passed on, shrieking and tearing its way into the dim distance until its voice was utterly drowned in the sterner detonations of the battle. drenched to the skin, knee-deep in water, the men stood herded together like sheep in a pen. their blankets were awash and floated about, tangling their legs in the miniature lake that could not find rapid enough exit through the doorway. they could only stand there stupidly. to go outside was to find no other shelter, and only the more openly to expose themselves to the savage forks of lightning playing across the heavens in such blinding streaks. nor could they help the women even if they needed help in the other huts. the roofs and doors would or would not hold, and, in the latter case, until the force of the storm abated no help could serve them. the storm showed no signs of abatement. the black sky was the sky of an unlit night. there was no lightening in any direction, and the blinding flashes amidst the din of thunder only helped to further intensify the pitchy vault. the splitting of trees amidst the chaos reached the straining ears, and it was plain that every flash of light was finding a billet for its forked tongue in the adjacent forests. the time dragged on. how long or how short was the period of the storm none of the men wondered or cared. the rapidity of the thunder crashes, the swift successions of lightning entirely held them, and, strong as they were, these things kept their nerves jumping. once in the midst of it all a man suddenly cried out. his cry came with a more than usually brilliant flash of purplish, steel-blue fire. the intensity of it carried pain to the now supersensitive nerves of his vision, and he turned and flung himself with his face buried upon his arm against the dripping wall. it was beasley melford. he stood there cowering, a dreadful terror shaking his every nerve. the others turned stupidly in his direction, but none had thought for his suffering. each was hard pressed to face the terror of it all himself; each was wondering at what moment his own limits would be reached. buck alone showed no sign of the nervous tension. his deep brown eyes watched the group about him, automatically blinking with every flash of light, and with only the slightest possible start as the thunder crashed into his ears. he was thinking, too--thinking hard of many things. the padre was out in the hills with gun and traps. would he have anticipated the swift rising storm and regained the shelter of the stout old fort? with the boom of falling trees going on about them, with the fiery crackle of the blazing light as it hit the topmost branches of the adjacent forest, he wondered and hoped, and feared for the old man in the same thought. then there were those others. the women and children in the other huts. how were they faring? but he remembered that the married quarters were better built than this hut had been, and he drew comfort from the thought. and what of the kid, and of cæsar? more than two hours passed before any change came. the deafening peals of thunder seemed as though they would never lessen in tone. the night-like heavens seemed as though no sun could ever hope to penetrate them again. and the streaming rain--was there ever such a deluge since the old biblical days! buck understood now the nature of the storm. probably twenty years would elapse before another cloudburst would occur again, and the thought set him speculating upon the effect this might have upon the lake on devil's hill. what might not happen? and then the creek below! he remembered that these huts of the gold-seekers were on the low-lying banks of the creek. what if it flooded? he stirred uneasily, and, turning to the doorway, opened a loose fold in the blanket and peered out. he saw the creek in a sudden blaze of light, and in that momentary brilliance he saw that the rushing water was rising rapidly. a grave feeling of uneasiness stirred him and he turned back to his companions. for once in his life he felt utterly helpless. another hour passed. the atmospheric heat had passed, and the men stood shivering in the water. the chill was biting into their very bones, but still there was no respite. twice more buck turned anxious eyes upon the creek. and each time his alarm increased as the blinding light revealed the rapid rise of the water. he dared not voice his fears yet. he understood the condition of mind prevailing. to warn his companions would be to set them rushing to get their womenfolk out of their shelters, and this must not be thought of--yet. he had just arrived at the conclusion that he would abide by his next observation when the long-looked-for change began. it came as suddenly as the rising of the storm itself. it came in a rapid lightening of the sky overhead. from black to gray it turned almost in a second. a dull, ominous, rolling world of gray rain-clouds. the thunder died away and the blinding flashes came no more. it was as though the storm had been governed by one all-powerful will and the word to "cease fire" had been hurled across the heavens as the last discharge of monstrous artillery had been fired. then, with the lifting of the darkness, the rain slackened too, and the deluge eased. buck sighed his relief, and curly saunders, from near by, audibly expressed his. "she's lettin' up," he growled. pete caught at his words. "it sure is." buck was about to speak, but his lips remained open and he stood listening. what was that? something was moving beyond the doorway. something touched the blanket as though seeking support. then it slid down, its movement visible in the bulging of the drenched cloth. this was followed by a heavy, squelching flop. the body, whatever it was, had fallen into the streaming water pouring from within the hut. then came a long-drawn, piteous moan that held the men gazing silently and stupidly at the sagging blanket. it was while they stood thus that the rain ceased altogether, and the great storm-clouds broke and began to disperse, and a watery sunbeam lit the wreck of the passing storm. as its light poured in upon the wretched interior a second moan, short and weak but distinctly audible, reached the astounded ears of the men. there was a moment's pause as it died out, then buck's arm shot out, and, seizing the edge of the blanket, he ripped it from its fastenings and let it fall to the ground. instantly every neck was set craning, and every eye was alight with wonder, for there, half-resting upon the sill of the doorway, and half-lying upon the ground with the water streaming everywhere about her, lay the huddled, half-drowned figure of a young woman. "it's--it's a--woman," cried pete stupidly, unable to contain his astonishment longer. "it sure is," murmured curly, with equal brightness. but while they gave the company the benefit of their keenness of perception buck had dropped upon his knees and was bending over the wretched victim of the storm. he raised her, and drew her tenderly into his arms. "'tain't one of ours," announced ike over his shoulder. "no." buck's monosyllable displayed no great interest in his remark. amidst a dead silence buck suddenly straightened up, with the dripping figure clasped tightly in his strong arms. a great pity shone in his eyes as he gazed down into the fair young face. it was the first time in all his life he had held a woman in his arms, and the sensation of it made him forget those others about him. suddenly ike's voice aroused him. "by gar!" he cried. "jest look at that red ha'r. say, easy, boys, we're treadin' it around in the mud." it was true. the great masses of the girl's red-gold hair had fallen loose and were trailing in the water as buck held her. it reached from the man's shoulder, where her head was pillowed, and the heavy-footed men were trampling the ends of it into the mud. ike stooped and rescued the sodden mass, and laid it gently across buck's shoulders. for a moment the sun shone down upon the wondering group. the clouds had broken completely, and were scattering in every direction as though eager to escape observation after their recent shameful display. no one seemed to think of moving out into the rapidly warming open. they were content to gather about buck's tall figure and gape down at the beautiful face of the girl lying in his arms. it was beasley melford who first became practical. "she's alive, anyway," he said. "sort o' stunned. mebbe it's the lightnin'." pete turned, a withering glance upon his foxy face. "lightnin' nuthin'," he cried scornfully. "if she'd bin hit she'd ha' bin black an' dead. why, she--she ain't even brown. she's white as white." his voice became softer, and he was no longer addressing the ex-churchman. "did y' ever see sech skin--so soft an' white? an' that ha'r, my word! i'd gamble a dollar her eyes is blue--ef she'd jest open 'em." he reached out a great dirty hand to touch the beautiful whiteness of the girl's throat with a caressing movement, but instantly buck's voice, sharp and commanding, stayed his action. "quit that!" he cried. "ke'p your durned hands to yourself," he added, with a strange hoarseness. pete's eyes lit angrily. "eh? what's amiss?" he demanded. "guess i ain't no disease." beasley chuckled across at him, and the sound of his mirth infuriated buck. he understood the laugh and the meaning underlying it. "buck turned wet nurse," cried the ex-churchman, as he beheld the sudden flush on the youngster's face. "you can ke'p your durned talk," buck cried. "you beasley--and the lot of you," he went on recklessly. "she's no ord'nary gal; she's--she's a lady." curly and ike nodded agreement. but beasley, whatever his fears of the storm, understood the men of his world. nor had he any fear of them, and buck's threat only had the effect of rousing the worst side of his nature, at all times very near the surface. "lady? psha'! write her down a woman, they're all the same, only dressed different. seems to me it's better they're all just women. an' pete's good enough for any woman, eh, pete? she's just a nice, dandy bit o' soft flesh an' blood, eh, pete? guess you like them sort, eh, pete?" the man's laugh was a hideous thing to listen to, but pete was not listening. buck heard, and his dark face went ghastly pale, even though his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face with its closed, heavily-lashed eyes. pete's attention was held by the delicate contours of her perfect figure and the gaping, bedraggled white shirt-waist, where the soft flesh of her fair bosom showed through, and the delicate lace and ribbons of her undergarments were left in full view. no one offered beasley encouragement and his laugh fell flat. and when curly spoke it was to express something of the general thought. "wonder how she came here?" he said thoughtfully. "seems as though the storm had kind o' dumped her down," abe allinson admitted. again beasley chuckled. "say, was ther' ever such a miracle o' foolishness as you fellers? you make me laff--or tired, or something. wher'd she come from? ain't the padre sold his farm?" he demanded, turning on buck. "ain't he sold it to a woman? an' ain't he expectin' her along?" buck withdrew his eyes from the beautiful face, and looked up in answer to the challenge. "why, yes," he said, his look suddenly hardening as he confronted beasley's face. "i had forgotten. this must surely be miss--miss rest. that's the name mrs. ransford, the old woman at the farm, said. rest." he repeated the name as though it were pleasant to his ears. "course," cried curly cheerfully. "that's who it is--sure." "rest, eh? miss--rest," murmured the preoccupied pete. then he added, half to himself, "my, but she's a dandy! ain't--ain't she a pictur', ain't she----?" buck suddenly pushed him aside, and his action was probably rougher than he knew. but for some reason he did not care. for some reason he had no thought for any one but the fair creature lying in his arms. his head was throbbing with a strange excitement, and he moved swiftly toward the door, anxious to leave the inquisitive eyes of his companions behind him. as he reached the door beasley's hateful tones arrested him. "say, you ain't takin' that pore thing up to the fort, are you?" he jeered. buck swung about with the swiftness of a panther. his eyes were ablaze with a cold fire. "you rotten outlaw parson!" he cried. he waited for the insult to drive home. then when he saw the fury in the other's face, a fury he intended to stir, he went on-- "another insinuation like that an' i'll shoot you like the dog you are," he cried, and without waiting for an answer he turned to the others. "say, fellers," he went on, "i'm takin' this gal wher' she belongs--down to the farm. i'm goin' to hand her over to the old woman there. an' if i hear another filthy suggestion from this durned skunk beasley, what i said goes. it's not a threat. it's a promise, sure, an' i don't ever forgit my promises." beasley's face was livid, and he drew a sharp breath. "i don't know 'bout promises," he said fiercely. "but you won't find me fergittin' much either." buck turned to the door again and threw his retort over his shoulder. "then you sure won't forgit i've told you what you are." "i sure won't." nor did buck fail to appreciate the venom the other flung into his words. but he was reckless--always reckless. and he hurried through the doorway and strode off with his still unconscious burden. chapter vii a simple manhood all thought of beasley melford quickly became lost in feelings of a deeper and stronger nature as buck passed out into the open. his was not a nature to dwell unnecessarily upon the clashings of every-day life. such pinpricks were generally superficial, to be brushed aside and treated without undue consideration until such time as some resulting fester might gather and drastic action become necessary. the fester had not yet gathered, therefore he set his quarrel aside for the time when he could give it his undivided attention. as he strode away the world seemed very wide to buck. so wide, indeed, that he had no idea of its limits, nor any desire to seek them. he preferred that his eyes should dwell only upon those things which presented themselves before a plain, wholesome vision. he had no desire to peer into the tainted recesses of any other life than that which he had always known. and in his outlook was to be witnessed the careful guidance of his friend, the padre. nor was his capacity stunted thereby, nor his strong manhood. on the contrary, it left him with a great reserve of power to fight his little battle of the wilderness. yet surely such a nature as his should have been dangerously open to disaster. the guilelessness resulting from such a simplicity of life ought surely to have fitted him for a headlong rush into the pitfalls which are ever awaiting the unwary. this might have been so in a man of less strength, less reckless purpose. therein lay his greatest safeguard. his was the strength, the courage, the resource of a mind trained in the hard school of the battle for existence in the wilderness, where, without subtlety, without fear, he walked over whatever path life offered him, ready to meet every obstruction, every disaster, with invincible courage. it was through this very attitude that his threat against beasley melford was not to be treated lightly. his comrades understood it. beasley himself knew it. buck had assured him that he would shoot him down like a dog if he offended against the unwritten laws of instinctive chivalry as he understood them, and he would do it without any compunction or fear of consequences. a woman's fame to him was something too sacred to be lightly treated, something quite above the mere consideration of life and death. the latter was an ethical proposition which afforded him, where a high principle was in the balance against it, no qualms whatsoever. it was the inevitable result of his harsh training in the life that was his. the hot, rich blood of strong manhood ran in his veins, but it was the hot blood tempered with honesty and courage, and without one single taint of meanness. as he passed down the river bank, beyond which the racing waters flowed a veritable torrent, he saw the camp women moving about outside their huts. he saw them wringing out their rain-drenched garments. thus he knew that the storm had served their miserable homes badly, and he felt sorry for them. for the most part they were heavy, frowsy creatures, slatternly and uncouth. they came generally from the dregs of frontier cities, or were the sweepings of the open country, gleaned in the debauched moments of the men who protected them. nor, as his eyes wandered in their direction, was it possible to help a comparison between them and the burden of delicate womanhood he held in his arms, a comparison which found them painfully wanting. he passed on under the bold scrutiny of those feminine eyes, but they left him quite unconscious. his thoughts had drifted into a wonderful dreamland of his own, a dreamland such as he had never visited before, an unsuspected dreamland whose beauties could never again hold him as they did now. the sparkling sunlight which had so swiftly followed in the wake of the storm, lapping up the moisture of the drenching earth with its fiery tongue, shed a radiance over the familiar landscape, so that it revealed new and unsuspected beauties to his wondering eyes. how came it that the world, his world, looked so fair? the distant hills, those hills which had always thrilled his heart with the sombre note of their magnificence, those hills which he had known since his earliest childhood, with their black, awe-inspiring forests, they were somehow different, so different. he traced the purple ridges step by step till they became a blurred, gray monotony of tone fading away until it lost itself in the glittering white of the snowcaps. everything he beheld in a new light. no longer did those hills represent the battle-ground where he and the padre fought out their meagre existence. they had suddenly become one vast and beautiful garden where life became idyllic, where existence changed to one long joy. the torrents had shrunk to gentle streams, babbling their wonderful way through a fairy-land of scented gardens. the old forceful tearing of a course through the granite hearts of the hills was a thought of some long-forgotten age far back in the dim recesses of memory. the gloom of the darkling forests, too, had passed into the sunlit parks of delight. the rugged canyons had given place to verdant valleys of succulent pasture. the very snows themselves, those stupendous, changeless barriers, suggested nothing so much as the white plains of perfect life. the old harsh lines of life had passed, and the sternness of the endless battle had given way to an unaccountable joy. every point that his delighted eyes dwelt upon was tinged with something of the beatitude that stirred his senses. every step he took was something of an unreality. and every whispering sound in the scented world through which he was passing found an echo of music in his dreaming soul. contact with the yielding burden lying so passive in his strong arms filled him with a rapture such as he had never known. the thought of sex was still far from his mind, and only was the manhood in him yielding to the contact, and teaching him through the senses that which his upbringing had sternly denied him. he gazed down upon the wonderful pale beauty of the girl's face. he saw the rich parted lips between which shone the ivory of her perfect, even teeth. the hair, so rich and flowing, dancing with glittering beams of golden light, as, stirring beneath the breath of the mountains, it caught the reflection of a perfect sun. how beautiful she was. how delicate. the wonderful, almost transparent skin. he could trace the tangle of small blue veins like a fairy web through which flowed the precious life that was hers. and her eyes--those great, full, round pupils hidden beneath the veil of her deeply-fringed lids! but he turned quickly from them, for he knew that the moment she awoke his dream must pass into a memory. his gaze wandered to the swanlike roundness of her white throat, to the gaping shirt-waist, where the delicate lace and tiny ribbon peeped out at him. it was all so wonderful, so marvelous. and she was in his arms--she, this beautiful stranger. yet somehow she did not seem like a stranger. to his inflamed fancy she seemed to have lain in his arms all his life, all her life. no, she was no stranger. he felt that she belonged to him, she was part of himself, his very life. still she slept on. he suddenly found himself moving with greater caution, and he knew he was dreading the moment when some foolish stumble of his should bring her back to that life which he feared yet longed to behold. he longed for the delight of watching the play of emotions upon her lovely features, to hear her speak and laugh, and to watch her smile. he feared, for he knew that with her waking those delicious moments would be lost to him forever. so he dreamed on. in his inmost soul he knew he was dreaming, and, in his reckless fashion, he desired the dream to remain unending. he saw the old fur fort no longer the uncouth shelter of two lonely lives, but a home made beautiful by a presence such as he had never dreamed of, a presence that shed beauty upon all that came under the spell of its influence. he pictured the warmth of delight which must be the man's who lived in such an atmosphere. his muscles thrilled at the thought of what a man might do under such an inspiration. to what might he not aspire? to what heights might he not soar? success must be his. no disaster could come-- the girl stirred in his arms. he distinctly felt the movement, and looked down into her face with sudden apprehension. but his anxiety was swiftly dispelled, and a tender smile at once replaced the look in his dark eyes. no, she had not yet awakened, and so he was content. but the incident had brought him realization. his arms were stiff and cramped, and he must rest them. strong man that he was he had been wholly unaware of the distance he had carried her. he gently laid her upon the grass and looked about him. then it was that wonder crept into his eyes. he was at the ford of the creek, more than two miles from the camp, and on the hither bank, where the road entered the water, a spring cart lay overturned and broken, with the team of horses lying head down, buried beneath the turbulent waters as they raced on down with the flood. now he understood the full meaning of her presence in the camp. his quick eyes took in every detail, and at once her coming was explained. he turned back in the direction whence he had come, and his mind flew to the distance of the ford from the camp. she had bravely faced a struggle over two miles of a trail quite unknown to her when the worst storm he had ever known was at its height. his eyes came back to the face of the unconscious girl in even greater admiration. "not only beautiful but----" he turned away to the wreck, for there were still things he wished to know. and as he glanced about him he became more fully aware of the havoc of the storm. even in the brilliant sunshine the whole prospect looked woefully jaded. everywhere the signs told their pitiful tale. all along the river bank the torn and shattered pines drooped dismally. even as he stood there great tree trunks and limbs of trees were washed down on the flood before his eyes. the banks were still pouring with the drainings of the hills and adding their quota to the swelling torrent. but the overturned spring cart held most interest just now, and he moved over to it. the vehicle was a complete wreck, so complete, indeed, that he wondered how the girl had escaped without injury. two trunks lay near by, evidently thrown out by the force of the upset, and it pleased him to think that they had been saved to their owner. he examined them closely. yes, the contents were probably untouched by the water. but what was this? the initials on the lid were "j. s." the girl's name was rest. at least so mrs. ransford had stated. he wondered. then his wonder passed. these were very likely trunks borrowed for the journey. he remembered that the padre had a leather grip with other initials than his own upon it. where was the teamster? he looked out at the racing waters, and the question answered itself. then he turned quickly to the girl. poor soul, he thought, her coming to the farm had been one series of disasters. so, with an added tenderness, he stooped and lifted her gently in his arms and proceeded on his way. at last he came to the farm, which only that morning he had so eagerly avoided. and his feelings were not at all unpleasant as he saw again the familiar buildings. the rambling house he had known so long inspired him with a fresh joy at the thought of its new occupant. he remembered how it had grown from a log cabin, just such as the huts of the gold-seekers, and how, with joy and pride, he and the padre had added to it and reconstructed as the years went by. he remembered the time when he had planted the first wild cucumber, which afterward became an annual function and never failed to cover the deep veranda with each passing year. there, too, was the cabbage patch crowded with a wealth of vegetables. and he remembered how careful he had been to select a southern aspect for it. the small barns, the hog-pens, where he could even now hear the grunting swine grumbling their hours away. the corrals, two, across the creek, reached by a log bridge of their own construction. then, close by stood the nearly empty hay corrals, waiting for this year's crop. no, the sight of these things had no regrets for him now. it was a pleasant thought that it was all so orderly and flourishing, since this girl was its future mistress. he reached the veranda before his approach was realized by the farm-wife within. then, as his footsteps resounded on the rough surface of the flooring of split logs, mrs. ransford came bustling out of the parlor door. "sakes on me!" she cried, as she beheld the burden in her visitor's arms. "if it ain't miss rest all dead an' done!" her red hands went up in the air with such a comical tragedy, and her big eyes performed such a wide revolution in their fat, sunburnt setting that buck half-feared an utter collapse. so he hurriedly sought to reassure her, and offered a smiling encouragement. "i allow she's mostly done, but i guess she's not dead," he said quickly. the old woman heaved a tragic sigh. "my! but you made me turn right over, as the sayin' is. you should ha' bin more careful, an' me with my heart too, an' all. the doctor told me as i was never to have no shock to speak of. they might set up hem--hemoritch or suthin' o' the heart, what might bring on sing--sing--i know it was suthin' to do with singin', which means i'd never live to see another storm like we just had, not if it sure come on this minit----" "i'm real sorry, ma'm," said buck, smiling quietly at the old woman's volubility, but deliberately cutting it short. "i mean about the shock racket. y' see she needs fixin' right, an' i guess it's up to you to git busy, while i go an' haul her trunks up from the creek." again the woman's eyes opened and rolled. "what they doin' in the creek?" she demanded with sudden heat. "who put 'em ther'? some scallawag, i'll gamble. an' you standin' by seein' it done, as you might say. i never did see sech a place, nor sech folk. to think o' that pore gal a-settin' watchin' her trunks bein' pushed into the creek by a lot o' loafin' bums o' miners, an' no one honest enough, nor man enough to raise a hand to--to----" "with respec', ma'm, you're talkin' a heap o' foolishness," cried buck impatiently, his anxiety for the girl overcoming his deference for the other's sex. "if you'll show me the lady's room i'll carry her right into it an' set her on her bed, an'----" "mercy alive, what's the world a-comin' to!" cried the indignant farm-wife. "me let the likes o' you into the gal's bedroom! you? guess you need seein' to by the state, as the sayin' is. i never heard the like of it. never. an' she jest a slip of a young gal, too, an' all." but buck's patience was quite exhausted, and, without a moment's hesitation, he brushed the well-meaning but voluble woman aside and carried the girl into the house. he needed no guidance here. he knew which was the best bedroom and walked straight into it. there he laid the girl upon an old chintz-covered settee, so that her wet clothes might be removed before she was placed into the neat white bed waiting for her. and the clacking tongue of ma ransford pursued his every movement. "it's an insult," she cried angrily. "an insult to me an' mine, as you might say. me, who's raised two daughters an' one son, all of 'em dead, more's the pity. first you drown the gal an' her baggage, an' then you git carryin' her around, an' walkin' into her virgin bedroom without no by your leave, nor nuthin'." but buck quite ignored her protests. he felt it was useless to explain. so he turned back and gave his final instructions from the doorway. "you jest get her right to bed, ma'm, an' dose her," he said amiably. "i'd guess you best give her hot flannels an' poultices an' things while i go fetch her trunks. after that i'll send off to bay creek fer the doctor. he ain't much, but he's better than the hoss doctor fer womenfolk. guess i'll git back right away." but the irate farm-wife, her round eyes blazing, slammed the door in his face as she flung her final word after him. "you'll git back nuthin'," she cried furiously. "you let me git you back here agin an' you'll sure find a sort o' first-class hell runnin' around, an' you won't need no hot flannels nor poultices to ke'p you from freezin' stone cold." then, with perfect calmness and astonishing skill, she flung herself to the task of caring for her mistress in that practical, feminine fashion which, though he may appreciate, no man has ever yet quite understood. chapter viii the secret of the hill it was the morning following the great storm, a perfect day of cloudless sunshine, and the padre and buck were on their way from the fur fort to the camp. their mission was to learn the decision of its inhabitants as to their abandonment of the valley; and in the padre's pocket was a large amount of money for distribution. the elder man's spirits were quietly buoyant. nor did there seem to be much reason why they should be. but the padre's moods, even to his friends, were difficult to account for. buck, on the contrary, seemed lost in a reverie which held him closely, and even tended to make his manner brusque. but his friend, in the midst of his own cheerful feelings, would not allow this to disturb him. besides, he was a far shrewder man than his simple manner suggested. "it's well to be doing, lad," he said, after some considerable silence. "makes you feel good. makes you feel life's worth a bigger price than we mostly set it at." his quiet eyes took the other in in a quick, sidelong glance. he saw that buck was steadily, but unseeingly, contemplating the black slopes of devil's hill, which now lay directly ahead. "guess you aren't feeling so good, boy?" he went on after a moment's thoughtful pause. the direct challenge brought a slow smile to buck's face, and he answered with surprising energy-- "good? why, i'm feelin' that good i don't guess even--even beasley could rile me this mornin'." the padre nodded with a responsive smile. "and beasley can generally manage to rile you." "yes, he's got that way, surely," laughed buck frankly. "y' see he's--he's pretty mean." "i s'pose he is," admitted the other. then he turned his snow-white head and glanced down at the lean flanks of cæsar as the horse walked easily beside his mare. "and that boy, kid, was out in all that storm on your cæsar," he went on, changing the subject quickly from the man whom he knew bore him an absurd animosity. "a pretty great horse, cæsar. he's looking none the worse for fetching that whisky either. guess the boys'll be getting over their drunk by now. and it's probably done 'em a heap of good. you did right to encourage 'em. maybe there's folks would think differently. but then they don't just understand, eh?" "no." buck had once more returned to his reverie, and the padre smiled. he thought he understood. he had listened overnight to a full account of the arrival of the new owner of their farm, and had gleaned some details of her attractiveness and youth. he knew well enough how surely the isolated mountain life buck lived must have left him open to strong impressions. they set their horses at a canter down the long declining trail which ran straight into the valley above which devil's hill reared its ugly head. and as they went the signs of the storm lay everywhere about them. their path was strewn with débris. the havoc was stupendous. tree trunks were lying about like scattered nine-pins. riven trunks, split like match-wood by the lightning, stood beside the trail, gaunt and hopeless. partially-severed limbs hung drooping, their weeping foliage appealing to the stricken world about them for a sympathy which none could give. even the hard, sun-baked trail, hammered and beaten to an iron consistency under a hundred suns of summer, was scored with now dry water-courses nearly a foot deep. with all his knowledge and long experience of the mountains even the padre was filled with awe at the memory of what he had witnessed. "makes you think, buck, doesn't it?" he said, pointing at a stately forest giant stretched prone along the edge of the trail, its proud head biting deeply into the earth, and its vast roots lifting twenty and more feet into the air. "i was out in the worst of it, too," he went on thoughtfully. then he smiled at the recollection of his puny affairs while the elements had waged their merciless war. "i was taking a golden fox out of a trap, 'way back there on the side of the third ridge. while i was doing it the first two crashes came. a hundred and more yards away two pines, big fellers, guess they were planted before the flood, were standing out solitary on a big rock overhanging the valley below. they were there when i first bent over the trap. when i stood up they were gone--rock and all. it made me think then. guess it makes me think more now." "it surely was a storm," agreed buck absently. they reached the open valley, and here the signs were less, so, taking advantage of the clearing, they set their horses at a fast gallop. their way took them skirting the great slope of the hill-base, and every moment was bearing them on toward the old farm, for that way, some distance beyond, lay the ford which they must cross to reach the camp. neither seemed inclined for further talk. buck was looking straight out ahead in the direction of the farm, and his preoccupation had given place to a smile of anticipation. the padre was intent upon the black slopes of the hill. farther along, the hill turned away toward the creek, and the trail bore to the left, passing on the hither side of a great bluff of woods which stretched right up to the very corrals of the farm. it was here, too, where the overhang of the suspended lake came into view, where yellow creek poured its swift, shallow torrent in the shadowed twilight of the single-walled tunnel and the gold-seekers held their operations in a vain quest of fortune. they had just come abreast of this point and the padre was observing the hill with that never-failing interest with which the scene always filled him. he believed there was nothing like it in all the world, and regarded it as a stupendous example of nature's engineering. but now, without warning, his interest leapt to a pitch of wonderment that set his nerves thrilling and filled his thoughtful eyes with an unaccustomed light of excitement. one arm shot out mechanically, pointing at the black rocks, and a deep sigh escaped him. "mackinaw!" he cried, pulling his horse almost on to its haunches. "look at that!" buck swung round, while cæsar followed the mare's example so abruptly that his master was almost flung out of the saddle. he, too, stared across in the direction indicated. and his whispered exclamation was an echo of the other's astonishment. "by the----!" then on the instant an almost unconscious movement, simultaneously executed, set their horses racing across the open in the direction of the suspended lake. the powerful cæsar, with his lighter burden, was the first to reach the spot. he drew up more than two hundred yards from where the domed roof forming the lake bed hung above the waters of the creek. he could approach no nearer, and his rider sat gazing in wonder at the spectacle of fallen rock and soil, and the shattered magnificence of the acres of crushed and broken pine woods which lay before him. the whole face of the hill for hundreds and hundreds of feet along this side had been ruthlessly rent from its place and flung broadcast everywhere, and, in the chaos he beheld, buck calculated that hundreds of thousands of tons of the blackened rock and subsoil had been dislodged by the tremendous fall. just for an instant the word "washout" flashed through his mind. but he dismissed it without further consideration. how could a washout sever such rock? even he doubted the possibility of lightning causing such destruction. no, his thoughts flew to an earth disturbance of some sort. but then, what of the lake? he gazed up at where the rocky arch jutted out from the parent hill, and apprehension made him involuntarily move his horse aside. but his observation had killed the theory of an earth disturbance. anything of that nature must have brought the lake down. for the dislodgment began under its very shadow, and had even further deepened the yawning cavern beneath its bed. the padre's voice finally broke his reflections, and its tone suggested that he was far less awed, and, in consequence, his thoughts were far more practical. "their works are gone," he said regretfully. "i'd say there's not a sluice-box nor a conduit left. maybe even their tools are lost. poor devils!" the man's calm words had their effect. buck at once responded to the practical suggestion. "they don't leave their tools," he said. then he pointed up at the lake. "say, what if that had come down? what if the bowels o' that hill had opened up an' the water been turned loose? what o' the camp? what o' the women an'--the kiddies?" his imagination had been stirred again. again the padre's practice brought him back. "you don't need to worry that way, boy. it hasn't fallen. guess the earth don't fancy turning her secrets loose all at once." buck sighed. "yet i'd say the luck sure seems rotten enough." there was no answer, and presently the padre pointed at the face of the hill. "it was a washout," he said with quiet assurance. "see that face? it's softish soil. some sort of gravelly stuff that the water got at. sort of gravel seam in the heart of the rock." buck followed the direction indicated and sat staring at it. then slowly a curious look of hope crept into his eyes. it was the fanciful hope of the imaginative. "here," he cried suddenly, "let's get a peek at it. maybe--maybe the luck ain't as bad as we think." and he laughed. "what d'you mean?" asked the padre sharply. for answer he had to put up with a curt "come on." and the next moment he was following in cæsar's wake as he picked his way rapidly amongst the trees skirting the side of the wreckage. their way lay inland from the creek, for buck intended to reach the cliff face on the western side of the fall. it was difficult going, but, at the distance, safe enough. not until they drew in toward the broken face of the hill would the danger really begin. there it was obvious enough to anybody. the cliff was dangerously overhanging at many points. doubtless the saturation which had caused the fall had left many of those great projections sufficiently loose to dislodge at any moment. buck sought out what he considered to be the most available spot and drew his horse up. the rest must be done on foot. no horse could hope to struggle over such a chaotic path. at his suggestion both animals were tethered within the shelter of trees. at least the trees would afford some slight protection should any more of the cliff give way. in less than a quarter of an hour they stood a hundred feet from the actual base of the cliff, and buck turned to his friend. "see that patch up there," he said, pointing at a spread of reddish surface which seemed to be minutely studded with white specks. "guess a peek at it won't hurt. seems to me it's about ten or twelve feet up. guess ther' ain't need for two of us climbin' that way. you best wait right here, an' i'll git around again after a while." the padre surveyed the patch, and his eyes twinkled. "ten or twelve feet?" he said doubtfully. "twenty-five." "may be." "you think it's----?" buck laughed lightly. "can't say what it is--from here." the other sat down on an adjacent rock. "get right ahead. i'll wait." buck hurried away, and for some moments the padre watched his slim figure, as, scrambling, stumbling, clinging, he made his way to where the real climb was to begin. nor was it until he saw the tall figure halt under an overhanging rock, which seemed to jut right out over his head, and look up for the course he must take in the final climb, that buck's actual danger came home to the onlooker. he was very little more given to realizing personal danger than buck himself, but now a sudden apprehension for the climber gripped him sharply. he stirred uneasily as he saw the strong hands reach up and clutch the jutting facets. he even opened his mouth to offer a warning as he saw the heavily-booted feet mount to their first foothold. but he refrained. he realized it might be disconcerting. a few breathless moments passed as buck mounted foot by foot. then came the thing the padre dreaded. the youngster's hold broke, and a rock hurtled by him from under his hand and very nearly dislodged him altogether. in an instant the padre was on his feet with the useless intention of going to his aid, but, even as he stood up, his own feet shot from under him, and he fell back heavily upon the rock from which he had just risen. with an impatient exclamation he looked down to discover the cause of his mishap. there it lay, a loose stone of yellowish hue. he stooped to remove it, and, in a moment, his irritation was forgotten. in a moment everything else was forgotten. buck was forgotten. the peril of the hill. the cliff itself. for the moment he was lifted out of himself. years had passed away, his years of life in those hills. and something of the romantic dreams of his early youth thrilled him once again. he stood up bearing the cause of his mishap clasped in his two hands and stared down at it. then, after a long while, he looked up at the climbing man. he stood there quite still, watching his movements with unseeing eyes. his interest was gone. the danger had somehow become nothing now. there was no longer any thought of the active figure moving up the face of the hill with cat-like clinging hands and feet. there was no longer thought for his success or failure. buck reached his goal. he examined the auriferous facet with close scrutiny and satisfaction. then he began the descent, and in two minutes he stood once more beside the padre. "it's high-grade quartz," he cried jubilantly as he came up. the padre nodded, his mind on other things. "i'd say the luck's changed," buck went on, full of his own discovery and not noticing the other's abstraction. he was enjoying the thought of the news he had to convey to the starving camp. "i'd say there's gold in plenty hereabouts and the washout----" the padre suddenly thrust out his two hands which were still grasping the cause of his discomfiture. he thrust them out so that buck could not possibly mistake the movement. "there surely is--right here," he said slowly. buck gasped. then, with shining eyes, he took what the other was holding into his own two hands. "gold!" he cried as he looked down upon the dull yellow mass. "and sixty ounces if there's a pennyweight," added the padre exultantly. "you see i--i fell over it," he explained, his quiet eyes twinkling. chapter ix gathering for the feast two hours later saw an extraordinary change at the foot of devil's hill. the wonder of the "washout" had passed. its awe was no longer upon the human mind. the men of the camp regarded it with no more thought than if the destruction had been caused by mere blasting operations. they were not interested in the power causing the wreck, but only in their own motives, their own greedy longings, their own lust for the banquet of gold outspread before their ravening eyes. the padre watched these people his news had brought to the hill with tolerant, kindly eye. he saw them scattered like a small swarm of bees in the immensity of the ruin wrought by the storm. they had for the time forgotten him, they had forgotten everything in the wild moment of long-pent passions unloosed--the danger which overhung them, their past trials, their half-starved bodies, their recent sufferings. these things were thrust behind them, they were of the past. their present was an insatiable hunger for finds such as had been thrust before their yearning eyes less than an hour ago. he stood by and viewed the spectacle with a mind undisturbed, with a gentle philosophy inspired by an experience which he alone could appreciate. it was a wonderful sight. the effort, the haste, the almost insane intentness of these people seeking the yellow metal, the discovery of which was the whole bounds of their horizon. he felt that it was good to see them. good that these untamed passions should be allowed full sway. he felt that such as these were the advance guard of all human enterprise. theirs was the effort, theirs the hardship, the risk; and after them would come the trained mind, perhaps the less honest mind, the mind which must harness the result of their haphazard efforts to the process of civilization's evolution. he even fancied he saw something of the influence of this day's work upon the future of that mountain world. but there was regret too in his thought. it was regret at the impossibility of these pioneers ever enjoying the full fruits of their labors. they would enjoy them in their own way, at the moment, but such enjoyment was not adequate reward for their daring, their sacrifice, their hardihood. well enough he knew that they were but the toilers in a weed-grown vineyard, and that it would fall to the lot of the skilled husbandman to be the man who reaped the harvest. it was a picture that would remain long enough in his memory. the flaying picks rising and falling amongst the looser débris, the grinding scrape of the shovel, turning again and again the heavy red gravel. the shouts of hoarse voices hailing each other in jubilant tones, voices thrilling with a note of hope such as they had not known for weeks. he saw the hard muscles of sunburnt arms standing out rope-like with the terrific labor they were engaged in. and in the background of it all he saw the grim spectacle of the blackened hill, frowning down like some evil monster, watching the vermin life eating into a sore it was powerless to protect. it was wonderful, the transformation of these things. and yet it was far less strange than his witness of the spectacle of the beaten, hopeless men he had helped so long up in the camp. he was glad. he was glad, too, that even buck had been caught in the fever of the moment. he saw him with the rest, with borrowed tools, working with a vigor and enthusiasm quite unsurpassed by the most ardent of the professional gold-seekers. yet he knew how little the man was tainted with the disease of these others. he had no understanding whatever of the meaning of wealth. and the greed of gold had left him quite untouched. his was the virile, healthy enthusiasm for a quest for something which was hidden there in the wonderful auriferous soil, a quest that the heart of any live man is ever powerless to resist. with him it would last till sundown, maybe, and after that the fever would pass from his veins. then the claims of the life that had always been his would reassert themselves. after a while the padre's thoughts drifted to the pressing considerations of the future. several times he had heard the shouts of men who had turned a nugget up in the gravel. and at each such cry he had seen the rush of others, and the feverish manner in which they took possession of the spot where the lucky individual was working and hustled him out. it was in these rushes that he saw the danger lying ahead. hitherto these men had been accustomed to the slow process of washing "pay-dirt." it was not only slow, but unemotional. it had not the power to stir the senses to a pitch of excitement like this veritable tom tiddler's ground, pitchforked into their very laps by one of nature's freakish impulses. with this thought came something very like regret at the apparent richness of the find. something must be done, and done without delay, to regulate the situation. the place must be arranged in claims, and definite regulations must be laid down and enforced by a council of the majority. he felt instinctively that this would be the only way to avert a state of anarchy too appalling to contemplate. it would be an easy matter now, but a hopeless task to attempt later on. yes, a big trouble lay in those rushes, which seemed harmless enough at present. and he knew that his must be the work of straightening out the threatened tangle. but for the moment the fever must be allowed to run riot. it must work itself out with the physical effort of hard muscles. in the calm of rest after labor counsel might be offered and listened to. but not until then. so that memorable day wore on to its close. the luck had come not in the petty find such as these men had looked for, but in proportions of prodigal generosity such as nature sometimes loves to bestow upon those whom she has hit the hardest. she had called to her aid those strange powers of which she is mistress and hurled them headlong to do her bidding. she had bestowed her august consent, and lo, the earth was opened, and its wealth poured out at the very feet of those who had so long and so vainly sought it. chapter x solving the riddle the new owner of the padre's farm had quite recovered from the effects of her disastrous journey. youth and a sound constitution, and the overwhelming ministrations of mrs. ransford had done all that was needed to restore her. she was sitting in an old, much-repaired rocking-chair, in what was obviously the farm's "best" bedroom. her trunks, faithfully recovered from the wreck of the cart by the only too willing buck, stood open on the floor amidst a chaotic setting of their contents, while the old farm-wife herself stood over them, much in the attitude of a faithful and determined watch-dog. the girl looked on indifferent to the confusion and to the damage being perpetrated before her very eyes. she was lost in thoughts of her own which had nothing to do with such fripperies as lawns, and silks, and _suèdes_, or any other such feminine excitements. she was struggling with recollection, and endeavoring to conjure it. there was a blank in her life, a blank of some hours, which, try as she would, she could not fill in. it was a blank, as far as she could make out, which terminated in her arrival at the farm _borne in the arms of some strange man_. well might such a thought shut out considerations like the almost certain destruction of a mere wardrobe at the hands of her ignorant but well-meaning helper. it would have been exciting, too, but for her memory of the latter stages of her journey. they were still painful. there was still uncertainty as to what had happened to the teamster and the horses. at last, however, she abandoned further attempt to solve the riddle unaided, and decided to question her housekeeper. "was it the same man who brought those trunks--i mean the same man who--brought me here?" she demanded sharply. "it surely was," replied mrs. ransford, desisting for a moment from her efforts to bestow a pile of dainty shoes into a night-dress case of elaborate drawn thread work. "an' a nice mess he's got things in. jest look at 'em all tossed about, same as you might toss slap-jacks, as the sayin' is. it's a mercy of heaven, an' no thanks to him, you've got a rag fit to wear. it surely ain't fer me to say it, but it's real lucky i'm here to put things right for you. drat them shoes! i don't guess i'll ever git 'em all into this bag, miss--ma'm--i mean miss, mum." something of the tragedy of her wardrobe became evident to the girl and she went to the rescue. "i'm sorry, but they don't go in there," she said, feeling that an apology was due for her interference in such well-intended efforts. "that's--you see, that's my sleeping-suit case," she added gently. "sleepin'-soot?" a pair of round, wondering eyes stared out through the old woman's glasses. the girl pointed at the silk trousers and jacket lying just inside the nearest trunk, and the farm-wife picked them up gingerly, letting them unfold as she did so. just for one moment she inspected them, then she hurriedly let them drop back into the trunk as though they were some dangerous reptile, and, folding her arms, glared into the girl's smiling face in comical reproach. "you sure don't wear them pants, miss--at night? not reely?" she exclaimed in horrified tones. the girl's smile hardened. "why, yes. lots of girls wear sleeping-suits nowadays." "you don't say!" the old woman pursed up her lips in strong disapproval. then, with a disdainful sniff, she went on-- "wot gals ain't comin' to i don't know, i'm sure. wot with silk next their skin an' them draughty stockin's, as you might say, things is gettin' to a pretty pass. say, i wouldn't put myself into them pants, no, not if the president o' the united states was to stand over me an' wouldn't let me put on nuthin' else." the girl refrained from reply, but the obvious impossibility of the feat appealed to her sense of humor. however, the solution of her riddle was of prevailing interest, so she returned again to her questioning. "did he say how he found me?" she demanded. "did he tell you any--any particulars of what happened to the cart, and--and the teamster?" "no, ma'm--miss, beggin' your pardin,--that he didn't. i never see sech a fresh feller outside a noospaper office. an' him the owner of this farm that was, but isn't, as you might say. you take my word for it he'll come to a bad end, he sure will. wot with them wicked eyes of his, an' that black, dago-lookin' hair. i never did see a feller who looked more like a scallawag than him. makes me shiver to think of him a-carryin' you in his two arms. wher' from sez i--_an' why_?" "because i couldn't walk, i expect," the girl replied easily. the farm-wife shook a fat, warning finger at her. "oh, ma'm--miss--that's wot he says! you jest wait till you've got more experience o' scallawags like him an' you'll sure know. wot i sez is men's that full o' tricks wher' females is to be deceived it 'ud take 'em a summer vacation sortin' 'emselves out. men is shockin' scallawags," she finished up, flinging the shoes pell-mell into the open trunk. a further rescue of her property was necessary and the girl protested. "please don't bother any more with those clothes," she cried hurriedly. "i'll see to them myself." then, as the woman proceeded to mop her perspiring brow with a pair of silk stockings, she sprang up and thrust a hand-towel toward her. "use this; you'll find it more absorbent than--er--silk." the old woman thanked her profusely, and made the exchange. and when the operation was completed the relieved girl returned to her seat and went on with her examination. "what did you say his name was?" "i didn't say. an' he didn't tell me, neither. fellers like him ain't never ready with their names. maybe he calls himself moreton kenyon. y' see he was the same as handed the farm over, an' you tol' me, back ther' in leeson butte, you'd bo't moreton kenyon's farm. 'moreton kenyon!' sort o' high-soundin' name for such a scallawag. i don't never trust high-soundin' names. they're most like whitewash. you allus set that sort o' stuff on hog-pens an' sech, as you might say." "perhaps he's not as bad as you suspect," the girl suggested kindly. "lots of good people start by making a bad impression." "i don't know what that means," cried the other promptly. "but i do know what a scallawag is, an' that's him." it was useless to seek further information from such a source, so the girl abandoned the attempt, and dismissed the pig-headed housekeeper to her work, work which she felt she was far better suited to than such a delicate operation as the straightening out a wardrobe. when mrs. ransford had taken her unwilling departure, not without several well-meaning protests, the girl bent her own energies to restoring order to her wardrobe. nor was it an easy task. the masculine manner of the bedroom left much to be desired in those little depositories and cupboards, without which no woman can live in comfort. and during the process of disposing her belongings many mental notes were made for future alterations in the furnishings of her new abode. it was not a bad room, however. the simplicity and cleanliness of it struck wholesomely upon her. yes, in spite of what her lieutenant had said about him, mr. moreton kenyon was certainly a man of some refinement. she had never heard that such neatness and cleanliness was the habit amongst small bachelor farmers in the outlands of the west. and this was the man who had carried her--where from? again she sat down in the rocker and gave herself up to the puzzlement of those hours of her unconsciousness. the last event that was clear in her mind was the struggle of the teamster to keep his horses head-on for the bank of the flooded river. she remembered the surging waters, she remembered that the bottom of the cart was awash, and that she sat with her feet lifted and resting on the side of the vehicle. she remembered that the horses were swimming before the driver's flogging whip and blasphemous shoutings. all this was plain enough still. then came the man's order to herself. he warned her to get ready to jump, and she had been quick to realize the necessity. in spite of the horses' wildest struggles the cart was being washed down-stream. then had come his final shout. and she had jumped on the instant. at this point of her recollections things became confused. she had a hazy memory of floundering in the water, also she remembered a heavy blow on the shoulder. then some one seemed to seize hold of her. it must have been the teamster, though she did not remember seeing him in the water. how she got out was a mystery to her. again it must have been the teamster. then what of him? mrs. ransford had not spoken of him. had he, too, escaped? or had he--she shuddered. for some moments her thoughts depressed her. the thought of a brave man's life sacrificed for her was too terrible. but after a while she continued in a lighter strain. it was at this point that the blank began. true, she seemed to have some dim recollection of a rough hut. it seemed to be made of logs. then, too, she had a dreamy sort of cognizance of a number of men's voices talking. then--no, there was nothing more after that. nothing until she awoke and found herself in bed, with a strange doctor standing over her. it was all very puzzling, but--she turned toward the window as the afternoon sun fell athwart it and lit the plain interior of her new bedroom, searching the corners and the simple furnishings of the carpetless room. from where she sat she could see the barns and corrals, and beyond them the heavy-hued pine woods. then, away out far, far in the distance, the endless white snowcaps of the purpling hills. what a scene to her unaccustomed eyes. the breadth of it. the immensity. she drew a deep breath and sat up. she was dressed in a simple white shirt-waist and blue serge skirt, and her masses of red-gold hair were loosely coiled about her well-shaped head. the eager light of interest in her violet eyes lit her beautiful young face, lending it an animation which added a wonderful vitality to her natural beauty. the firm, rich lips were parted eagerly. the wide-open eyes, so deeply intelligent, shone with a lustre of delight there was no mistaking. her rounded bosom rose and fell rapidly as the glad thought flew through her brain that this--this was her new home, where she was to forget the past and shut out all recollection of that evil shadow which had so long pursued her. yes, this was the beginning of her new life. joan stanmore was dead, and out of the ashes had arisen joan rest, ready to face the world in a spirit of well-doing bachelorhood. here, here in the wild mountain world, where men were few and apart from her old life, she could face the future with perfect confidence. she breathed a deep sigh of contentment and lolled back in the rocker, dropping her eyes from the snow-crowned hills to the precious little farm that was all hers. then, in an instant, she sat up again as the tall figure of a young man appeared round the corner of the barn. for some moments she followed his movements wonderingly. he walked straight over to the hay corral with long, easy strides. there was none of the slouch of a man idling about him. his whole attitude was full of distinct purpose. she saw him enter the corral and mount the half-cut haystack, and proceed to cut deeper into it. a moment later he pitched the loose hay to the ground, and himself slid down on to it. then, stooping, he gathered it in his arms and left the corral. now she saw his face for the first time. it was dark. nor could she be certain that his coloring was due to sunburn. his eyes were dark, too, and his hair. he was a good-looking man, she decided, and quite young. but how tall. and what shoulders. she wondered who he was, and what he was doing on her farm. then, of a sudden, she remembered she had spoken of a hired man to mrs. ransford. had she----? her reflections were cut short by the sudden appearance of the farm-wife from the house. the old woman trotted hastily across the yard toward the barn, her fat sides shaking as she waddled, and her short, stout arms violently gesticulating. joan needed nothing more than the good woman's back view to tell her that the dame was very angry, and that it was the stranger who had inspired her wrath. she waited, smiling, for the _dénouement_. it came quickly. it came with the reappearance of the stranger round the corner of the barn. what a splendid specimen of a man, she thought, as she watched the expression of unruffled calm on his strong features. his shirt sleeves were rolled well up above his elbows, and even at that distance she could see the deep furrows in his arms where the rope-like muscles stood out beneath the thin, almost delicate skin. but her attention was quickly diverted by the clacking of the farm-wife's tongue. she could hear it where she sat with the window tight shut. and though she could not hear the words it was plain enough from the violence of her gesticulations that she was rating the patient man soundly. so patent was it, so dreadful, that even in her keenest interest joan found herself wondering if mr. ransford were dead, and hoping that, if he were, his decease had occurred in early youth. nor had the man made any attempt at response. she was sure of it, because she had watched his firm lips, and they had not moved. perhaps he had found retort impossible. it was quite possible, for the other had not paused a moment in her tirade. what a flow. it was colossal, stupendous. joan felt sorry for the man. what a patience he had. nor had his expression once altered. he merely displayed the thoughtful attention that one might bestow, listening to a brilliant conversationalist or an interesting story. it was too ridiculous, and joan began to laugh. then the end came abruptly and without warning. mrs. ransford just swung about and trotted furiously back to the house. her face was flaming, and her fat arms, flourishing like unlimber flails, were pointing every verbal threat she hurled over her shoulder at the spot where the man had stood. yes, he had vanished again round the corner of the barn, and the poor woman's best efforts were quite lost upon the warm summer air. but her purpose was obvious, and joan prepared herself for a whirlwind visitation. nor had she long to wait. there was a shuffling of feet out in the passage, and, the next moment, the door of her room was unceremoniously flung open and the indignant woman staggered in. "well, of all the impidence, of all the sass, of all the ignorant bums that ever i----!" she exploded, and stood panting under the strain of her furious emotions. but joan felt she really must assert herself. this sort of reign of terror must not go on. "don't fluster yourself, mrs. ransford," she said calmly. "i'll see to the matter myself." but she might as well have attempted to stem the tide of the river that had wrecked her journey as stay the irate woman's tongue. "but it's him!" she cried. "him, that low-down scallawag that carried you in his arms an' walked right into this yere bedroom an' laid you on your own virgin bed without no by your leave nor nuthin'. him, as saw your trunks drownded an' you all mussed up with water, without raisin' a hand to help, 'less it was to push you further under----" but joan was equal to no more. she pushed the well-meaning creature on one side and hurried out of the house, while the echoes of the other's scathing indictment died down behind her. joan did not hesitate. it was not her way to hesitate about anything when her mind was made up. and just now she was determined to find out the real story of what had happened to her. she was interested. this man had carried her. he had brought her trunks up. and--yes, she liked the look of him. but she felt it necessary to approach the matter with becoming dignity. she was not given much to standing on her dignity, but she felt that in her association with the men of these parts she must harden herself to it. all friendships with men were banned. this she was quite decided upon. and she sighed as she passed round the angle of the barn. her sigh died at its birth, however, and she was brought to a short and terrified halt. two prongs of a hayfork gleamed viciously within three inches of her horrified eyes, and, behind them, with eyes no less horrified, stood the dark-haired stranger. chapter xi the shadow of the past the gleaming prongs of the fork were sharply withdrawn, and a pleasant voice greeted the girl. "guess that was a near thing," it said half-warningly. joan had started back, but at the sound of the voice she quickly recovered herself. "it was," she agreed. then as she looked into the smiling eyes of the stranger she began to laugh. "another inch an' more an' you'd sure have been all mussed up on that pile of barn litter," he went on, joining in her laugh. "i s'pose i should," joan nodded, her mirth promptly sobering to a broad smile. she had almost forgotten her purpose so taken up was she in observing this "scallawag," as mrs. ransford had called him. nor did it take her impressionable nature more than a second to decide that her worthy housekeeper was something in the nature of a thoroughly stupid woman. she liked the look of him. she liked his easy manner. more than all she liked the confident look of his dark eyes and his sunburnt face, so full of strength. "hayforks are cussed things anyway," the man said, flinging the implement aside as though it had offended him. joan watched him. she was wondering how best to approach the questions in her mind. somehow they did not come as easily as she had anticipated. it was one thing to make up her mind beforehand, and another to put her decision into execution. he was certainly not the rough, uncouth man she had expected to find. true, his language was the language of the prairie, and his clothes, yes, they surely belonged to his surroundings, but there was none of the uncleanness about them she had anticipated. it was his general manner, however, that affected her chiefly. how tall and strong he was, and the wonderful sunburn on his clean-cut face and massive arms! then he had such an air of reserve. no, it was not easy. finally, she decided to temporize, and wait for an opening. and in that she knew in her heart she was yielding to weakness. "my housekeeper tells me it was you who handed the farm over to her?" she said interrogatively. the man's eyes began to twinkle again. "was that your--housekeeper?" he inquired. "yes--mrs. ransford." joan felt even less at her ease confronted by those twinkling eyes. "she's a--bright woman." the man casually picked up a straw and began to chew it. joan saw that he was smiling broadly, and resented it. so she threw all the dignity she could summon into her next question. "then you must be mr. moreton kenyon!" she said. the man shook his head. "wrong. that's the 'padre,'" he announced curtly. joan forgot her resentment in her surprise. "the 'padre'! why, i thought mr. kenyon was a farmer!" the man nodded. "so he is. you see folks call him padre because he's a real good feller," he explained. then he added: "he's got white hair, too. a whole heap of it. that sort o' clinched it." the dark eyes had become quite serious again. there was even a tender light in them as he searched the girl's fair face. he was wondering what was yet to come. he was wondering how this interview was to bear on the future. in spite of his easy manner he dreaded lest the threats of mrs. ransford were about to be put into execution. joan accepted his explanation. "i see," she said. then, after a pause: "then who are you?" "me? oh, i'm 'buck,'" he responded, with a short laugh. "buck--who?" "jest plain 'buck.'" again came that short laugh. "mr. kenyon's son?" the man shook his head, and joan tried again. "his nephew?" again came that definite shake. joan persisted, but with growing impatience. "perhaps you're--his partner?" she said, feeling that if he again shook his head she must inevitably shake him. but she was spared a further trial. buck had been quick to realize her disappointment. nor had he any desire to inspire her anger. on the contrary, his one thought was to please and help her. "you see we're not related. ther's nuthin' between us but that he's jest my great big friend," he explained. his reward came promptly in the girl's sunny smile. and the sight of it quickened his pulses and set him longing to hold her again in his arms as he had done only yesterday. somehow she had taken a place in his thoughts which left him feeling very helpless. he never remembered feeling helpless before. it was as though her coming into his life had robbed him of all his confidence. yesterday he had found a woman almost in rags. yesterday she was in trouble, and it had seemed the simplest thing in the world for him to take her in his arms and carry her to the home he knew to be hers. now--now, all that confidence was gone. now an indefinable barrier, but none the less real, had been raised between them. it was a barrier he felt powerless to break down. this beautiful girl, with her deep violet eyes and wonderful red-gold hair, clad in her trim costume of lawn and serge, seemed to him like a creature from an undreamed-of world, and as remote from him as if thousands of miles separated them. he sighed as joan went on with her examination-- "i suppose you have come to fetch some of your big friend's belongings?" she said pleasantly. for answer buck suddenly flung out a protecting arm. "say, you're sure getting mussed with that dirty litter," he said almost reproachfully. "see, your fixin's are right agin it. say----" joan laughed outright at his look of profound concern. "that doesn't matter a bit," she exclaimed. "i must get used to being 'mussed-up.' you see, i'm a farmer--now." the other's concern promptly vanished. he loved to hear her laugh. "you never farmed any?" he asked. "never." joan shook her head in mock seriousness. "isn't it desperate of me? no, i'm straight from a city." buck withdrew his gaze from her face and glanced out at the hills. but it was only for a moment. his eyes came back as though drawn by a magnet. "guess you'll likely find it dull here--after a city," he said at last. "y' see, it's a heap quiet. it ain't quiet to me, but then i've never been to a city--unless you call leeson butte a city. some folks feel lonesome among these big hills." "i don't think i shall feel lonesome," joan said quickly. "the peace and quiet of this big world is all i ask. i left the city to get away from--oh, from the bustle of it all! yes, i want the rest and quiet of these hills more than anything else in the world." the passionate longing in her words left buck wondering. but he nodded sympathetically. "i'd say you'd get it right here," he declared. then he turned toward the great hills, and a subtle change seemed to come over his whole manner. his dark eyes wore a deep, far-away look in which shone a wonderfully tender affection. it was the face of a man who, perhaps for the first time, realizes the extent and depth of his love for the homeland which is his. "it's big--big," he went on, half to himself. "it's so big it sometimes makes me wonder. look at 'em," he cried, pointing out at the purpling distance, "rising step after step till it don't seem they can ever git bigger. an' between each step there's a sort of world different from any other. each one's hidden all up, so pryin' eyes can't see into 'em. there's life in those worlds, all sorts of life. an' it's jest fightin', lovin', dyin', eatin', sleepin', same as everywhere else. there's a big story in 'em somewhere--a great big story. an' it's all about the game of life goin' on in there, jest the same as it does here, an' anywher'. yes, it's a big story and hard to read for most of us. guess we don't ever finish readin' it, anyway--until we die. don't guess they intended us to. don't guess it would be good for us to read it easy." he turned slowly from the scene that meant so much to him, and smiled into joan's astonished eyes. "an' you're goin' to git busy--readin' that story?" he asked. the startled girl found herself answering almost before she was aware of it. "i--i hope to," she said simply. then she suddenly realized her own smallness. she felt almost overpowered with the bigness of what the man's words had shown her. it was wonderful to her the thought of this--this "scallawag." the word flashed through her mind, and with it came an even fuller realization of mrs. ransford's stupidity. the man's thought was the poet's insight into nature's wonderlands. he was speaking of that great mountain world as though it were a religion to him, as if it represented some treasured poetic ideal, or some lifelong, priceless friendship. she saw his answering nod of sympathy, and sighed her relief. just for one moment she had been afraid. she had been afraid of some sign of pity, even contempt. she felt her own weakness without that. now she was glad, and went on with more confidence. "i'm going to start from the very beginning," she said, with something akin to enthusiasm. "i'm going to start here--right here, on my very own farm. surely the rudiments must lie here--the rudiments that must be mastered before the greater task of reading that story is begun." she turned toward the blue hills, where the summer clouds were wrapped about the glistening snowcaps. "yes," she cried, clasping her hands enthusiastically, "i want to learn it all--all." suddenly she turned back and looked at him with a wonderful, smiling simplicity. "will you help me?" she said eagerly. "perhaps--in odd moments? will you help me with those--lessons?" buck's breath came quickly, and his simple heart was set thumping in his bosom. but his face was serious, and his eyes quite calm as he nodded. "it'll be dead easy for you to learn," he said, a new deep note sounding in his voice. "you'll learn anything i know, an' much more, in no time. you can't help but learn. you'll be quicker to understand, quicker to feel all those things. y' see i've got no sort of cleverness--nor nuthin'. i jest look around an' see things--an' then, then i think i know." he laughed quietly at his own conceit. "oh, yes! sometimes i guess i know it all. an' then i get sorry for folks that don't, an' i jest wonder how it comes everybody don't understand--same as me. then something happens." "yes, yes." joan was so eager she felt she could not wait for the pause that followed. buck laughed. "something happens, same as it did yesterday," he went on. "oh, it's big--it sure is!" he added. and he turned again to his contemplation of the hills. but joan promptly recalled his wandering attention. "you mean--the storm?" she demanded. buck nodded. "that--an' the other." "what--other?" "the washout," he said. then, as he saw the look of perplexity in the wide violet eyes, he went on to explain-- "you ain't heard? why, there was a washout on devil's hill, where for nigh a year they bin lookin' for gold. y' see they knew the gold was there, but couldn't jest locate it. for months an' months they ain't seen a sign o' color. they bin right down to 'hard pan.' they wer' jest starvin' their lives clear out. but they'd sank the'r pile in that hill, an' couldn't bring 'emselves to quit. then along comes the storm, an' right wher' they're working it washes a great lump o' the hill down. hundreds o' thousands o' tons of rock an' stuff it would have needed a train load of dynamite to shift." "yes, yes." joan's eagerness brought her a step nearer to him. "and they found----" "gold!" buck laughed. "lumps of it." "gold--in lumps!" the girl's eyes widened with an excitement which the discovery of the precious metal ever inspires. the man watched her thoughtfully. "why aren't you there?" joan demanded suddenly. "can't jest say." buck shrugged. "maybe it's because they bin lookin' fer gold, an'--wal, i haven't." "gold--in lumps!" again came the girl's amazed exclamation, and buck smiled at her enthusiasm. "sure. an' they kind o' blame you for it. they sort o' fancy you brought 'em their luck. y' see it came when you got around their hut. they say ther' wasn't no luck to the place till you brought it. an' now----" joan's eyes shone. "oh, i'm so glad. i'm so glad i've brought them----" but her expression of joy was never completed. she broke off with a sharp ejaculation, and the color died out of her cheeks, leaving her so ghastly pale that the man thought she was about to faint. she staggered back and leant for support against the wall of the barn, and buck sprang to her side. in a moment, however, she stood up and imperiously waved him aside. there was no mistaking the movement. her whole manner seemed to have frozen up. the frank girlishness had died as completely as though it had never been, and the man stood abashed, and at a loss for understanding. now he saw before him a woman still beautiful, but a woman whose eyes had lost every vestige of that happy light. despair was written in every feature, despair and utter hopelessness. her mouth, that beautiful mouth so rich and delicate, was now tight shut as of one in great suffering, and deep, hard lines had suddenly gathered about the corners of it. the change smote him to the heart, but left him utterly helpless. realization had come. joan had suddenly remembered all that lay behind her--all that had driven her to seek the remoteness of the wild western world. she had sought to flee from the fate which her aunt mercy had told her was hers, and now she knew that she might as well try to flee from her own shadow. oh, the horror of it all! these people believed that she had brought them their luck. _she knew that she had._ what was the disaster that must follow? what lives must go down before the sword a terrible fate had placed in her hand? for the moment panic held her in its grip. for a moment it seemed that death alone could save her from the dread consequences of the curse that was upon her. it was cruel, cruel--the desolation, the hopelessness of it all. and in her sudden anguish she prayed that death might be visited upon her. but even amidst the horror of her realization the influence of the man's presence was at work. she knew he was there a witness to the terror she could not hide, and so she strove for recovery. then she heard him speak, and at the sound of his quiet tone her nerves eased and she grew calmer. "i don't guess you recovered from the storm. i'd sure say you need rest," buck said in his gentle, solicitous fashion. and in her heart joan thanked him for the encouragement his words gave her. he had asked no questions. he had expressed no astonishment, and yet she knew he must have realized that her trouble was no physical ailment. "yes," she said, jumping at the opening he had given her, "i'm tired. i'll--i'll go back to the house." buck nodded, disguising his anxiety beneath a calm that seemed so natural to him. "jest get back an' rest. you needn't worry any 'bout the hosses, an' cows, an' things. i'm fixin' them for the night, an' i'll be right along in the morning to do the chores. y' see i know this farm, an' all that needs doin'. guess i was raised on it," he added, with a smile, "so the work's sort o' second nature to me." joan's chance had come, but she passed it by. she knew she ought to have refused his help. she ought to have, as mrs. ransford had said, sent him about his business. but she did nothing of the sort. she accepted. she did more. she held out her hand to him, and let him take it in both of his in a friendly pressure as she thanked him. "i'm--i'm very grateful," she said weakly. and the man flushed under his sunburn, while his temples hammered as the hot young blood mounted to his brain. a moment later buck stood staring at the angle of the barn round which joan had just vanished. he was half-dazed, and the only thing that seemed absolutely real to him was the gentle pressure of her hand as it had rested in his. he could feel it still; he could feel every pressure of the soft, warm flesh where it had lain on his hard palms. and all the time he stood there his whole body thrilled with an emotion that was almost painful. at last he stirred. he stooped and picked up the discarded fork. he had no definite purpose. he was scarcely aware of his action. he held it for a moment poised in the air. then slowly he let the prongs of it rest on the ground, and, leaning his chin on his hands clasped about the haft, stared out at the hills and gave himself up to such a dream as never before had entered his life. the sun was dipping behind the snowcaps, and for half an hour the work he had voluntarily undertaken remained untouched. how much longer he would have remained lost in his wonderful dreaming it would have been impossible to tell. but he was ruthlessly awakened, and all his youthful ardor received a cold douche as the evening quiet was suddenly broken by the harsh voices of the crowd of gold-seekers, whom he suddenly beheld approaching the farm along the trail. chapter xii the golden woman buck wondered as he noted the extraordinary picture of jubilation which the approaching crowd presented. in all his association with these people he had never witnessed anything to equal it or even come near it. he never remembered anything like a real outburst of joy during the long, dreary months since they had first camped on the banks of yellow creek. he watched the faces as they drew near. from the shelter of the barn, whither he had retreated, he had them in full view. he looked for the old, weary signs of their recent privations and sufferings. there were none, not one. they had passed as utterly as though they had never been. it was a spectacle in which he found the greatest pleasure. the men were clad in their work-stained clothing, their only clothing. their faces remained unwashed, and still bore the accumulations of dusty sweat from their day's fevered labors. but it was the light in their eyes, their grinning faces, the buoyancy of their gait that held him. he heard their voices lifted in such a tone as would have seemed impossible only a few days ago. the loud, harsh laugh, accompanying inconsequent jests and jibes, it was good to hear. these men were tasting the sweets of a moment of perfect happiness. buck knew well enough that soon, probably by the morrow, the moment would have passed, and they would have settled again to the stern calling of their lives. all his sympathy was with them, and their joy was reflected in his own feelings. their hope was his hope, their buoyancy was his buoyancy. for his happiness was complete at the moment, and thus he was left free to feel with those others. such was his own wonderful exaltation that the thought of the termination of these people's suffering was the final note that made his joy complete. he laid his fork aside and waited till they had passed his retreat. the object of their journey was obviously the farmhouse, and he felt that he must learn their further purpose. he remembered joan's going from him. he had seen the pain and trouble in her beautiful eyes, and so he feared that the sudden rush of animal spirits in these people would drive them to extravagances, well enough meant, but which might worry and even alarm her. he moved quickly out of the barn and looked after them. they had reached the house, and stood like a herd of subdued and silly sheep waiting for a sign from their leader. it was a quaint sight. the laugh and jest had died out, and only was the foolish grin left. yes, they certainly had a definite purpose in their minds, but they equally certainly were in doubt as to how it should be carried out. buck drew nearer without attracting their attention. the men were so deeply engaged with the dilemma of the moment that he might almost have joined the group without observation. but he merely desired to be on hand to help should the troubled girl need his help. he had no desire to take active part in the demonstration. as he came near he heard beasley's voice, and the very sound of it jarred unpleasantly on his ears. the man was talking in that half-cynical fashion which was never without an added venom behind it. "well," he heard him exclaim derisively, "wot's doin'? you're all mighty big talkers back ther' in camp, but i don't seem to hear any bright suggestions goin' around now. you start this gorl-durned racket like a pack o' weak-headed fools, yearnin' to pitch away what's been chucked right into your fool laps jest fer one o' blue grass pete's fat-head notions. well, wot's doin'? i ask." "you ke'p that ugly map o' yours closed," cried pete hotly. "_you_ ain't bein' robbed any." "guess i'll see to that," retorted beasley, with a grin. "the feller that robs me'll need to chew razors fer a pastime. if it comes to that you're yearnin' fer glory at the padre's expense--as usual." buck's ears tingled, and he drew closer. beasley always had a knack of so blending truth with his personal venom that it stung far more than downright insult. he wondered what the padre's generosity had been, and wherein lay its connection with their present purpose. the explanation was not long in coming, for montana ike took up the challenge amidst a storm of ominous murmurs from the gathered men. "don't take nuthin' from him," cried the youngster scornfully. then he turned on beasley fiercely. "you need buck around to set you right, mister lousy beasley," he cried. "we ain't robbin' anybody, an' sure not the padre. he found that nugget, an' it's his to give or do wot he likes with. the gal brought us the luck, an' the padre guessed it was only right she should have the first find. that nugget was the first find, an' the padre found it. wal!" but as no reply was forthcoming he hurried on, turning his tongue loose in the best abuse he could command at the moment. "you're a rotten sort o' skunk anyway, an' you ain't got a decent thought in your diseased head. i'd like to say right here that you hate seein' a sixty-ounce lump o' gold in any other hands than your own dirty paws. that's your trouble, so jest shut right up while better folks handles a matter wot's a sight too delicate fer a rotten mind like yours." the smile had returned to every face except the foxy features of the ex-churchman, who for once had no adequate retort ready. curly saunders nodded appreciation, and helped to solve the momentary dilemma prevailing. "that's sure done it fer you, montana," he cried gleefully. "you make the presentation. i'd say i never heard so elegant a flow of argyment in this yer camp. you'll talk most pretty to the leddy." "an' it ain't fer me to say i can't do it if need be, neither," said montana modestly. "don't guess it's much of a stunt yappin' pretty to a sorrel-topped gal." abe allinson laughed. "it's sure up to you, ike," he said. "guess you best git busy right away." the rest waited for the youngster's acceptance of the responsibility, which promptly came with perfect good-will. "gee! but you're a gritty outfit," he cried, with a wide grin. "say, i guess you'd need a fence around you shootin' jack-rabbits. jack-rabbits is ter'ble fierce. guess you'd most be skeered to death at a skippin' lamb bleatin' fer its mother. can't say i ever heerd tell as a feller need be skeered of a pair o' gal's eyes, nor a sight o' red ha'r. you said it was red, pete, didn't you? i'd sure say a bright feller don't need to worry any over talkin' pretty to a gal like that. she's up agin a proposition if she thinks she ken skeer me. wher' is she? jest call her out. she's goin' to git her med'cine right here in the open. i ain't doin' no parlor tricks." the boy stood out from the crowd with a decided show of mild bravado, but he glanced about him, seeking the moral support of his fellows. "you best knock on the door, ike," said curly quietly. ike hesitated. then he turned doubtfully to those behind. "you--you mean that?" he inquired. "you ain't foolin' none?" then, as though realizing his own weakness, he began to bluster. "cos i ain't takin' no foolin' in a racket o' this sort. an' any feller thinks he ken fool me'll sure hate hisself when i'm through with him." a mild snicker greeted his "big talk," and the boy flushed hotly. he was half-inclined to add further resentment, but, second thoughts prevailing, he abruptly turned to the door and hammered on it as though anticipating stern resistance from those within. * * * * * inside the house mrs. ransford was debating the situation with her mistress. she had witnessed the advance of the besieging party, and, half-frightened and half-resentful, the latter perhaps the more plainly manifested, she was detailing in unmeasured terms her opinions and fears to the still harassed girl. "jest git a peek at 'em through the window, miss--'ma'm' i should say, on'y i don't allus remember right, as you might say. ther's twenty an' more o' the lowest down bums ever i see outside a state penitentiary. they're sure the most ter'blest lot ever i did see. an' they got 'emselves fixed up wi' guns an' knives, an' what not an' sech, till you can't see the color o' their clothes fer the dirt on 'em. i'll swar' to goodness, as the sayin' is, they ain't never see no water sence they was christened, if they ever was christened, which i don't believe no gospel preacher would ever so demean himself. an' as fer soap, say, they couldn't even spell it if you was to hand 'em the whole soap fact'ry literature of a fi'-cent daily noos-sheet. they're jest ter'ble, an' it seems to me we sure need a reg'ment o' united states cavalry settin' around on horses an' field guns to pertect us, ef we're to farm this one-hossed layout. they're 'bad men,' mum, miss--which i made a mistake ag'in--that's wot they are. i've read about 'em in the fi'-cent comics, so i sure know 'em when i see 'em. you can't never make no mistake. they're jest goin' to shoot us all up to glory, an' they'll dance around on our corpses, same as if they was nuthin', nor no account anyways." in spite of her recent shock joan found herself smiling at the strange mixture of fear and anger in the old woman's manner. but she felt it necessary to check her flow of wild accusations. she guessed easily enough who the men were that were approaching the house, but their object remained a mystery. "you're hasty. you mustn't judge these people by their appearance. they're----" but the feverish tongue was promptly set clacking again. "an' wot, i asks, is they to be judged by if not by wot they are? they jest come along a-yowlin', an' a-shootin' off'n their guns an' things, same as they allus do when they's on the war-path. scalps, that's wot they's after. scalps, no more an' no less. an' to think o' me at my time o' life a-fallin' a prey to injuns, as you might say. oh, if on'y my pore george d. ransford was alive! he'd 'a' give 'em scalps. he was a man, sure, even though he did set around playin' poker all night when i was in labor with my twins. he was a great fighter was george d.--as the marks on my body ken show to this very day." at that instant there was a terrific knocking at the door which opened directly into the parlor in which the waiting women were standing, and the farm-wife jumped and staggered back, and, finally, collapsed into an adjacent chair. "sakes on us," she cried, her fat face turning a sort of pea-green, "if only my pore george d.----" but joan's patience could stand no more. "for goodness' sake go back to your kitchen, you absurd creature. i'll see to the matter. i----" but the old woman wobbled to her feet almost weeping. "now, don't 'ee, miss," she cried in her tearful anxiety, getting her form of address right the first time. "don't 'ee be rash. ther'll be blood spilt, ther' sure will. ther's on'y one way, miss, you must talk 'em nice, an', an' if they go fer to take liberties, you--why you," she edged toward her kitchen, "you jest send for me right away." she hurried out, and the moment she was out of sight fled precipitately to the farthest extremity of her own domain and armed herself with the heavy iron shaker of the cook-stove. in the meantime joan went to the door and flung it wide open. in spite of the farm-wife's warnings she had not a shadow of doubt as to the peaceful object of the visitation, and rather felt that in some sort of way it was intended as an expression of good-will and greeting. had not buck told her that they held her in the light of some sort of benefactor? so she stood in the doorway erect and waiting, with a calm face, on which there was not a shadow of a smile. she took in the gathering at a glance, and her eyes came to rest upon the foremost figure of montana ike. she noted his slim, boyish figure, the weak, animal expression shining in his furtive eyes. to her he looked just what he was, a virile specimen of reckless young manhood, of vicious and untamed spirit. she saw at once that he was standing out from his companions, and understood that, for the moment at least, he was their leader. "good-evening," she said, her attitude mechanically unbending. "evenin', miss," responded ike bravely, and then relapsed into a violent condition of blushing through his dirt. he stood there paralyzed at the girl's beauty. he just gaped foolishly at her, his eyes seeking refuge in dwelling upon the well-cut skirt she wore and the perfect whiteness of the lawn shirt-waist, which permitted the delicate pink tinge of her arms and shoulders to show through it. all his bravery was gone--all his assurance. if his life had depended on it not one word of an address on behalf of his fellows could he have uttered. joan saw his confusion, and mercifully came to his rescue. "you wish to see me?" she inquired, with a smile which plunged the boy into even more hopeless confusion. as no answer was forthcoming she looked appealingly at the other faces. "it's very kind of you all to come here," she said gently. "is--is there anything i can--do for you?" suddenly beasley's voice made itself heard. "git busy, ike, you're spokesman," he cried. "git on with the presentation--ladle out the ad--dress. you're kind o' lookin' foolish." he followed up his words with his unpleasant laugh, and it was the sting the youthful leader needed. he turned fiercely on the speaker, his momentary paralysis all vanished. "ef i'm spokesman," he cried, "guess we don't need no buttin' in from beasley melford." then he turned again quickly. "astin' your pardon, miss," he added apologetically. "that's all right," said joan, smiling amiably. "what are you 'spokesman' for?" the boy grinned foolishly. "can't rightly say, missie." then he jerked his head in his comrades' direction. "guess if you was to ast _them_, they'd call theirselves _men_." "i didn't say 'who,' i said 'what,'" joan protested, with a laugh at his desperately serious manner. "'what?'" he murmured, smearing his dirty forehead with a horny hand in the effort of his task. then he brightened. "why, gener'ly speakin'," he went on, with sudden enthusiasm, "they ain't much better'n skippin' sheep. y' see they want to but darsent. so--wal--they jest set me up to sling the hot air." the girl looked appealingly at the rough faces for assistance. but instead of help she only beheld an expression of general discontent turned on the unconscious back of the spokesman. and coming back to the boy she pursued the only course possible. "i--i don't think i quite understand," she said. ike readily agreed with her. "i'm durned sure you can't," he cried heartily. "they jest think it a rotten kind of a job handin' a red-ha'r'd gal a few words an' an a'mighty fine hunk o' gold. that's cos they ain't been dragged up jest right. you can't expect elegant feedin' at a hog trough. now it's kind o' diff'rent wi' me. i----" "oh, quit," cried the sharp voice of the exasperated abe allinson. and there was no doubt but he was speaking for the rest of the audience. pete followed him in a tone of equal resentment. "that ain't no sort o' way ad--dressin' a leddy," he said angrily. "course it ain't," sneered beasley. "ther's sure bats roostin' in your belfry, ike." the boy jumped round on the instant. his good-nature could stand the jibes of his comrades generally, but beasley's sneers neither he nor any one else could endure. "who's that yappin'?" the youngster cried, glowering into the speaker's face. "that the feller buck called an outlaw passon?" he demanded. his right hand slipped to the butt of his gun. "say you," he cried threateningly, "if you got anything to say i'm right here yearnin' to listen." joan saw the half-drawn weapon, and in the same instant became aware of a movement on the part of the man beasley. she was horrified, expecting one of those fierce collisions she had heard about. but the moment passed, and, though she did not realize it, it was caused by ike's gun leaving its holster first. her woman's fear urged her, and she raised a protesting hand. "please--please," she cried, her eyes dilating with apprehension. "what have i done that you should come here to quarrel?" buck in the background smiled. he was mentally applauding the girl's readiness, while he watched the others closely. ike turned to her again, and his anger had merged into a comical look of chagrin. "y' see, missie," he said in a fresh tone of apology, "ther's fellers around here wi' no sort o' manners. they're scairt to death makin' a big talk to a red-ha'r'd gal, so i jest got to do it. an' i sez it, it ain't easy, folks like me speechin' to folks like you----" "oh, git on!" cried pete in a tired voice. "your hot air's nigh freezin'," laughed soapy kid. "quit it," cried ike hotly. "ain't they an ignorant lot o' hogs?" he went on, appealing to the smiling girl. "y' see, missie, we're right glad you come along. we're prospectin' this layout fer gold an'----" "an' we ain't had no sort o' luck till you got around," added pete hastily. "in the storm," nodded curly saunders. "all mussed-up an' beat to hell," cried ike, feeling that he was being ousted from his rights. "yes, an' buck carried you to home, an' rode in fer the doc, an' had you fixed right," cried abe. ike looked round indignantly. "say, is youse fellers makin' this big talk or me? ain't yearnin', if any feller's lookin' fer glory." his challenge was received with a chorus of laughter. "you're doin' fine," cried the kid. ike favored the speaker with a contemptuous stare and returned to his work. he shrugged. "they ain't no account anyway, missie," he assured her, "guess they're sore. wal, y' see you come along in the storm, an' what should happen but the side o' devil's hill drops out, an' sets gold rollin' around like--like taters fallin' through a rotten sack. 'gold?' sez we, an' gold it is. 'who bro't us sech luck?' we asts. an' ther' it is right ther', so ther' can't be no mistake. jest a pore, sick gal wi' red ha'r, all beat to hell an'----" "gee, ain't it beautiful!" sneered curly. soapy pretended to weep, and abe thumped him heavily on the back. "cheer up, kid," he grinned. "'tain't as bad as it seems. ike'll feel better after he's had his vittles." pete sniggered. "ain't he comic?" he cried. then, seizing the opportunity, while ike turned round to retort he hustled him aside and usurped his place. "say, missie, it's jest this, you're the golden woman who bro't us our luck. some of us ain't got your name right, nor nuthin'. anyway that don't figger nuthin'. we ain't had no luck till you come along, so you're jest our golden woman, an' we're goin' to hand you----" joan started back as though the man had struck her. her beautiful cheeks went a ghastly pallor. "no--no!" she cried half-wildly. "and why for not?" demanded pete. "but my name is joan," she cried, a terrible dread almost overpowering her. "you see 'golden' isn't my real name," she explained, without pausing to think. "that's only a nickname my father ga--gave me. i--i was christened 'joan.'" pete slapped his thigh heavily, and a great grin spread over his face. "say, don't it beat the band?" he cried in wild delight. "don't it?" he repeated, appealing to the world at large. "'golden.' that's her name, an' we only hit on it cos she's got gold ha'r, an' bro't us gold. an' all the time her pa used to call her 'golden.' can you beat it?" then he looked into joan's face with admiring eyes. "say, missie, that's your name for jest as long as you stop around this layout. that's her name, ain't it, boys?" he appealed to the crowd. "here, give it her good an' plenty, boys. hooray for the 'golden woman'!" instantly the air was filled with a harsh cheering that left the girl almost weeping in her terror and misery. but the men saw nothing of the effect of their good-will. they were only too glad to be able to find such an outlet to their feelings. when the cheering ceased pete thrust out an arm toward her. his palm was stretched open, and lying on it was the great yellow nugget that the padre had found--the first find of the "strike." "that's it, missie," he cried, his wild eyes rolling delightedly. "look right ther'. that's fer you. the padre found it, an' it's his to give, an' he sent it to you. that's the sort o' luck you bro't us." the crowd closed in with necks craning to observe the wonderful nugget of gold; to the finding of its kind their lives were devoted. beasley was at pete's elbow, the greediest of them all. "it wasn't no scrapin' an' scratchin' luck," the enthusiastic pete hurried on. "it was gold in hunks you bro't us." beasley's eyes lit, and buck, watching closely, edged in. "it's a present to you, missie," pete went on. "that's wot we come for. jest to hand you that nugget. nigh sixty ounces solid gold, an' the first found at this yer camp." balanced on his hand he thrust it farther out for the girl to take, but she shrank back. beasley saw the movement and laughed. he pointed at it and leered up into her face. "you're sure right," he cried. "don't you touch it. jest look at it. say, can't you fellers see, or are you blind? she ain't blind. she can see. she's seen wot's ther'. it's a death's head. gold? gee, i tell you it's a death's head! look at them eye-sockets," he cried, pointing at the curious moulding of the nugget. "ther's the nose bones, an' the jaw. look at them teeth, too, all gold-filled, same as if a dentist had done 'em." he laughed maliciously. "it's a dandy present fer a lady. a keepsake!" the men were crowding to see the markings which beasley pointed out. they were quite plain. they were so obvious that something like horror lit the superstitious faces. beasley, watching, saw that he had made his point, so he hurried on-- "don't you touch it, miss," he cried gleefully, as though he thoroughly enjoyed delivering his warning. "it's rotten luck if you do. that gold is devil's gold. it's come from devil's hill, in a devil's storm. it's a death's head, an' there's all the trouble in the world in it. there's----" his prophecy remained uncompleted. he was suddenly caught by a powerful hand, and the next instant he found himself swung to the outskirts of the crowd with terrific force. in a furious rage he pulled himself together just in time to see buck, pale with anger, seize the nugget from pete's outstretched palm. "you don't need to worry with the trouble in that gold," he said with biting coldness, raising it at arm's length above his head. then before any one was aware of his intention he flung it with all his force upon the flagstone at joan's feet. quickly he stooped and picked it up again, and again flung it down with all his strength. he repeated the process several times, and finally held it out toward the troubled girl. "you ken take it now," he said, his whole manner softening. "guess beasley's 'death's head' has gone--to its grave. ther' ain't no sort o' trouble can hurt any, if--you only come down on it hard enough. the trouble ain't in that gold now, only in the back of beasley's head. an' when it gets loose, wal--i allow there's folks around here won't see it come your way. you can sure take it now." joan reached out a timid hand, while her troubled violet eyes looked into buck's face as though fascinated. the man moved a step nearer, and the small hand closed over the battered nugget. "take it," he said encouragingly. "it's an expression of the good feelings of the boys. an' i don't guess you need be scared of _them_." joan took the gold, but there was no smile in her eyes, no thanks on her lips. she stepped back to her doorway and passed within. "i'm tired," she said, and her words were solely addressed to buck. he nodded, while she closed the door. then he turned about. "wal!" he said. and his manner was a decided dismissal. chapter xiii the call of youth the fur fort was a relic of ancient days, when the old-time traders of the north sent their legions of pelt hunters from the far limits of the northern ice-world to the sunny western slopes of the great american continent. it was at such a place as this, hemmed in amidst the foot-hills, that they established their factor and his handful of armed men; lonely sentries at the gates of the mountain world, to levy an exorbitant tax upon the harvest of furs within. here, within the ponderous stockade, now fallen into sore decay, behind iron-bound doors secured by mighty wooden locks, and barred with balks of timber, sheltered beneath the frowning muzzles of half a dozen futile carronades, they reveled in obscene orgies and committed their barbaric atrocities under the name of justice and commerce. here they amassed wealth for the parent companies in distant lands, and ruthlessly despoiled the wild of its furry denizens. these were the pioneers, sturdy savages little better than the red man himself, little better in their lives than the creatures upon which they preyed. but they were for the most part men, vigorous, dauntless men who not only made history, but prepared the way for those who were to come after, leaving them a heritage of unsurpassable magnificence. now, this old-time relic afforded a shelter for two lonely men, whose only emulation of their predecessors was in the craft that was theirs. in all else there remained nothing in common, unless it were that common asset of all pioneers, a sturdy courage. they certainly lacked nothing of this. but whereas the courage of their predecessors, judging them by all historical records, in quality belonged largely to the more brutal side of life, these men had no such inspiration. their calling was something in the nature of a passionate craving for the exercise of wits and instincts in a hard field where the creatures of the wild meet the human upon almost equal terms. isolation was nothing new to these men. the remotenesses of the back world had been their life for years. they understood its every mood, and met them with nerves in perfect tune. the mountains filled their whole outlook. they desired nothing better, nothing more. yet it seemed strange that this should be. for the padre had not always lived beyond the fringes of civilization. he was a man of education, a man of thought and even culture. these things must have been obvious to the most casual observer. in buck's case it was easier to understand. he had known no other life than this. and yet he, too, might well have been expected to look askance at a future lost to all those things which he knew to lay beyond. was he not at the threshold of life? were not his veins thrilling with the rich, red tide of youth? were not all those instincts which go to make up the sum of young human life as much a part of him as of those others who haunted the banks of yellow creek? the whole scheme was surely unusual. the padre's instinct was to roam deeper and deeper into the wild, and buck, offered his release from its wondrous thrall, had refused it. thus they embraced this new home. the vast and often decaying timbers, hewn out of the very forests they loved, cried out with all the old associations they bore and held them. the miniature citadel contained within the trenchant stockade, the old pelt stores, roofless and worm-eaten, the armory which still suggested the clank of half-armored men, who lived only for the joy of defying death. the factor's house, whence, in the days gone by, the orders for battle had been issued, and the sentence of life and death had been handed out with scant regard for justice. then there were the ruined walls of the common-room, where the fighting men had caroused and slept. the scenes of frightful orgies held in this place were easy to conjure. all these things counted in a manner which perhaps remained unacknowledged by either. but nevertheless they were as surely a part of the lure as the chase itself, with all its elemental attraction. they had restored just as much of the old factor's house as they needed for their simple wants. two rooms were all they occupied, two rooms as simple and plain as their own lives. buck had added a new roof of logs and clay plaster. he had set up two stretchers with straw-stuffed paillasses for beds. he had manufactured a powerful table, and set it upon legs cut from pine saplings. to this he had added the removal of a cook-stove and two chairs, and their own personal wardrobe from the farm, and so the place was complete. yet not quite. there was an arm rack upon the wall of the living-room, an arm rack that had at one time doubtless supported the old flintlocks of the early fur hunters. this he had restored, and laden it with their own armory and the spare traps of their craft; while their only luxury was the fastening up beside the doorway of a frameless looking-glass for shaving purposes. they required a place to sleep in, a place in which to store their produce, a place in which to break their fast and eat their meal at dusk. here it lay, ready to their hand, affording them just these simple necessities, and so they adopted it. but the new life troubled the padre in moments when he allowed himself to dwell upon the younger man's future. he had offered him his release, at the time he had parted with the farm, from a sense of simple duty. it would have been a sore blow to him had buck accepted, yet he would have submitted readily, even gladly, for he felt that with the passing of the farm out of their hands he had far more certainly robbed buck of all provision for his future than he had deprived himself, who was the actual owner. he felt that in seeking to help the little starving colony he had done it, in reality, at buck's expense. something of this was in his mind as he pushed away from their frugal breakfast-table. he stood in the doorway filling his pipe, while buck cleared the tin plates and pannikins and plunged them into the boiler of hot water on the stove. he leant his stalwart shoulders against the door casing, and stared out at the wooded valley which crossed the front of the house. beyond it, over the opposite rise, he could see the dim outline of the crest of devil's hill several miles away. he felt that by rights buck should be there--somewhere there beyond the valley. not because the youngster had any desire for the wealth that was flowing into the greedy hands of the gold-seekers. it was simply the thought of a man who knows far more of the world than he cares to remember. he felt that in all honesty he should point out the duties of a man to himself in these days when advancement alone counts, and manhood, without worldly position, goes for so very little. he was not quite sure that buck didn't perfectly understand these things for himself. he had such a wonderful understanding and insight. however, his duty was plain, and it was not his way to shrink from it. buck was sprinkling the earth floor preparatory to sweeping it when the padre let his eyes wander back into the room. "got things fixed?" he inquired casually. "mostly." buck began to sweep with that practiced hand which never raises a dust on an earthen floor. the padre watched his movements thoughtfully. "seems queer seeing you sweeping and doing chores like a--a hired girl." he laughed presently. buck looked up and rested on his broom. he smilingly surveyed his early benefactor and friend. "what's worryin'?" he inquired in his direct fashion. the padre stirred uneasily. he knocked the ashes from his pipe and pressed the glowing tobacco down with the head of a rusty nail. "oh, nothing worrying," he said, turning back to his survey of the valley beyond the decaying stockade. "the sun'll be over the hilltops in half an hour," he went on. but the manner of his answer told buck all he wanted to know. he too glanced out beyond the valley. "yes," he ejaculated, and went on sweeping. a moment later he paused again. "guess i can't be out at the traps till noon. mebbe you ken do without me--till then?" "sure." the padre nodded at the valley. then he added: "i've been thinking." "'bout that gold strike? 'bout me? you bin thinkin' i ought to quit the traps, an'--make good wi' them. i know." the elder man turned back sharply and looked into the dark eyes with a shrewd smile. "you generally get what i'm thinking," he said. "guess you're not much of a riddle--to me," buck laughed, drawing the moist dust into a heap preparatory to picking it up. the padre laughed too. "maybe you know how i'm feeling about things, then? y' see there's nothing for you now but half the farm money. that's yours anyway. it isn't a pile. seems to me you ought to be--out there making a big position for yourself." he nodded in the direction of devil's hill. "out of gold?" "why not? it's an opportunity." "what for?" buck inquired, without a semblance of enthusiasm. "why, for going ahead--with other folks." buck nodded. "i know. goin' to a city with a big pile. a big house. elegant clothes. hired servants. congress. goin' around with a splash of big type in the noospapers." "that's not quite all, buck." the man at the door shook his head. "a man when he rises doesn't need to go in for--well, for vulgar display. there are a heap of other things besides. what about the intellectual side of civilization? what about the advancement of good causes? what about--well, all those things we reckon worth while out here? then, too, you'll be marrying some day." buck picked up the dust and carefully emptied it into the blazing stove. he watched it burn for a moment, and then replaced the round iron top. "marryin' needs--all those things?" he inquired at last. "well, i wouldn't say that," returned the other quickly. he knew something was lying behind buck's quiet manner, and it made him a little uncomfortable. "most men find a means of marrying when they want to--if they're men. look here," he went on, with a sudden outburst of simple candor, "i want to be fair to you, and i want you to be fair to yourself. there's an opportunity over there"--he pointed with his pipe in the direction of devil's hill--"an opportunity to make a pile, which will help you to take a position in the world. i don't want you to stay with me from any mistaken sense of gratitude or duty. it is my lot, and my desire, to remain in these hills. but you--you've got your life before you. you can rise to the top if you want to. i know you. i know your capacity. take your share of the farm money, and--get busy." "an' if i don't want to--get busy?" buck's dark eyes were alight with a curious, intense warmth. the padre shrugged and pushed his pipe into the corner of his mouth. "there's nothing more to be said," he replied. "but ther' is, padre. there sure is," cried buck, stepping over to him and laying one hand on the great shoulder nearest him. "i get all you say. i've got it long ago. you bin worryin' to say all this since ever you got back from sellin' the farm. an' it's like you. but you an' me don't jest figger alike. you got twenty more years of the world than me, so your eyes look around you different. that's natural. you're guessin' that hill is an opportunity for me. wal, i'm guessin' it ain't. mebbe it is for others, but not for me. i got my opportunity twenty years ago, an' you give me that opportunity. i was starvin' to death then, an' you helped me out. you're my opportunity, an' it makes me glad to think of it. wher' you go i go, an' when we both done, why, i guess it won't be hard to see that what i done an' what you done was meant for us both to do. we're huntin' pelts for a livin' now, an' when the time comes for us to quit it, why, we'll both quit it together, an' so it'll go on. it don't matter wher' it takes us. say," he went on, turning away abruptly. "guess i'll jest haul the drinkin' water before i get." the padre turned his quiet eyes on the slim back. "and what about when you think of marrying?" he asked shrewdly. buck paused to push the boiler off the stove. he shook his head and pointed at the sky. "guess the sun's gettin' up," he said. the padre laughed and prepared to depart. "where you off to this morning?" he inquired presently. "that gal ain't got a hired man, yet," buck explained simply, as he picked up his saddle. then he added ingenuously, "y' see i don't guess she ken do the chores, an' the old woman ain't got time to--for talkin'." the padre nodded while he bent over the breech of his winchester. he had no wish for buck to see the smile his words had conjured. buck swung his saddle on to his shoulder and passed out of the hut in the direction of the building he had converted into a barn. and when he had gone the padre looked after him. "he says she's handsome, with red-gold hair and blue eyes," he murmured. then a far-away look stole into his steady eyes, and their stare fixed itself upon the doorway of the barn through which buck had just vanished. "curious," he muttered. "they've nicknamed her 'golden,' which happened to be a nickname--her father gave her." he stood for some moments lost in thought. then, suddenly pulling himself together, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared into the woods. chapter xiv a whirlwind visit joan was idling dispiritedly over her breakfast. a long, wakeful night had at last ended in the usual aching head and eyes ringed with shadows. she felt dreary, and looked forward drearily to inspecting her farm--which, in her normal state, would have inspired nothing but perfect delight--with something like apprehension. her beginning in the new life had been swamped in a series of disastrous events which left her convinced of the impossibility of escape from the painful shadow of the past. all night her brain had been whirling in a perfect chaos of thought as she reviewed her advent to the farm. there had been nothing, from her point of view, but disaster upon disaster. first her arrival. then--why, then the "luck" of the gold find. in her eyes, what was that but the threat of disaster to come? had not her aunt told her that this extraordinary luck that she must ever bring was part of the curse shadowing her life? then the coincidence of her nickname. it was truly hideous. the very incongruity of it made it seem the most terrible disaster of all. surely, more than anything else, it pointed the hand of fate. it was her father's nickname for her, and he--he had been the worst sufferer at her hands. the whole thing seemed so hopeless, so useless. what was the use of her struggle against this hateful fate? a spirit of rebellion urged her, and she felt half-inclined to abandon herself to the life that was hers; to harden herself, and, taking the cup life offered her, drain it to the dregs. why should she waste her life battling with a force which seemed all-powerful? why should she submit to the terror of it? what were the affairs of these others to her? she was not responsible. nothing in the whole sane world of ethics could hold her responsible. the spirit of rebellion, for the moment, obtained the upper hand. she had youth; fortune had bestowed a face and figure upon her that she need not be ashamed of, and a healthy capacity for enjoyment. then why should she abandon all these gifts because of a fate for which she was in no way responsible? she pushed back her chair from the table, and crossed to the open front door. the sun was not yet up, and the morning air was dewy and fresh with perfumes such as she had never experienced in st. ellis. it was--yes, it was good to be alive on such a day in spite of everything. she glanced out over the little farm--her farm. yes, it was all hers, bought and paid for, and she still had money for all her needs and to do those things she wanted to do. she turned away and looked back into the little parlor with its simple furnishings, its mannish odds and ends upon the wall. she heard the sounds of the old housekeeper busy in her heavy, blundering way with the domestic work of her home. she had so many plans for the future, and every one in its inception had given her the greatest delight. now--now this hideous skeleton had stepped from its cupboard and robbed her of every joy. no, she would not stand it. she would steel her heart to these stupid, girlish superstitions. she would-- her gloomy reflections were abruptly cut short. there was a rush and clatter. in a perfect whirlwind of haste a horseman dashed up, dragged his horse back on to its haunches as he pulled up, and flung out of the saddle. it was the boy, montana ike. he grabbed his disreputable hat from his ginger head, and stared agape at the vision of loveliness he had come in search of. "good--good-morning," joan said, hardly knowing how to greet this strange apparition. the boy nodded, and moistened his lips as though consumed by a sudden thirst. for a moment they stared stupidly at each other. then joan, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, endeavored to relieve it. "daylight?" she exclaimed interrogatively, "and you not yet out at the--where the gold is?" ike shook his head and grinned the harder. then his tongue loosened, and his words came with a sudden rush that left the girl wondering. "y' see the folks is eatin' breakfast," he said. "y' see i jest cut it right out, an' come along. i heard pete--you know blue grass pete--he's a low-down kentuckian--he said he tho't some un orter git around hyar case you was queer after last night. sed he guessed he would. guess i'll git back 'fore they're busy. it'll take 'em all hustlin' to git ahead o' me." "that's very kind," joan replied mechanically. but the encouragement was scarcely needed. the boy rushed on, like a river in flood time. "oh, it ain't zac'ly kind!" he said. "y' see they're mostly a low-down lot, an' pete's the low-downest. he's bad, is pete, an' ain't no bizness around a leddy. then beasley melford. he's jest a durned skunk anyways. don't guess curly saunders ain't much account neither. he makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. abe allinson, he's sort o' mean, too. y' see abe's slaney dick's pardner, an' they bin workin' gold so long they ain't got a tho't in their gray heads 'cept gold an' rot-gut rye. still, they're better'n the kid. the kid's soft, so we call him soapy. guess you orter know 'em all right away. y' see it's easy a gal misbelievin' the rights o' folks." joan smiled. something of the man's object was becoming plain. she studied his face while he was proceeding to metaphorically nail up each of these men's coffins, and the curious animal alertness of it held her interest. his eyes were wide and restless, and a hardness marked the corners of his rather loose mouth. she wondered if that hardness were natural, or whether it had been acquired in the precarious life that these people lived. "it's just as well to know--everybody," she said gently. "oh, it sure is, in a country like this," the man went on confidently. "that's why i come along. fellers chasin' gold is a hell of a bad outfit. y' see, i ain't bin long chasin' gold, an' i don't figger to keep at it long neither. y' see, i got a good claim. guess it's sure the best. we drew lots for 'em last night. it was the padre fixed that up. he's a great feller, the padre. an' i got the best one--wher' the padre found that nugget you got. oh, i'm lucky--dead lucky! guess i'll git a pile out o' my claim, sure. a great big pile. then i'm goin' to live swell in a big city an' have a great big outfit of folks workin' fer me. an' i'll git hooked up with a swell gal. it'll be a bully proposition. guess the gal'll be lucky, cos i'll have such a big pile." the youngster's enthusiasm and conceit were astounding. nor could joan help the coldness they inspired in her voice. "she will be lucky--marrying you," she agreed. "but--aren't you afraid you'll miss something if the others get out to the hill before you? i mean, they being such a bad lot." the man became serious for a second before he answered. then, in a moment, his face brightened into a grin of confidence. "course you can't trust 'em," he said, quite missing joan's desire to be rid of him. "but i don't guess any of 'em's likely to try monkey tricks. guess if any feller robbed me i'd shoot him down in his tracks. they know that, sure. oh, no, they won't play no monkey tricks. an' anyway, i ain't givin' 'em a chance." he moved toward his horse and replaced the reins over its neck in spite of his brave words. joan understood. she saw the meanness underlying his pretended solicitation for her well-being. all her sex instincts were aroused, and she quite understood the purpose of the somewhat brutal youth. "you're quite right to give them no chances," she said coldly. "and now, i s'pose, you're going right out to your claim?" "i am that," exclaimed the other, with a gleam of cupidity in his shifty eyes. "i'm goin' right away to dig lumps of gold fer to buy di'monds fer that gal." he laughed uproariously at his pleasantry as he leapt into the saddle. but in a moment his mirth had passed, and his whole expression suddenly hardened as he bent down from the saddle. "but ef pete comes around you git busy an' boot him right out. pete's bad--a real bad un. he's wuss'n beasley. wal, i won't say he's wuss. but he's as bad. git me?" joan nodded. she had no alternative. the fellow sickened her. she had been ready to meet him as one of these irresponsible people, ignorant, perhaps dissipated, but at least well-meaning. but here she found the lower, meaner traits of manhood she thought were only to be found amongst the dregs of a city. it was not a pleasant experience, and she was glad to be rid of him. "i think i understand. good-bye." "you're a bright gal, you sure are," the youth vouchsafed cordially. "i guessed you'd understand. i like gals who understand quick. that's the sort o' gal i'm goin' to hitch up with." he grinned, and crushed his hat well down on his head. "wal, so long. see you ag'in. course i can't git around till after i finish on my claim. guess you won't feel lonesome tho', you got to git your farm fixed right. wal, so long." joan nodded as the man rode off, thankful for the termination of his vicious, whirlwind visit. utterly disgusted, she turned back to the house to find mrs. ransford standing in the doorway. "what's he want?" the old woman demanded in her most uncompromising manner. the girl laughed mirthlessly. "i think he wants a little honesty and kindliness knocked into his very warped nature," she declared, with a sigh. "warped? warped?" the old woman caught at the word, and it seemed to set her groping in search of adequate epithets in which to express her feelings. "i don't know what that means. but he's it anyways--they all are." and she vanished again into the culinary kingdom over which she presided. chapter xv the claims of duty half an hour later joan left the house for the barn. in that brief space she had lived through one of those swiftly-passing epochs in human life when mind, heart and inclination are brought into something approaching actual conflict. but, stern as the fight with weakness had been, she had emerged chastened and victorious. realization had come to her--realization of whither her troubles had been leading her. she knew she must not abandon herself to the selfishness which her brief rebellion had prompted. she was young, inexperienced, and of a highly-sensitive temperament, but she was not weak. and it was this fact which urged her now. metaphorically speaking, she had determined to tackle life with shirt sleeves rolled up. she knew that duty was not only duty, but something which was to yield her a measure of happiness. she knew, too, that duty was not only to be regarded from a point of view of its benefit to others. there was a duty to oneself--which must not be claimed for the sin of selfishness--just as surely as to others; that in its thoroughness of performance lay the secret of all that was worth having in life, and that the disobedience of the laws of such duty, the neglect of them, was to outrage the canons of all life's ethics, and to bring down upon the head of the offender the inevitable punishment. she must live her life calmly, honestly, whatever the fate hanging over her. that was the first and most important decision she arrived at. she must not weakly yield to panic inspired by superstitious dread. to do so was, she felt, to undermine her whole moral being. she must ignore this shadow, she must live a life that defied its power. and when the cloud grew too black, if that method were not sufficient to dispel it, she must appeal for alleviation and support from that power which would never deny its weak and helpless creatures. she knew that human endurance of suffering was intended to be limited, and that when that limit was honestly reached support was still waiting for the sufferer. thus she left the house in a chastened spirit, and once more full of youthful courage. the work, the new life she had chosen for herself, must fill every moment of her waking hours. and somehow she felt that with her stern resolve had come a foretaste of that happiness she demanded of life. her spirits rose as she neared the barn, and a wild excitement filled her as she contemplated a minute inspection of her belongings and her intention to personally minister to their wants. something of the instinct of motherhood stirred in her veins at the thought. these were hers to care for--hers to attend and "do" for. she laughed as she thought of the family awaiting her. what a family. yes, why not? these creatures were for the guardianship of the human race. with all their physical might they were helpless dependents on human aid. yes, they must be thought for and cared for. they were her family. and she laughed again. the barn was a sturdy building. nor was it unpicturesque with its solid, dovetailed lateral logs and heavy thatched roof. she saw that it was built with the same care and finish as the house that was now her home. she could not help wondering at the manner of man who had designed and built it. she saw in it such deliberateness, such skill. there was nothing here of the slap-dash prairie carpenter she had read of--the man who flung up buildings simply for the needs of the moment. these were buildings that might last for ages and still retain all their original weather-proof comfort for the creatures they sheltered. she felt pleased with this man moreton kenyon. she passed round the angle of the building to the doorway, and paused for a moment to admire the scheme of the farm. every building fronted on a largish open space, which was split by the waters of yellow creek, beyond which lay the corrals. here was forethought. the operative part of the farm was hidden from the house, and every detail of it was adjacent one to another. there was the wagon shed with a wagon in it, and harvesting implements stabled in perfect order. there were the hog-pens, the chicken-houses; the sheds for milch cows. there was the barn and the miniature grain store; then, across the creek, a well, with accompanying drinking-trough, corrals with lowing kine in them; a branding cage. and beyond these she could see a vista of fenced pastures. as she stood reveling in the survey of her little possession the thought recurred to her that this was hers, all hers. it was the home of her family, and she laughed still more happily as she passed into the barn. pushing the door open she found herself greeted in the half-light by a chorus of equine whinnying such as she had never before experienced, and the sound thrilled her. there stood the team of great clydesdale horses, their long, fiddle heads turned round staring at her with softly inquiring eyes. she wanted to cry out in her joy, but, restraining herself, walked up beside the nearest of them and patted its glossy sides. her touch was a caress which more than gave expression to her delight. those were precious moments to joan. they were so precious, indeed, that she quite forgot the purpose which had brought her there. she forgot that it was hers to tend and feed these great, helpless creatures. it was enough for her to sit on the swinging bail between the stalls, and revel in the gentle nuzzling of two velvety noses. in those first moments her sensations were unforgettable. the joy of it all held her in its thrall, and, for the moment at least, there was nothing else in the world. the moments passed unheeded. every sound was lost to her. and so it came about that she did not hear the galloping of a horse approaching. she did not hear it come to a halt near by. she did not even notice the figure that presently filled the doorway. and only did her first realization of the intrusion come with the pleasant sound of a man's deep voice. "bob an' kitty's kind o' friendly, miss joan," it said. the girl turned with a jump and found herself confronted by buck's smiling face. and oddly enough her first flash of thought was that this man had used her own name, and not her nickname, and she was grateful to him. then she saw that he had the fork in his hand with which she had first seen him, and she remembered his overnight promise to do those very things for her which she had set out to do, but, alas! had forgotten all about. his presence became a reproach at once, and a slight pucker of displeasure drew her even brows together. "you're very kind," she began, "but----" buck's smile broadened. "'but's' a ter'ble word," he said. "it most always goes ahead of something unpleasant." he quietly laid the fork aside, and, gathering an armful of hay, proceeded to fill kitty's manger. "now what you wer' going to say was something like that old--i mean your housekeeper--said, only you wouldn't say it so mean. you jest want to say i'm not to git around doing the chores here for the reason you can't accept favors, an' you don't guess it would be right to offer me pay, same as a 'hired' man." he hayed bob's manger, and then loosened both horses' collar chains. "if you'll sit on the oat-box i'll turn 'em round an' take 'em to water at the trough. that's it." joan obeyed him without a word, and the horses were led out. and while they were gone the girl was left to an unpleasant contemplation of the situation. she determined to deal with the matter boldly, however, and began the moment he returned. "you're quite right, mr. buck," she began. "buck--jest plain buck," he interrupted her. "but i hadn't jest finished," he went on deliberately. "i want to show you how you can't do those things the old--your housekeeper was yearnin' to do. y' see, you can't get a 'hired' man nearer than leeson butte. you can't get him in less'n two weeks. you can't do the chores yourself, an' that old--your housekeeper ain't fit to do anything but make hash. then you can't let the stock go hungry. besides all of which you're doing me a real kindness letting me help you out. ther's no favor to you. it's sure to me, an' these creatures which can't do things for themselves. so it would be a sound proposition to cut that 'but' right out of our talk an' send word to your lawyer feller in leeson butte for a 'hired' man. an' when he gits around, why--well, you won't be needin' me." all the time he was speaking his fork was busy clearing the stalls of their litter, and, at the finish, he leant on the haft of it and quizzically smiled into the girl's beautiful, half-troubled face. joan contemplated protesting, but somehow his manner was so friendly, so frank and honest, that she felt it would be ungracious of her. finally he won the day, and she broke into a little laugh of yielding. "you talk too--too well for me," she cried. "i oughtn't to accept," she added. "i know i oughtn't, but what am i to do? i can't do--these things." then she added regretfully: "and i thought it would be all so simple." buck saw her disappointment, and it troubled him. he felt in a measure responsible, so he hastened to make amends. "wal, y' see, men are rough an' strong. they can do the things needed around a farm. i don't guess women wer' made for--for the rough work of life. it ain't a thing to feel mean about. it's jest in the nature of things." joan nodded. all the time he was speaking she had been studying him, watching the play of expression upon his mobile features rather than paying due attention to his words. she decided that she liked the look of him. it was not that he was particularly handsome. he seemed so strong, and yet so--so unconcerned. she wondered if that were only his manner. she knew that often volcanic natures, reckless, were hidden under a perfect calm. she wondered if it were so in his case. his eyes were so full of a brilliant dark light. yes, surely this man roused might be an interesting personality. she remembered him last night. she remembered the strange, superheated fire in those same eyes when he had hurled the gold at her feet. yes, she felt sure a tremendous force lay behind his calmness of manner. the man's thoughts were far less analytical. his was not the nature to search the psychology of a beautiful girl. to him joan was the most wonderful thing on earth. she was something to be reverenced, to be worshipped. his imagination, fired by all his youthful impulse, endowed her with every gift that the mind of simple manhood could conceive, every virtue, every beauty of mind as well as body. joan watched him for some moments as he continued his work. it was wonderful how easy he made it seem, how quickly it was done. she even found herself regretting that in a few minutes the morning "chores" would be finished, and this man would be away to--where? "you must have been up very early to get over here," she said designedly. her girlish curiosity and interest could no longer be denied. she must find out what he was and what he did for a living. "i'm mostly up early," he replied simply. "yes, of course. but--you have your own--stock to see to?" she felt quite pleased with her cunning. but her pleasure was short-lived. "sure," he returned, with disarming frankness. "it really doesn't seem fair that you should have the double work," she went on, with another attempt to penetrate his reserve. buck's smile was utterly baffling. he walked to the door of the barn and gave a prolonged, low whistle. then he came back. "it sure wouldn't be fair if i didn't," he said simply. "but you must have heaps to do on your--farm," joan went on, feeling that she was on the right track at last "look at what you're doing for me. these horses, the cattle, the--the pigs and things. i've no doubt you have much more to see to of your own." at that moment the head of cæsar appeared in the doorway. he stared round the familiar stable evidently searching for his master. finally catching sight of him, he clattered in to the place and rubbed his handsome head against buck's shoulder. "this is my stock," buck said, affectionately rubbing the creature's nose. "an' i generally manage to see to him while the kettle's boilin' for breakfast." just for a moment joan felt abashed at her deliberate attempt to pump her companion. then the quick, inquiring survey of the beautiful horse was too much for her, and she left her seat to join in the caresses. "isn't he a beauty?" she cried, smoothing his silken face from the star on his forehead to the tip of his wide muzzle. just for a second her hand came into contact with the man's, and, all unconscious, she let it remain. then suddenly realizing the position she drew it away rather sharply. buck made no move, but had she only looked up she must have noted the sudden pallor of his face. that brief touch, so unconscious, so unmeaning, had again set his pulses hammering through his body. and it had needed all his control to repress the fiery impulse that stirred him. he longed to kiss that soft white hand. he longed to take it in his own strong palms and hold it for his own, to keep it forever. but the moment passed, and when he spoke it was in the same pleasant, easy fashion. "i kind o' thought i ought to let him go with the farm," he said, "only the padre wouldn't think of it. he'd have made a dandy feller for you to ride." but joan was up in arms in a moment. "i'd never have forgiven you if you'd parted with him," she cried. "he's--he's perfectly beautiful." buck nodded. "he's a good feller." and his tone said far more than his words. he led the beast to the door, and, giving him an affectionate slap, sent him trotting off. "i must git busy," he said, with a laugh. "the hay needs cuttin'. guess i'll cut till dinner. after that i've got to quit till sundown. i'll go right on cuttin' each mornin' till your 'hired' man comes along. y' see if it ain't cut now we'll be too late. i'll just throw the harness on kitty an' bob an' leave 'em to git through with their feed while i see the hogs fed. guess that old--your housekeeper can milk? i ran the cows into the corral as i came up. seems to me she could do most things she got fixed on doing." joan laughed. "she was 'fixed' on sending you about what she called 'your business,'" she said slyly. buck raised his brows in mock chagrin. "guess she succeeded, too. i sure got busy right away--until you come along, and--and got me quittin'." "oh!" joan stared at him with round eyes of reproach. then she burst out laughing. "well, now you shall hear the truth for that, and you'll have to answer me too, mr. buck." "buck--jest plain buck." the girl made an impatient little movement. "well, then, 'buck.' i simply came along to thank you, and to tell you that i couldn't allow your help--except as a 'hired' man. and--i'm afraid you'll think me very curious--i came to find out who you were, and how you came to find me and bring me home here. and--and i wanted to know--well, everything about my arrival. and you--you've made it all very difficult. you--insist on doing all this for me. you're--you're not so kind as i thought." joan's complaint was made half-laughingly and half-seriously. buck saw the reality underlying her words, but determined to ignore it and only answer her lighter manner. "if you'd only asked me these things i'd have told you right away," he protested, smiling. "y' see you never asked me." "i--i was trying to," joan said feebly. buck paused in the act of securing kitty's harness. "that old--your housekeeper wouldn't ha' spent a deal of time trying," he said dryly. joan ignored the allusion. "i don't believe you intend to tell me now," she said. buck left the stall and stood before the corn-box. his eyes were still smiling though his manner was tremendously serious. "you're wantin' to know who i am," he said. then he paused, glancing out of the doorway, and the girl watched the return of that thoughtful expression which she had come to associate with his usual manner. "wal," he said at last, in his final way, "i'm buck, and i was picked up on the trail-side, starving, twenty years ago by the padre. he's raised me, an' we're big friends. an' now, since we sold his farm, we're living at the old fur fort, back ther' in the hills, and we're goin' to get a living pelt hunting. i've got no folks, an' no name except buck. i was called buck. all i can remember is that my folks were farmers, but got burnt out in a prairie fire, and--burnt to death. that's why i was on the trail starving when the padre found me." joan's eyes had softened with a gentle sympathy, but she offered no word. "'bout the other," the man went on, turning back to the girl, and letting his eyes rest on her fair face, "that's easy, too. i was at the shack of the boys in the storm. you come along an' wer' lying right ther' on the door-sill when i found you. i jest carried you right here. y' see, i guessed who you wer'. your cart was wrecked on the bank o' the creek----" "and the teamster?" joan's eyes were eagerly appealing. buck turned away. "oh, guess he was ther' too." then he abruptly moved toward the horses. "say, i'll get on an' cut that hay." joan understood. she knew that the teamster was dead. she sighed deeply, and as the sound reached him buck looked round. it was on the tip of his tongue to say some word of comfort, for he knew that joan had understood that the man was dead, but the girl herself, under the influence of her new resolve, made it unnecessary. she rose from her seat, and her manner suggested a forced lightness. "i'll go and feed the chickens," she said. "i--i ought to be capable of doing that." buck smiled as he prepared to go and see to the hogs. "guess you won't have trouble--if you know what to give 'em," he said. nor was he quite sure if the girl were angry or smiling as she hurried out of the barn. chapter xvi gold and alloy the seedling of success planted in rank soil generally develops a wild, pernicious growth which, until the summer of its life has passed, is untameable and pollutes all that with which it comes into contact. the husbandman may pluck at its roots, but the seed is flung broadcast, and he finds himself wringing his hands helplessly in the wilderness. so it was on the banks of yellow creek. the seedling was already flinging its tendrils and fastening tightly upon the life of the little camp. the change had come within three weeks of the moment when the padre had gazed upon that first wonderful find of gold. so rapid was its development that it was almost staggering to the man who stood by watching the result of the news he had first carried to the camp. the padre wandered the hills with trap and gun. nothing could win him from the pursuit which was his. but his eyes were wide open to those things which had somehow become the care of his leisure. many of his evenings were spent in the camp, and there he saw and heard the things which, in his working moments, gave him food for a disquietude of thought. he knew that the luck that had come to the camp was no ordinary luck. his first find had suggested something phenomenal, but it was nothing to the reality. a wealth almost incalculable had been yielded by a prodigal nature. every claim into which he, with the assistance of the men of the camp, had divided the find, measured carefully and balloted for, was rich beyond all dreams. two or three were richer than the others, but this was the luck of the ballot, and the natural envy inspired thereby was of a comparatively harmless character. at first the thought of these things was one of a pleasant satisfaction. these men had waited, and suffered, and starved for their chance, and he was glad their chance had come. how many had waited, and suffered and starved, as they had done, and done all those things in vain? yes, it was a pleasant thought, and it gave him zest and hope in his own life. the first days passed in a perfect whirlwind of joy. where before had sounded only the moanings of despair, now the banks of yellow creek rang with laughter and joyous voices, bragging, hoping, jesting. one and all saw their long-dimmed hopes looming bright in the prospect of fulfilment. then came a change. just at first it was hardly noticeable. but it swiftly developed, and the shrewd mind of the watcher in the hills realized that the days of halcyon were passing all too swiftly. men were no longer satisfied with hopes. they wanted realities. to want the realities with their simple, unrestrained passions, and the means of obtaining them at their disposal, was to demand them. to demand them was to have them. they wanted a saloon. they wanted an organized means of gambling, they wanted a town, with all its means of satisfying appetites that had all too long hungered for what they regarded as the necessary pleasures of life. they wanted a means of spending the accumulations gleaned from the ample purse of mother nature. and, in a moment, they set about the work of possessing these things. as is always the case the means was not far to seek. it needed but one mind, keener in self-interest than the rest, and that mind was to hand. beasley melford, at no time a man who cared for the physical hardships of the life of these people, saw his opportunity and snatched it. he saw in it a far greater gold-mine than his own claim could ever yield him, and he promptly laid his plans. he set to work without any noise, any fuss. he was too foxy to shout until his purpose was beyond all possibility of failure. he simply disappeared from the camp for a week. his absence was noted, but no one cared. they were too full of their own affairs. the only people who thought on the matter were the padre and buck. nor did they speak of it until he had been missing four days. then it was, one evening as they were returning from their traps, the padre gave some inkling of what had been busy in his thoughts all day. "it's queer about beasley," he said, pausing to look back over a great valley out of which they had just climbed, and beyond which the westering sun was shining upon the distant snow-fields. buck turned sharply at the sound of his companion's voice. they were not given to talking much out on these hills. "he's been away nigh four days," he said, and took the opportunity of shifting his burden of six freshly-taken fox pelts and lighting his pipe. the padre nodded. "i think he'll be back soon," he said. then he added slowly: "it seems a pity." "his coming back?" buck eyed his companion quickly. "yes." "wher' d'you reckon he's gone?" the elder man raised a pair of astonished brows. "why, to leeson butte," he said decidedly. then he went on quietly, but with neither doubt nor hesitation: "there's a real big change coming here--when beasley gets back. these men want drink, they are getting restless for high play. they are hankering for--for the flesh-pots they think their gold entitles them to. beasley will give them all those things when he comes back. it's a pity." buck thought for some moments before he answered. he was viewing the prospect from the standpoint of his years. "they must sure have had 'em anyway," he said at last. "ye--es." the padre understood what was in the other's mind. "you see," he went on presently, "i wasn't thinking of that so much. it's--well, it amounts to this. these poor devils are just working to fill beasley's pockets. beasley's the man who'll benefit by this 'strike.' in a few months the others will be on the road again, going through all--that they've gone through before." "i guess they will," buck agreed. his point of view had changed. he was seeing through the older eyes. after that they moved on toward their home lost in the thoughts which their brief talk had inspired. in a few days the padre's prophecy was fulfilled. beasley returned from leeson butte at the head of a small convoy. he had contrived his negotiations with a wonderful skill and foresight. his whole object had been secrecy, and this had been difficult. to shout the wealth of the camp in leeson butte would have been to bring instantly an avalanche of adventurers and speculators to the banks of yellow creek. his capital was limited to the small amount he had secretly hoarded while his comrades were starving, and the gold he had taken from his claim. the latter was his chief asset not from its amount, but its nature. therefore he had been forced to take the leading merchant in the little prairie city into his confidence, and to suggest a partnership. this he had done, and a plausible tongue, and the sight of the wonderful raw gold, had had the effect he desired. the partnership was arranged, the immediate finance was forthcoming, and, for the time at least, leeson butte was left in utter ignorance of its neighboring eldorado. once he had made his deal with silas mcginnis, beasley promptly opened his heart in characteristic fashion. "they're all sheep, every one of 'em," he beamed upon his confederate. "they'll be so easy fleecin' it seems hardly worth while. all they need is liquor, and cards, and dice. yes, an' a few women hangin' around. you can leave the rest to themselves. we'll get the gilt, and to hell with the dough under it. gee, it's an elegant proposition!" and he rubbed his hands gleefully. "but ther' must be no delay. we must get busy right away before folks get wind of the luck. i'll need marquees an' things until i can get a reg'lar shanty set up. have you got a wood spoiler you can trust?" mcginnis nodded. "then weight him down with money so we don't need to trust him too much, and ship him out with the lumber so he can begin right away. we're goin' to make an elegant pile." in his final remark lay the key-note of his purpose. but the truth of it would have been infinitely more sure had the pronoun been singular. never was so much popularity extended to beasley in his life as at the moment of his return to camp. when the gold-seekers beheld his convoy, with the wagons loaded with all those things their hearts and stomachs craved, the majority found themselves in a condition almost ready to fling welcoming arms about his neck. their wishes had been expressed, their demands made, and now, here they were fulfilled. a rush of trade began almost before the storekeeper's marquee was erected. it began without regard to cost, at least on the purchasers' parts. the currency was gold, weighed in scales which beasley had provided, and his exorbitant charges remained quite unheeded by the reckless creatures he had marked down for his victims. in twenty-four hours the camp was in high revelry. in forty-eight beasley's rough organization was nearing completion. and long before half those hours had passed gold was pouring into the storekeeper's coffers at a pace he had never even dreamed of. but the first rush was far too strenuous to be maintained for long. the strain was too great even for such wild spirits as peopled the camp. it soared to its height with a dazzling rapidity, culminating in a number of quarrels and fights, mixed up with some incipient shooting, after which a slight reaction set in which reduced it to a simmer at a magnificently profitable level for the foxy storekeeper. still, there remained ample evidence that the devil was rioting in the camp and would continue to do so just as long as the lure of gold could tempt his victims. then came the inevitable. in a few days it became apparent that the news of the "strike" had percolated abroad. beasley's attempt at secrecy had lasted him just sufficiently long to establish himself as the chief trader. then came the rush from the outside. it was almost magical the change that occurred in one day. the place became suddenly alive with strangers from leeson butte and bay creek, and even farther afield. legitimate traders came to spy out the land. loafers came in and sat about waiting for developments. gamblers, suave, easy, ingratiating, foregathered and started the ball of high stakes rolling. and in their wake came all that class of carrion which is ever seeking something for nothing. but the final brand of lawlessness was set on the camp by the arrival of a number of jaded, painted women, who took up their abode in a disused shack sufficiently adjacent to beasley's store to suit their purposes. it was all very painful, all very deplorable. yet it was the perfectly natural evolution of a successful mining camp--a place where, before the firm hand of morality can obtain its restraining grip, human nature just runs wild. the seedling had grown. its rank tendrils were everywhere reaching out and choking all the better life about it. its seeds were scattered broadcast and had germinated as only such seeds can. it only remained for the husbandman to gaze regretful and impotent upon his handiwork. his hand had planted the seedling, and now--already the wilderness was beyond all control. something of this was in the padre's mind as he sat in his doorway awaiting buck's return for the night. the dusk was growing, and already the shadows within the ancient stockade were black with approaching night. the waiting man had forgotten his pipe, so deeply was he engrossed with his thoughts, and it rested cold in his powerful hand. he sat on oblivious of everything but that chain of calm reasoning with which he tried to tell himself that the things happening down there on the banks of the yellow creek must be. he told himself that he had always known it; that the very fact of this lawlessness pointed the camp's prosperity, and showed how certainly the luck had come to stay. later, order would be established out of the chaos, but for the moment there was nothing to be done but--wait. all this he told himself, but it left him dissatisfied, and his thoughts concentrated upon the one person he blamed for all the mischief. beasley was the man--and he felt that wherever beasley might be, trouble would never be far----what was that? an unusual sound had caught and held his attention. he rose quickly from his seat and stood peering out into the darkness which he had failed to notice creeping on him. there was no mistaking it. the sound of running feet was quite plain. why running? he turned about and moved over to the arm rack. the next moment he was in the doorway again with his winchester at his side. a few moments later a short, stocky man leapt out of the darkness and halted before him. as the padre recognized him his finger left the trigger of his gun. "for gawd's sake don't shoot, padre!" it was curly saunders' voice, and the other laid his gun aside. "what's amiss?" demanded the padre, noting the man's painful gasping for breath. for a moment curly hesitated. then, finally, between heavy breaths he answered the challenge. "i got mad with the kid--soapy," he said. "guess i shot him up. he ain't dead an' ain't goin' to die, but beasley, curse him, set 'em on to lynch me. they're all mad drunk--guess i was, too, 'fore i started to run--an' they come hot foot after me. i jest got legs of 'em an' come along here. it's--it's a mighty long ways." the padre listened without moving a muscle--the story so perfectly fitted in with his thoughts. "the kid isn't dead? he isn't going to die?" his voice had neither condemnation nor sympathy in it. "no. it's jest a flesh wound on the outside of his thigh." "what was the trouble?" "why, the durned young skunk wus jest tryin' to set them--them women payin' a 'party' call on the gal at the farm, an' they wus drunk enough to do it. it made me mad--an'--an', wal, we got busy with our tongues, an' i shot him up fair an' squar'." "and how about beasley?" "why, it was him set the kid to git the women on the racket. when he see how i'd stopped it he got madder than hell, an' went right out fer lynchin' me. the boys wus drunk enough to listen to his lousy talk." "was he drunk?" "not on your life. beasley's too sweet on the dollars. but i guess he's got his knife into that golden woman of ours." the padre had no more questions to ask. he dropped back into the room and lit the oil lamp. "come right in, curly," he said kindly. then he laid his rifle on the table and pointed at it. "the magazine's loaded plumb up. guess no man has a right to give up his life without a kick. that'll help you if they come along--which they won't. maybe buck'll be along directly. don't shoot him down. anyway he's got cæsar with him--so you'll know. i'm going down to the camp." for a second the two men looked into each other's eyes. the padre read the suspicion in curly's. he also saw the unhealthy lines in his cheeks and round his mouth. nor could he help feeling disgusted at the thoughts of the fortune that had come to the camp and brought all these hideous changes in its wake. he shook his head. "i'm not giving you away," he said. "guess i'll be back in an hour." curly nodded and moved over to one of the two chairs. "thanks, padre," he said as the other passed quickly out of the room. chapter xvii two points of view beasley melford was in a detestable mood. for one reason his miserable bar was empty of all customers, and, for another, he knew that he was responsible for the fact. had he any sense of humor, the absurdity of the thing must have forced itself upon him and possibly helped to improve his temper. but he had no humor, and so abandoned himself to the venomous temper that was practically the mainspring of his life. he cursed his absent customers. he cursed the man, curly saunders. he cursed the girl whom the trouble had been about. but more than all he cursed himself for his own folly in permitting a desire to bait joan rest to interfere with his business. in his restless mood he sought to occupy himself, and, nothing else offering, he cleared his rough counter of glasses, plunged them into a bucket of filthy water, and set them out to drain. then he turned his attention to his two oil lamps. he snuffed them with his dirty fingers in a vain attempt to improve their miserable light. then, seating himself upon his counter, he lit a cheap green cigar and prepared to wait. "damn 'em all anyway," he muttered comprehensively, and abandoned himself to watching the hands of a cheap alarm clock creeping on toward the hour of nine. apparently the soothing influence of his cigar changed the trend of his thoughts, for presently he began to smile in his own unpleasant way. he was reviewing the scene which his venom had inspired, and the possibilities of it--at the moment delayed, but not abandoned--gave him a peculiar sense of gratification. he was thinking, too, of joan rest and some others. he was thinking of the day of her arrival in the camp, and the scene that had followed buck's discovery of her. he could never forgive that scene, or those who took part in it. buck, more surely than anybody else, he could never forgive. he had always hated buck and his friend the padre. they had been in a position to hand out benefits to the starving camp, and patronage was an intolerable insult to a man of his peculiar venom. the thought that he owed those men anything was anathema to him, for he knew in his heart that they despised him. since the day of joan's coming he had pondered upon how he could pay buck something of that which he owed him for the insult that still rankled. he had been called an "outlaw parson," and the truth of the appellation made the insult only the more maddening. nothing else could have hurt the man so much as to remind him of the downfall which had reduced him to an "outlaw parson." he had told buck then that he would not forget. he might have added that he could not forget. so, ever since, he had cast about for any and every means of hurting the man who had injured him, and his curiously mean mind set him groping in the remotest and more subtle directions. nor had it taken him long to locate the most vulnerable point in buck's armor. he had realized something of the possibilities at the first coming of joan. he had seen then the effect of the beautiful inanimate body upon the man's susceptibilities. it had been instantaneous. then had come that scene at the farm, and buck's further insult over the gold which he had hated to see pass into the girl's possession. it was then that the first glimmer of an opening for revenge had shown itself to him. the rest was the simple matter of camp gossip. here he learned, through the ridicule bestowed upon montana ike and pete, who were always trying to outdo each other in their rivalry for the favors of joan, and who never missed an opportunity of visiting the farm when they knew they would find her there, of buck's constant attendance upon joan. he needed very little of his evil imagination to tell him the rest. with buck in love with the woman it was a simple enough process to his scheming mind to drive home his revenge upon the man--through her. the necessary inspiration had come that night, when the four women vultures, plying their trade of preying upon the men in his bar, had reached a sufficient degree of drunkenness. then it had occurred to his devilish mind to bribe them into going across to the farm and paying what he was pleased to call a "party" call upon its mistress, and, in their own phraseology, to "raise hell with her." it was a master stroke. then had come curly's interference. the fool had spoilt it all. nobody but curly had attempted to interfere. the men had all been too drunk to bother, and the women had jumped at the chance of morally rending a virtuous member of their own sex. he laughed silently as he thought of it all. but his laugh only expressed his gratification at the subtlety of his ideas. his failure still annoyed him. curly had stood champion for this golden woman, as they called her. well, it wasn't his, beasley's, fault if he hadn't paid for his interference by this time. the men were quite drunk enough to hang him, or shoot him for "doing up" young kid, who had been a mere tool in the matter. he cordially hoped they had. anyway, the sport at joan's expense was too good to miss, and the night was still young. the prospect almost entirely restored his good-humor, and he was still smiling when the door was suddenly pushed open and the padre's burly figure appeared on the threshold. the saloon-keeper's smile died at sight of the familiar white hair. of all the people on yellow creek this was the man he least wanted to see at the moment. but he was shrewd enough to avoid any sign of open antagonism. he knew well enough that moreton kenyon was neither a fool nor a coward. he knew that to openly measure swords with him was to challenge a man of far superior intellect and strength, and the issue was pretty sure to go against him. besides, this man they affectionately called the padre had the entire good-will of the place. but though he always avoided open antagonism the storekeeper never let go his grip on his dislike. he clung to it hoping to discover some means of breaking the man's position in the camp and bringing about an utter revulsion of the public feeling for him. there was much about the padre that gave him food for thought. one detail in particular was always in his mind, a detail such as a mind like his was bound to question closely. he could never understand the man's object in the isolation of the life he had lived for so many years here in the back country of the west. however, he was only concerned at the moment with the object of this unusual visit, and his shrewd speculation turned upon the pursuit of curly. "evenin', padre," he said, with a cordiality the most exacting could have found no fault with. "good-evening," replied the newcomer, smiling pleasantly as he glanced round the sordid hovel. then he added: "times are changed, sure. but--where are your customers?" beasley's quick eyes gazed sharply at the perfect mask of disarming geniality. he was looking for some sign to give him a lead, but there was only easy good-nature in the deep gray eyes beneath their shaggy brows. "guess they're out chasin' that fool-head curly saunders," he said unguardedly. however, he saw his mistake in an instant and tried to rectify it. "y' see they're always skylarkin' when they git liquor under their belts." "skylarking?" the padre propped himself against the bar, and his eyes suddenly rested on an ugly stain on the sand floor. beasley followed his glance, and beheld the pool of blood which had flowed from the kid's wound. he cursed himself for not having obliterated it. then, in a moment, he decided to carry the matter with a high hand. "psha'! what's the use'n beatin' around!" he said half-defiantly. "they're chasin' curly to lynch him for shootin' up the kid." the padre gave a well-assumed start and emitted a low whistle. then he turned directly toward the counter. "you best have a drink on me--for the good of the house," he said. "i'll take rye." beasley swung himself across the counter with a laugh. "say, that beats the devil!" he cried. "i'll sure drink with you. no one sooner." the padre nodded. "splendid," he smiled. then as the other passed glasses and the bottle, he went on: "tell us about it--the racket, i mean." beasley helped himself to a drink and laughed harshly. "wal, i didn't get it right," he said, raising his glass. "here's 'how'!" he gulped down his drink and set the empty glass on the counter. "y' see, i was handin' out drinks when the racket started. they were all muckin' around with them four sluts that come in town the other day. guess they was all most sloshed to the gills. first thing i know they were quarreling, then some un got busy with a gun. then they started chasin' curly, an' i see the kid lying around shot up. it was jest a flesh wound, an' i had him boosted out to his own shack. his partner, pete--they struck a partnership, those two--why, i guess he's seein' to him. 'tain't on'y a scratch." the padre set his glass down. he had not drunk his liquor at a gulp like the other. "pity," he said, his eyes turned again to the blood-stained floor. "i s'pose it was the women--i mean the cause?" the man's manner was so disarming that beasley felt quite safe in "opening out." "pity?" he laughed brutally. "wher's the pity? course it was the women. it's always the women. set men around a bunch of women and ther's always trouble. it's always been, and it always will be. ther's no pity about it i can see. we're all made that way, and those who set us on this rotten earth meant it so, or it wouldn't be." the padre's gray eyes surveyed the narrow face before him. this man, with his virulent meanness, his iron-gray hair, his chequered past, always interested him. "and do you think this sort of trouble would occur if--if the men hadn't been drunk?" he asked pointedly. beasley's antagonism surged, but his outward seeming was perfectly amiable. "meaning me?" he asked, with a grin. the padre shrugged. "i was thinking that these things have been occurring ever since the camp was flooded with----" "rye!" beasley's eyes sparkled. he reached the padre's now empty glass and gave him a fresh one, pushing the bottle toward him. "you'll hev a drink on me, an' if you've got time, i'll tell you about this thing." the other submitted, and the drink was poured out. the padre ignored his. "get right ahead," he said in his easy way. beasley leered over the rim of his glass as he drank his whisky. "you think it's rye," he said, setting his glass down with unnecessary force. "an' i say it's the women--or the woman. trouble come to this camp with that tow-headed gal over at the farm. anybody with two eyes could see that. anybody that wasn't as blind as a dotin' mother. the boys are all mad 'bout her. they're plumb-crazed. they got her tow-head and sky-blue eyes on their addled brains, an' all the youngsters, anyway, are fumin' jealous of each other, and ready to shoot, or do anything else that comes handy, to out the other feller. that's the root of the trouble--an' you brought that about selling her your farm." beasley had let himself go intending to aggravate, but the other's manner still remained undisturbed. "but this only happens when they're drunk," he said mildly. beasley's angry impatience broke out. "tcha'! drunk or sober it don't make any difference. i tell you the whole camp's on edge over that gal. it only needs a word to set things hummin'. it's that gal! she's a jonah, a hoodoo to us all--to this place. she's got rotten luck all over her--and you brought her here. you needn't try an' sling mud at me fer handing them the rot-gut the boys ask for. get that woman out of the place and things'll level up right away." the man's rudeness still seemed to have no effect. "but all this doesn't seem to fit in with--with this affair to-night," the padre argued. "you said it began, you thought, over the four women you allow in here." beasley was being steadily drawn without knowing it. his swift-rising spleen led him farther into the trap. "so it did," he snapped. then he laughed mirthlessly. "y' see some one suggested those gals pay a 'party' call on your golden woman," he said with elaborate sarcasm. "and it was because mr. curly saunders sort o' fancies he's got some sort of right to that lady he butted in and shot up the kid." "who suggested it?" asked the other quickly, his mild gray eyes hardening. "why, the kid." the padre looked the saloon-keeper squarely in the eye. "and who put it into that foolish boy's head?" he asked slowly. beasley's face purpled with rage. "you needn't to put things that way with me," he cried. "if you got things to say, say 'em right out. you reckon i was the man who suggested----" "i do." the padre's eyes were wide open. the hard gray gleam literally bored into the other's heated face. he stood up, his whole body rigid with purpose. "i say right here that you were responsible for it all. the kid wasn't capable of inventing such a dirty trick on a decent girl. he was sufficiently drunk to be influenced by you, and, but for curly's timely interference, you would doubtless have had your rotten way. i tell you the trouble, whatever trouble happens in this camp, is trouble which you are directly or indirectly responsible for. these men, in their sober senses, are harmless. give them the poison you charge extortionately for and they are ready to do anything. i warn you, beasley, to be careful what you do--be damned careful. there are ways of beating you, and, by thunder! i'll beat you at your own game! good-night!" the padre turned and walked out, leaving the discomfited storekeeper speechless with rage, his narrow eyes glaring after him. moreton kenyon was never a man to allow an impulse of anger to get the better of him. all that he had said to beasley he had made up his mind to say before starting for the camp. there was only one way of dealing with the man's genius for mischief. and that way did not lie in the direction of persuasion or moral talk. force was the only thing such a nature as his would yield to. the padre knew well enough that such force lay to his command should he choose to exert his influence in the camp. he was man of the world enough to understand that the moral condition of the life in this camp must level itself. it could not be regulated--yet. but the protection of a young and beautiful girl was not only his duty, but the duty of every sane citizen in the district, and he was determined it should be carried out. there was no ordinary law to hold this renegade in check, so, if necessary, he must be treated to the harshness of a law framed by the unpracticed hands of men who only understood the wild in which they lived. on his way home the padre encountered buck, who had been back to the fur fort, and, learning from curly the facts of what had occurred, was now on his way to join his friend. they paused to talk for some minutes, and their talk was upon those things which were still running through their minds in a hot tide of resentment. after a while they parted, buck to continue his way to the camp, and the padre to his home. "i think it's all right for to-night," the padre said as he prepared to move off. "i don't think he'll make another attempt. anyway, the boys will be sober. but you might have an eye on him." buck nodded, and in the darkness the fierce anger in his dark eyes was lost to his companion. "i'll be to home when the camp's abed," he said. "i'll sure see the gal safe." so they parted, leaving the padre perfectly confident in buck's ability to make good his assurance. * * * * * it was a wild scene inside the drinking-booth over which the ex-churchman presided. the men had returned from their fruitless pursuit of their intended victim. and as they came in, no longer furiously determined upon a man's life, but laughing and joking over the events of their blind journey in the darkness, beasley saw that they were rapidly sobering. still raging inwardly at the result of the padre's visit he set to work at once, and, before any one else could call for a drink, he seized the opportunity himself. he plied them with a big drink at his own expense, and so promptly enlisted their favor--incidentally setting their appetites for a further orgie with a sharpness that it would take most of the night to appease. the ball set rolling by his cunning hand quickly ran riot, and soon the place again became the pandemonium which was its nightly habit. good-humor was the prevalent note, however. the men realized now, in their half-sober senses, that the kid was only wounded, and this inclined them to leniency toward curly. so it was quickly evident that their recently-intended victim need no longer have any fear for his life. he was forgiven as readily and as easily as he had been condemned. so the night proceeded. the roulette board was set going again in one corner of the hut and a crowd hung about it, while the two operators of it, "diamond" jack and his partner, strangers to the place, raked in their harvest. the air was thick with the reek of cheap cigars, sold at tremendous prices, and the foul atmosphere of stale drink. the usual process of a further saturation had set in. nor amidst the din of voices was there a discordant note. even the cursings of the losers at the roulette board were drowned in the raucous din of laughter and loud-voiced talk around the bar. as time went on beasley saw that his moment was rapidly approaching. the shining, half-glazed eyes, the sudden outbursts of wild whoopings, told him the tale he liked to hear. and he promptly changed his own attitude of bonhomie, and began to remind those who cared to listen of the fun they had all missed through curly's interference. this was done at the same time as he took to pouring out the drinks himself in smaller quantities, and became careless in the matter of making accurate change for the bigger bills of his customers. beasley's hints were not long in bearing the fruit he desired. some one recollected the women who had been participants in their earlier frolic, and instantly there was a clamor for their presence. beasley grinned. he was feeling almost joyous. the women readily answered the summons. they came garbed in long, flowing, tawdry wrappers, the hallmark of the lives they lived. nor was it more than seconds before they were caught in the whirl of the orgie in progress. the sight was beyond all description in its revolting and hideous pathos. these blind, besotted men hovered about these wrecks of womanhood much in the manner of hungry animals. they plied them with drink, and sought to win their favors by ribald jesting and talk as obscene as their condition of drunkenness would permit them, while the women accepted their attentions in the spirit in which they were offered, calculating, watching, with an eye trained to the highest pitch of mercenary motive, for the direction whence the greatest benefit was to come. beasley was watching too. he knew that the padre's threat had been no idle one, but he meant to forestall its operation. the padre was away to his home by now. nothing that he could do could operate until the morning, when these men were sober. he had got this night, at least, in which to satisfy his evil whim. his opportunity came sooner than he expected. one of the girls, quite a young creature, whose originally-pretty face was now distorted and bloated by the life she lived, suddenly appealed to him. she jumped up from the bench on which she had been sitting listening to the drunken attentions of a stranger who bored her, and challenged the saloon-keeper with a laugh and an ingratiating wink. "say, you gray-headed old beer-slinger," she cried, "how about that 'party' call you'd fixed up for us? ain't ther' nuthin' doin' since that mutt with the thin yeller thatch got busy shootin'? say, he got you all scared to a pea shuck." she laughed immoderately, and, swaying drunkenly, was caught by the attentive stranger. "quit it, mamie," protested one of the other girls. "if you want another racket i don't. you're always raisin' hell." "quit yourself," shrieked mamie in sudden anger. "i ain't scared of a racket." she turned to beasley, who was pouring out a round of drinks for abe allinson, now so drunk that he had to support himself against the counter. "say, you don't need to be scared, that feller's out o' the way now," she jeered. "wot say? guess it would be a 'scream.'" beasley handed the change of a twenty-dollar bill to abe and turned to the girl. "sure it would," he agreed promptly, his face beaming. then he added cunningly: "but it's you folks are plumb scared." "who the h---- scared of a gal like that?" mamie yelled at him, her eyes blazing. "i ain't. are you, lulu? you, kit?" she turned to the other women, but ignored the protesting sadie. lulu sprang from the arms of a man on whose shoulder she had been reclining. "scared?" she cried. "come right on. i'm game. beasley's keen to give her a twistin'--well, guess it's always up to us to oblige." and she laughed immoderately. kit joined in. she cared nothing so long as she was with the majority. and it was beasley himself who finally challenged the recalcitrant sadie. "guess you ain't on, though," he said, and there was something like a threat in his tone. sadie shrugged. "it don't matter. if the others----" "bully for you, sadie!" cried mamie impulsively. "come right on! who's comin' to get the 'scream'?" she demanded of the men about her, while beasley nodded his approval from his stand behind the bar. but somehow her general invitation was not received with the same enthusiasm the occasion had met with earlier in the evening. the memory of the kid still hovered over some of the muddled brains, and only a few of those who were in the furthest stages of drunkenness responded. nothing daunted, however, the girl mamie, furiously anxious to stand well with the saloon-keeper, laughed over at him. "we'll give her a joyous time," she shrieked. "say, what's her name? joan rest, the golden woman! she'll need the rest when we're through. come on, gals. we'll dance a cancan on her parlor table. come on." she made a move and the others prepared to follow. several of the men, laughing recklessly, were ready enough to go whither they led. already mamie was within a pace of the closed door when a man suddenly pushed abe allinson roughly aside, leant his right elbow on the counter, and stood with his face half-turned toward the crowd. it was buck. his movements had been so swift, so well calculated, that beasley found himself looking into the muzzle of the man's heavy revolver before he could attempt to defend himself. "hold on!" buck's voice rang out above the din of the barroom. instantly he had the attention of the whole company. the girls stood, staring back at him stupidly, and the men saw the gun leveled at the saloon-keeper's head. they saw more. they saw that buck held another gun in his left hand, which was threatening the entire room. most of them knew him. some of them didn't. but one and all understood the threat and waited motionless. nor did they have to wait long. "gals," said buck sternly, "this racket's played out. ther's been shootin' to-night over the same thing. wal, ther's going to be more shootin' if it don't quit right here. if you leave this shanty to go across to the farm to molest the folks there, beasley, here, is a dead man before you get a yard from the door." then his glance shifted so that the saloon-keeper came into his focus, while yet he held a perfect survey of the rest of the men. "do you get me, beasley?" he went on coldly. "you're a dead man if those gals go. an' if you send them to the farm after this--ever--i'll shoot you on sight. wal?" beasley knew when he was beaten. he had reckoned only on the padre. he had forgotten buck. however, he wouldn't forget him in the future. "you can put up your gun, buck," he said, with an assumption of geniality that deceived no one, and buck least of all. "quit your racket, gals," he went on. then he added with the sarcasm he generally fell back on in such emergencies: "guess this gentleman feels the same as curly--only he ain't as--hasty." the girls went slowly back to their seats, and buck, lowering his guns, quietly restored them both to their holsters. beasley watched him, and as he saw them disappear his whole manner changed. "now, mister buck," he said, with a snarl, "i don't guess i need either your dollars or your company on my premises. you'll oblige me--that door ain't locked." and he pointed at it deliberately for the man to take his departure. but buck only laughed. "don't worry, beasley," he said. "i'm here--till you close up for the night." and the enraged saloon-keeper had a vision of a smile at his expense which promptly lit the faces of the entire company. chapter xviii when life holds no shadows the mellow evening light glows with a living warmth of color upon hill, and valley, and plain. the myriad tints shine in perfect harmony, for nature is incapable of discord whether in her reign of beauty or her moments of terror. discord belongs to the imperfect human eye, the human brain, the human heart. thus must the most perfect human creation be ever imperfect. but nature's perfections are never lost upon the human mind. they are not intended to be lost. they serve well their purpose of elevating, of uplifting all thought, and affording inspiration for all that which is good and beautiful in hearts thrilling with emotions which need strong support to save them from their own weaknesses. something of this influence was at work in the hearts of a man and a girl riding over the hard sand trail in the pleasant evening light. the man's youthful heart was thrilling with a hope he dared not attempt to define, and could not if he would. his every feeling was inspired by a joy he had no proper understanding of. the glance of his dark eyes bespoke his mood, and his buoyancy seemed to communicate itself to the great horse under him. all he knew was that the glory of the day was all about him, and, beside him, joan was riding the padre's sturdy horse. the girl at his side was no less uplifted. at the moment shadows troubled her not at all. they were gone, merged into soft, hazy gauzes through which peeped the scenes of life as she desired life to be, and every picture was rose-tinted with the wonderful light of an evening sun. her fair young face was radiant; a wonderful happiness shone in the violet depths of her eyes. her sweet lips were parted, displaying her even, white teeth, and her whole expression was much that of a child who, for the first time, opens its eyes to the real joy of living. every now and again she drew a deep, long sigh of content and enjoyment. for a while they rode in silence, their bodies swaying easily to the rhythmic gait of the horses. their direction lay toward the sun, that direction which ever makes for hope. ahead of them, and behind them, lay the forest of tall, garbless trunks, their foliage-crowned, disheveled heads nodding in the light breezes from the hilltops, which left the lower atmosphere undisturbed. the scented air, pungent with pleasant odors, swept them by as their horses loped easily along. it was a moment of perfect peace, a moment when life could hold no shadows. but such feelings are only for the silent moments of perfect companionship. the spoken word, which indexes thought, robs them of half their charm and beauty. the girl felt something of this as the calm voice of her companion broke the wonderful spell. "that feller's shaping well," he said, his thoughts for the moment evidently upon the practical side of her comfort. the girl nodded. that look of rapturous joy had left her, and she too became practical. "i think so--when mrs. ransford leaves him alone," she said, with a little laugh. "she declares it is always necessary to harass a 'hired' man from daylight to dark. if i were he i'd get out into the pastures, or hay sloughs, or forest, or somewhere, and stay there till she'd gone to bed. really, buck, she's a terrible woman." in the growing weeks of companionship joan had learned to use this man's name as familiarly as though she had known him all her life. it would have seemed absurd to call him anything but buck now. besides, she liked doing so. the name fitted him. "buck;" it suggested to her--spirit, independence, courage, everything that was manly; and she had long ago decided that he was all these things--and more. buck laughed in his quiet fashion. he rarely laughed loudly. joan thought it sounded more like a deep-throated gurgle. "she sure is," he declared heartily. "of course," joan smiled. "you have crossed swords with her." the man shook his head. "not me," he said. "she did the battlin'. guess i sat tight. you see, words ain't as easy to a man, as to--some women." joan enjoyed the tact of his remark. she leant forward and smoothed the silky neck of the padre's horse, and buck's admiring eyes took in the perfect lines of her well-cut habit. he had never seen anything like it before, and failed to understand the excellence of its tailoring, but he knew that everything about this girl was wonderfully beautiful, and he would have liked to have been able to tell her so. as he watched her he could not help thinking of the moment when he had held her in his arms. it was a thought almost always with him, a thought which never failed to stir his pulses and set them racing. "but you see i can't do without her," the girl went on as she sat up in her saddle again. "she's a good worker, herself. she's taught me a good deal already. oh, yes," she smiled at his look of incredulity, "i've begun my lessons. i am learning all i can, preparing for the bigger lessons of this--this"--she gave a comprehensive glance at the hills--"wonderful world." buck nodded. but he rode on in silence, his face for the moment clouded with deep thought. he was thinking of that night in beasley's store. he was thinking of what might have happened there if those women had carried out their purpose. he was wondering what the lessons might be that this girl might yet find herself confronted with. the matter troubled him. and joan's surreptitious glance into his face warned her that the cloud had obscured his sun. the man finally broke the silence. "have you got any menfolk?" he asked abruptly. joan turned quickly. "no--why?" "an uncle--a brother. maybe a--father?" there was something almost anxious in buck's manner as he enumerated the possible relationships. but the girl shook her head at each one, and he went on in a tone of disappointment. "it's kind of a pity," he observed. then, in answer to the girl's quick look of inquiry, he added evasively: "you see it's lonesome for a gal--out in these hills." joan knew that that was not the reason of his inquiry, and she smiled quietly at her horse's ears. "why did you want to know if i had--menfolk?" she asked. "i mean the real reason." she looked up frankly smiling, and compelled his attention. buck was not easy to corner, even though he had no experience of women. again joan heard his strange gurgle, and her smile broadened. "you could sure learn your lessons easier with your menfolk around to help you," he said. for a second the girl's face dropped. then she laughed good-humoredly. "you're smart, buck," she exclaimed. "but--but you're most exasperating. still, i'll tell you. the only relative i have in the world, that i know of, is--aunt mercy." "ah! she's a woman." "yes, a woman." "it's a pity." suddenly buck pointed ahead at a great mass of towering rock above the trees. "there's devil's hill!" he exclaimed. joan looked up, all eager delight to behold this wonderful hill buck had brought her out to see. she expected something unusual, for already she had listened to several accounts of this place and the gold "strike" she was supposed to have brought about. nor was she disappointed now, at least at first. she stared with wondering eyes at the weird, black giant raising its ugly head in a frowning threat above them, and gave a gasp of surprise. then in a moment her surprise died out, and into her eyes crept a strange look of repulsion and even fear. she had no words to offer. she made no move. it was almost as if she sat fascinated like some harmless bird held by the hypnotic stare of a python. so long did she remain silent that buck at last turned and looked into her face. and something like alarm caught and held him when he beheld her gray look of horror as she faced the gloomy crags mounting up before them. he too looked out ahead. but his imagination failed him, and his eyes came back to her. the change in her happy, smiling eyes was incredible. her smile had gone utterly--the bright color of her cheeks. there was no awe in her look, neither curiosity nor admiration. to him it almost seemed that her whole body was thrilled with an utter repugnance and loathing at what she beheld. "it's--ugly," he hazarded at last. "it's--it's dreadful." the girl's reply came in a tone there was no mistaking. it was one of concentrated detestation. "you don't--like it?" buck felt helpless. but joan's next words left him without any doubt. "i--i think i--hate it," she said harshly. buck drew rein on the instant. "then we'll get back to home." but joan had no such intention. "no--no!" she exclaimed quickly. "we'll go on. i want to see it. i--i _must_ see it." her manner had suddenly become agitated, and buck was left wondering the more. she was stirred with strange feelings which embodied a dozen different emotions, and it was the sight of that great black crown, like the head of a gorgon, which had inspired them. its fascination was one of cruel attraction. its familiarity suggested association with some part of her life. it seemed as if she belonged to it, or that it belonged to her--that in some curious way it was actually a part of her life. and all the time her detestation, her fear surged through her heart and left her revolting. but she knew she must go on. its fascination claimed her and drew her, calling to her with a summons she dared not disobey--had no real desire to disobey. it was she who took the lead now. she pressed on at a rapid gallop. her fair young face was set and cold. she remained silent, and her manner forbade the man's interruption. but buck kept pace with her, and a great sympathy held him silent too. he had no real understanding of her mood, only he knew that, for the moment, his presence had no place in her thought. so they drew toward the shadow of the hill. each was lost in disturbed reflections. joan was waiting, expectant of she knew not what, and the man, filled with puzzlement, knew that the solution lay only with the girl beside him. it had been his thought to point out the things which his practiced mind suggested as of interest, but now, as he beheld the rapt expression of her face, it all became different. therefore he checked the eager cæsar and let her lead the way. joan had no observation for anything as she rode on right up to the very shadow of the suspended lake. then, almost mechanically, as though urged by some unseen hand, she drew up sharply. she was no longer looking at the hill, she sat in her saddle limply, and stared vacantly at the rough workings of the miners which had been abandoned for the day. still buck waited in silence. at last he had his reward. the girl made a movement almost like a shiver. then she sat up erect. the color came back to her cheeks and she turned to him with eyes in which a ghost of a smile flitted. "i--i had forgotten," she said half-apologetically. "this is what has brought prosperity to the camp. this is what has saved them from starvation. we--we should owe it gratitude." "i don't guess the rocks need gratitude," replied buck quietly. "no!" joan looked up at the black roof above her and shivered. "it's a weird place, where one might well expect weird happenings." buck smiled. he was beginning to obtain some insight into the girl's mood. so used was he to the gloomy hill that its effect was quite lost on him. now he knew that some superstitious chord had been struck in the girl's feelings, and this strange hill had been the medium of its expression. he suddenly leant forward. resting on the horn of his saddle he looked into the fair face he so loved. he had seen that haunted look in her face before. he remembered his first meeting with her at the barn. its termination had troubled him then. it had troubled him since. he remembered the incident when the gold had been presented to her. again he had witnessed that hunted, terrified look, that strange overpowering of some painful thought--or memory. now he felt that she needed support, and strove with all his power to afford it her. "guess ther's nothing weird outside the mind of man," he said. "anyway, nothing that needs to scare folk." he turned and surveyed the hill and the wonderful green country surrounding them. "get a look around," he went on, with a comprehensive gesture. "this rock--it's just rock, natural rock; it's rock you'll find most anywhere. it's got dumped down right here wher' most things are green, an' dandy, an' beautiful to the eye; so it looks queer, an' sets your thoughts gropin' among the cobwebs of mystery. ther's sure no life to it but the life of rock. this great overhang has just been cut by washouts of centuries in spring, when the creek's in flood, an' it just happens ther's a hot sulphur lake on top, fed by a spring. i've known it these years an' years. guess it's sure always been the same. it ain't got enough to it to scare a jack-rabbit." joan shook her head. but the man was glad to see the return of her natural expression, and that her smiling eyes were filled with a growing interest he knew that her strange mood was passing. he went on at once in his most deliberate fashion. "you needn't to shake your head," he said, with a smile of confidence. "it's jest the same with everything. it sure is. we make life what it is for ourselves. it's the same for everybody, an' each feller gets busy makin' it different. the feller that gets chasin' trouble don't need to run. he only needs to set around and shout. guess it'll come along if he's yearnin' for it. but it don't come on its own. that's sure as sure. keep brain an' body busy doin' the things that lie handy, an' when you got to make good among the rocks of life, why, i sure guess you won't find a rock half big enough to stop you." watching the deep glowing eyes of the man joan felt that his confidence was not merely the confidence of brave words. a single glance into his purposeful face left the definite impression that his was a strength that is given to few. it was the strength of a simple, honest mind as yet unfouled by the grosser evils of an effete civilization. his was the force and courage of the wild--the impulse which governs all creatures who live in the midst of nature's battle-grounds. "that's--that's because you're so strong you feel that way," she said, making no attempt to disguise the admiration she felt. "the burden of life does not always fall so easily. there are things, too, in spite of what you say, that we cannot control--evils, i mean evils which afflict us." buck glanced away down the creek. then his eyes came back to her, and a new resolve lay behind them. "i'm no stronger than others," he said. "guess i haven't ha'f the strength of some. i'd say----" he paused. then he went on, his eyes gazing fearlessly into hers: "i'd say i haven't ha'f the strength of a gal who gives up the city--a young gal jest beginning a woman's life with 'most everything in her favor--an' comes right out here to farm without a livin' soul to pass her a hand. i ain't got ha'f the courage of a gal who does that jest because she's chased by thoughts that worry her an' make her days no better than to set her--hatin' them. strength? say, when you ken laff an' all the time feel that life ain't ha'f so pleasant as death, why, i'd sure say ther' ain't no greater strength this side of the check-taker's box." joan could hardly believe her ears as she listened. astonishment, resentment, helplessness, incredulity, all struggled for place. how had this man discovered her secret? how? how? what did he know besides? for a moment her feelings robbed her of speech and betrayed themselves in her expressive face. but the man's smile, so easy, so disarming, held her. he saw and understood, and he hastened to reassure her. "guess i ain't pryin'," he said bluntly. "these things just come along to my tongue, feeling you were troubled at this--hill. you've told me a heap since you come to the farm. you told me things which i don't guess you wer' yearnin' to tell any one. but you didn't tell 'em with your tongue. an' i don't guess you need to. set your mind easy. you're scared to death of some trouble which ain't of your seekin'--wal, i don't believe in such trouble." then he laughed in so unconcerned, so buoyant and whole-hearted a fashion that joan's confidence and hope leapt again. "say," he added, as he saw the brightening of her face, "when you fancy that trouble's gettin' around, when you fancy it's good an' big, an' a whole heap to carry, why, you can pass it right on to me. i'm yearnin' to get busy with jest sech a proposition." buck's manner was irresistible. joan felt herself swept along by it. she longed there and then to tell him the whole of her miserable little story. yes, he made it seem so small to her now. he made it, at the moment, seem like nothing. it was almost as though he had literally lifted her burden and was bearing the lion's share of it himself. her heart thrilled with gratitude, with joy in this man's wonderful comradeship. she longed to open her heart to him--to implore him to shield her from all those terrible anxieties which beset her. she longed to feel the clasp of his strong hand in hers and know that it was there to support her always. she felt all these things without one shadow of fear--somehow his very presence dispelled her shadows. but only did she permit her warm smile to convey something of all she felt as she rejected his offer. "you don't know what you are asking," she said gently. then she shook her head. "it is impossible. no one can shift the burdens of life on to the shoulders of another--however willing they be. no one has the right to attempt it. as we are born, so we must live. the life that is ours is ours alone." buck caught at her words with a sudden outburst of passionate remonstrance. "you're wrong--dead wrong," he declared vehemently, his eyes glowing with the depth of feeling stirring him, a hot flush forcing its way through the deep tanning of his cheeks. "no gal has a right to carry trouble with a man around to help. she's made for the sunlight, for the warmth an' ease of life. she's made to set around an' take in all those good things the good god meant for her so she can pass 'em right on to the kiddies still to be born. a woman's jest the mother of the world. an' the men she sets on it are there to see her right. the woman who don't see it that way is wrong--dead wrong. an' the man that don't get right up on to his hind legs an' do those things--wal, he ain't a man." it was a moment joan would never forget. as long as she lived that eager face, with eyes alight, the rapid tongue pouring out the sentiments of his simple heart must ever remain with her. it was a picture of virile manhood such as in her earliest youth she had dreamed of, a dream which had grown dimmer and dimmer as she progressed toward womanhood and learned the ways of the life that had been hers. here it was in all reality, in all its pristine simplicity, but--she gathered up her reins and moved her horse round, heading him toward home. "i'm glad i came out here--in the wilderness," she said earnestly. "i'm glad, too, that i came to see this great black hill. yes, and i'm glad to think that i have begun the lessons which this great big world is going to teach me. for the rest--we'd better go home. look! the daylight is going." chapter xix a study in mischief nearly three months had passed and all beasley melford's affairs were amply prospering. his new saloon was the joy of his heart. it had been completed more than a week, which week had been something in the nature of a triumph of financial success. the camp was booming as he had never dared to hope it would boom. traders were opening up business all round him, and the output of gold was increasing every day. but, with all this rapid development, with all the wrangling and competition going on about him, he was the centre of the commercial interests of yellow creek, and his saloon was the centre of all its traffic. but he was quite alive to the fact that he must maintain his position and custom by keeping well in line, even just a little ahead of all competition. he knew that to rest on his oars would be to court swift disaster. it must be his constant thought to make his place more and more attractive, to listen to the voice of public requirements, and seize every opportunity of catering for them. his saloon was no better than a gambling-hell and drinking-booth, the dry goods side of his enterprise being almost insignificant. for he knew that the more surely his customers could indulge in such pastimes in comparative comfort the more surely he would keep them. so he made these things the basis of his trade. but there were other needs to be provided for. therefore, on the completion of his new saloon, and the moment his vanity had been satisfied by the erection of a great board top, set up on the pitch of the roof, announcing in blatant lettering that it was "melford's hotel," he set to work to erect a dance hall and a livery barn. he foresaw the necessity of running a stage, and he never lost sight of the fact that a great number of the women of the class he wished to see about were invading the place. then, too, the dance hall could be used as a boarding establishment for those who had no homes of their own. it was a precious thought, and, after a journey to leeson butte to consult his partner, these matters were put in hand. he no longer worked single-handed. his establishment was increased by the advent of a bartender, a chinese cook, and a livery stable keeper. these, and some casual labor from among the loafers, supplied him with all the help he so far found necessary. the bar and the gambling-tables were always his own care. these were the things he would never trust to other hands. the bartender was his helper only, who was never allowed to escape the observation of his lynx eyes. yes, beasley melford was flourishing as he intended to flourish, and his satisfaction was enormous. in the mornings he was always busy supervising the work, in the afternoons he gave himself what leisure his restless spirit demanded. but in the evenings he gathered his harvest by rascally methods of flagrant extortion. it was during the latter part of his afternoon leisure that he was suddenly disturbed by the appearance of montana ike in his bar. he was stretched full length upon his counter, comfortably reviewing a perfect maze of mental calculations upon the many schemes which he had in hand, when the youngster pushed the swing door open and blustered in. beasley was sitting up in an instant. he hated this sort of sudden disturbance. he hated men who rushed at him. he could never be certain of their intentions. when he saw who his visitor was there was very little friendliness in his greeting. "wot in hell you want rushin' that way?" he demanded arrogantly. "guess your thirst ain't on a time limit." but the ginger-headed youth ignored his ill-temper. he was too full of his own affairs. he simply grinned. "fish out them durned scales o' yours," he cried gleefully. "fish 'em out, an' set your big weights on 'em. ther' ain't goin' to be no chat nor drink till you weighed in. then i guess the drink'll be right up to you." beasley's mood changed like lightning. he swung over behind his bar and dropped to the floor on the other side, his eyes alight, and every faculty alert for trade. "wot's it?" he demanded. "struck it big?" he went on as the dingy gold scales were produced from the shelf at the back. then he laughed amiably. "it needs to be big, wakin' me in my slack time." "oh, it's big enuff," cried ike confidently, his eager, young, animal face alight with pleasure. he watched the other with impatient eyes as he deliberately picked out the weights. but beasley was too slow, and, with an impatient exclamation, he snatched up the biggest of them and set it on the somewhat delicate scales with a heavy hand. "say, you're rapid as a sick funeral," he cried. "i ain't got no time to waste. what i got here'll need that--an' more. ther'!" beasley's temper was never easy, and his narrow eyes began to sparkle. "you're mighty fresh," he cried. "guess i'm----" but his remark remained unfinished. with a boisterous laugh the boy flung a small canvas bag on the counter and emptied its contents before the other's astonished eyes. "ther'," he cried gleefully. "i want dollars an' dollars from you. an' you'll sure see they ain't duds." beasley's eyes opened wide. in a moment he had forgotten his ill-humor. from the gold spread out before him he looked up into the other's face with a half-suspicious, wholly incredulous stare. "you got that from your claim--to-day?" he asked. "an' wher' in hell else?" "sure!" beasley fingered the precious nuggets lovingly. "gee! ther's nigh five hundred dollars there." "fi' hundred--an' more," cried ike anxiously. but beasley's astonishment was quickly hidden under his commercial instincts. he would have called them "commercial." "we'll soon fix that," he said, setting the scales. ike leant against the bar watching the man finger his precious ore as he placed each of the six nuggets in the scale and weighed them separately. he took the result down on paper and worked their separate values out at his own market prices. in five minutes the work was completed, and the man behind the bar looked up with a grin. "i don't gener'ly make a bad guess," he said blandly. "but i reckoned 'em a bit high this journey. ther's four hundred an' seventy-six dollars comin' to you--ha'f cash an' ha'f credit. is it a deal?" the other's face flamed up. a volcanic heat set him almost shouting. "to hell!" he cried fiercely. "ther's fi' hundred dollars ther' if ther's a cent. an' i want it all cash." beasley shook his head. he had this boy's exact measure, and knew just how to handle him. "the scales don't lie," he said. "but ther', it's the way wi' youse fellers. you see a chunk o' gold an' you don't see the quartz stickin' around it. here, i'll put a hundred an' seventy-six credit an' the rest cash. i can't speak fairer." he drew a roll of bills from his hip-pocket and began counting the three hundred out. he knew the sight of them was the best argument he could use. it never failed. nor did it do so now. ike grumbled and protested in the foulest language he was capable of, but he grabbed the dollars when they were handed to him, and stowed them into his hip-pocket with an eagerness which suggested that he feared the other might repent of his bargain. and beasley quickly swept the precious nuggets away and securely locked them in his safe, with the certain knowledge that his profit on the deal was more than cent for cent. "you'll take rye," he said as he returned his keys to his pocket. "an' seein' it's your good day, an' it's on me, we'll have it out o' this thirteen-year-old bottle." he pushed the bottle across the counter and watched ike pour himself out a full "four fingers." the sight of his gluttony made beasley feel glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that morning from the common "rot-gut" cask. after their drink he became expansive. "that's an elegant claim of yours, ike," he said, taking up his favorite position on the bar. "it's chock full of alluvial. don't scarcely need washing. guess i must ha' paid you two thousand dollars an' more since--since we got busy. your luck was mighty busy when they cast the lots." "luck? guess i'm the luckiest hoboe in this layout," ike cried with a confidence that never seemed to require the support of rye whisky. beasley's eyes sparkled maliciously. "how about pete?" he grinned. he knew that ike had an utter detestation of pete, and did not have to guess at the reason. "i paid him more than that by fi' hundred. how's that?" "tcha'! pete ain't no account anyways," ike retorted angrily. "say, he pitches his dollars to glory at poker 'most every night. pete ain't got no sort o' savee. you don't see me bustin' my wad that way." "how about the gals? guess you hand 'em a tidy pile." "gals!" ike suddenly became thoughtful. his gaze wandered toward the window. then he abruptly turned back to the bar and clamored for another drink. "we'll have that thirteen-year-old," he cried. "an' guess i'll have a double dose. gals!" he went on, with a sneer, as the other watched him fill a brimming tumbler. "ther's sure on'y one gal around here. that's why i got around now. guess i'm payin' her a 'party' call right now, 'fore the folks get around. say, i'm goin' to marry that gal. she's sure a golden woman. golden! gee, it sounds good!" beasley grinned. he was on a hot trail and he warmed to his work. "goin' to ask her now?" he inquired amiably, eyeing the spirit the man had poured out. ike laughed self-consciously. "sure," he said, draining his glass. "what about pete?" ike looked sharply into the other's grinning face. then he banged his glass angrily on the counter and moved toward the door. "pete ken go plumb to hell!" he cried furiously over his shoulder as he passed out. beasley dropped nimbly from his counter and looked after him through the window. he saw him vault into the saddle and race away down the trail in the direction of the farm. his eyes were smiling wickedly. "don't guess pete's chasin' ther' to suit you, master ike," he muttered. "marry that gal, eh? not on your life. you pore silly guys! you're beat before you start--beat a mile. buck's got you smashed to a pulp. kind of wish i'd given you less cash and more credit. hello!" he swung round as the door was again thrust open. this time it was blue grass pete who strode into the room. "wher's ike?" he demanded without preamble the moment he beheld the grinning face of the saloon-keeper. "gee!" beasley's grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. he brought his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of the moment. pete watched him with growing unfriendliness. "you're rattled some," he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. then, as beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he went on: "seems to me i asked you a civil question." beasley nodded, and guffawed again. "you sure did," he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the other's threatening frown. "well, i ain't laffin' at you. it's--it's jest at things." but pete had no sense of humor. he disliked beasley, and simply wanted his information now. "ike been along?" he demanded doggedly. beasley spluttered. then he subsided into a malicious grin again. "sure," he said. "he's been in with a fat wad. say, he's a lucky swine. 'most everything comes his way. guess he can't never touch bad. he's ahead on the game, he's a golden-haired pet with the gals, an' he gits gold in--lumps." but pete's dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and beasley knew that the man's mood was an ugly one. "wher's he now?" "can't jest say. i didn't ask him wher' he was goin'. y' see i cashed his gold, and we had a drink. he seemed excited some. guess he was sort of priming himself. maybe he's gone along to the gals. have a drink?" "no--yes, give us a horn of rye." the man behind the bar pushed the bottle across. "what you needin' him for?" he asked with apparent unconcern. pete snatched at his drink. "that ain't your affair," he retorted surlily. "sure it ain't. i jest asked--casual." pete banged his empty glass on the counter. "i'm needin' him bad," he cried, his eyes furiously alight. "i'm needin' him cos i know the racket he's on. see? he quit his claim early cos--cos----" "cos he's goin' to pay a 'party' call on that golden woman," cried beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. "i got it, now. that's why he was in sech a hurry. that's why he needed a good dose o' rye. say, that feller means marryin' that gal. i've heard tell he's got it all fixed with her. i've heard tell she's dead sweet on him. wal, i ain't sure but wot it's natural. he's a good looker; so is she. an' he's a bright boy. guess he's got the grit to look after a gal good. he's a pretty scrapper. another drink?" pete refilled his glass. his fury was at bursting-point, and beasley reveled in the devil now looking out of his angry eyes. "he's gone across ther' now?" he demanded, after swallowing his second drink. his question was ominously quiet. beasley saw the man's hands finger the guns at his waist. it was a movement the sight of which gave him a wonderful satisfaction. "seems like it," he said. "though course i can't rightly say. i see him ride off down the trail that way----" "here, i'll take another drink. i'm goin' after----" "say, you ain't goin' to butt in with two folks courtin'?" cried beasley, blandly innocent. but pete had no reply. he drained his third drink and, flinging the glass down, bolted out of the bar; while beasley turned with a malicious chuckle, and scrupulously entered up three drinks against the man's name on the slate. "i'd give somethin' to see it," he muttered. then he rubbed out the entry he had made. "guess i'll make it six drinks. he's too rattled to remember." ten minutes later a number of men were lounging in the saloon, and beasley, in the leisure of administering to their wants, was relating to them the story of the afternoon's events. at the conclusion he added his own comment, which was not without definite purpose. "say, if they ain't jest like two dogs worritin' a bone you got me plumb beat," he said. then he added with an air of outraged virtue: "i'd like to say right here she's jest playin' them fellers for their wads. oh, she's a keen one, her eyes is right on to business. she'll sure have 'em shootin' each other right up. seems to me a gal like that ain't no right in this yer city. she's a scandal to the place. an' a danger. wot we fellers needs to figure on is the liberty an' safety of our citizens, an' anything calc'lated to be a danger to that needs to git seen to." some of the men concurred half-heartedly. they were men who had come into the camp with the rush, and were anxious to keep in with the saloon-keeper. still, even they were very little stirred by his appeal. they cared not the least bit in the world who was shot up, or who did the shooting, so long as they were not personally concerned beyond the rôle of spectators. so for once his mischief fell flat. it was too early in the day to make the impression he needed. they were not sufficiently primed with rye. so beasley contented himself with insinuating the bottle toward doubtful customers, and easing his disappointment by making all the trade he could. but presently a diversion occurred by the advent of buck. he rode up, his great horse loaded down with the carcasses of three splendid deer. he had brought them in for sale. game was a precious thing in this camp, where a diet of simple beef ruled. the moment he displayed his wares there was a rush to bid for them, and beasley, much to his chagrin, found himself forced to pay boom prices before he could secure them for retailing. he paid ungraciously enough. if there was one man more than another in the camp he begrudged anything to it was buck. besides, it made him utterly furious to think that he never came up against this man on any debatable matter but what he managed to come off worst. however, his policy forced him to stifle his resentment, and he paid, mentally adding another item to the long list of his personal animosities to be wiped out at some future date. but buck's presence was an opportunity for mischief not to be altogether missed. nor was beasley the man to let the moment pass without availing himself of it. buck's interest in joan was something to be played upon at all times. therefore he drew him aside in a manner as portentous and ingratiating as he could make it. buck, wondering at his drift, submitted all unwillingly. "say," beasley began, the moment they were out of ear-shot of the rest, "guess you ain't bin around the farm lately--i mean this afternoon?" buck looked him coldly in the eye. "no--why?" beasley returned his look in consummate irritation. he pretended to be annoyed at his coolness. he shrugged and turned away, speaking over his shoulder as he went. "oh, nuthin'! guess it might be as well if you had." he went back to his bar, and in a moment was busy again at his trade. buck looked after him for one doubting second. then he too turned away and went out to his horse. chapter xx the abilities of mrs. ransford joan was smiling happily, watching the waging of a droll little farmyard warfare. just now her life was running very smoothly, and the shadows of memory were steadily receding. she had almost forgotten the few unpleasant moments when she had first beheld the repellent ugliness of devil's hill nearly a week ago. since then nothing had occurred to raise fresh alarm, and memory, with that pleasant knack inspired of perfect physical health, had gently mellowed and lost something of its power to disturb. it was a curious scene. the farm was still, so still, in the glowing afternoon heat. the cattle were out in the pastures filling themselves with the succulent grass and dozing the long daylight hours away. the "hired" man was out with the team, breaking a new patch of prairie land in the interim between the haying and harvesting. the hogs were gently snuffling in their pens, and a few hens and cockerels were amiably flirting whilst scratching about amongst the barn litter in that busy, inconsequent manner so suggestive to the human mind of effort for the sheer delight of being busy. it was a scene such as she had often dreamed of, and something which very nearly approached her ideal. here, in one corner of the yard, where she stood, sun-bonneted to shelter her face from the burning attentions of the summer sun, leaning idly against a water barrel standing at the corner of the barn, she watched the farmyard comedy which was rapidly threatening to disturb the general peace. a large hen with a late-hatched brood of chicks, whose colors suggested the polygamous conditions under which her matrimonial affairs were carried on, with feathers ruffled and comb flaming, with head lowered and beak agape, was angrily defying an absurd-looking pig which had scarcely passed its sucking age. they had met quite suddenly round the corner of the implement shed. for the moment they stood disconcerted, while the agitated hen clucked alarm at her offspring. the pig, squealing in a high treble, was standing with snout twitching and front feet apart, a picture of idiotic confusion. perhaps the hen, with the superior feminine knowledge of her age, understood something of the situation, and appreciated the young porker's inability. anyway, she took the initiative in aggression, and, vainly struggling to cover her rather riotous brood with outspread wings, cackled furiously and prepared for the onslaught which secretly she knew was not forthcoming. the porker's mind seemed to be in a whirl of doubt, for he looked vainly from side to side to find some adequate means of escape. his sense did not carry him sufficiently far to prompt him to turn tail and bolt for safety. he just stood there and continued his helpless baby squealing. this was all the old hen needed to drive her to extremities. realizing his weakness she gave one fluttering spring, scattering her chicks in all directions, pecked the pig's nose violently, turned something like a somersault as she landed on the ground, gathered herself together, and incontinently fled, leaving her brood to care for themselves. thus the pig was left looking after her with an expression in its silly eyes that suggested to the girl nothing so much as an amazed wonder as to what the fuss was all about. joan stood convulsed with laughter. the pig interested her vastly more than the hen, and she waited the further working of its stupid mind. but she was disappointed. its momentary confusion had passed, and, lowering its pink snout, it groveled on in search of offal, the delights of which its young mind was just awakening to. she had moved away to pass on toward the house when she was startled by the sound of a harsh laugh close behind her. she turned and found herself staring into the grinning face of montana ike. she was angry and not without a qualm of apprehension. this man had become a constant caller at the farm at all sorts of odd and unexpected moments. and his attitude was such that she thoroughly resented him. in his vaunting, braggadocio manner he had assumed a sort of proprietary interest in her and her affairs. the moment she faced him, his confident attitude became more pronounced. "comic, ain't it?" he suggested. then he added, as though to assure her of his appreciation: "nigh as comic as a cirkis." but all joan's delight in the scene was gone. her beautiful eyes were sparkling angrily. she made up her mind then and there to be rude to the man. she would not have him about the place. "what do you want?" she inquired bluntly. the boy's grin remained, but his furtive eyes opened a shade wider. "wot do i want? gee! you're feelin' friendly." then he put on a manner he intended to be facetious. "an' me left my patch o' pay-dirt, an' all, to pay a 'party' call. say, miss golden, that ain't sassiety ways in this yer camp." his attempt at pleasantry went for nothing. joan, studying the man closely, saw that his face was flushed, and, even at that distance, she could smell the drink he had been imbibing. she must get rid of him, but it was not so easy to her gentle nature. however, she took a firm stand. "maybe not," she said coldly. "but when people make 'party' calls they generally do it at convenient times. i'm very busy." the man laughed in the harsh manner she disliked and rather feared. "kind o' seemed busy when i got around. y' see you was sure that busy you didn't hear my hoss comin' along, you never see me git off him an' leave him back ther', an' me come along over an' stand watchin' you doin' nuthin' fer nigh fi' minutes. oh, you're sure busy!" joan flushed. she knew she had lied, but to be told so by this man was infuriating. she made no attempt to further disguise her feelings. "i said i was busy," she cried deliberately. "surely that should be sufficient." but the man had no intention of accepting his dismissal. "it jest depends wot a feller's come around for," he said, no whit disconcerted. "mebbe you won't find you're busy when you heard what i got to say." he laughed immoderately. beasley's whisky was at work, and he had no fear for the purpose in hand. suddenly he dived a hand into his hip-pocket and drew out the bills the saloon-keeper had paid him. "look at them," he cried in a voice that was high-pitched with elation. "ther's dollars an' dollars ther', but 'tain't nuthin' to wot's to come. say, i got another cache o' gold waitin' back ther' at my shack, but i ain't handin' it to beasley," he went on cunningly. "oh, no, not me! i'm a business guy, i am. i hold that up, an' all the rest i git from my patch, an' i'm goin' to cash it in leeson butte, at the bank, fer a proper exchange. see? oh, i ain't no sucker, i ain't. an' a feller needs a heap o' dollars, treatin' his gal right." joan hardly knew how to deal with such a situation. besides, the now obvious condition of the man alarmed her. however, he gave her no opportunity to reply. for, delighted with his own talk, he went on promptly-- "now i tho't a whole heap since i got this wad. a wad like this takes you thinkin', that is, ef you ain't a low-down rattle-brain like pete, or a psalm-smitin' son-of-a-moose like that feller, buck. course they ain't got no sort o' savvee, anyways, so they don't count nuthin'. but wi' a feller like me things is diff'rent. now, this is what i got fixed. y' see you can't have no sort of a time in this yer camp, but it's diff'rent in leeson butte. guess we'll get a buggy from the camp an' drive into leeson. ther's dance halls ther', an' they run a decent faro joint at a place i know. an' they sell elegant rye, too. wal, we'll git that buggy, an' git fixed up reg'lar in leeson, an' have a bully time, an' git right back to here an' run this yer farm between us. how's that?" "i--i don't think i understand." joan's alarm grew. this man was deliberately proposing to marry her. supported by the nerve his half-drunken condition inspired, his senses were so inflamed that he took the whole matter for granted. she looked into his sensual young face, the hard eyes, and at the loose lips that surrounded his unclean teeth, and something like panic seized her. however, she knew she must not show her fear. but he was waiting. and in reality her reply came without any hesitation. she shook her head. "you've made a mistake," she said decidedly but gently. "i have no intention of marrying anybody." then, taking her courage in both hands, she permitted something of her dislike and contempt to creep into her manner. "it seems to me you take a great deal too much for granted. you come here when you think you will, wholly uninvited, and, from the first, you hint broadly that you regard me as--as the person you intend to marry. that is presumption, to put it mildly, and i have no use for people who--presume." she moved as though to return to the house. but ike, all his confidence suddenly merged into a volcanic heat, reached out a hand to detain her. his hand came into rough contact with the soft flesh of her shoulder, and, shaking it off, she faced him with flaming eyes. "don't dare to do that again," she cried, with bosom heaving. "go, leave this farm instantly. remember you are trespassing here!" her anger had outweighed all her alarm, even, perhaps, all discretion. for the man was in no mood to accept his dismissal easily. "so that's it, is it?" he cried with a sudden hoarseness. "oho, my lady! we're putting on airs," he sneered. "not good enough, eh? presuming, am i? an' who in blazes are you that you can't be touched? seems to me a decent honest citizen's jest as good fer you as fer any other gal, an' my dollars are clean. what in thunder's amiss?" then his heat lessened, and his manner became more ingratiating. "see here, golden," he went on persuasively, "you don't mean that, sure! wot's the matter with me? i ain't weak-kneed, nor nuthin'. i ain't scared o' no man. i'd scrap the devil ef you ast me. an' say, just think wot we ken do with the dollars. you'd make a real upstander in a swell house, with folks waitin' around on you, an' di'monds an' things. say, i'm jest bustin' to make good like that. you can't jest think how much gold ther' is in my patch--an' you brought it along with you. you give it to me--your luck." there was something almost pathetic in his pleading, and for a brief moment a shade of sympathy softened the girl. "please don't persist, ike," she said almost gently. "still, i can never marry you. it's--it's--absurd," she added, with a touch of impatience she could not wholly keep back. but that touch of impatience suddenly set fire again to the man's underlying intolerance of being thwarted. "absurd, is it?" he laughed with a curious viciousness which once more disturbed the girl. "absurd fer you to marry me," he cried harshly. "absurd fer you, cos i ain't got no smarmy eddication, cos i ain't dressed in swaller tails an' kids, same as city folks. oh, i know! you're a leddy--a city-raised leddy, an' i--i'm jest a prairie hog. that's it. you ain't got no use fer me. you jest come along right here an' laff, an' laff at us folks. oh, you needn't to say you hav'n't!" as she raised a protesting hand. "think i'm blind, think i'm deaf. me! say, you shown it right along jest so plain ther' wer'n't no need to tell it in langwidge." he broke off for a moment as though his anger had robbed him of further speech, and joan watched the growing purpose in his hot eyes. her own face was the color of marble. she was inwardly trembling, but she stood her ground with eyes stonily cold. she made no attempt to speak now, or defend herself against his accusations. she knew it would be useless. only she longed in her mind for the presence of buck to protect her from the insult she felt to be coming. nor was she mistaken. the man's pause gave way before the surge of his anger. "see here," he suddenly cried, as though he had just arrived at a decision. "i ain't an easy man to laff at, as the folks around here knows. ther' ain't no man around here can laff at montana ike, an' i don't guess no gal wi' red ha'r's goin' to neither. see?" he glanced swiftly round the farm. there was no one in sight. suddenly one great hand shot out and he seized the girl by the arm in a crushing, powerful grasp and dragged her to him. "you guess you ken laff at me," he cried, seizing her with both hands and holding her in spite of her struggles. "wal, you ken laff after you kissed me. you ken laff, oh, yes! when i tell the folks you kissed me. seems to me the laff'll mostly be with me." he drew her toward him while she struggled violently. then she shrieked for help, but she knew the only help she could hope for was the wholly inadequate help of her housekeeper. she shrieked mrs. ransford's name with all her power, while the man's face came nearer. it was quite hopeless; she knew she could not defend herself. and the half-drunken man was laughing as though he enjoyed her terror. she felt his hot breath on her cheeks, she closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his grinning face. he released his hold with one hand and flung his arm about her waist. she fought with might and main, shrieking with all the power of her lungs. she suddenly felt the impress of his hot lips on her cheek, not once, but a dozen times. then of a sudden he released her with a bitter oath, as the shrieking voice of mrs. ransford sounded close by, and the thwack of a heavy broom fell upon his head and shoulders. "i'll teach you, you miser'ble hoboe!" cried the old woman's strident voice as her powerful arms swung her lusty broom aloft. "i'll teach you, you scallawag!" thwack fell the broom, and, releasing joan, the man sought to protect his head with his arms. "i'll give you a dose you won't fergit, you scum o' creation!" thwack went the broom again. "wait till the folks hear tell o' this, you miser'ble, miser'ble cur!" again the broom fell, and the man turned to flee. "you'd run, would you? git a fork, miss joan!" with a surprising rush the fat creature lunged another smash at the man's head with her favorite weapon. the blow fell short, for ike had made good his retreat. and curiously enough he made no attempt to disarm her, or otherwise stand his ground once he was beyond the range of her blows. perhaps he realized the immensity of his outrage, perhaps he foresaw what might be the result to himself when the story of his assault reached the camp. perhaps it was simply that he had a wholesome terror of this undoubted virago. anyway, he bolted for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, galloping away as though pursued by something far more hurtful than a fat farm-wife's avalanche of vituperation. "mussy on us!" cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground as the man passed out of sight. "mussy me, wot's he done to you, my pretty?" she cried, rushing to the girl's side and catching her to her great bosom. "there, there, don't 'e cry, don't 'e to cry for a scallawag like that," she said, as the girl buried her face on her shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break. "there, there," she went on, patting the girl's shoulder, "don't 'e demean yerself weppin' over a miser'ble skunk like that. kiss yer, did he? kiss yer! him! wal, he won't kiss nobody no more when the folks is put wise. an' i'll see they gets it all. you, a 'merican gal, kissed by a hog like that. here, wipe yer cheeks wi' this overall; guess they'll sure fester if you don't. ther', that's better," she went on as joan, choking back her sobs, presently released herself from her bear-like embrace. "it's my own fault," the girl said tearfully. "i ought never to have spoken to him at all. i----" but mrs. ransford gave her no chance to finish what she had to say. "wot did i tell you?" she cried, with a power of self-righteousness. "wot did i tell you? you ain't got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin' with sech scum. they're all scallawags, every one of 'em. men!--say, these yer hills is the muck-hole o' creation, an' the men is the muck. i orter know. didn't i marry george d. ransford, an' didn't i raise twins by him, as you might say, an' didn't i learn thereby, an' therewith, as the sayin' is, that wi' muck around there's jest one way o' cleanin' it up an' that's with a broom! come right into the house, pretty. you're needin' hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore! come right in. guess i'm a match fer any male muck around these hills. mussy on us, what's that!" both women started and stood staring with anxious, terrified eyes down the trail which led to the camp. two shots had been fired almost simultaneously, and now, as they waited in horrified silence, two more shots rang out, echoing against the hills in the still air with ominous threat. after that all was quiet again. presently the strained look in the farm-wife's face relaxed, and she turned to her charge. "that's him," she cried, with a swift return to her angry, contemptuous manner. "it's him showin' off--like all them scallawags. come right in, missie," she added, holding out her hands to lead the girl home. but her kindly intention received an unexpected shock. joan brushed her roughly aside, and her look was almost of one suddenly demented. "no, no," she cried in a voice of hysterical passion. "you don't understand. you can't understand. those shots--oh! it is my fate--my curse. i must go!" and she fled down the trail in the direction whence the sound had proceeded--fled, leaving mrs. ransford staring stupidly after her, a prey to utter bewilderment. chapter xxi the meeting on the trail the quiet was profound. all the world seemed so still. there was no sign of life, yet the warm air was thrilling with the unseen life of an insect world. the heat haze rose from the soft, deep surface sand of the trail, and the grass-lined edges looked parched beneath the glare of the summer sun. there was no breath from the mountains down here, where the forest trees crowded in on either side, forming a great screen against the cooling breezes, and holding the heat like the sides of an oven. a startled bird fluttered amongst the branches of a tree with that restless movement which so surely indicates the alarm of some subtle sense which no other creature possesses in so keen a degree. an answering rustle came from near by. and in a moment this was followed by a bustling rush among the leaves as two winged mates fled farther into the forest. yet the sudden flight seemed quite unnecessary. again the stillness was broken. this time it was by the harsh voice of a black carrion. this too was followed by movement, only the movement had no haste or suggestion of fear. it was simply the heavy flapping of slow-moving wings. two enormous crows launched themselves upon the air from the topmost branches of a distant tree, and perched on the crest of another at the trail-side. they sat there in solemn, unmoving silence, but with eyes alert and watchful, and who might tell the thought passing through their unwholesome minds! but now a further sound broke the stillness--a sound which perhaps accounted for the movements of the birds. a soft patter grew out of the distance like the pad of muffled feet. but it was faint and seemingly far off. the sharp eyes of the feathered watchers were scanning the horizon from their lofty perches. the sound grew. and as it grew the waiting carrion turned to view both distances of the trail. it was evident that the growing sound had a double source. the padding feet became more distinct. yes, the sounds were sharper. the softness had gone, developing into the rhythmic beat of hard hoofs speeding from either direction. two horses were galloping down the trail at a rapid pace, and quickly it became evident that their meeting must occur somewhere almost directly beneath the watchful eyes of the waiting birds. nearer and nearer came the hoof-beats. the birds were plucking at their feathers with an unconcern all too apparent. they ruffled their wings and preened their plumage, a sure indication of satisfaction. one of the galloping horses slackened its gait. perhaps its rider had heard the approach of that other, and, with the curious instinctive suspicion of the western trail, prepared to pass him under the best conditions for defensiveness. perhaps it was simply the natural action of a horseman on the trail. but the horse from the other direction had slackened speed too. his rider, too, had reduced his gait to a walk. the birds overhead ceased their preening and looked below for the possible development they seem to be ever awaiting. it makes no difference, they follow the trail of all animal life, waiting, waiting, with a patience inexhaustible, for the moment of stillness which tells them that life has passed and the banquet awaits them. one of the horsemen came into full view from the height above. the second horseman appeared round a bend. both men were mounted on the lean, hard-muscled horses of prairie breeding. they were spare of flesh and uncared for, but their muscles were hard and their legs clean. between them a bend in the trail still intervened, but with each moment they were drawing nearer to each other. right under the tree upon which the crows were perched pete drew rein and sat listening to the shuffling gait of the oncoming horse. the man's lean face was dark with a brooding hatred. his eyes were fiercely alight with expectancy. a revolver lay across his thigh, the butt of it firmly grasped in a hand clutching it with desperate purpose. the trail was the trail to the farm. ike had gone to the farm. a horseman was returning along that trail from the direction of the farm. such was the argument behind his aggressive action. it was a simple argument which in his sober senses might have needed support to urge him to the course he now contemplated. but he was not sober; beasley had seen to that. he was no more sober than was ike. ike's horse was moving slowly--much slower than its usual walking gait the man was craning forward. who, he wondered, was riding toward the farm, and for what purpose? his right hand was on the butt of his revolver, but his weapon was still in its holster, for his action was purely precautionary in a country where, when a man has enemies, or has done those things which he knows his fellows resent, it is advisable to look for no support outside his own ability to defend himself. he remembered the screams of joan, and he knew how the hills echoed. he wondered, and wondering he regretted something of what he had done. but he regretted it only for possible consequences to himself. in reality he reveled in the warm memory of the feel of the girl's soft cheek. his horse reached the bend. he could no longer hear the hoof-beats of the other. he drew up with a sudden, nervous movement, and his gun left its holster. but his nerves passed, and, with a foul oath, he urged his horse forward. he rounded the bend and came face to face with the figure of blue grass pete. "wher' you bin?" demanded the latter in a manner that was a deliberate insult. ike did the only thing his wit could prompt. he laughed. it was a harsh, mirthless laugh, which was equally an insult. "quit it!" roared pete in a blind fury. "wher' you bin, i say?" ike abandoned his laugh, but his face was furiously grinning. "bin?" he echoed. "i bin wher' you needn't to go--wher' it ain't no use your goin'," he cried, his love of boast prompting him. "i bin to fix things up. she's goin' to mar----" a shot rang out. ike's face blanched, but like lightning his pistol bit out its retort. pete reeled and recovered himself, and again he fired. ike leant forward as though seeking support from the horn of his saddle. pete had fallen forward on to his horse's neck. ike raised his gun and fired again, but there had really been no need for the shot. even as his gun spoke the other man fell to the ground and rolled over. his dark face was turned upward, so that the waiting crows had a full view of it. after that ike remained quite still. his pale face, turning to a greenish hue in contrast to his ginger hair, was staring down at the result of his handiwork. but his eyes were almost unseeing. he was faint and weary, and in great pain. the moments passed. at last he stirred. but his movement was merely to clutch with feeble fingers at the mane of his horse. vainly his left hand clawed amongst the lank hair, while the fingers of his right released their grip upon his pistol and let it clatter to the ground. he crouched there breathing heavily, while a harsh croak from above split the air. again he moved as though the sound had awakened him. he strove to sit up, to lift the reins, and to urge his horse forward. the beast moved in response to his effort. but the movement was all that was needed. the man reeled, lost his balance, and fell heavily to the ground. he too had rolled on to his back--he too was gazing up with unseeing eyes at the dark-hued carrion whose patience was inexhaustible. for a moment all was still. then the horses moved as by common consent. they drew near to each other, and their noses met in that inquiring equine fashion which suggests friendly overtures. they stood thus for a while. then both moved to the side of the trail and began to graze upon the parching grass after the unconcerned manner of their kind. the heavy flapping of wings told of a fresh movement in the trees above. two great black bodies swung out upon the air. they circled round as though assuring themselves that all was as they could wish it. then they settled again. but this time it was on the boughs of a low bush less than six feet above the staring faces of their intended victims. chapter xxii a man's support buck looked up as two crows flew low over his head and passed on their way, croaking out their alarm and dissatisfaction. mechanically his eyes followed their movements. for he was well versed in the sights, and sounds, and habits of his world. presently he turned again to the trail, and the expression of his eyes had changed to one of speculation. cæsar was traveling eagerly. he had not yet forgotten that farther on along that trail lay the old barn which had been his home from his earliest recollections. buck had had no intention of making this visit to the farm when he left beasley's saloon. he had not had the remotest intention of carrying out the man's broadly-given hint. a hint from beasley was always unwelcome to him, and generally roused an obstinate desire to take an opposite course. nor was it until he reached the ford of the creek that the significance of the man's tone penetrated his dislike of him. quite abruptly he made up his mind to keep straight on. curiosity, added to a slight feeling of uneasiness, urged him, and, leaving the ford behind him, he kept on down the trail. his decision once taken, he felt easier as he rode on. besides, he admitted to himself now, he was rather thankful to the saloon-keeper for providing him with something in the nature of an excuse for such a visit. he was different from those others, who, in perfect confidence and ignorance, required not the least encouragement to persecute joan with their attentions. he found it more than difficult to realize that his visits were anything but irksome to the new owner of the farm now that she had settled down with the adequate support of her "hired" man. joan's graciousness to him was the one great delight of his every waking hour. but he dreaded the moment when her manner might become the mere tolerance she displayed toward ike and pete, and any of the others who chose to make her farm a halting-place. so his visits had become rarer; far rarer than made for his own peace of mind, for joan was always in his thoughts. tramping the long trail of the mountains her smiling eyes were always somewhere ahead of him, encouraging him, and shedding a radiance of hope and delight upon the dullest moments of his routine. never for one moment was the delightful picture of her presence absent from his thoughts. and to him there was nothing in the whole wide world so fair, and sweet, and worthy of the worship he so willingly cast at her feet. his life had always been full in his wilderness of nature's splendor. in his moments of leisure he had been more than happily content in the pleasant friendship of the man who had sheltered him from childhood. but now--now as he looked back over all those years, the associations seemed dull and empty--empty of all that made life worth living. not only had he come to realize the woman's place in a man's life. it was the old story of the fruit of knowledge. woman had always been a sealed book to him. now, at last, the cover had been turned and the pages lay before him for the reading. he yearned for joan with all the strength and passionate ardor of his strong young heart. nor, even in his yearning, had he full understanding of the real depths of his feelings. how could he study or analyze them? his love had no thought of the world in it. it had no thought of anything that could bring it down to the level of concrete sensation. he could not have told one feeling that was his. with joan at his side he moved in a mental paradise which no language could depict. with joan at his side he lived with every nerve pulsating, attuned to a perfect consciousness of joy. with joan at his side there was nothing but light and radiance which filled every sense with a happiness than which he could conceive no greater. alone, this great wide world about him was verily a wilderness. the man's feelings quickly mastered his momentary uneasiness as his horse bore him on toward his goal. the forest path over which he was traveling had lost its hue of gloom which the shadowed pine woods ever convey. there was light everywhere, that light which comes straight from the heart and is capable of lending radiance even to the grave-side itself. the trail lay straight ahead of him for some distance. then it swerved in a big sweep away to the left. he knew this bend. the farm lay something less than half a mile beyond it. as they neared it cæsar pricked his ears and whinnied. buck leant forward and patted his neck out of the very joy of anticipation. it almost seemed to him as if the creature knew who was waiting at the end of the journey and was rejoicing with him. for once he had misunderstood the mood of his horse. he realized this in a moment. the eager creature began to move with a less swinging stride, and his gait quickly became something in the nature of a "prop." they were round the bend, and the horse whinnied again. this time it raised its head and snorted nervously. and instantly buck was alive to the creature's anxiety. he understood the quick glancing from side to side, and the halting of that changing step which is always a sign of fear. ahead the trail completed the letter s it had begun. they were nearing the final curve to the right. buck searched the distance for the cause of cæsar's apprehension. and all unconsciously his mind went back to the winging of the crows overhead and the sound of their harsh voices. he spurred the creature sharply, and steadied him down. they reached the final bend and passed round it, and in a moment buck had an answer to the questions in his mind. it was a terrible spectacle that greeted his eyes as he reined his horse in and brought him to an abrupt halt. he had reached the battle-ground where death had claimed its toll of human passion. there, swiftly, almost silently, two men had fought out their rivalry for a woman's favor--a favor given to neither. it needed little enough imagination to read the facts. all the ingredients of the swift-moving drama were there before his eyes--the combatants stretched out in the sand of the trail, with staring eyes and dropping jaws, gazing up at the brilliant vault of the heavens, whither, may be, their savage spirits had fled; the woman crouching down at the roadside with face buried upon outstretched arms, her slight body heaving with hysterical sobs; the horses, horses he knew well enough by sight, lost to the tragedy amidst the more succulent roots of the parching grass beneath the shadow of overhanging trees. one glance at the combatants told buck all he wanted to know. they were dead. he had been too long upon the western trail to doubt the signs he beheld. his duty and inclination were with the living. in a moment he was out of the saddle and at joan's side, raising her from her position of grief and misery in arms as gentle as they were strong. he had no real understanding of the necessities of the moment. all he knew, all he desired, was to afford the girl that help and protection he felt she needed. his first thought was to keep her from a further sight of what had occurred. so he held her in his arms, limp and yielding, for one uncertain moment. then, for the second time in his life, he bore her off toward her home. but now his feelings were of a totally different nature. there was neither ecstasy nor dreaming. he was anxious and beset. as he bore her along he spoke to her, encouraging her with gentle words of sympathy and hope. but her fainting condition left him no reward, and her half-closed eyes, filled with unshed tears, remained dull and unresponsive. * * * * * no sound broke the stillness in the parlor at the farm. buck was leaning against the small centre-table gravely watching the bowed head of the silently-weeping girl, who was seated upon the rough settle which lined the wall. her slight figure was supported by the pillows which had been set in place by the ministering hands of mrs. ransford. buck's reception by the farm-wife had been very different on this occasion. she had met him with his burden some distance down the trail, whither she had followed her young mistress, whose fleetness had left her far behind. her tongue had started to clack at once, but buck was in no mood to put up with unnecessary chatter. a peremptory order had had the astonishing effect of silencing her, and a further command had set her bustling to help her mistress. once immediate needs had been attended to, the man told his story briefly, and added his interpretation of the scene he had just witnessed. he further dispatched the old woman to summon the hired man from his ploughing, and, for once, found ready obedience where he might well have expected nothing but objection. thus it was the man and girl were alone in the parlor. buck was waiting for joan's storm of tears to pass. the moment came at last, and quite abruptly. joan stirred; she flung her head up and dashed the weak tears from her eyes, struggling bravely for composure. but the moment she spoke her words belied the resolution, and showed her still in the toils of an overwhelming despair. "what can i do?" she cried piteously. "what am i to do? i can see nothing--nothing but disaster in every direction. it is all a part of my life; a part of me. i cannot escape it. i have tried to, but--i cannot. oh, i feel so helpless--so helpless!" buck's eyes shone with love and pity. he was stirred to the depths of his manhood by her appeal. here again was that shadow she had spoken of before, that he had become familiar with. he tried to tell himself that she was simply unnerved, but he knew her trouble was more than that. all his love drove him to a longing for a means of comforting her. "forget the things you seen," he said in a low tone. and he felt that his words were bald--even stupid. the girl's troubled eyes were looking up into his in a desperate hope. it was almost as if this man were her only support, and she were making one final appeal before abandoning altogether her saving hold. "forget them? oh, buck, buck, you don't know what you are saying. you don't understand--you can't, or you would not speak like that. you see," she went on, forgetting in her trouble that this man did not know her story, "ike was here. here! he made--love to me. he--he kissed me. he brutally kissed me when i had no power to resist him. and now--now this has happened." but the man before her had suddenly changed while she was speaking. the softness had left his eyes. they had suddenly become hot, and bloodshot, and hard. his breath came quickly, heavily, his thin nostrils dilating with the furious emotion that swept through his body. ike had kissed her. he had forgotten all her sufferings in his own sudden, jealous fury. joan waited. the change in the man had passed unobserved by her. then, as no answer was forthcoming, she went on-- "wherever i go it is the same. death and disaster. oh, it is awful! sometimes i think i shall go mad. is there no corner of the earth where i can hide myself from the shadow of this haunting curse?" "ike kissed you?" buck's voice grated harshly. somehow her appeal had passed him by. all his better thoughts and feelings were overshadowed for the moment. a fierce madness was sweeping through his veins, his heart, his brain, a madness of feeling such as he had never before experienced. the girl answered him, still without recognizing the change. "yes," she said in a dull, hopeless way. "and the inevitable happened. it followed swiftly, surely, as it always seems to follow. he is dead." "he got it--as he should get it. he got no more than he'd have got if i'd been around." buck's mood could no longer escape her. she looked into the hard, young face, startled. she saw the fury in his eyes, the clenched jaws, with their muscles outstanding with the force of the fury stirring him. the sight agitated her, but somehow it did not frighten. she half understood. at least she thought she did. she read his resentment as that of a man who sees in the outrage a breaking of all the laws of chivalry. she missed the real note underlying it. "what does his act matter?" she said almost indifferently, her mind on what she regarded as the real tragedy. "he was drunk. he was not responsible. no, no. it is not that which matters. it was the other. he left me--to go to his death. had pete not been waiting for him it would have been just the same. disaster! death! oh! can you not see? it is the disaster which always follows me." her protest was not without its effect. so insistent was she on the resulting tragedy that buck found himself endeavoring to follow her thought in spite of his own feelings. she was associating this tragedy with herself--as part of her life, her fate. but it was some moments before the man was sufficiently master of himself--before he could detach his thought altogether from the human feelings stirring him. the words sang on his ear-drums. "he--he kissed me." they were flaming through his brain. they blurred every other thought, and, for a time, left him incapable of lending her that support he would so willingly give her. finally, however, his better nature had its way. he choked down his jealous fury, and strove to find means of comforting her. "it's all wrong," he cried, with a sudden force which claimed the girl's attention, and, for the time at least, held her troubled thought suspended. "how can this be your doing? why for should it be a curse on you because two fellers shoot each other up? they hated each other because of you. wal--that's natural. it's dead human. it's been done before, an' i'm sure guessin' it'll be done again. it's not you. it's--it's nature--human nature. say, miss joan, you ain't got the lessons of these hills right yet. folks out here are diffrent to city folks. that is, their ways of doin' the same things are diff'rent. we feel the same--that's because we're made the same--but we act diff'rent. if i'd bin around, i'd have shot ike--with a whole heap of pleasure. an' if i had, wher's the cuss on you? kissin' a gal like that can't be done around here." "but pete was not here. he didn't know." joan was quick to grasp the weakness of his argument. "it don't matter a cent," cried buck, his teeth clipping his words. "he needed his med'cine--an' got it." joan sighed hopelessly. "you don't understand, and--and i can't tell it you all. sometimes i feel i could kill myself. how can i help realizing the truth? it is forced on me. i am a leper, a--a pariah." the girl leant back on her cushions, and her whole despairing attitude became an appeal to his manhood. the last vestige of buck's jealousy passed from him. he longed to tell her all there was in his heart. he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, and protect her from every shadow the whole wide world held for her. he longed to tell her of the love that was his, and how no power on earth could change it. but he did none of these things. "the things you're callin' yourself don't sound wholesome," he said simply. "i can't see they fit in anyway. guess they ain't natural." joan caught at the word. "natural!" she cried. "is any of it natural?" she laughed hysterically. buck nodded. "it's all natural," he said. "you've hit it. you don't need my word. jest you ask the padre. he'll give it you all. he'll tell you jest how notions can make a cuss of any life, an' how to get shut of sech notions. he's taught me, an' he'll teach you. i can't jest pass his words on. they don't git the same meaning when i say 'em. i ain't wise to that sort of thing. but ther's things i am wise to, and they're the things he's taught me. you're feeling mean, mean an' miser'ble, that makes me ter'ble mean to see. say, miss joan, i ain't much handin' advice. i ain't got brain enough to hand that sort of thing around, but i'd sure ask you to say right here ther' ain't no cuss on your life, an' never was. you jest guess there's a cuss around chasin' glory at your expense. wal, git right up, an' grit your teeth an' fight good. don't sit around feeling mean. if you'd do that, i tell you that cuss'll hit the trail so quick you won't git time to see it, an' you'll bust yourself laffin' to think you ever tho't it was around your layout. an' before i done talkin' i'll ast you to remember that when menfolks git around insultin' a helpless gal, cuss or no cuss, he's goin' to git his med'cine good--an' from me." buck's effort had its reward. the smile that had gradually found its way into his own eyes caught something of a reflection in those of the girl. he had dragged her from the depths of her despair by the force of the frank courage that was his. he had lifted her by the sheer strength and human honesty which lay at the foundation of his whole, simple nature. joan sighed, and it was an acknowledgment of his success. "thank you, buck," she said gently. "you are always so good to me. you have been so ever since i came. and goodness knows you have little enough reason for it, seeing it is i who have turned you out of this home of yours----" "we got your money," interrupted buck, almost brusquely. "this farm was the padre's. you never turned me out. an' say, the padre don't live a big ways from here. maybe you'd like him to tell you about cusses an' things." his eyes twinkled. "he's sure great on cusses." but joan did not respond to the lightness of his manner, and buck realized that her trouble was still strong upon her. he waited anxiously, watching for the signs of her acceptance of his invitation. but they were not forthcoming. the deep violet of her eyes seemed to grow deeper with a weight of thought, and gradually the man's hopes sank. he had wanted her to see his friend, he had wanted his friend to see her. but more than all he had wanted to welcome her to his own home. nor was the reason of his desire clear even to himself. at last she rose from her seat and crossed over to the window, just as the sound of voices heralded the return of mrs. ransford and the hired man. it was at that moment she turned to him, speaking over her shoulder. "they've got back," she said. "what are you going to do?" "send those--others--on into camp." "yes." joan shivered. then she came back to him, and stood with one hand resting on the table. "i--i think i should like to see the padre. will you take me to him one day?" chapter xxiii the bridging of years it was nearly a week later that joan paid her visit to the fur fort. the padre moved about the room a little uncertainly. its plainness troubled him, but its cleanliness was unquestionable. both he and buck had spent over two hours, earlier in the day, setting the place to rights and preparing for their visitor. he shook his head as he viewed the primitive condition of the furniture. it was all very, very home-made. there was not one seat he felt to be suitable to offer to a lady. he was very dissatisfied. dissatisfied with it all, and particularly with buck for bringing joan to this wretched mountain abode. it would have been far better had he called at the farm. it even occurred to him now as curious that he had never done so before. yet perhaps it was not so curious after all. he had been attached to the home which had sheltered him all those years, the home his own two hands had built. yes, it was different making a place, building it, driving every nail oneself, setting up every fence post, turning every clod of soil. it was different to purchasing it, ready-made, or hiring labor. he had no desire to go near the farm again. that, like other things, had passed out of his life forever. three times he rearranged the room in the vain hope of giving it an added appearance of comfort, but the task was hopeless. finally, he sat down and lit his pipe, smiling at his almost childish desire that his home should find favor in the eyes of the girl buck was bringing to see him. buck had told him very little. he had spoken of the visit, and hinted at joan's desire for advice. he had been very vague. but then that was buck's way in some things. it was not often that he had need to go into reasons in his intercourse with his friend. such a perfect understanding had always existed between them that they were rarely discoursive. he had told the padre of the shooting, and explained the apparent cause. he had also told him of the reception of the news in the camp, and how a small section of the older inhabitants had adopted an attitude of resentment against the innocent cause of it. he had shown him that there was plainly no sympathy, or very little, for joan when the story was told. and to the elder man this was disquieting. buck had treated it with the contempt of youth, but the padre had detected in it a food for graver thought than he let the boy understand. it would be time enough to break up buck's confidence should any trouble develop. in the meantime he had understood that there was something like real necessity for him to see this girl. if she needed any help then it was plainly his duty to give it her. and, besides, there was another reason. buck desired this interview. he smiled to himself as he thought of the turn events had taken with buck. he must have been blind indeed if he had not seen from the very first the way things were going. the boy had fallen hopelessly in love with the first girl with whom he had definitely been brought into contact. and why not? yes, he was rather anxious to see and talk with this girl who had set the boy's heart on fire. yet it seemed strange. buck had never been anything but a boy to him. he had never really grown up. he was still the small, pathetic figure he had first encountered on the trail-side. and now here he was hopelessly, madly in love with a girl. he would never forget the fire of jealousy that had lain behind his words when buck had told him that ike had forcibly kissed her. his thought lost its more sympathetic note, and he became grave. love had come into this youngster's life, and he wondered in what direction it would influence it. he knew well enough, no one better, how much damage love could do. he knew well enough the other, and right side of the picture. but buck was an unusual experiment. even to him, who knew the boy so well, he was still something of a problem in many ways. one thing was certain. he would get the trouble badly, and time alone could show what ravages and complications might be forthcoming. he rose from his chair and knocked out his pipe. then, in smiling dismay, he sniffed the air. he had done the very thing he had meant to avoid. he shook his white head, and opened wide both the window and the door in the hope that the fresh mountain air would sweeten the atmosphere before the girl's arrival. but his hopes were quickly dashed. as he took up his position in the doorway, prepared to extend her the heartiest greeting, he heard the clatter of hoofs on the trail, and the man and the girl rode into the stockade. buck had departed to perform his usual evening tasks. he had gone to water and feed the horses, to "buck" cord-wood for the stove, and to draw the water for their household purposes. he was full early with his work, but he was anxious that the padre and joan should remain undisturbed. such was his faith in the padre that he felt that on this visit depended much of the girl's future peace of mind. now the white-haired man and the girl were alone--alone with the ruddy westering sun pouring in through window and door, in an almost horizontal shaft of gracious light. joan was sitting bending over the cook-stove, her feet resting on the rack at the foot of the oven, her hands outstretched to the warming glow of the fire. the evenings in the hills, even in the height of summer, were never without a nip of cold which drifted down from the dour, ages-old glaciers crowning the distant peaks. she was talking, gazing into the glowing coals. she was piecing out her story as it had been told her by her aunt mercy, feeling that only with a full knowledge of it could this wise old white-haired friend of buck's understand and help her. the padre was sitting close under the window. his back was turned to it, so that his face was almost lost in the shadow. and it was as well. as the story proceeded, as incident after incident was unfolded, the man's face became gray with unspeakable emotion, and from robust middle age he jumped to an old, old man. but joan saw none of this. never once did she turn her eyes in his direction. she was lost in painful recollections of the hideous things with which she seemed to be surrounded. she told him of her birth, those strange circumstances which her aunt had told her of, and which now, in her own cold words, sounded so like a fairy tale. she told him of her father and her father's friend, the man who had always been his evil genius. she told him of her father's sudden good fortune, and of the swift-following disaster. she told him of his dreadful death at the hands of his friend. then she went on, mechanically reciting the extraordinary events which had occurred to her--how, in each case where men sought her regard and love, disaster had followed hard upon their heels; how she had finally fled before the disaster which dogged her; how she had come here, here where she thought she might be free from associations so painful, only to find that escape was impossible. "i need not tell you what has happened since i came," she finished up dully. "you know it all. they say i brought them their luck. luck? was there ever such luck? first my coming cost a man's life, and now--now ike and pete. what is to follow?" the padre had not once interrupted her in her long story, and, even now, as the last sound of her voice died out, it was some moments before he spoke. the fire in the grate rustled and the cinders shook down. it was then that the girl stirred as though suddenly made aware of the silence. immediately the man's voice, cold--almost harsh, in contrast to his usual tone, startled her. "'rest' is not your name," he said. "you have changed your name--to further aid your escape from----" "how do you know that?" then the girl went on, wondering at the man's quickness of understanding. "i had not intended telling you. but it doesn't matter. nothing seems to matter. evidently my disguise is useless with you. no, my name is not rest. my father was charles stanmore." the man made no reply. he did not move. his keen eyes were on the red-gold hair so neatly coiled about the girl's head. his lips were compressed, and a deep frown had disturbed the usual serenity of his broad brow. for a moment joan bowed her head, and her hands clasped tightly as they were held toward the fire. presently her voice sounded again. it began low, held under a forced calm. "is there no hope?" she implored him. "buck said you could help me. what have i done that these things should curse my life? i only want peace--just a little peace. i am content to live and die just as i am. i desire nothing more than to be left--alone." "who told you--all this?" the padre's voice had no sympathy. "my aunt. aunt mercy." "you were--happy before she told you?" "yes." "why did she tell you?" "i don't know. at least--yes, she told me so as to warn me. so that i might avoid bringing disaster upon those whom i had no desire to hurt." the padre rose from his seat and crossed to where the girl was sitting. he stood for a moment just behind her chair. then, very gently, he laid one sunburnt hand upon her shoulder. "little girl," he said, with a wonderful kindliness that started the long-threatened tears to the girl's eyes, "you've got a peck of trouble inside that golden head of yours. but it's all in there. there's none of it outside. look back over all those things you've told me. every one of them. just show me where your hand in them lies. there is not a disaster that you have mentioned but what possesses its perfectly logical, natural cause. there is not one that has not been duplicated, triplicated, ah! dozens and dozens of times since this quaint old world of ours began. you believe it is due to your influence because a silly old woman catches you in an overwrought moment and tells you so. she has implanted a parasite in your little head that has stuck there and grown out of all proportion. believe me, child, you cannot influence the destinies of men. you have no say in the matter. as we are made, so we must work out our own salvation. it has been your lot to witness many disasters, but had these things occurred with other girls as the central figure, would you have attributed this hideous curse to their lives? would you? never. but you readily attribute it to your own. i am an old man my dear; older to-day, perhaps, by far than my years call for. i have seen so much of misery and trouble that sometimes i have thought that all life is just one long sea of disaster. but it isn't--unless we choose to make it so. you are rapidly making yours such. you are naturally generous, and kind, and sympathetic. these things you have allowed to develop in you until they have become something approaching disease. vampires sucking out all your nervous strength. abandon these things for a while. live the life the good god gave you. enjoy your living moments as you were intended to enjoy them. and be thankful that the sun rises each morning, and that you can rise up from your bed refreshed and ready for the full play of heart, and mind, and limbs. disasters will go on about you as they go on about me, and about us all. but they do not belong to us. that is just life. that is just the world and its scheme. there are lessons in all these things for us to learn--lessons for the purification of our hearts, and not diseases for our silly, weak brains. now, little girl, i want you to promise that you will endeavor to do as i say. live a wholesome, healthy life. enjoy all that it is given you to enjoy. where good can be done, do it. where evil lies, shun it. forget all this that lies behind you, and--live! evil is merely the absence of good. life is all good. if we deny that good, then there is evil. live your life with all its blessings, and your god will bless _you_. this is your duty to yourself; to your fellows; to life; to your god." joan had risen from her seat. her face was alight with a hope that had not been there for many days. the man's words had taken hold of her. her troubled mind could not withstand them. he had inspired her with a feeling of security she had not known for weeks. her tears were no longer tears of despair. they were tears of thankfulness and hope. but when she spoke her words seemed utterly bald and meaningless to express the wave of gratitude that flooded her heart. "i will; i will," she cried with glistening eyes. "oh, padre!" she went on, with happy impulse, "you don't know what you've done for me--you don't know----" "then, child, do something for me." the man was smiling gravely down into the bright, upturned face. "you must not live alone down there at the farm. it is not good in a child so young as you. get some relative to come and share your home with you." "but i have no one--except my aunt mercy." "ah!" "you see she is my only relative. but--but i think she would come if i asked her." "then ask her." * * * * * the padre was sitting in the chair that joan had occupied. he too was bending over the stove with his hands outstretched to the warming blaze. perhaps he too was feeling the nip of the mountain air. feeling it more than usual to-night. buck was sitting on the edge of the table close by. he had just returned from taking joan back to the farm. the young man's journey home had been made in a condition of mental exhilaration which left him quite unconscious of all time and distance. the change wrought in joan had been magical, and cæsar, for once in his life, felt the sharp spur of impatience in the man's eager desire to reach his friend and speak something of the gratitude he felt. but habit was strong upon buck, and his gratitude found no outlet in words when the moment came. far from it. on his arrival he found the padre sitting at their fireside without even the most ordinary welcome on his lips. a matter so unusual that it found buck dumb, waiting for the lead to come, as he knew it inevitably would, in the padre's own good time. it took longer than he expected, however, and it was not until he had prepared their frugal supper that the elder man stirred from his moody contemplation of the fire. he looked up, and a smile struggled painfully into his eyes. "hungry, buck?" he inquired. "so!" "ah! then sit right down here, boy, an' light your pipe. there's things i want to say--first." "get right ahead." buck drew up a chair, and obediently filled and lit his pipe. "life's pretty twisted," the padre began, his steady gray eyes smiling contemplatively. "so twisted, it makes you wonder some. that girl's happier now, because i told her there were no such things as cusses. yes, it's all queer." he reached out and helped himself from buck's tobacco pouch. then he, too, filled and lit his pipe. "you've never asked me why i live out here," he went on presently. "never since i've known you. once or twice i've seen the question in your eyes, but--it never stayed there long. you don't ask many questions, do you, buck?" the padre puffed slowly at his pipe. his manner was that of a man looking back upon matters which had suddenly acquired an added interest for him. yet the talk he desired to have with this youngster inspired an ill-flavor. "if folks want to answer questions ther' ain't no need to ask 'em." buck's philosophy interested the other, and he nodded. "just so. that's how it is with me--now. i want to tell you--what you've never asked. you'll see the reason presently." buck waited. his whole manner suggested indifference. yet there was a thoughtful look in his dark eyes. "that girl," the padre went on, his gaze returning to a contemplation of the fire. "she's put me in mind of something. she's reminded me how full of twists and cranks life is. she's full of good. full of good thoughts and ideals. yet life seems to take a delight in impressing her with a burden so unwholesome as to come very nearly undoing all the good it has endowed her with. it seems queer. it seems devilish hard. but i generally notice the harder folk try in this world the heavier the cross they have to carry. maybe it's the law of fitness. maybe folks must bear a burden at their full capacity so that the result may be a greater refining. i've thought a lot lately. sometimes i've thought it's better to sit around and--well, don't worry with anything outside three meals a day. that's been in weak moments. you see, we can't help our natures. if it's in us to do the best we know--well, we're just going to do it, and--and hang the result." "h'm." buck grunted and waited. "i was thinking of things around here," the other went on. "i was wondering about the camp. it's a stinking hole now. it's full of everything--rotten. yet they think it's one huge success, and they reckon we helped them to it." "how?" "why, by feeding them when they were starving, and so making it possible for them to hang on until nature opened her treasure-house." buck nodded. "i see." "all i see is--perhaps through our efforts--we've turned loose a hell of drunkenness and debauchery upon earth. these people--perhaps through our efforts--have been driven along the very path we would rather have saved them from. the majority will end in disaster. some have already done so. but for our help this would not have been." "they'd jest have starved." "we should not have sold our farm, and ike and pete would have been alive now." "in ike's case it would have been a pity." the padre smiled. he took buck's protest for what it was worth. "yes, life's pretty twisted. it's always been the same with me. wherever i've got busy trying to help those i had regard for i generally managed to find my efforts working out with a result i never reckoned on. that's why i am here." the padre smoked on for some moments in silence. "i was hot-headed once," he went on presently. "i was so hot-headed that i--i insulted the woman i loved. i insulted her beyond forgiveness. you see, she didn't love me. she loved my greatest friend. still, that's another story. it's the friend i want to talk about. he was a splendid fellow. a bright, impetuous gambler on the new york stock exchange. we were both on wall street. i was a gambler too. i was a lucky gambler, and he was an unlucky one. in spite of my love for the woman, who loved him, it was my one great desire to help him. my luck was such that i believed i could do it--my luck and my conceit. you see, next to the woman i loved he was everything in the world to me. do you get that?" buck nodded. "well, in spite of all i could and did do, after a nice run of luck which made me think his affairs had turned for the better, a spell of the most terrible ill-luck set in. there was no checking it. he rode headlong for a smash. i financed him time and again, nearly ruining myself in my effort to save him. he took to drink badly. he grew desperate in his gambling. in short, i saw he had given up all hope. again i did the best i could. i was always with him. my object was to endeavor to keep him in check. in his drinking bouts i was with him, and when he insisted on poker and other gambling i was there to take a hand. if i hadn't done these things--well, others would have, but with a different object. by a hundred devices i managed to minimize the bad results of his wild, headstrong career. "then the end came. had i been less young, had i been less hopeful for him, less wrapped up in him, i must have foreseen it. we were playing cards in his apartments. his housekeeper and his baby girl were in a distant room. they were in bed. you see, it was late at night. it was the last hand. his luck had been diabolical, but the stakes were comparatively low. i shall never forget the scene. his nerves were completely shattered. he picked up his hand, glanced at it--we were playing poker--jack pots--and flung it down. 'i'm done,' he cried, and, kicking back his chair, rose from the table. he moved a pace away as though to go to the side-table where the whisky and soda stood. i thought he meant having a drink. his back was turned to me. the next moment i heard shots. he seemed to stumble, swung round with a sort of jerk, and fell face downward across the table. "i jumped to his assistance. but--he was dead. he had shot himself through the heart and in the stomach. my horror? well, it doesn't matter now. i was utterly and completely unnerved. if i hadn't been perhaps i should have acted differently. i should have called his--housekeeper. i should have summoned the police--a doctor. but i did none of these. my horror and grief were such that i--fled; fled like the coward i was. nor did i simply flee from the house. i left everything, and fled from the city that night. it was not until some days afterward that i realized what my going meant to me. you see, i had left behind me, in his housekeeper, the woman i loved--and had insulted past forgiveness. i was branded as his murderer. do you see? she loved him, and was his housekeeper. oh, there was nothing wrong in it! i knew that. his baby girl was the child of his dead wife. several times i thought of returning to establish my innocence, but somehow my conduct and my story wouldn't have fitted in the eyes of a jury. besides, there was that insulted woman. she had accused me of the murder. it was quite useless to go back. it meant throwing away my life. it was not worth it. so i came here." buck offered no comment for a long time. comment seemed unnecessary. the padre watched him with eyes striving to conceal their anxiety. finally, buck put a question that seemed unnecessary. "why d'you tell me now?" he asked. his pipe had gone out and he pushed it into his hip-pocket. the padre's smile was rather drawn. "because of you. because of my friend's--baby girl." "how?" "the child's name was joan. joan rest is the daughter of charles stanmore--the man i am accused of murdering. this afternoon i advised her to have some one to live with her--a relative. she is sending for the only one she has. it is her aunt, stanmore's housekeeper--the woman i insulted past forgiveness." not for an instant did buck's expression change. "why did you advise--that?" he asked. the padre's eyes suddenly lit with a subdued fire, and his answer came with a passion such as buck had never witnessed in him before. "why? why? because you love this little joan, daughter of my greatest friend. because i owe it to you--to her--to face my accusers and prove my innocence." the two men looked long and earnestly into each other's eyes. then the padre's voice, sharp and strident, sounded through the little room. "well?" buck rose from his seat. "let's eat, padre," he said calmly. "i'm mighty hungry." then he came a step nearer and gripped the elder man's hand. "i'm right with you, when things--get busy." chapter xxiv beasley plays the game joan lost no time in carrying out the padre's wishes. such was her changed mood, such was the strength of her new-born hope, such was the wonderful healing his words had administered to her young mind, that, for the time at least, her every cloud was dispersed, lost in a perfect sheen of mental calm. the change occurred from the moment of her return home. so changed indeed was she that her rough but faithful housekeeper, dull of perception to all those things outside the narrow focus of her life in domestic service, caught a faint glimpse of it without anything approaching a proper understanding. she realized an added energy, which seriously affected her own methods of performing her duties and caused her to make a mental note that her young mistress was assuming "airs" which did not fit in with her inexperience of those things amidst which she, the farm-wife, had floundered all her life. she heard her moving about the house, her joy and hope finding outlet in song such as had never echoed through the place before. and promptly she set this new phase down to the result of her associations with the young "scallawag" buck. she noted, too, an added care in her toilet, and this inspired the portentous belief that she was "a-carryin' on" with the same individual. but when it came to a general "turning-out" of the living-rooms of the house, a matter which added an immense amount of effort to her own daily duties, her protest found immediate vent in no uncertain terms. it came while the midday dinner was in preparation. it rose to boiling-point amidst the steam from her cooking pots. finally it bubbled over, much as might one of her own kettles. joan was standing in the kitchen giving her orders preparatory to departing to the camp, whither she was going to mail her letter to her aunt at beasley's store. "you see," she was saying, "i'll have to make some changes in the house. i'm expecting my aunt from st. ellis to come and stay with me. she won't be able to do with the things which have been sufficient for me. she will have my room. i shall buy new furniture for it. i shall get beasley to order it for me from leeson butte. then i shall use the little room next yours. and while we're making these changes we'll have a general housecleaning. you might begin this afternoon on the room i am going to move into." the old woman turned with a scarlet face. it may have been the result of the heat of cooking. then again it may have had other causes. "an' when, may i ast, do i make bricks?" she inquired with ponderous sarcasm. joan stood abashed for a moment. so unexpected was the retort, so much was it at variance with her own mood that she had no answer ready, and the other was left with the field to herself. "now jest look right here, miss joan--ma'm," she cried, flourishing a cooking spoon to point her words. "i ain't a woman of many words by no means, as you might say, but what i sure says means what i mean, no more an' no less, as the sayin' is. i've kep' house all my life, an' i reckon ther's no female from st. ellis ken show _me_. i've bin a wife an' a mother, an' raised my offsprings till they died. i did fer a man as knew wot's wot in my george d. an' if i suffered fer it, it was jest because i know'd my duty an' did it, no matter the consequences to me an' mine. i tell you right here, an' i'm a plain-spoken woman who's honest, as the sayin' is, i turn out no house, nor room, nor nothin' of an afternoon. i know my duty an' i do it. ther's a chapter of the bible fer every day o' my life, an' it needs digestin' good--with my dinner. an' i don't throw it up fer nobody." "but--but----" joan began to protest, but the other brushed objection aside with an added flourish of her spoon. "it ain't no use fer you to persuade, nor cajole, nor argify. what i says goes fer jest so long as i'm willin' to accept your ter'ble ordinary wages, which i say right here won't be fer a heap long time if things don't change some. i'm a respectable woman an' wife that was, but isn't, more's the pity, an' it ain't my way to chase around the house a-screechin' at the top o' my voice jest as though i'd come from a cirkis. you ain't got your mind on your work. you ain't got your heart in it, singin' all over the house, like--like one o' them brazen cirkis gals. no, nor wot with scallawags a-comin' around sparkin' you, an' the boys shootin' theirselves dead over you, an' folks in the camp a-callin' of you a jony gal, i don't guess i'll need to stay an' receive con--contamination, as you might say. that's how i'm feelin'; an' bein' a plain woman, an' a 'specterble widow of george d., who was a man every inch of him, mind you, if he had his failin's, chasin' other folks' cattle, an' not readin' their brands right, why, out it comes plump like a bad tooth you're mighty glad to be rid of, as the sayin' is." the woman turned back to her cooking. her manner was gravely disapproving, and she had managed to convey a sting which somehow hurt joan far more than she was willing to admit. her refusal to undertake the added work was merely churlish and disconcerting, but those other remarks raised a decided anger not untouched by a feeling of shame and hurt. but joan did not give way to any of these feelings in her reply. she did the only dignified thing possible. "you need not wait until your dissatisfaction with me overwhelms you, mrs. ransford," she said promptly. "i engaged you by the month, and i shall be glad if you will leave me to-day month." then she added with a shadow of reproach: "really, i thought you were made of better stuff." but her attitude had a far different result to what she had expected. she turned to go, preferring to avoid a further torrent of abuse from the harsh old woman, when the spoon flourished in the air as the widow of george d. swung round from her pots with an amazing alacrity. "you ain't chasin' me out, miss joan--ma'm?" she cried aghast, her round eyes rolling in sudden distress. "why, miss--ma'm, i never meant no harm--that i didn't. y' see i was jest sore hearin' them sayin' things 'bout you in the camp, an' you a-singin' made me feel you didn't care nuthin'. an' these scallawags a-comin' around a-sassin' you, an' a-kissin' you, sort o' set my blood boilin'. no, miss--ma'm, you ain't a-goin' to chase me out! you wouldn't now, would you?" she appealed. "jest say you won't, an' i'll have the house turned sheer upside down 'fore you know wher' you are. there, jest think of it. you may need some un to ke'p that scallawag buck in his place. how you goin' to set about him without me around? i ain't quittin' this day month, am i, miss--ma'm?" the old woman's abject appeal was too much for joan's soft heart, and her smiling eyes swiftly told the waiting penitent that the sentence was rescinded. instantly the shadow was lifted from the troubled face. "it was your own fault, mrs. ransford," joan said, struggling to conceal her amusement. "however, if you want to stay----well, i must drive into the camp before dinner, and we'll see about the little room when i return." "that we will, mum--miss. that we will," cried the farm-wife in cordial relief as joan hurried out of the room. * * * * * joan drew up at beasley's store just as that individual was preparing to adjourn his labors for dinner. the man saw her coming from the door of his newly-completed barn, and softly whistled to himself at the sight of the slim, girlish figure sitting in the wagon behind the heavy team of horses he had so long known as the padre's. this was only the third time he had seen the girl abroad in the camp, and he wondered at the object of her visit now. whatever malice he bore her, and his malice was of a nature only to be understood by his warped mind, his admiration was none the less for it. not a detail of her appearance escaped his quick, lustful eyes. her dainty white shirt-waist was covered by the lightest of dust coats, and her pretty face was shadowed by a wide straw hat which protected it from the sun's desperate rays. her deeply-fringed eyes shone out from the shade, and set the blood pulsing through the man's veins. he saw the perfect oval of her fair face, with its ripe, full lips and delicate, small nose, so perfect in shape, so regular in its setting under her broad open brow. her wonderful hair, that ruddy-tinted mass of burnished gold which was her most striking feature, made him suck in a whistling breath of sensual appreciation. without a moment's hesitation, hat in hand he went to meet her. as he came up his foxy eyes were alight with what he intended for a grin of amiability. whatever his peculiarly vindictive nature he was more than ready to admit to himself the girl's charms. "say, miss golden," he cried, purposely giving her the name the popular voice had christened her, "it's real pleasant of you to get around. guess the camp's a mighty dull show without its lady citizens. maybe you'll step right up into my storeroom. i got a big line of new goods in from leeson. y' see the saloon ain't for such as you," he laughed. "guess it does for the boys all right. i'm building a slap-up store next--just dry goods an' notions. things are booming right now. they're booming so hard there's no keepin' pace. i'll tie your hosses to this post." his manner was perfect in its amiability, but joan detested it because of the man. he could never disguise his personality, and joan was beginning to understand such personalities as his. "thanks," she said coldly, as, taking advantage of his being occupied with the horses, she jumped quickly from the vehicle. "i came to mail a letter," she said, as she moved on up to the big barn which was beasley's temporary storehouse, "and to give you a rather large order for furnishing and things." she produced a paper with her list of requirements, and handed it to him. "you see, i'm refurnishing the farm," she went on, while the man glanced an appreciative eye over the extensive order. "can you do those things?" she asked as he looked up from his perusal. "why, yes. there's nothing difficult there. what we can't do here we can send on to leeson butte for. i've got some elegant samples of curtains just come along. maybe you'll step inside?" in spite of her dislike of the man joan had no hesitation in passing into the storeroom. she had no desire in the world to miss the joy of inspecting a fresh consignment of dry goods. she felt almost as excited, and quite as much interested, as though she were visiting one of the great stores in st. ellis. in a few moments she was lost in a close inspection of the display. nor had she any thought, or wonder, that here in the wilderness, on the banks of yellow creek, such things should already have found their way. for a long time the keen man of business expended his arts of persuasion upon her, and, by the time the girl had exhausted his stock, he had netted a sound order. his satisfaction was very evident, and now he was prepared to regard her rather as a woman than a customer. "makes you think some," he observed, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the piled-up fabrics and unopened cases. then he laughed in a way that jarred upon the girl. "ther's money to burn here. money! whew!" then his eyes became serious. "if it only lasts!" "why shouldn't it?" asked joan unsuspiciously. she had finished, and was anxious to get away. but the man seemed to want to talk, and it seemed churlish to deny him. beasley shook his head, while his eyes devoured her appealing beauty. "it won't," he said decidedly. "it's too big--too rich. besides----" "besides what?" the man's eyes had lost their grin. they were the eyes of the real man. "it's--devil's luck. i've said it all along. only ther's sech plaguey knowalls around they won't believe it. buck now--i got nothing against buck. he's a good citizen. but he's got a streak o' yeller in him, an' don't hold with no devil's luck. maybe you remember." he grinned unpleasantly into the girl's eyes. she remembered well enough. she was not likely to forget the manner in which buck had come to her help. she flushed slightly. "what do you mean by 'a streak of yellow'?" she demanded coldly. "it don't need a heap of explaining. he's soft on mission talk." joan's flush deepened. this man had a mean way of putting things. "if you mean that he doesn't believe in--in superstitions, and that sort of thing, if you mean he's just a straightforward, honest-thinking man--well, i agree with you." beasley was enjoying the spectacle of the warmth which prompted her defense. she was devilish pretty, he admitted to himself. "maybe you feel that way," he said, in a tone that jarred. "say," he went on shrewdly, "i'm no sucker, i'm not one of these slobs chasin' gold they're eager to hand on to the first guy holdin' out his hand. i'm out to make a pile. i had a claim in the ballot. maybe it's a good claim. i ain't troubled to see. why? i'll tell you. maybe i'd have taken a few thousand dollars out of it. maybe a heap. maybe only a little. not good--with all these slobs around." he shook his head. "i figured i'd git the lot if i traded. i'd get the show of _all_ of the claims. see? the 'strike' ain't goin' to last. it's a pocket in the hill, an' it'll peter out just as dead sure as--well as can be. an' when it's petered out there's going to be jest one feller around here who's made a profit--an' it ain't one of those who used the sluice-boxes. no, you can believe what you like. this 'strike' was jest a devil's laugh at folks who know no better. an' master buck has handed you something of devil's luck when he made you take that gold." there was something very keen about this man, and in another joan might have admired it; but beasley's mind was tainted with such a vicious meanness that admiration was impossible. "i don't believe it," said joan staunchly. "neither does buck. he would never willingly hand me the trouble you suggest." her words were the result of an impetuous defense of the absent man. to hear this man attack buck was infuriating. but the moment she had uttered them, the moment she had seen their effect, that meaning laugh which they brought to the storekeeper's lips, she wished they had never been spoken. "don't guess buck needs to scrap fer himself with you around, miss golden," he laughed. "gee! he's in luck. i wonder!" joan choked back her swift-rising indignation. the man wasn't worth it, she told herself, and hurriedly prepared to depart. but beasley had no intention of letting her go like that. "i wonder whether he is in luck, though," he went on quickly, in a tone he knew the girl would not be able to resist. his estimate was right. she made no further move to go. "how?" she asked. "oh, nuthin' of consequence," he said aggravatingly. "i was just thinking of the way folks are talking." then he laughed right out; and if joan had only understood the man she would have known that his merriment was but the precursor of something still more unpleasant. but such natures as his were quite foreign to her. she merely instinctively disliked him. "what do you mean?" she asked unsuspiciously. beasley was serious again, and wore an air of deprecation when he answered her. "oh!" he exclaimed, "'tain't nuthin'. y' see folks are always most ready to gas around. it's 'bout them two boys. they're hot about 'em. y' see pete was a mighty popular feller, an' ike had good friends. y' see they were always good spenders--an' most folks like good spenders. but ther'--'tain't nuthin' that needs tellin' you. guess it'll only make a dandy gal like you feel mean." the man's purpose must have been evident to anybody less simple than joan. as it was she jumped at the bait so skilfully held out. "but you must tell me," she said, remembering mrs. ransford's remarks. "i insist on knowing if it is anything concerning me." beasley's air was perfect. his eyes were as frankly regretful as he could make them. "wal," he said, "it certainly does concern you--but i'd rather not say it." "go on." joan's face was coldly haughty. "i wouldn't take it too mean," said beasley warningly. "i sure wouldn't. you see folks say a heap o' things that is trash. they guess it's your doin' 'bout them boys. they reckon you played 'em one ag'in t'other for their wads, an' both o' them ag'in--buck. y' see--mind i'm jest tellin' you cos you asked--they guess you ast 'em both to supper that evenin'. pete said he was ast, an' ike let on the same. you ast 'em both for the fun of the racket. an' you had buck around to watch the fun. yes, they're pretty hot. an' you can't blame 'em, believin' as they do. one of 'em--i forget who it rightly was--he called you the camp jonah. said just as long as you wer' around ther'd be trouble. he was all for askin' you to clear right out. he said more than that, but i don't guess you need to know it all." "but i do need to know it all. i need to know all they said, and--who said it." joan's eyes were blazing. beasley made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction, and went on at once-- "course i can't give you names. but the facts i don't guess i'm likely to forget--they made me so riled. they said that farm of yours was just a blind. it--it was--well, you'd come along here for all you could get--an' that----" joan cut him short. "that's enough," she cried. "you needn't tell me any more. i--i understand. oh, the brutal, heartless ruffians! tell me. who was it said these things? i demand to know. i insist on the names. oh!" the girl's exasperation was even greater than beasley had hoped for. he read, too, the shame and hurt underlying it, and his satisfaction was intense. he felt that he was paying her off for some of the obvious dislike she had always shown him, and it pleased him as it always pleased him when his mischief went home. but now, having achieved his end, he promptly set about wriggling clear of consequences, which was ever his method. "i'd like to give you the names," he said frankly. "but i can't. you see, when fellers are drunk they say things they don't mean, an' it wouldn't be fair to give them away. i jest told you so you'd be on your guard--just to tell you the folks are riled. but it ain't as bad as it seems. i shut 'em up quick, feeling that no decent citizen could stand an' hear a pretty gal slandered like that. an' i'll tell you this, miss golden, you owe me something for the way i made 'em quit. still," he added, with a leer, "i don't need payment. you see, i was just playin' the game." joan was still furious. and somehow his wriggling did not ring true even in her simple ears. "then you won't tell me who it was?" she cried. beasley shook his head. "nuthin' doin'," he said facetiously. "then you--you are a despicable coward," she cried. "you--oh!" and she almost fled out of the hated creature's storeroom. beasley looked after her. the satisfaction had gone from his eyes, leaving them wholly vindictive. "coward, am i, ma'm!" he muttered. then he looked at the order for furniture which was still in his hand. the sight of it made him laugh. chapter xxv buck laughs at fate the telling of the padre's story cost buck a wakeful night. it was not that he had any doubts either of the truth of the story, or of his friend. he needed no evidence to convince him of either. or rather, such was his nature that no evidence could have broken his faith and friendship. strength and loyalty were the key-note of his whole life. to him the padre was little less than a god, in whom nothing could shake his belief. he honored him above all men in the world, and, such as it was, his own life, his strength, his every nerve, were at his service. moreover, it is probable that his loyalty would have been no whit the less had the man pleaded guilty to the crime he was accused of. no, it was not the story he had listened to which kept him wakeful. it was not the rights or wrongs, or the significance of it, that inspired his unrest. it was something of a far more personal note. it was the full awakening of a mind and heart to a true understanding of themselves. and the manner of his awakening had been little short of staggering. he loved, and his love had risen up before his eyes in a manner the full meaning of which he had only just realized. it was his friend who had brought about his awakening, his friend who had put into brief words that which had been to him nothing but a delicious dream. the man's words rang through his brain the night long. "why? why?" they said. "because you love this little joan, daughter of my greatest friend. because i owe it to you--to her, to face my accusers and prove my innocence." that brief passionate declaration had changed the whole outlook of his life. the old days, the old thoughts, the old unexpressed feelings and hazy ambitions had gone--swept away in one wave of absorbing passion. there was neither future nor past to him now. he lived in the thought of this woman's delightful presence, and beyond that he could see nothing. vaguely he knew that much must lay before him. the past, well, that was nothing. he understood that the drift of life's stream could no longer carry him along without his own effort at guidance. he knew that somewhere beyond this dream a great battle of life lay waiting for his participation. he felt that henceforth he was one of those struggling units he had always regarded as outside his life. and all because of this wonderful sunlight of love which shone deep into the remotest cells of brain and heart. he felt strong for whatever lay before him. this perfect sunshine, so harmonious with every feeling, thrilled him with a virile longing to go out and proclaim his defiance against the waiting hordes in life's eternal battle. no road could be so rough as to leave him shrinking, no fight so fierce that he was not confident of victory, no trouble so great that it could not be borne with perfect cheerfulness. as he had awakened to love so had he awakened to life, yearning and eager. as the long night wore on his thought became clearer, more definite. so that before his eyes closed at last in a broken slumber he came to many decisions for the immediate future. the greatest, the most momentous of these was that he must see joan again without delay. he tried to view this in perfect coolness, but though the decision remained with him the fever of doubt and despair seized him, and he became the victim of every fear known to the human lover's heart. to him who had never known the meaning of fear his dread became tenfold appalling. he must see her--and perhaps for the last time in his life. this interview might well terminate once and for all every thought of earthly happiness, and fling him back upon the meagre solace of a wilderness, which now, without joan, would be desolation indeed. yet he knew that the chances must be faced now and at once. for himself he would probably have delayed, rather basking in the sunshine of uncertainty than risk witnessing the swift gathering clouds which must rob him of all light forever. but he was not thinking only of himself. there was that other, that white-haired, lonely man who had said, "because you love this little joan." the wonderful unselfishness of the padre had a greater power to stir buck's heart than any other appeal. his sacrifice must not be permitted without a struggle. he knew the man, and he knew how useless mere objection would be. therefore his duty lay plain before him. joan must decide, and on her decision must his plans all be founded. he had no reason to hope for a return of his love. on the contrary, it seemed absurd even to hope, and in such an event then the padre's sacrifice would be unnecessary. if on the other hand--but he dared not let the thought take shape. all he knew was that with joan at his side no power of law should touch one single white hair of the padre's head, while the breath of life remained in his body. it was a big thought in the midst of the most selfish of human passions. it was a thought so wide, that, in every aspect, it spoke of the great world which had been this man's lifelong study. it told of sublime lessons well learned. of a mind and heart as big, and broad, and loyal as was the book from which the lessons had been studied. with the morning light came a further steadiness of decision. but with it also came an added apprehension, and lack of mental peace. the world was radiant about him with the wonder of his love, but his horizon was lost in a mist of uncertainty and even dread. the morning dragged as such intervening hours ever drag, but at length they were done with, and the momentous time arrived. neither he nor the padre had referred again to their talk. that was their way. nor did any question pass between them until cæsar stood saddled before the door. the padre was leaning against the door casing with his pipe in his mouth. his steady eyes were gravely thoughtful. "where you making this afternoon?" he inquired, as buck swung into the saddle. buck nodded in the direction of joan's home. "the farm." the padre's eyes smiled kindly. "good luck," he said. and buck nodded his thanks as he rode away. but buck's outward calm was studied. for once in his life his confidence had utterly failed him. he rode over the trail in a dazed condition which left him almost hopeless by the time he reached the familiar corrals of the girl's home. as a consequence he reduced cæsar's pace to a walk with something almost childlike in his desire to postpone what he now felt must be his farewell to the wonderful dream that had been his. but even at a walk the journey must come to an end. in his case it came all too soon for his peace of mind, and, to his added disquiet, he found himself at the door of the old barn. just for one moment he hesitated. then he lightly dropped to the ground. the next moment the horse itself had taken the initiative. with none of its master's scruples it clattered into the barn, and, walking straight into its old familiar stall, commenced to search in the corners of the manger for the sweet-scented hay usually awaiting it. the lead was irresistible to the man. he followed the creature in, removed its bridle and loosened the cinchas of the saddle. then he went out in search of hay. his quest occupied several minutes. but finally he returned with an ample armful and filled up the manger. then came upon him a further avalanche of doubt, and he stood beside his horse, stupidly smoothing the beautiful creature's warm, velvet neck while it nuzzled its fodder. "why--is that you, buck?" the exclamation startled the man out of his reverie and set his pulses hammering madly. he turned to behold joan framed in the doorway. for a moment he stared stupidly at her, his dark eyes almost fearful. then his answer came quietly, distinctly, and without a tremor to betray the feelings which really stirred him. "it surely is," he said. then he added, "i didn't know i was coming along when you were up at the fort yesterday." but joan was thinking only how glad she was of his coming. his explanation did not matter in the least. she had been home from the camp something over an hour, and had seen some one ride up to the barn without recognizing buck or the familiar cæsar. so she had hastened to investigate. something of her gladness at sight of him was in the manner of her greeting now, and buck's despondency began to fall from him as he realized her unfeigned pleasure. "i'm so glad you came," joan went on impulsively. "so glad, so glad. i've been in camp to order things for--for my aunt's coming. you know your padre told me to send for her. i mailed the letter this morning." "you--sent for your aunt?" in a moment the whole hideous position of the padre came upon him, smothering all his own personal feelings, all his pleasure, all his doubts and fears. "why--yes." joan's eyes opened wide in alarm. "have i done wrong? he said, send for her." buck shook his head and moved out of the stall. "you sure done dead right. the padre said it." "then what was the meaning in your--what you said?" buck smiled. "nothing--just nothing." joan eyed him a moment in some doubt. then she passed the matter over, and again the pleasure at his coming shone forth. "oh, buck," she cried, "there are some mean people in the world. i've been talking to that horror, beasley. he is a horror, isn't he? he's been telling me something of the talk of the camp. he's been telling me how--how popular i am," she finished up with a mirthless laugh. "popular? i--i don't get you." buck's whole expression had changed at the mention of beasley's name. joan had no reason to inquire his opinion of the storekeeper. "you wouldn't," she hastened on. "you could never understand such wicked meanness as that man is capable of. i'm sure he hates me, and only told me these--these things to make me miserable. and i was feeling so happy, too, after seeing your padre," she added regretfully. "an' what are the things he's been sayin'?" buck's jaws were set. "oh, i can't tell you what he said, except--except that the men think i'm responsible for the death of those two. the other things were too awful. it seems i'm--i'm the talk of the camp in--in an awful way. he says they hate me. but i believe it's simply him. you see, he's tried to--to ingratiate himself with me--oh, it's some time back, and i--well, i never could stand him, after that time when the boys gave me the gold. i wish they had never given me that gold. he still persists it's unlucky, and i--i'm beginning to think so, too." "did he--insult you?" buck asked sharply, ignoring the rest. joan looked quickly into the man's hot eyes, and in that moment realized the necessity for prudence. the fierce spirit was shining there. that only partly tamed spirit, which made her so glad when she thought of it. "oh, no," she said. "it wasn't that he insulted me. no--no. don't think that. only he went out of his way to tell me these things, to make me miserable. i was angry then, but i've got over it now. it--it doesn't matter. you see i just told you because--because----" "if that man insulted you, i'd--kill him!" buck had drawn nearer to her. his tall figure was leaning forward, and his eyes, so fiercely alight, burned down into hers in a manner that half frightened her, yet carried with it a feeling that thrilled her heart with an almost painful delight. there was something so magnetic in this man's outburst, something so sweeping to her responsive nature. it was almost as though he had taken her in his two strong hands and made her yield obedience to his dominating will. it gave her a strange and wonderful confidence. it made her feel as if this power of his must possess the same convincing strength for the rest of the world. that he must sway all who came into contact with him. her gladness at his visit increased. it was good to feel that he was near at hand. but her woman's mind sought to restrain him. "please--please don't talk like that," she said, in a tone that carried no real conviction. "no, beasley would not dare insult me--for himself." the girl drew back to the oat-box, and seated herself. buck's moment of passion had brought a deep flush to his cheeks, and his dark eyes moved restlessly. "why did you tell me?" there was no escaping the swift directness of this man's mind. his question came with little less force than had been his threat against beasley. he was still lashed by his thought of the wretched saloon-keeper. but joan had no answer ready. why had she told him? she knew. she knew in a vague sort of way. she had told him because she had been sure of his sympathy. she had told him because she knew his strength, and to lean on that always helped her. without questioning herself, or her feelings, she had come to rely upon him in all things. but his sharp interrogation had given her pause. she repeated his question to herself, and somehow found herself avoiding his gaze. somehow she could give him no answer. buck chafed for a moment in desperate silence. he turned his hot eyes toward the door, and stared out at the distant hills. cæsar rattled his collar chain, and scattered the hay in his search for the choicest morsels. the heavy draft horses were slumbering where they stood. presently the man's eyes came back to the girl, devouring the beauty of her still averted face. "say," he went on presently, "you never felt so that your head would burst, so that the only thing worth while doin' would be to kill some one?" he smiled. "that's how i feel, when i know beasley's been talkin' to you." joan turned to him with a responsive smile. she was glad he was talking again. a strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogether unpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voice relieved her. she shook her head. "no," she said frankly. "i--don't think i ever feel that way. but i don't like beasley." buck's heat had passed. he laughed. "that was sure a fool question to ask," he said. "say, it 'ud be like askin' a dove to get busy with a gun." "i've heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular belief would have them." "guess ther's doves--an' doves," buck said enigmatically. "i can't jest see you bustin' to hurt a fly." "not even beasley?" joan laughed slily. but buck ignored the challenge. he stirred restlessly. he thrust his fingers into the side pockets of the waist-coat he wore hanging open. he withdrew them, and shifted his feet. then, with a sudden, impatient movement, he thrust his slouch hat back from his forehead. "guess i can't say these things right," he gulped out with a swift, impulsive rush. "what i want to say is that's how i feel when anything happens amiss your way. i want to say it don't matter if it's beasley, or--or jest things that can't be helped. i want to get around and set 'em right for you----" joan's eyes were startled. a sudden pallor had replaced the smile on her lips, and drained the rich, warm color from her cheeks. "you've always done those things for me, buck," she interrupted him hastily. "you've been the kindest--the best----" "don't say those things," buck broke in with a hardly restrained passion. "it hurts to hear 'em. kindest? best? say, when a man feels same as me, words like them hurt, hurt right in through here," he tapped his chest with an awkward gesture. "they drive a man nigh crazy. a man don't want to hear them from the woman he loves. yes, loves!" the man's dark eyes were burning, and as the girl rose from her seat he reached out one brown hand to detain her. but his gesture was needless. she made no move to go. she stood before him, her proud young face now flushing, now pale with emotion, her wonderful eyes veiled lest he should read in their depths feelings that she was struggling to conceal. her rounded bosom rose and fell with the furious beatings of a heart she could not still. "no, no," the man rushed on, "you got to hear me, if it makes you hate me fer the rest of your life. i'm nothing but jest a plain feller who's lived all his life in this back country. i've got no education, nothin' but jest what i am--here. an' i love you, i love you like nothing else in all the world. say," he went on, the first hot rush of his words checking, "i bin gropin' around these hills learning all that's bin set there for me to learn. i tried to learn my lessons right. i done my best. but this one thing they couldn't teach me. something which i guess most every feller's got to learn some time. an' you've taught me that. "say." the restraint lost its power, and the man's great passion swept him on in a swift torrent. "i never knew a gal since i was raised. i never knew how she could git right hold of your heart, an' make the rest of the world seem nothing. i never knew how jest one woman could set the sun shining when her blue eyes smiled, and the storm of thunder crowding over, when those eyes were full of tears. i never dreamed how she could get around in fancy, and walk by your side smilin' and talkin' to you when you wandered over these lonesome hills at your work. i never knew how she could come along an' raise you up when you're down, an' most everything looks black. i've learned these things now. i've learned 'em because you taught me." he laughed with a sort of defiance at what he felt must sound ridiculous in her ears. "you asked me to teach you! me teach you! say, it's you taught me--everything. it's you taught me life ain't just a day's work an' a night's sleep. it's you taught me that life's a wonderful, wonderful dream of joy an' delight. it's you taught me the sun's shining just for _me_ alone, an' every breath of these mountains is just to make _me_ feel good. it's you taught me to feel there's nothing on god's earth i couldn't and wouldn't do to make you happy. you, who taught me to live! you, with your wonderful blue eyes, an' your beautiful, beautiful face. you, with your mind as white an' pure as the mountain snow, an' your heart as precious as the gold our folks are forever chasin'. i love you, joan. i love you, every moment i live. i love you so my two hands ain't enough by a hundred to get helping you. i love you better than all the world. you're jest--jest my whole life!" he stood with his arms outstretched toward the shrinking girl. his whole body was shaking with the passion that had sent his words pouring in a tide of unthought, unconsidered appeal. he had no understanding of whither his words had carried him. all he knew was that he loved this girl with his whole soul and body. that she could love him in return was something unbelievable, yet he must tell her. he must tell her all that was in his simple heart. he waited. it seemed ages, but in reality it was only moments. presently joan looked up. she raised her eyes timidly, and in a moment buck saw that they were filled with unshed tears. he started forward, but she shrank back farther. but it was not with repugnance. her movement was almost reluctant, yet it was decided. it was sufficient for the man, and slowly, hopelessly he dropped his arms to his sides as the girl's voice so full of distress at last broke the silence. "oh, buck, buck, why--oh, why have you said these things to me? you don't know what you have done. oh, it was cruel of you." "cruel?" buck started. the color faded from his cheeks. "me cruel--to you?" "yes, yes. don't you understand? can't you see? now--now there is nothing left but--disaster. oh, to think that i should have brought this upon you--you of all men!" buck's eyes suddenly lit. unversed as he was in all such matters, he was not blind to the feeling underlying her words. but the light swiftly died from his eyes as he beheld the great tears roll slowly down the girl's fair cheeks, and her face droop forward into her hands. in a moment all restraint was banished in the uprising of his great love. without a thought of consequences he bridged the intervening space at one step, and, in an instant, his arms were about the slim, yielding figure he so tenderly loved. in a moment his voice, low, tender, yet wonderful in its consoling strength, was encouraging her. "disaster?" he said. "disaster because i love you? where? how? say, there's no disaster in my love for you. there can't be. all i ask, all i need is jest to make your path--easier. your troubles ain't yours any longer. they sure ain't. they're mine, now, if you'll jest hand 'em to me. disaster? no, no, little gal. don't you to cry. don't. your eyes weren't made for cryin'. they're jest given you to be a man's hope. for you to see just how much love he's got for you." joan submitted to his embrace for just so long as he was speaking. then she looked up with terrified eyes and released herself. "no, no, buck. i must not listen. i dare not. it is my fate. my terrible fate. you don't understand. beasley was right. i _was_ responsible for ike's death. for pete's death. but not in the way he meant. it is my curse. they loved me, and--disaster followed instantly. can't you see? can't you see? oh, my dear, can't you see that this same disaster must dog you--now?" buck stared. then he gathered himself together. "your fate?" "yes, yes. i am cursed. oh," joan suddenly gave a shrill laugh that was painful to hear. "every man that has ever told me--what you have told me--has met with disaster, and--death." for one second no sound broke the stillness of the barn but the restless movements of cæsar. then, suddenly, a laugh, a clear, buoyant laugh, full of defiance, full of incredulity, rang through the building. it was buck. he moved forward, and in a moment the girl was lying close upon his breast. "is that the reason you mustn't, daren't, listen to me?" he cried, in a voice thrilling with hope and confidence. "is that the only reason? jest because of death an' disaster to me? jest that, an'--nothing more? tell me, little gal. tell me or--or i'll go mad." "yes, yes. but oh, you don't----" "yes, i do. say, joan, my little, little gal. tell me. tell me right now. you ain't--hatin' me for--for loving you so bad. tell me." joan hid her face, and the tall man had to bend low to catch her words. "i couldn't hate you, buck. i--i----" but buck heard no more. he almost forcibly lifted the beautiful, tearful face to his, as he bent and smothered it with kisses. after a few moments he stood her away from him, holding her slight shoulders, one in each hand. his dark eyes were glowing with a wild happiness, a wonderful, reckless fire, as he peered into her blushing face. "you love me, little gal? you love me? was ther' ever such a thought in the mind of sane man? you love me? the great big god's been mighty good to me. disaster? death? let all the powers of man or devil come along, an' i'll drive 'em back to the hell they belong to." chapter xxvi irony the hills roll away, banking on every side, mounting up, pile on pile, like the mighty waves of a storm-swept ocean. the darkening splendor, the magnificent ruggedness crowds down upon the narrow open places with a strange sense of oppression, almost of desolation. it seems as if nothing on earth could ever be so great as that magnificent world, nothing could ever be so small as the life which peoples it. the oppression, the desolation grows. the silent shadows of the endless woods crowd with a suggestion of horrors untold, of mysteries too profound to be even guessed at. a strange feeling as of a reign of enchantment pervading sets the flesh of the superstitious creeping. and the narrow, patchy sunlight, by its brilliant contrast, only serves to aggravate the sensitive nerves. yet in the woods lurk few enough dangers. it is only their dark stillness. they are still, still in the calm of the brightest day, or in the chill of a windless night. a timid bear, a wolf who spends its desolate life in dismal protest against a solitary fate, the crashing rush of a startled caribou, the deliberate bellow of a bull moose, strayed far south from its northern fastnesses. these are the harmless creatures peopling the obscure recesses. for the rest, they are the weird suggestions of a sensitive imagination. the awe, however, is undeniable and the mind of man can never wholly escape it. familiarity may temper, but inborn human superstition is indestructible. the brooding silence will shadow the lightest nature. the storms must ever inspire wonder. the gloom hushes the voice. and so the growing dread. man may curse the hills in his brutal moments, the thoughtful may be driven to despair, the laughter-loving may seek solace in tears of depression. but the fascination clings. there is no escape. the cloy of the seductive drug holds to that world of mystery, and they come to it again, and yet again. something of all this was vaguely drifting through the mind of one of the occupants of a four-horsed, two-wheeled spring cart as it rose upon the monstrous shoulder of one of the greater hills. before it lay a view of a dark and wild descent, sloping away unto the very bowels of a pit of gloom. the trail was vague and bush-grown, and crowding trees dangerously narrowed it. to the right the hill fell sharply away at the edge of the track, an abyss that might well have been bottomless for aught that could be seen from above. to the left the crown of the hill rose sheer and barren, and only at its foot grew the vegetation that so perilously narrowed the track. then, ahead, where the trail vanished, a misty hollow, dark and deep--the narrowing walls of a black canyon. the blue eyes of the teamster were troubled. was there ever such a country for white man to travel? his horses were jaded. their lean sides were tuckered. gray streaks of sweat scored them from shoulder to flank. the man lolled heavily in his driving seat in the manner of the prairie teamster. he knew there was trouble ahead, but it was practically all he did know of the journey before him. as the cart topped the rise he bestirred himself. his whip flicked the air without touching the horses, and he chirrupped encouragingly. the weary but willing creatures raised their drooping heads, their ribs expanded as they drew their "tugs" taut, and, at a slow, shuffling trot, they began the descent. a voice from behind caused the man to glance swiftly over his shoulder. "it's no use asking you where we are now, i suppose?" it said in a peevish tone. but the teamster's mood was its match. "not a heap, i guess, ma'm," he retorted, and gave up his attention to avoiding the precipice on his right. "how far is the place supposed to be?" the woman's unease was very evident. her eyes were upon the darkening walls of the canyon toward which they were traveling. "eighty miles from crowsfoot. that's how the boss said, anyways." "how far have we come now?" the man laughed. there seemed to be something humorous in his passenger's inquiries. "crowsfoot to snarth's farm, thirty-five miles, good. snarth's to rattler head, thirty. sixty-five. fifteen into this precious camp on yellow creek. guess we bin comin' along good since sun-up, an' now it's noon. countin' our stop fer breakfast we ought to make thirty odd miles. guess we come a good hundred." he laughed again. the woman gave an exclamation of impatience and vexation. "i think your employer ought to be ashamed of himself sending you to do the journey. you don't know where you are, or what direction we're going in. the horses are nearly foundered, and we may be miles and miles from our destination. what are you going to do?" "ke'p goin' jest as long as the hosses ken ke'p foot to the ground. guess we'll ease 'em at the bottom, here. it's nigh feed time. say, ma'm, it ain't no use worritin'. we'll git som'eres sure. the sun's dead ahead." "what's the use of that?" mercy lascelles snapped at the man's easy acceptance of the situation. "i wish now i'd come by leeson butte." "that's sure how the boss said," retorted the man. "the leeson trail is the right one. it's a good trail, an' i know most every inch of it. you was set comin' round through the hills. guessed you'd had enough prairie on the railroad. it's up to you. howsum, we'll make somewheres by nightfall. seems to me i got a notion o' that hill, yonder. that one, out there," he went on, pointing with his whip at a bald, black cone rising in the distance against the sky. "that kind o' seems like the peak o' devil's hill. i ain't jest sure, but it seems like." mercy looked in the direction. her eyes were more angry than anxious, yet anxiety was her principal feeling. "i hope to goodness it is. devil's hill. a nice name. that's where the camp is, isn't it? i wish you'd hurry on." the teamster spat over the dashboard. a grim smile crept into his eyes. his passenger had worried him with troublesome questions all the journey, and he had long since given up cursing his boss for sending him on the job. "'tain't no use," he said shortly. then he explained. "y' see, it 'ud be easy droppin' over the side of this. guess you ain't yearnin' fer glory that way?" "we'll never get in at this pace," the woman cried impatiently. but the teamster was losing patience, too. suddenly he became very polite, and his pale blue eyes smiled mischievously down upon his horses' backs. "guess we don't need to hurry a heap, ma'm," he said. "y' see, in these hills you never can tell. now we're headin' fer that yer canyon. maybe the trail ends right ther'." "good gracious, man, then what are we going to do?" "do? why, y' see, ma'm, we'll have to break a fresh trail--if that dogone holler ain't one o' them bottomless muskegs," he added thoughtfully. he flicked his whip and spat again. his passenger's voice rose to a sharp staccato. "then for goodness' sake why go on?" she demanded. "wal, y' see, you can't never tell till you get ther' in these hills. maybe that canyon is a river, an' if so the entrance to it's nigh sure a muskeg. a bottomless muskeg. you seen 'em, ain't you? no? wal, they're swamps, an' if we get into one, why, i guess ther's jest hail columby, or some other fool thing waitin' for us at the bottom. still ther' mayn't be no muskeg. as i sez, you never can tell, tho' ther' most gener'ly is. mebbe that's jest a blank wall without no trail. mebbe this trail ends at a sheer drop of a few hundred feet an' more. mebbe agin the trail peters out 'fore we get ther'. that's the way in these yer hills, ma'm; you never can tell if you get lost. an' gittin' lost is so mighty easy. course we ain't likely to starve till we've eat up these yer dogone ol' hosses. never eaten hoss? no? 'tain't so bad. course water's easy, if you don't light on one o' them fever swamps. mountain fever's pretty bad. still, i don't guess we'll git worried that way, ma'm. i'd sure say you're pretty tough fer mountain fever to git a holt of. it's the time that's the wust. it might take us weeks gittin' out,--once you git lost proper. but even so i don't guess ther's nothin' wuss than timber wolves to worry us. they're mean. y' see they're nigh allus starvin'--or guess they are. b'ars don't count a heap, less you kind o' run into 'em at breedin' season. le's see, this is august. no, 'tain't breedin' season." he sighed as if relieved. then he stirred quickly and glanced round, his face perfectly serious. "guess you got a gun? it's allus good to hev a gun round. you never ken tell in these yer hills--when you git lost proper." "oh, you're a perfect fool. go on with your driving." mercy sat back in her seat fuming, while the teamster sighed, gently smiling down at his horses. "mebbe you're right, ma'm," he said amiably. "these dogone hills makes fools o' most fellers, when they git lost proper--as i'd sure say we are now." but the man had achieved his object. the woman desisted from further questioning. she sat quite still, conscious of the unpleasant fact that the man was laughing at her, and also perfectly aware that his incompetence was responsible for the fact that they were utterly lost amongst the wild hills about them. she was very angry. angry with the man, angry with herself, for not being guided by the hotel keeper at crowsfoot, but more than all she was angry with joan for bidding her make the journey. yet she had been unable to resist the girl's appeal. her inability was not from any sentimental feeling or sympathy. such feelings could never touch her. but the appeal of the manner in which her curse still followed the girl, and the details she had read through the lines of her letter, a letter detailing the circumstances of her life on yellow creek, and written under the impulse and hope inspired by the padre's support had given her the keenest interest. all the mystical side of her nature had been stirred in a manner she could not deny, had no desire to deny. yes, she had come to investigate, to observe, to seek the truth of her own pronouncement. she had come without scruple, to watch their effect. to weigh them in the balance of her scientific mysticism. she had come to watch the struggles of the young girl in the toils which enveloped her. her mind was the diseased mind of the fanatic, prompted by a nature in which cruelty held chief place. but now had come this delay. such was her nature that personal danger ever appalled her. death and disaster in the abstract were nothing to her, but their shadows brushing her own person was something more than terrifying. and as she thought of the immensity of the world about her, the gloom, the awful hush, the spirit of the hills got hold of her and left her full of apprehension. the teamster now devoted his whole attention to his whereabouts. his passenger's interminable questioning silenced, he felt more at his ease. and feeling at his ease he was able to bring his prairie-trained faculties to bear on the matter in hand. as they progressed down the slope he closely observed the tall, distant crown which he thought he recognized, and finally made up his mind that his estimate was right. it certainly was the cone crown of devil's hill. thus his certainty now only left him concerned with the ultimate development of the trail they were on. it was quite impossible to tell what that might be. the road seemed to be making directly for the mouth of the canyon, and yet all his experience warned him that such a destination would be unusual. it must turn away. yet where? how? he searched ahead on the hillside above him for a modification of its slope. and a long way ahead he fancied he detected such an indication. but even so, the modification was so slight that there seemed little enough hope. he kept on with dogged persistence. to return was not to be thought of yet. any approach to vacillation now would be quite fatal. the trail was fading out to little more than a double cattle track, and the farther he looked along it the more indistinct it seemed to become. yet it continued, and the ever downward slope went on, and on. his anxious eyes were painfully alert. where? where? he was asking himself with every jog of his weary horses. then all of a sudden his questions ceased, and a decided relief leapt into his eyes as he drew his horses up to a halt. he turned to his passenger and pointed with his whip at the hill abreast of them, his eyes undoubtedly witnessing his relief. "see that, ma'm?" he cried. and mercy beheld a narrow, rough flight of steps cut in the face of the hill. each step was deliberately protected with a timber facing securely staked against "washouts," and though the workmanship was rough it was evidently the handiwork of men who thought only of endurance. it rose from the trail-side in a slanting direction, and, adopting the easiest course on the slope, wound its way to the very crown of the hill, over the top of which it vanished. "well?" the woman's inquiry was ungracious enough. "why, that's the meanin' o' this yer trail." the man pointed above. "that sure leads somewheres." "i suppose it does." mercy snapped her reply. "sure," said the man. "there's shelter up ther', anyways. an' by the looks o' them steps i'd say folks is livin' ther' right now." "then for goodness' sake go up and see, and don't sit there wasting time. i never had to deal with such a perfect fool in my life. pass the reins over to me, and i'll wait here." the man grinned. but instead of handing her the reins he secured them to the iron rail of the cart. "guess them hosses know best wot to do 'emselves," he observed quietly, as he scrambled from the cart. "best let 'em stand theirselves, ma'm,--you never know wot's along the end of that trail--muskegs is----" his final jibe was lost in a deep-throated chuckle as he began the steep ascent before him. mercy watched him with angry eyes. the man added impertinence to his foolishness, and the combination was altogether too much for her temper. but for the fact that she required his services, she would well have wished that he might fall and break his neck. but her chief concern was to reach her destination, so she watched him climb the long steps in the hope that some comforting result might follow. as the man rose higher and higher, and his figure grew smaller, his climb possessed an even greater interest for mercy lascelles than she admitted. she began to appreciate the peril of it, and peril, in others, always held her fascinated. he was forced to move slowly, clinging closely with both hands to the steps above him. it would be easy to slip and fall, and she waited for that fall. she waited with nerves straining and every faculty alert. so absorbed was she that she had forgotten the horses, forgotten her own position, everything, in the interest of the moment. had it been otherwise, she must have noticed that something had attracted the drooping horses' attention. she must have observed the suddenly lifted heads, and pricked ears. but these things passed her by, as did the approach of a solitary figure bearing a burden of freshly taken fox pelts, which quite enveloped its massive shoulders. the man was approaching round a slight bend in the trail, and the moment the waiting cart came into view, he stood, startled at the apparition. then he whistled softly, and glanced back over the road he had come. he looked at a narrow point where the trail suddenly ended, a sharp break where the cliff dropped away abruptly, and further progress could only be made by an exhausting downward climb by a skilled mountaineer. then he came slowly on, his gray eyes closely scrutinizing the figure in the cart. in a moment he saw that it was a woman, and, by her drooping pose, recognized that she was by no means young. his eyes took on a curious expression--half doubt, half wonder, and his face grew a shade paler under his tan. but the change only lasted a few seconds. he quickly pulled himself together, and, shaking his white head thoughtfully, continued his way toward the vehicle with the noiseless gait which moccasins ever give to the wearer. he reached the cart quite unobserved. the woman's whole attention was absorbed by the climbing man, and the newcomer smiled curiously as he passed a greeting. "you've hit a wrong trail, haven't you?" he inquired. the woman in the cart gave a frantic start, and clutched at the side rail as though for support. then her eyes came on a level with the man's smiling face, and fear gave way to a sudden expression of relentless hatred. "you?" she cried, and her lean figure seemed to crouch as though about to spring. the man returned her stare without flinching. his eyes still wore their curious smile. "yes," he said. "it is i." the woman's lips moved. she swallowed as though her throat had suddenly become parched. "moreton bucklaw," she murmured. "and--and after all these years." the man nodded. then several moments passed without a word. finally it was the man who spoke. his manner was calm, so calm that no one could have guessed a single detail of what lay between these two, or the significance of their strange meeting. "you've hit a bad trail," he said. "there's a big drop back there. these steps go on up to my home. the old fort. they're an old short cut to this valley. guess your man'll need to unhitch his horses and turn the cart round. he can't get it round else. then, if you go back past the shoulder of the hill, you'll see an old track, sharp to your right. that leads into the trail that'll take you right on down to the farm where little joan lives." he moved toward the steps. "i'll tell your man," he said. he mounted the steps with the ease of familiarity, his great muscles making the effort appear ridiculously easy. a little way up he paused, and looked down at her. "guess i shall see you again?" he said, with the same curious smile in his steady eyes. and the woman's reply came sharply up the hillside to him. it came with all the pent-up hatred of years, concentrated into one sentence. the hard eyes were alight with a cold fury, which, now, in her advancing years, when the freshness and beauty that had once been hers could no longer soften them, was not without its effect upon the man. "yes. you will see me again, moreton bucklaw." and the man continued the ascent with a feeling as though he had listened to the pronouncement of his death sentence. chapter xxvii the web of fate joan had looked forward to her aunt's coming with very mixed feelings. there were moments when she was frankly glad at the prospect of a companionship which had been hers since her earliest childhood. her nature had no malice in it, and the undoubted care, which, in her early years, the strange old woman had bestowed upon her counted for much in her understanding of duty and gratitude. then, besides, whatever aunt mercy's outlook, whatever the unwholesomeness of the profession she followed with fanatical adherence, she was used to her, used to her strangenesses, her dark moments. if affection had never been particularly apparent in the elder woman's attitude toward her, there had certainly been a uniform avoidance of the display of any other feeling until those last few days immediately preceding her own flight from st. ellis. habit was strong with joan, so strong, indeed, that in her happy moments she was glad at the thought of the return into her life of the woman who had taken the place of her dead parents. then, too, even the memory of that frenzied morning, when aunt mercy, laboring under her awful disease of mysticism, had assumed the rôle of prophetess, and accuser, and hurled at her troubled head a denunciation as cruel as it was impossible, had lost something of its dread significance and sting. at the time it had been of a blasting nature, but now--now, since she had conferred with buck's great friend, since buck's wonderful support had been added to her life, all the harshness of the past appeared in a new and mellowed light. she believed she saw her aunt as she really was, a poor, torn creature, whose mind was diseased, as a result of those early fires of disappointment through which she had passed. the padre had denied the fate that this aunt had convinced her of. buck had defied it, and laughed it out of countenance. these men, so strong, so capable, had communicated to her receptive nature something of the hope and strength that was theirs. thus she was ready to believe, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them, feeling that in the future nothing could hurt her. so she was ready for her aunt's coming. but to live up to her determination was not always easy. she had yielded to all her old superstitious dread at the moment when buck had first opened her eyes to the wonderful love that had so silently, so unknown, yet so swiftly grown up in her heart for him. in that delicious awakening, when lost in a joy almost inconceivable, when her defenses were at their weakest, the enemy's attack had come swiftly and surely. her very love had aided it. her dread for the man had gripped her heart, and all her mind and senses had gone back to the unspeakable fears she had only just learnt to deny. nor was it until his denial, a denial given with that wonderful laugh of confidence, had she been able to drag herself back to the new path which his white-haired friend had marked out for her. since then, however, she had been able to contemplate her aunt's coming in something of the spirit in which she desired to welcome her. she felt that now, at least, she was proof against the unwholesome thought of the woman's diseased mind. there were certain unacknowledged trepidations as the time drew near, but these she contrived to smother under the excitement and interest of preparing her house for the reception, and the radiant confidence of buck, which never failed to support her. every morning and every evening brought buck's strong presence to the farm for a brief visit. and each visit was a dream of delight to the simple, loving girl. all day long, as she labored through her household cares, and the affairs of the farm she lived in, she dwelt on the memory of the morning visit, or looked forward to her lover's coming as the sun reached the western skies. every night, when she sought the snow-white ease of her bed, it was to spend her few remaining minutes of waking dwelling on the happiness of past moments, and ultimately to anticipate in dreams the delights of the morrow. so the days sped rapidly by and the time for aunt mercy's arrival drew on. and with each passing day the shadows receded, her trepidations became less and less, until they almost reached the vanishing-point. she felt that in buck's love no shadow could live. with him at her side she need have no fear of evil. he was exalted by the very wholesomeness of his mind and heart, and the strength and confidence that was his, far, far above the level of hideous superstitions and happenings. his love for her, her love for him were too great, far too great, for disaster to ever touch them. then came aunt mercy. she came in the middle of an oppressive afternoon. the days of late had assumed an extraordinary oppressiveness for the season of the year. she came amidst the peaceful calm when all farm life seems to be wrapped in a restful somnolence, when the animal world has spent its morning energies, and seeks rest that it may recuperate for the affairs surrounding its evening meal. with her coming joan's first realization was of dismay at the manner in which she had underestimated the woman's personality, how strangely absence had distorted her view of the mind behind those hard, gray eyes. and with this realization came an uneasy feeling that the power and influence which had sent her rushing headlong from her home, to seek the peace of the wilderness, was no fancy of a weak, girlish mind, but a force, a strong, living force, which made itself felt the instant she came into the woman's uncanny presence again. she was just the same unyielding creature she had always known. her peevish plaint at the journey, her railing at the stupidity and impertinence of the teamster, her expressed disgust at the country, her complaining of everything. these things were just what joan must have expected, had she not lived away from her aunt, and so lost her proper focus. joan did her best to appease her. she strove by every art of her simple mind to interest her and divert her thought and mood into channels less harsh. but she had little success, and it quickly became apparent that the lapse of time since her going from home had aggravated rather than improved the strange mental condition under which her aunt labored. after the first greetings, and joan had conducted her to her room, which she had spent infinite time and thought in arranging, the old woman remained there to rest until supper-time. then she reappeared, and, by the signs of her worn, ascetic face, the cruel hollows about those adamant eyes, the drawn cheeks and furrowed brow, the girl realized that rest with her was not easy to achieve. she saw every sign in her now that in the old days she had learned to dread so acutely. however, there was no help for it. she knew it was not in the nature of that busy brain to rest, and one day the breaking-point would be reached, and the end would come suddenly. but at supper-time there was a definite change in her aunt's mental attitude. whereas before her whole thought had been for the outpouring of her complaint at her personal discomforts, now all that seemed to have been forgotten in something which held her alert and watchful. joan had no thought or suspicion of the working of the swift-moving brain. only was she pleased, almost delighted at the questioning and evident interest in her own affairs. the meal was nearly over. aunt mercy, as was her habit, had eaten sparingly, while she alternately listened to the details of the girl's farm life, the manner of the gold camp, the history of her arrival there and the many vicissitudes which had followed, and voiced the questions of her inquisitorial mind. now she leant back in her chair and slowly sipped a cup of strong, milkless tea, while her eyes watched the girl's expressive face. joan had purposely avoided mention of the many details which had had such power to disturb her in the past. she had no desire to afford a reopening of the scene she had endured that morning at st. ellis. but mercy lascelles was not to be thwarted by any such simple subterfuge. "you've told me a lot of what doesn't matter," she said sharply, after a pause, while she sipped her tea. "now tell me something that does." she glanced down at the flashing diamond rings upon her fingers. "by your letter you have not escaped from those things you hoped to--when you left st. ellis." joan started. she was sitting with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands. mercy lascelles observed the start, but offered no comment. she waited. she could afford to wait. she had read and understood the girl's letter. besides, there was something else in her mind. something else which required piecing into the web which linked their lives together. she knew that it held an important place, but its exact position her busy brain was still groping to resolve. "do you want me to talk about--those things?" the girl asked half appealingly. "is it necessary? i am very happy, auntie, so happy that i don't want to risk losing a moment of it. i have not always been happy since i came here." the hard, gray eyes suddenly lifted to the girl's face, and there was mocking in their depths. "you mentioned them light-heartedly enough in your letter. you spoke of the death of two men to point your assurance that their death had nothing to do with your--fate. some one had reassured you. some one had made plain the absurdity that such a fate could ever be. some one had shown you that such convictions only lived in the human mind and had no actual place in the scheme of things. surely with this wonderful truth behind you, you need not shrink from details of things which have no connection with your life." the icy sarcasm would not be denied. it was the old note joan had been so familiar with. its sting was as poignant as ever, but somehow now it stirred her to a defense of those who had come to her aid in her direst need. but this was her aunt's first day on the farm. she felt she must restrain herself. she tried to smile, but it was a weakly attempt. "you are quite unchanged, auntie," she said. "i might say the same of you, joan," came the sharp retort. but joan shook her head. "you would be quite wrong. i have changed so much that you can never make me believe again in--all that which you made me believe before. let me be frank. nothing but my conviction that i am no more cursed by an evil fate than is every other living creature would have induced me to ask you here. i have asked you to come here and share my home because you are my aunt, my only relative, who has been good to me in the past. because i am lonely here without you, and--and--oh, don't you understand? there are only us two left. yes, i want to be with you." she broke off, but in a moment went on rapidly. "but this could never have been had i still believed what you made me believe. under that old shadow i would have gone to the ends of the world rather than have been near you. can't you understand? let us forget it all--let us begin a new life together." mercy shook her head. she was quite unmoved by the girl's appeal. "there is only one life. there is no beginning again. those who talk like that are fools. that is why i say you, too, are unchanged." the woman's eyes lit. they suddenly became filled with that cold fire which joan knew so well. "you think you are changed. you think by an effort of will--your own, combined with that of another, you have escaped that which has followed you from your birth. you think that every disaster that has ever occurred to those with whom you have been associated, and those who have belonged to you, can be accounted for naturally. you, with your foolish brain, and the equally foolish brain of that other. why, girl, you deny it in every line of the letter you wrote me. it is there--there in every word, in its very atmosphere. you are lying to yourself under the influence of this other--who lies to you. prove what you say if you want me to believe. the scientific mind must have proof, undeniable, irrefutable proof. statements, mere statements of unbelief are meaningless things which do not convince even their authors. if you need to convince yourself, and convince me, then engage yourself to some man, marry him, and i tell you now you will bring about the direst tragedy that ever befel human creature." "i--i have done what--what you dare me to do. i have engaged myself to marry. i am going to marry the man i love more than life itself." joan had risen from her seat. she stood erect, her beautiful head thrown back. an ecstatic light shone in the deep velvet softness of her eyes. but even as she spoke a sudden paling lessened the delicate bloom of her cheeks. the other, with her cold eyes leveled at her, was quick to observe. "and who is--your victim?" joan's pallor increased as she stared for a moment with dilating eyes at the woman who could be capable of such cruelty. then, of a sudden, a protest of such bitterness sprang to her lips that even mercy lascelles was startled. "oh, god, was there ever such callous heartlessness in human creature? was there ever such madness in sane woman? you ask me to prove my convictions, you ask me for the one method by which even you can be convinced, and when i show you how far my new faith has carried me you taunt me by asking who is my--victim. oh, aunt, for the love of all you ever held dear, leave me in peace. let me prove to you my own destiny, but leave me in peace until i have done so, or--failed. can you not see that i am trying to preserve my sanity? and by every word and look you are driving me to the verge of madness. the man i love knows all, he and his great friend. he knows all you have ever told me, and his love is the strongest and bravest. he laughs this fate to scorn, he has no fears for himself, or for me. i tell you you shall have your proof. but you must leave me in peace." for a moment it almost seemed as if her aunt were abashed at the passion of her protest. she withdrew her cold stare, and, with her jeweled hands folded in her lap, gazed down at the white table-cloth. she waited until joan dropped despairingly back into her chair, then she looked up, and her glance was full of malicious irony. "you shall have your way--after to-night. you shall not hear one word of warning from me. but to-night you must let me have my way. you say you believe. i tell you i _know_. you must do your best, and--fail. have your way." she withdrew her gaze and her eyes became introspective. "who is this man--you say you are going to marry?" joan warmed under the change in her aunt's manner. her relief at the other's assurance was almost boundless, although the effect of the woman's previous attitude was to leave her far less sure of herself. "it is buck," she said impulsively. "he is the great friend of the man from whom i bought this farm. oh, auntie, wait until you see him. you will realize, as i have, his strength, his goodness. you will have no doubts when you know him. you will understand that he has no fear of any--any supernatural agencies, has no fear of any fancied fate that may be awaiting him. auntie, he is tall, so tall, and--oh, he's wonderful. and his name, buck--don't you like it? it is so like him. buck--independence, courage, confidence. and, oh, auntie, i love him so." mercy remained quite unmoved. it almost seemed doubtful if she heard and understood all the simple girlishness in her niece's rhapsody, so preoccupied she seemed with her own thoughts. "it was his friend, you say, who has taught you that--you have nothing further to fear? and who is this paragon?" "he is the man who sold me the farm. he is such a good, kind creature. he is loved and respected by every soul in the place. he is so wise, too,--he is quite wonderful. you know, he only sold his farm to me to keep the miners from starving before they found the gold. he is a sort of foster-father to buck. he found him when he was a little boy--picked him up on the trail-side. that's about twenty years ago, soon after the padre--that's what they call him--first came here." "yes, yes; but his name?" mercy had little patience with such detail as interested the fresh young mind of the girl. "moreton kenyon." the eyes of the old woman shot a swift glance into the girl's face. "moreton--who?" "kenyon." mercy sat up in her chair. her whole figure was poised alertly. her eyes were no longer uninterested. she was stirred to swift mental activity. she knew that the web was readjusting itself. the portion she had been seeking to place was finding its own position. "he has a head of thick white hair. he has gray eyes, darkly fringed. he is a man of something over fifty. his shoulders are massive. his limbs sturdy and powerful." mercy detailed her description of the man in sharp, jerky sentences, each one definite and pointed. she spoke with the certainty of conviction. she was not questioning. joan's surprise found vent in a wondering interrogation. "then, you have seen him? you know him?" her aunt laughed. it was a painful, hideous laugh, suggesting every hateful feeling rather than mirth. joan was shocked, and vaguely wondered when she had ever before heard her aunt laugh. "know him? yes, i know him." the laugh was gone and a terrible look had suddenly replaced the granite hardness of her eyes. "i have known him all my life. i saw him only to-day, in the hills. he knew me. oh, yes, he knew me, and i knew him. we have reason to know each other. but his name is not moreton kenyon. it is--moreton bucklaw." joan's wonder gave place to alarm as the other's venomous manner increased. the look in her eyes she recognized as the look she had seen in the woman's eyes when she had first listened to the story of her childhood. "moreton bucklaw?" "yes, moreton bucklaw," her aunt cried, with sudden vehemence, which seemed to grow with every word she spoke. "moreton bucklaw. do you understand? no, of course you don't. so this is your paragon of goodness and wisdom. this is the man who has told you that your fate only exists in distorted fancy. this is the man who is the foster-father of your wonderful buck, who defies the curse of disaster which dogs your feet. child, child, you have proved my words out of your own lips. the disaster you deny is hard upon your heels, hard upon the heels of this man you love. your own hand, the hand even of your lover, is in it. was it fate that brought you here? was it fate that you should love this man? was it fate that made my teamster lose his way and so bring me face to face with this man, almost at the door of his own home? was it fate that brought me here? yes, yes, yes! i tell you it was fate that did all these things--your fate. the curse from which you can never escape. moreton bucklaw!" she mouthed the words with insane glee. "it is almost laughable," she cried. "you have promised to marry the foster-son of the man who is shortly to pay the penalty for the murder of--your father." chapter xxviii a black night the padre sat staring into space before the stove. buck was in his favorite position at the open door, gazing out into the darkness of the night. as he smoked his evening pipe he was thinking, as usual, of the woman who was never quite out of his thoughts. he was intensely happy in the quiet fashion that was so much a part of him. it seemed to him unbelievable that he could have lived and been content before he met joan. now there could be no life without her, no world even. she pervaded his every sense, his whole being, with her beautiful presence. he breathed deeply. yes, it was all very, very wonderful. then, by degrees, his thoughts ran on to the expected arrival of joan's relative--that aunt whom he had heard so much about from the padre. and in a moment an uneasy feeling made him shift his position. the padre's story was still vivid in his mind; he could never forget it. nor could he forget this woman's place in it. these thoughts set him speculating uneasily as to the possible result of her visit. he surreptitiously glanced over at the silent figure beside the stove. the man's pipe was still in his mouth, but it had gone out. also he saw, in that quick glance, that the fire in the stove had fallen low. but he made no move to replenish it. the night was very sultry. he turned again to his contemplation of the outer world. the night was black, jet black. there was not a star visible. the mountain air had lost its cool snap, the accustomed rustle of the woods was gone. there was a tense stillness which jarred in an extraordinary degree. "a desperate, dark night," he said suddenly. he was merely voicing his thought aloud. the sound of his voice roused the other from his reverie. the padre lifted his head and removed the pipe from between his teeth. "yes--and hot. throw us your tobacco." buck pitched his pouch across, but remained where he was. "guess that leddy's down at the farm by now," buck went on. "joan was guessing she'd get around to-day. that's why i didn't go along there." "yes, she is there." the padre lit his pipe and smoked steadily. buck turned quickly. "how d'you know?" "i met her on the trail. they missed their way this morning and hit the trail below here, at the foot of the steps." "you didn't--let her see you?" buck asked, after a pause. the padre smiled. "i spoke to her. i put her on the right trail." "you spoke to her?" buck's tone was half incredulous. "did she--recognize you?" the other nodded. "you see, i've not changed much--except for my hair." "what did she do--say?" the padre's smile remained. "said--i should see her again." for some moments the two men faced each other across the room. the yellow lamplight plainly revealed their different expressions. the padre's smile was inimitable in its sphinx-like obscurity, but buck's eyes were frankly troubled. "and that means?" buck's question rang sharply. "she has neither forgotten nor--forgiven." buck returned abruptly to his contemplation of the night, but his thoughts were no longer the happy thoughts of the lover. without knowing it he was proving to himself that there were other things in the world which could entirely obscure the happy light which the presence of joan shed upon his life. the padre sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, while his pipe burned hot and the smoke of it rose thickly. it was the only outward sign he gave of any emotion. buck suddenly forgot the night. a desperate thought was running hotly through his brain. his friend's admission had set his fertile young brain working furiously. it was traveling just whither a vivid imagination carried it. a reckless purpose was swiftly formulating. after a while he turned again. his resolve was taken on the impulse of the moment. "padre," he said, "you shall never----" but his sentence remained incomplete. he broke off, listening. the other was listening too. there was the sharp cracking of a forest tree--one of those mysterious creakings which haunt the woodland night. but there was another sound too. the trained ears of these men caught its meaning on the instant. it was the vague and distant sound of wheels upon the soft bed of the sandy trail. "a heavy wagon, an'--two hosses," said buck. the padre nodded. "coming from the direction of the farm. sounds like the old team,--and they're being driven too fast for heavy horses. joan hasn't got a saddle-horse of her own." his last remark explained his conviction, and the suggestion found concurrence in buck's mind. they waited, and the sound grew louder. then, without a word, buck passed out of the room. a few minutes later the rumble of wheels ceased, and the padre heard buck's voice greeting joan. * * * * * a tragic light shone in joan's eyes as she stood in the centre of the room glancing from her lover to his friend. she was searching for an opening for what she had come to say. her distraught brain was overwhelmed with thoughts she could not put into words. she had driven over with the heavy team and wagon because she had no other means of reaching these two, and unless she reached them to-night she felt that by morning her sanity must be gone. now--now--she stood speechless before them. now, her brain refused to prompt her tongue. all was chaos in her mind, and her eyes alone warned the men of the object of her coming. it was the padre's voice that finally guided her. he read without hesitation or doubt the object of her mission. "yes," he said simply. "i am moreton bucklaw, the man accused of your father's murder." suddenly the girl's head drooped forward, and her hands covered her face as though to shut out the terrible truth which the man's words conveyed. "o god!" she cried. "then she was not lying to me." buck's eyes, fierce, almost savage at the sight of the girl's despair, shot a swift glance at his friend. it was a glance which only the white-haired man could have understood. to the looker-on it would have expressed a terrible threat. to the padre it was the expression of a heart torn to shreds between love and friendship. "if she told you i killed him--she was lying." the man had not raised his tone. there was no other emotion in his manner than distress for the girl's suffering. joan looked up, and a gleam of hope struggled through her despair. "then it's not true? oh, i knew it--i knew it! she _was_ lying to me. she _was_ lying to me as she has always lied to me. oh, thank god, thank god!" she dropped back into the chair that had been placed for her, but which up to that moment she had ignored. the two men waited for her emotion to pass. buck as yet had nothing to say. and the padre knew that until she was mistress of herself words would only be wasted. presently she looked up. her eyes were dry, and the agony that had sent her upon her headlong mission was passing. the padre's relief showed in the smile with which he met her glance. buck stood steadily regarding her, longing to help her, but knowing that his time had not come yet. "tell me," she said, struggling hard for steadiness. "tell me all--for i--i cannot seem to understand anything." the padre bowed his head. "you know your own story. it is all substantially true that mercy lascelles has told you. all, that is, except that she claims i killed your father. she did not see your father die. i did. i was the only one who saw him die--by his own hand, a desperate and ruined man. listen, and i will tell you the whole story without concealing one tittle of my own doings and motives." half an hour passed while the man's even voice recited without emotion all the details leading up to charles stanmore's death. he kept nothing back--his own love for the then handsome mercy, and the passionate insult he had offered her, when, in her love for the dead man, she became his housekeeper. he intended that, for buck's sake, this girl should know everything, nor had he the least desire for any concealment on personal account. he did not spare his own folly and the cowardice of his flight. he felt that concealment of any sort could only injure buck, whom at all costs he must not hurt. he even analyzed, with all the logic at his command, mercy lascelles' motives in accusing him. he declared his belief in her desire to marry the widowed man and her own consequent hatred of himself, whose presence was a constant thwart to her plans. and when he had finished something of the trouble had passed out of the girl's eyes. the color had returned to her cheeks, and he knew that he had achieved his purpose. "i suppose it is terrible to you, child, to hear me speak of your aunt, one of your own sex, a blood relative, in this way," he said in conclusion. "but i believe that she is absolutely mad in her hatred of me. and now that she has discovered my whereabouts nothing less will satisfy her than that i must stand my trial, and--go to the electric chair. it is my purpose to stand my trial. it was for that reason, when i recognized her this morning, before she even saw me, i purposely thrust myself in her way. i intended that she should not lack opportunity, and my reason--well, that doesn't much matter." the girl nodded. "i think i am glad of your decision," she said simply. "you see, when you have established your innocence----" "i fear that result is--doubtful." the man's admission was quite frank. nor was there even a suggestion of regret in his voice. but joan's heart gripped with alarm. the thought of such a contingency had never occurred to her simple mind. he had not committed murder. then, of course, he was innocent. it had all been made so simple. now--now she was suddenly overwhelmed with a new terror. "you mean--you cannot prove--your innocence?" she cried incredulously. "you forget i was the only man with him. i was the last person with him. and--i fled when i should have stayed to--help. the circumstances are terribly against me." joan's throat had suddenly parched. she struggled to speak, but no sound came. she looked to buck for help and the man ran to her side. the gentle pressure of his protecting arm, as he rested one caressing hand upon her shoulder, gave her the relief she needed. "oh, buck, buck! for the love of heaven say something--do something," she appealed. "they will kill him for a crime--of which he is innocent." suddenly the padre's eyes glowed with a strange light of happiness. the girl's appeal to buck had been the one saving touch in the midst of the cloud of tribulation overshadowing him. the daughter of his best friend, the daughter of the man he was supposed to have done to death, had given her verdict. she believed in his innocence. he sighed with the depth of his thankfulness. he could now face whatever lay before him with perfect equanimity. but buck had yet to play his part in the little drama so swiftly working itself out. his part was far different to the passive attitude of the other man. he had no tolerance for the possible sacrifice of an innocent life at the demand of a crazy woman who had come so nearly wrecking the life of the girl he loved. as joan appealed to him his eyes lit with a sudden fire of rebellion. and his answer came in a hot rush. "you think i'm goin' to let him die, joan?" he cried, the hot blood staining his cheeks and brow. "i tell you he won't. i swear to you, sure, sure, he shan't die a murderer's death! i tell you right here, little gal, ther' ain't a sheriff in the country big enough to take him. he says he must give up to arrest when the time comes. wal, he'll have to do it over my dead body." his words were in answer to joan's appeal, but they were hurled at the man beside the fire, and were a defiance and a challenge from the depths of a loyal heart. the padre's smile was good to see. but he shook his head. and instantly joan caught at the enthusiasm which stirred her lover and hugged it to herself. she sprang to her feet, and a wonderful light shone in her eyes. "buck is right, padre. he is right," she cried. "do you hear? you shall not take the risk, you must not. oh, padre! you must live for our sakes. we know your innocence, then what more is needed after all these years? for once let us be your mentors--you who have always been the mentor of others. padre, padre, you owe this to us. think of it! think of what it would mean. a murderer's death! you shall not, you cannot give yourself up. buck is right. i, too, am with him." she turned to the man at her side, and, raising her arms, clasped her hands about his neck. "buck--my buck. let us swear together that, while we have life, he shall never be the victim of this crazy, terrible woman. it shall be our fight--yours and mine." buck gazed down into her beautiful, pleading eyes as he clasped her slim body in his strong, young arms. her eyes were alight with a love, radiant in its supremacy over her whole being. her championship of his innocent friend would have endeared her a thousandfold had such a thing been possible. in that moment it was as though her courage, her loyalty, had completed the bond between them. his jaws gritted tight. his eyes shone with a fervent resolution. "it goes, little gal," he cried. "it's our lives for his. it sure goes--every time." chapter xxix beasley in his element the camp was sweltering under an abnormal heat. there was not one breath of the usual invigorating mountain air. a few more degrees of humidity, and the cup of endurance would have been filled to overflowing and toiling humanity breathing something like sheer moisture. the sky was heavy and gray, and a dull sun, as though it too had been rendered faint-hearted, was painfully struggling against the laden atmosphere. the work of the camp went on. for hours human nature wrestled with a growing inertia which robbed effort of all snap. but gradually, as the day wore on, the morning impetus gave way, and peevish tongues voiced the general plaint. men moved about slowly, their tongues actively cursing. they cursed the heat as they mopped their dripping brows. they cursed the flies, and hurled mighty blows for their destruction. they cursed all work, and gold became the last thing in the world they desired at such a price. they cursed the camp, the country, but more than all they cursed the black hill from which they drew their living. then came acknowledgment of defeat. one by one at first, and finally in batches, they shouldered their tools and moodily withdrew from the attack. as they went weary eyes glanced back with hate and disgust at the frowning buttresses of the hill, with awe at the steaming cloud hanging above the simmering waters of the suspended lake. the depressing shadow of devil's hill had for the moment become intolerable. beasley hated the heat just as cordially as these toilers, but he would have hated still more its sudden going, and the consequent appeasement of unnatural thirsts, which it was his pleasure and profit to slake. his own feelings were at all times subservient to his business instincts. this sudden, unaccountable heat meant added profit to him, therefore his complaint was half-hearted. it was almost as if he feared to give offense to the gods of his good fortune. then, too, beasley had so many things to occupy his busy brain. his trade was one that required much scheming, a matter in which he reveled at all times. problems of self-interest were his salt of life, and their accurate solution brought him as near earthly happiness as well could be. curiously enough problems were always coming his way. he chanced upon one that morning while busy in his storeroom, his attention divided between pricing and stacking new dry goods and smashing flies on the back of his superheated neck. and it served him with food for thought for the rest of the day. it took him quite unawares, and for that very reason gave him ample satisfaction. he was bending over a pile of rolls of fabric when a voice suddenly hailed him from the doorway. "are you the proprietor of the livery stables?" he turned about with a start. such a question in that camp seemed superfluous. it was absurd. he looked up, and his astonished eyes fell upon the vision of an extremely well-dressed, refined-looking woman whom he judged to be anything over fifty. but what held his attention most was the lean, emaciated face and penetrating eyes. there was something of the witch about it, as there was about the bowed figure. but more than all she was a _stranger_. he admitted the impeachment in the midst of his astonishment with an abruptness equal to her own. "sure," he said, and waited. "where will i find the sheriff of this place?" beasley's eyes opened wider. "guess ther' ain't no sheriff in this camp." the woman's next words came impatiently. "why isn't there? is there a lawyer?" beasley grinned. his astonishment was giving place to curiosity and speculation. he tapped the revolver at his hip. "we're mostly our own lawyers around here," he said easily. but the woman ignored his levity. "where can i find one--a lawyer, or sheriff?" she demanded with an added imperiousness. "guess leeson butte's nearest." the stranger considered a moment. beasley's eyes never left her. he had noticed the refinement of her accent, and wondered the more. "how can i get there--best?" the woman next demanded. "guess i ken let you have a team," beasley said with alacrity. he smelt good business. "how much?" "fifty dollars. in an' out--with teamster." "does he know the way?" "sure." the woman eyed him steadily. "i don't want any mistakes. this--is a case of murder." beasley's interest suddenly redoubled. the problem was growing in its attractiveness. "who's the feller?" he asked unguardedly. "that's not your business." the woman's eyes were cold. "send the team over to the farm down the river in two hours' time. the horses must be able to travel fast. here's the money." the saloon-keeper took the money promptly. but for once his astonishment held him silent. mercy lascelles had reached the door to go. then she seemed to change her mind. she paused. "there's fifty dollars more when i get back--if you keep your tongue quiet," she said warningly. "i don't want my business to get around. i should say gossip travels fast amongst the hills. that's what i don't want." "i see." it was all the astonished man could think of to say at the moment. but he managed an abundant wink in a markedly friendly way. his wink missed fire, however, for the woman had departed; and by the time he reached the door to look after her he saw her mounting the wagon, which was drawn by the heavy team from joan's farm, and driven by her hired man. as the stranger drove off he leant against the doorway and emitted a low whistle. in his own phraseology he was "beat," completely and utterly "beat." but this state of things could not last long. his fertile brain could not long remain under such a cloud of astonished confusion. he must sort out the facts and piece them together. this he set to work on at once. abandoning his work in the storeroom he went at once to the barn, and gave orders for the dispatch of the team. and herein, for once, he traded honestly with his visitor. he ordered his very best team to be sent. perhaps it was in acknowledgment of the problem she had offered him. then he questioned his helpers. here he was absolutely despotic. and in less than half an hour he had ascertained several important facts. he learned that a team had come in from crowsfoot the previous afternoon, bringing a passenger for the farm. the team had remained at the farm, likewise the teamster. only the fact that daylight that morning had brought the man into camp for a supply of fodder and provisions had supplied them with the news of his presence in the district. this had happened before beasley was up. with this beasley went back to the saloon, where his dinner was served him in the bar. his bartender was taking an afternoon off. it was a thoughtful meal. the man ate noisily with the aid of both knife and fork. he had acquired all the habits of the class he had so long mixed with. nor was it until his plate of meat and canned vegetables had nearly disappeared that light began to creep into his clouded brain. he remembered that joan had refurnished the farm. why? because some one from the east, no doubt, was coming to stay with her. who? mother? aunt? cousin? female anyway. female arrives. queer-looking female. goes to farm. stays one night. comes looking for sheriff next morning. a case of murder. no murder been done around here. where? east? yes. then there's some one here she's found--or she knows is here--and he's wanted for murder. who? at this point beasley grinned. how many might there not be on yellow creek who could be so charged? but his shrewd mind was very quick. this woman had not been into camp until she visited him. where had she been? in the hills--coming from crowsfoot. still she might have been aware of the presence of her man before she came--through joan. for a moment he was disappointed. but it was only for a moment. he quickly brightened up. a new idea had occurred to him which narrowed his field of possibilities. this woman was educated, she belonged to a class he had once known himself. she would know nothing of the riffraff of this camp. it must be somebody of the same class, or near it, somebody of education----he drew a sharp breath, and his wicked eyes lit. the wildest, the most impossible thought had occurred to him. he pondered long upon the passage of the trail from crowsfoot to the farm. he remembered how she did not desire the "gossip" to travel--especially to the hills. suddenly he hailed his chinese cook and flung his knife and fork down upon his plate. in his elation he forgot the heat, the sticky flies. he forgot his usual custom of abstention during the day. he poured himself out a long drink of really good whisky, which he gulped down, smacking his lips with appreciation before flinging his customary curse at the head of his mongolian servitor. he had never had such a morning in his life. two of the boys came in for a drink. such was his mood that he upset their whole focus of things by insisting that they have it at his expense. and when a third came along with a small parcel of gold dust he bought it at its full value. these were significant signs. beasley melford was in a generous mood. and such a mood in such a man required a lot of inspiration. but it was not likely to continue for long. and surely enough it quickly reached its limit, and resolved itself into his every-day attitude, plus a desire to make up, at the first opportunity, the losses incurred by his moments of weak generosity. the heat of the day soon afforded him his desire, for the limp and sweating miners straggled back into camp long before their usual working day was ended. and what is more, they came to seek solace and refreshment under his willing roof. by the middle of the afternoon the bar was fairly well filled. the place was little better than a furnace of humid heat. but under the influence of heartening spirits the temperature passed almost unnoticed, or at least uncared. here at least the weary creatures were called upon for no greater effort than to deal cards, or raise a glass to their lips and hold it there until drained. they could stand any heat in the pursuit of such pastimes. beasley watched his customers closely. three tables of poker were going, and from each he drew a percentage for the "chips" sold at the bar. each table was well supplied with drinks. a group of five men occupied one end of the counter, and two smaller groups were farther along. they were all drinking with sufficient regularity to suit his purposes. amongst the crowd gathered he noticed many of the men of the original camp. there was curly saunders and slaney at one poker table with diamond jack. abe allinson was in close talk with two financial "sharps" from leeson, at the bar. the kid was with a number of new hands who had only just come in to try their luck. he was endeavoring to sell a small share of his claim at a large price. two others were with the larger group at the bar, discussing "outputs" and new methods of washing gold. it was a mixed collection of humanity, but there were sufficient of the original members of the camp to suit him. in a lull in the talk, when for a moment only the click of poker "chips" and the shuffle of cards broke the silence, beasley propped himself against his counter and, for once, paused from his everlasting habit of glass wiping. "guess none o' you heard the news?" he inquired, with a grin of anticipation. his first effort failed to produce the effect he desired, so a repetition followed quickly. for a moment play was suspended at one of the tables, and the men looked up. "noos?" inquired diamond jack. the kid and his youthful companions looked round at the foxy face of their host. "oh! i don't guess it's nuthin'," said beasley. "only--it's so dogone queer." his manner was well calculated. his final remark drew the entire barroom. all play and all talk was abruptly held up. "wot's queer?" demanded diamond jack, while all eyes searched the saloon-keeper's sharp face. beasley bit the end off a green cigar. "that's just it," he said. "ther's suthin' i can't jest make out. say----" he paused while he lit his cigar with a sulphur match. "any you fellers heard of a murder around here lately? can't say i have." he puffed leisurely at his cigar. the scattered groups at the bar drew closer. there was no question but he now had the attention he desired. the blank negative on the faces about him gave him his answer. "sure," he observed thoughtfully. "that's wher' i'm beat. but--ther's sure murder been done, an' ther's goin' to be a big doin' around--in consequence. ther's word gone in to the sheriff at leeson, an' the law fellers o' that city is raisin' a mighty business to get warrants signed. say, i heerd they're sendin' a dozen dep'ties to hunt these hills. seems to me the guy whoever it is is a pretty hot tough, an' he's livin' in the hills. i heard more than that. i heard the murder was a low-down racket that if folks knew about it they'd be right out fer lynchin' this guy. that's why it's bin kep' quiet. i bin goin' over the folks in my mind to locate the--murderer. but it's got me beat." "ther' ain't bin no murder since the camp got boomin'," said abe allinson thoughtfully, "'cept you reckon that racket of ike an' pete's." beasley shook his head. "'tain't that. that was jest clear shootin'. though it's queer you mention that. say, this racket's got somethin' to do with that farm. it's mighty queer about that farm. that gal's brought a heap of mischief. she sure is an all-fired jonah." "but what's she to do wi' this new racket?" inquired slaney. beasley shook his head. "you got me beat again. the sheriff's comin' right out to that farm, chasin' some feller for murder. ther's the fact--plain fact. he's comin' to that farm--which shows that gal is mussed-up with the racket someways. now i tho't a heap on this thing. an' i'm guessin' this murder must have been done back east. y' see that gal comes from back east. 'wal, now,' says i, 'how do we shape then?' why, that gal--that jonah gal--comes right here an' locates some feller who's done murder back east. who is it? i gone over every feller in this yer camp, an' 'most all are pretty clear accounted for. then from what i hear the sheriff's posse is to work the hills. who is ther' in the hills?" beasley paused for effect. his purpose was rapidly becoming evident. he glanced over the faces about him, and knew that the same thought was in each mind. he laughed as though an absurd thought had passed through his mind. "course," he exclaimed, "it's durned ridic'lous. ther's two fellers we know livin' in the hills. jest two. ther's buck an'--the padre. buck's bin around this creek ever since he was raised. i ain't no use for buck. he's kind o' white livered, but he's a straight citizen. then the padre," he laughed again, "he's too good. say, he's next best to a passon. so it can't be him." he waited for concurrence, and it came at once. "i'll swar' it ain't the padre," cried curly warmly. "it sure ain't," agreed slaney, shaking his serious head. "the padre?" cried abe, with a scornful laugh. "why, i'd sooner guess it's me." beasley nodded. "you're dead right ther', boys," he said, with hearty good-will. "it sure ain't the padre. he's got religion, an' though i'm 'most allus curious 'bout folks with religion--it ain't right to say ther's any queer reason fer 'em gettin' it. then the padre's bin here nigh twenty years. jest fancy! a feller of his eddication chasin' around these hills fer twenty years! it's easy fer a feller raised to 'em, like buck. but when you've been a feller in a swell position east, to come an' hunt your hole in these hills fer twenty years, why, it's--it's astonishin'. still, that don't make no diff'rence. it can't be the padre. he's got his reasons fer stayin' around here. wal, nigh all of us has got reasons fer bein' here. an' it ain't fer us to ask why. no, though i don't usually trust folks who get religion sudden, i ain't goin' agin the padre. he's a white man, sure." "the whitest around here," cried curly. he eyed beasley steadily. "say, you," he went on suspiciously, "who give you all this?" it was the question beasley had been waiting for. but he would rather have had it from some one else. he twisted his cigar across his lips and spat a piece of tobacco leaf out of his mouth. "wal," he began deliberately, "i don't guess it's good med'cine talkin' names. but i don't mind sayin' right here this thing's made me feel mean. the story's come straight from that--that--jonah gal's farm. yep, it makes me feel mean. ther's nothin' but trouble about that place now--'bout her. i ain't got over ike and pete. wal, i don't guess we'll get to the rights of that now. they wer' two bright boys. here are us fellers runnin' this camp fer all we know, all good citizens, mind, an' ther' ain't nothin' amiss. we ke'p the place good an' clean of rackets. we're goin' to boom into a big concern, an' we're goin' to make our piles--clean. an' we got to put up with the wust sort of mischief--from this farm. it ain't right. it ain't a square shake by a sight. i sez when ther's jonahs about they need to be put right out. an' mark you, that gal, an' that farm are jonahs. now we got this sheriff feller comin' around with his dep'ties chasin' glory after a crook. he'll get his nose into everybody. an' sheriffs' noses is quick at gettin' a nasty smell. i ain't sayin' a thing about any citizen in this place--but i don't guess any of us has store halos about us, an' halos is the only things'll keep any feller safe when sheriffs get around." a murmur of approval greeted his argument. few of the men in the camp desired the presence of a sheriff in their midst. there were few enough among them who would care to have the ashes of their past disturbed by any law officer. beasley had struck the right note for his purpose. "how'd you put this jonah out, beasley?" cried diamond jack. beasley thought for a moment. "how'd i put her out?" he said at last. "that's askin' some. how'd i put her out? say," his face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, "ef i had my way i'd burn every stick o' that dogone farm. then she'd light out. that's what i'd do. i ain't got no use for jonahs. an' i say right here i'd give five hundred dollars to see her back turned on this place. i tell you, boys, an' i'm speakin' for your good, an' mine, if she stops around here we're goin' to get it--we'll get it good. the lord knows how it's goin' to come. but it's comin', i feel it in my bones. it's comin' as sure as my name's beasley." he threw such a sincerity and earnestness into his manner that he made a marked impression. even curly saunders, who, with one or two of the older hands, had some sort of regard for the girl they believed had founded their fortunes, was not quite without doubts. there was no question but mischief did seem to hang about the farm. ike and pete had been popular enough. the newer people had no sentiment on the matter, but they listened with interest to the saloon-keeper, feeling that his was the voice of the leading citizen. besides, the matter of the sheriff's coming was not pleasant. many had spent a great part of their lives avoiding such contact. "seems to me you're forgettin' that gal brought us our luck," the kid suggested impulsively. "you were ther' when we handed her the----" "death's-head," laughed beasley. then his face hardened. "tcha!" he cried with some heat. "you make me sick. i told you then, as i tell you now, it was that storm brought us our luck, an' it brought us our jonah with it. if you'd got a cent's worth of grit that gal 'ud go. we don't wish her harm. i ain't one to wish a gal harm. but go she must if we want to be quit of trouble. still, i'm on'y just sayin' what i feel. it don't matter a heap. ther's the sheriff comin' along to grab some one for murder. maybe he'll chase up a few other rackets to fill in his time. it's things of that nature do matter. he's got to git some one. maybe it's some one in the hills. maybe it ain't. maybe--wal, i sure do hope it ain't--the padre." he laughed as he turned to attend the wants of some fresh customers who entered the bar at that moment. the malice underlying his jest must have been plain to any one observing the man. with this fresh diversion play at the card tables was resumed while the men at the bar fell back into their original groups. but the general interest was absorbed in beasley's news, and the channels of talk were diverted. beasley had sown his seed on fruitful soil. he knew it. the coming of a sheriff, or any form of established law, into a new mining camp was not lightly to be welcomed by the earliest pioneers. in the midst of this atmosphere a further interest arose. the last person beasley expected to see in his bar at that hour of the day was buck. he was not even sure he wanted to see him after what had passed. yet buck suddenly pushed his way through the swing-doors. the saloon-keeper was in the act of replacing the whisky bottle under the counter, having just served his fresh customers, when his foxy eyes encountered the dark face of the man he most hated on yellow creek. in a moment he was all smiles. "howdy, buck," he cried, as though the sight of him was the one thing in the world he desired. then he covertly winked at those nearest him. his wink conveyed all he intended, and the men turned and eyed the newcomer curiously. buck responded to the greeting indifferently, and proceeded to business. he had not come for the pleasure of the visit. he passed a slip of paper across the counter. "can you do them for me?" he inquired. "just cast an eye over that list. if you'll get 'em put up i'll ride in in the mornin' an' fetch 'em out. i'll need 'em early." his manner was short and cold. it was his way with beasley, but now there was more in his mind to make for brevity. beasley studied the paper closely. and as he read down the list a smile spread over his mean face. it was a long list of supplies which included rifle and revolver ammunition. he whistled softly. "mackinaw!" then he looked up into the dark eyes of the waiting man, and his own expressed an unwonted good-humor. "say, wot's doin' at the fort? gettin' ready for a siege? or--or are you an' the padre chasin' the long trail?" buck's thin cheeks flushed as he pointed at the paper. "you can do that for me?" he inquired still more coldly. beasley shot a swift glance round at the interested faces of the men standing by. "oh, guess i can do it," he said, his eyes twinkling. "sure i can do it. say, you fellers ain't lightin' out?" he winked again. this time it was deliberately at buck. "they're winter stores," said buck shortly. then, as beasley laughed right out, and he became aware of a general smile at his expense, he grew hot. "what's the matter?" he demanded sharply. and his demand was not intended for the saloon-keeper alone. "ke'p your shirt on, buck," exclaimed beasley, with studied good-nature. "we couldn't jest help but laff." then his eyes became sentimentally serious. "y' see, we bin worried some. we wus guessin' when you came along. y' see, ther's a sheriff an' a big posse o' dep'ties comin' right along to this yer camp. y' see, ther's some guy chasin' around the hills, an' he's wanted fer--murder." the man was watching for an effect in buck's face. but he might as well have looked for expression in that of a sphinx. "wal?" it was the only response buck afforded him. "wal," beasley shifted his gaze. he laughed feebly, and the onlookers transferred their attention to him. "y' see, it was sort o' laffable you comin' along buyin' winter stores in august, an' us jest guessin' what guy the sheriff would be chasin'--in the hills. he won't be smellin' around the fort now?" he grinned amiably into the dark face. but deep in his wicked eyes was an assurance which buck promptly read. nor did it take him a second to come to a decision. he returned the man's look with a coolness that belied his real feelings. he knew beyond question that mercy lascelles had already commenced her campaign against the padre. he had learned of her journey into the camp from joan. the result of that journey had not reached him yet. at least it was reaching him now. "you best hand it me straight, beasley," he said. "guess nothin' straight is a heap in your line. but jest for once you've got no corners to crawl around. hand it out--an' quick." buck's manner was dangerously sharp set. there was a smouldering fire growing in his passionate eyes. beasley hesitated. but his hesitation was only for the reason of his own growing heat. he made one last effort to handle the matter in the way he had originally desired, which was with a process of good-humored goading with which he hoped to keep the company present on his side. "ther's no offense, buck," he said. "at least ther' sure needn't to be. you never could play easy. i wus jest handin' you a laff--same as we had." "i'm waitin'," said buck with growing intensity, utterly ignoring the explanation. but beasley's hatred of the man could not be long denied. besides, his last attempt had changed the attitude of the onlookers. there was a lurking derision, even contempt in their regard for him. it was the result of what had occurred before buck's coming. they expected him to talk as plainly as he had done then. so he gave rein to the venom which he could never long restrain. "guess i hadn't best ke'p you waitin', sure," he said ironically. then his eyes suddenly lit. "winter stores, eh?" he cried derisively. "winter stores--an' why'll the padre need 'em, the good kind padre, when the sheriff's comin' along to round him up fer--murder?" there was a moment of tense silence as the man flung his challenge across the bar. every eye in the room was upon the two men facing each other. in the mind of every one present was only one expectation. the lightning-like play of life and death. but the game they all understood so well was not forthcoming. for once buck's heat was controlled by an iron will. to have shot beasley down where he stood would have been the greatest delight of his life, but he restrained the impulse. there were others to think of. he forced himself to calmness. beasley had fired his shot in the firm conviction it would strike home unfailingly. yet he knew that it was not without a certain random in it. still, after what had been said, it was imperative to show no weakening. he was certain the quarry was the padre, and his conviction received further assurance as he watched buck's face. for an instant buck would willingly have hurled the lie in his teeth. but to do so would have been to lie himself, and, later, for that lie to be proved. there was only one course open to him to counter the mischief of this man. he looked squarely into the saloon-keeper's face. "the truth don't come easy to you, beasley," he said calmly, "unless it's got a nasty flavor. guess that's how it's come your way to tell it now." "winter stores," laughed the man behind the bar. and he rubbed his hands gleefully, and winked his delight in his own astuteness at the men looking on. then his face sobered, and it seemed as though all his animosity had been absorbed in a profound regret. his whole attitude became the perfection of a righteous indignation and sympathy, which almost deceived buck himself. "see here, buck," he exclaimed, leaning across his bar. "you an' me don't always see things the same way. guess i don't allus hit it with the padre. no, i guess ther' ain't a heap of good feeling among the three of us. but before you leave here i want to say jest one thing, an' it's this. sheriff or no sheriff, deputies or no deputies, if they're lookin' fer the padre for murder i say it's a jumped-up fake. that man couldn't do a murder, not to save his soul. an' it'll give me a whole heap o' pleasure fixin' up your winter stores. an' good luck to you both--when you hit the long trail." a murmur of approval went round the room amongst those of the company who remembered the days before the gold strike. and beasley, in his long career of mischief, almost achieved popularity. buck could scarcely believe his ears. and his incredulity was not lessened as he looked into the furtive eyes of the man who had expressed himself so cordially. but he had been given the opportunity he knew he would need sooner or later. he knew that there were men in the camp who would stand by the padre in emergency, and they must know the truth. since aunt mercy's campaign had opened, and the news of it was spread abroad, these men must be told the facts, and know his own attitude. he might well need their assistance in the future, as they, in the past, had needed the padre's. "i take it you mean that, beasley," he said without warmth. then, ignoring the man, he turned to those gathered about him. "i don't know how beasley's got this thing, fellers," he said, in his simple fashion. "it don't matter, anyway. i hadn't a notion the sheriff was comin' along yet, either. that don't matter. anyways i guessed he would be comin' sooner or later, an' that's the reason i'm layin' in stores of gun stuff an' things. yes, he's comin' for the padre on a charge of murder, a low-down charge of murder that he never committed. you know the ways of the law, an' how things sure go in such rackets. the charge is nigh twenty years old. wal, maybe it'll be nigh impossible for him to prove he didn't do it. it looks that way. anyways, i tell you right here, ther' ain't no sheriff in this country goin' to git him while i'm alive. he's raised me from a starvin' kid, an' he's bin the biggest thing on earth to me, an' i'm goin' to see him through. you fellers, some o' you, know the padre. you know what he's done right here to help folks when they were starvin'. he even sold his farm to help. sold it right out, an' give up twenty years' work to hand grub to empty bellies. wal, they want him fer murder. him, the best and straightest man i ever knew. i ain't got nothin' more to say 'cept beasley's right--the sheriff's comin'. an' when he comes he'll find the hills hotter than hell fer him, an' i'll have a hand in makin' 'em that way." he turned abruptly to beasley, and pointed at the paper lying on the counter. "you'll do them things for me, an' i'll get 'em to-morrow." he turned away, flinging his farewell back over his shoulder as he reached the door. "so long, fellers," he cried, and pushed his way out. the moment he had gone every tongue was let loose. the gamblers cashed their "chips" at the bar. there was no more play that afternoon. excitement ran high, and discussion was at fever heat. to a man those who knew the padre, and those who didn't, commended buck's attitude. and amongst the older hands of the camp was an ardent desire to take a hand in resisting the law. beasley was in agreement with nearly everybody. he expressed a wonderful fury at the absurdity and injustice, as he described it, of the charge. and, finally, he possessed himself of the floor again for the purposes of his own subtle scheming. "what did i tell you, fellers?" he cried, when he had obtained a general hearing. "what did i tell you?" he reiterated in a fine fury. "i don't like him, but buck's a man. a straight, bully feller. he's goin' to do the right thing. he'll stand by that padre feller while he's got a breath in his body, an' he'll shoot the sheriff up as sure as sure. an' why? because that feller, the padre, sold his farm to help us old hands. because he sold his farm to that 'jonah' gal, who's brought all this trouble about. if she hadn't come around pete an' ike would have bin living now. if she hadn't come around the padre wouldn't be wanted for a murder he never committed. if she hadn't come around buck wouldn't have set himself up agin the law, an' found himself chasin' the country over--an outlaw. d'yer see it? you're blind if you don't." he brought his clenched fist down on the counter in a whirlwind of indignation. "she's got to go," he cried. "i tell you, she's got to go. chase her out. burn her out. get rid of her from here. an' i got five hundred dollars says--do it." beasley knew his men. and in every eye he saw that they were with him now. nor could anything have pleased him more than when curly shouted his sudden sympathy. "beasley's right, boys," he cried. "she's brought the rotten luck. she must go. who's to say whose turn it'll be next?" "bully for you," cried beasley. "curly's hit it. who's the next victim of the rotten luck of this golden woman?" his final appeal carried the day. the men shouted a general approval, and beasley reveled inwardly in his triumph. he had played his hand with all the skill at his command--and won. and now he was satisfied. he knew he had started the ball rolling. it would grow. in a few hours the majority of the camp would be with him. then, when the time came, he would play them for his own ends, and so pay off all his old scores. the padre would be taken. he would see to that. the sheriff should know every detail of buck's intentions. buck would ultimately be taken--after being outlawed. and joan--the proud beauty whom buck was in love with--well, if she got out with her life it would be about all she would escape with. beasley felt very happy. chapter xxx the moving finger the padre stood at the top of the steps and looked out over the wide stretching valley below him. his long day was drawing to a close, but he felt no weariness of body. there was a weariness of mind, a weariness of outlook. there was something gray and cold and hopeless upon his horizon, something which left him regretful of all that which lay within his view now. there was a half smile in his eyes, as, for a moment, they rested on the narrow indistinct trail which looked so far below him. he was thinking of that apparition he had met only a few days back, the apparition which had suddenly leapt out of his past. it was all very strange, very wonderful, the working of those mysterious things which make it certain that no page in a human creature's life can be turned once and for all. yes, it was all very wonderful. the hand of fate had begun to move against him when he had greeted that starving fragment of humanity at the trail-side, more than twenty years ago. it had moved steadily since then in every detail of his life. it had been progressing in the work he had done in the building of his farm. its moving finger had pointed every day of buck's young life. in the necessities of those poor gold-seekers it had shown its unerring direction, even in the spirit which had prompted him to help them, which involved the selling of his farm. then he saw its bitter irony. it had done its work by bringing joan into contact with buck, and, with cruel derision, had shown him how unnecessary his sacrifice had been. then had come all those other things, moving so swiftly that it was almost impossible to count each step in the iron progress of the moving finger. it had come with an overwhelming rush which swept him upon its tide like a feather upon the bosom of the torrent. and now, caught in the whirling rapids below the mighty falls, he could only await the completion of the sentence so long since pronounced. the smile broadened, spreading gently across his face. he realized he was admitting all he had denied to joan. but the thought brought him no weakening. the wisdom of years had taught him much that must not be communicated to a younger generation. life would teach them in their turn; they must not learn the truths which lay before them before their time. it was better to lie than to destroy the hope of youth. his conscience was clear, his resolve perfect in its steadiness. the happiness of two people was at stake. for buck he would give up all. there was no sacrifice too great. for joan--she was the fair daughter of his oldest friend. his duty was clear by her. there was one course, and one course only that he could see for himself. to remove the last shadow from these young lives he must face the ordeal which lay before him. what its outcome might be he could not quite see, but he was not without hope. there were certain details surrounding the death of his friend which did not fit in with his guilt. he had no weapon upon him in that house. nor was there the least reason for the crime. he knew he would be confronted by the evidence of a woman who hated him, a woman capable of manufacturing evidence to suit her own ends. but, whatever else she might do, she could not produce a weapon belonging to him, nor could she invent a reason for the crime that could not be disproved. at least this was the hope he clung to. however, he knew that he could not leave the shadow of his possible guilt to cloud the lives of these two, just setting out on their long journey together. the possibilities of it for harm were far too great. the ocean of hot, youthful love was far too possible of disaster for an unnecessary threat to overshadow it. no, he had refused the request of these two from the first moment when he had realized his duty by them, and now, after careful thought, his resolve remained unshaken. still, he was not without regret as he gazed out over that vast world he had learned to love so well. the thought of possibly never seeing it again hurt him. the wide valleys, the fair, green pastures, the frowning, mysterious woods with their utter silence, the butting crags with their barren crests, or snow-clad shoulders. they held him in a thrall of almost passionate devotion. they would indeed be hard to part with. he looked away down the gaping jaws of the valley at the black crest of devil's hill. it was a point that never failed to attract him, and now more so than ever. was it not round this hill that all his past efforts had been concentrated? he studied it. its weirdness held him. a heavy mist enveloped its crown, that steaming mist which ever hung above the suspended lake. it was denser now than usual. it had been growing denser for the last two days, and, in a vague way, he supposed that those internal fires which heated the water were glowing fiercer than usual. he glanced up at the sky, and almost for the first time realized the arduous efforts of the westering sun to penetrate the densely humid atmosphere. it was stiflingly hot, when usually the air possessed a distinct chill. but these things possessed only a passing interest. the vagaries of the mountain atmosphere rarely concerned him. his vigorous body was quite impervious to its changes. he picked up his "catch" of pelts and shouldered them. they were few enough, and as he thought of the unusual scarcity of foxes the last few days he could not help feeling that the circumstance was only in keeping with the rest of the passing events of his life. he made his way along the foot-path which wound its way through the pine bluff, in the midst of which the old fur fort lay hidden inside its mouldering stockade. he flung the pelts into the storeroom, and passed on to the house, wondering if buck had returned from the camp, whither he knew he had been that day. he found him busy amidst a pile of stores spread out upon the floor and table, and a mild surprise greeted the youngster as he looked round from his occupation. "you never said--you were getting stores, buck?" the padre eyed the pile curiously. finally his eyes paused at the obvious ammunition cases. buck followed the direction of his gaze. "no," he said; and turned again to his work of bestowing the goods in the places he had selected for them. the padre crossed the room and sat down. then he leisurely began to exchange his moccasins for a pair of comfortable house-shoes. "had we run short?" he asked presently. "no." buck's manner was touched with something like brusqueness. "then--why?" buck straightened up, bearing in his arms an ammunition box. "because we may need 'em," he said, and bestowed the box under the settle with a kick. "i don't get you--that's revolver ammunition you just put away." "yes." buck continued his work until the room was cleared. the other watched him interestedly. then as the younger man began to prepare their supper the padre again reverted to it. "maybe you'll tell me about 'em--now?" he said, with his easy smile. buck had just set the kettle on the stove. he stood up, and a frown of perplexity darkened his brow. "maybe i won't be able to get to camp again," he said. "maybe we'll need 'em for another reason." "what other?" "the sheriff's comin'. that woman's sent for him. i've figgered out he can't get along till 'bout to-morrow night, or the next mornin'. anyway it don't do to reckon close on how quick a sheriff can git doin'." the padre's smile had died out of his eyes. he sighed. "the sheriff's coming, eh?" then he went on after a pause. "but these stores--i don't see----" a dark flame suddenly lit buck's eyes, but though he broke in quickly it was without the heat that was evidently stirring within him. "they're for joan, an' me--an' you. when the time comes guess we're going where no sheriff can follow us, if you don't make trouble. i don't guess you need tellin' of the valley below us. you know it, an' you know the steps. you know the canyon away on toward devil's hill. that's the way we're goin'--when the time comes. an' i'd say there ain't no sheriff or dep'ties'll care to follow us through that canyon. after that we cut away north. ther's nobody can follow our trail that way." something almost of defiance grew into his voice as he proceeded. he was expecting denial, and was ready to resist it with all his force. the padre shook his head. "buck, buck, this is madness--rank madness," he cried. "to resist the law in the way your hot head dictates is to outlaw yourselves beyond all redemption. you don't understand what you are doing. you don't know to what you are condemning this little joan. you don't know how surely your methods will condemn _me_." but buck was on fire with rebellion against the injustice of a law which claimed the padre as its victim. he saw the hideous possibilities following upon his friend's arrest, and was determined to give his life in the service of his defense. "it's not madness," he declared vehemently. "it's justice, real justice that we should defend our freedom. if you wer' guilty, padre, it would be dead right to save yourself. it's sure the right of everything to save its life. if you're innocent you sure got still more right. padre, i tell you they mean to fix you. that woman's got a cinch she ain't lettin' go. she's lived for this time, joan's told me. she'll raise plumb hell to send you to your death. padre, just listen to us. it's me an' joan talkin' now. what i say she says. we can see these things different to you; we're young. you say it's your duty to give up to this woman. we say it's our duty you _shan't_. if you give up to her you're giving up to devil's mischief, an' that's dead wrong. an' nothin' you can say can show me you got a right to help devil's work. we'll light out of here before they come. us three. if you stop here, we stop too, an' that's why i got the ammunition. more than that. ther's others, too, won't see you taken. ther's fellers with us in the camp--fellers who owe you a heap--like i do." the padre watched the steam rising from the kettle with moody eyes. the youngster was tempting him sorely. he knew buck's determination, his blind loyalty. he felt that herein lay his own real danger. yes, to bolt again, as he had done that time before, would be an easy way out. but its selfishness was too obvious. he could not do it. to do so would be to drag them in his train of disaster, to blight their lives and leave them under the grinding shadow of the law. no, it could not be. "looked at from the way you look at it, there is right enough in what you say, boy," he said kindly. "but you can't look at civilized life as these mountains teach you to look at things. when the sheriff comes i yield to arrest, and i trust in god to help us all. my mind is made up." for some moments buck stared down at the sturdy friend who had taken the place of his dead father. his eyes softened, and their fire died out. but there was no rescinding of his desperate decision. he was thinking of what it would mean, the thought of this white-haired man in the hands of the executioner. he was thinking of the kindly heart beating within that stalwart bosom. he was thinking of the wonderful, thoughtful kindness for others which was always the motive of his life. and a deep-throated curse rose to his lips. but it found no utterance. it could not in that presence. "an' my mind's made up," he jerked out at last, with concentrated force. then he added with an abrupt softening, "let's eat, padre. i was forgettin'. mebbe you're hungry some." chapter xxxi the joy of beasley an unusual number of horses were tethered at the posts outside beasley's saloon, and, a still more unusual thing, their owners, for the most part, were not in their usual places within the building. most of them were lounging on the veranda in various attitudes best calculated to rest them from the effects of the overpowering heat of the day. beasley was lounging with them. for once he seemed to have weakened in his restless energy, or found something of greater interest than that of netting questionable gains. the latter seemed to be the more likely, for his restless eyes displayed no lack of mental activity. at any rate, he displayed an attitude that afternoon which startled even his bartender. not once, but several times that individual, of pessimistic mood, had been called upon to dispense free rations of the worst possible liquor in the place, until, driven from wonder to protest, he declared, with emphatic conviction and an adequate flow of blasphemy, addressing himself to the bottles under the counter, the smeary glasses he breathed upon while wiping with a soiled and odoriferous cloth, that the boss was "bug--plumb bug." nevertheless, his own understanding of "crookedness" warned him that the man had method, and he was anxious to discover the direction in which it was moving. therefore he watched beasley's doings with appreciative eyes, and his interest grew as the afternoon waned. "he's on a crook lay," he told himself after a while. and the thought brightened his outlook upon life, and helped to banish some of his pessimism. the chief feature of interest for him lay in the fact that the men foregathered were a collection of those who belonged to the "something-for-nothing" class, as he graphically described them. and he observed, too, that beasley was carefully shepherding them. there were a few of the older hands of the camp, but these seemed to have less interest for his boss. at least he showed far less consideration for them. and it quickly became evident that the whole afternoon's object was the adequate ingratiation and stimulation of these dregs of frontier life. this the bartender saw quite clearly. for the rest he was content to wait. he had spent most of his life in thus waiting and watching the nefarious schemes of unscrupulous men. the heat was overpowering. it was almost an effort to breathe, let alone move about. the men lolled, propped against the baulks of timber supporting the veranda roof, stretched out on benches, or crouching on the raised edge of the wooden flooring. one and all were in a state of wiltering in the stewing heat, from which only an intermittent flow of fiery spirit could rouse them. beasley was the one exception to this general condition of things. mentally he was particularly alert. and, what is more, his temper, usually so irritable and fiery, was reduced to a perfect level of good humor. for some moments talk had died out. then in a sudden fit of irritability abe allinson kicked a loose stone in the direction of the tethered horses. "say," he observed, "this 'minds one o' the time we struck color at the hill." his eyes wandered toward the gathering shadows, slowly obscuring the grim sides of devil's hill. his remark was addressed to no one in particular. beasley took him up. it was his purpose to keep these men stirring. "how?" he inquired. "why, the heat. say, git a peek at that sky. look yonder. the sun. get them durned banks o' cloud swallerin' it right up atop o' them hills. makes you think, don't it? that's storm. it's comin' big--an' before many hours." "for which we'll all be a heap thankful." beasley laughed. "another day of this an' i'll be done that tender a gran'ma could eat me." his remark drew a flicker of a smile. "she'd need good ivories," observed the gambler, diamond jack, with mild sarcasm. beasley took the remark as a compliment to his business capacity, and grinned amiably. "jack's right. you'd sure give her an elegant pain, else," added curly, in a tired voice. he was steadily staring down the trail in a manner that suggested indifference to any coming storm. somebody laughed half-heartedly. but curly had no desire to enliven things, and went on quite seriously. "say, when's this bum sheriff gettin' around?" he demanded. beasley took him up at once. "some time to-night," he said, in a well-calculated tone of resentment. "that's why i got you boys around now," he added significantly. "you mean----?" diamond jack nodded in the direction of the farm. beasley nodded. "that old crow bait got back early this mornin'," he went on. "i was waitin' on her. she guessed she hadn't a thing to say, an' i surely was up agin a proposition. so i jest made out i was feelin' good seein' her git back, an' told her i wa'an't lookin' for information she didn't guess she was givin', and ther' wasn't no need fer her to say a thing. she guessed that was so. after that i passed things by, sayin' how some o' the boys hated sheriffs wuss'n rattlesnakes--an' she laffed. yes, sir, she laffed, an' it must have hurt her some. anyways she opened out at that, an' said, if any boys hated the sight of sheriffs they'd better hunt their holes before sun-up. guess she didn't just use them words, but she give 'em that time limit. say, if i was the padre i'd sooner have the devil on my trail than that old--bunch o' marrow bones." slaney looked up from the bench on which he was spread out. "guess he'll have wuss'n her when bob richards gets around," he said gloomily. "d'you reckon they'll git him--with buck around?" inquired curly anxiously. "buck! tcha!" beasley's dislike for the moment got the better of his discretion. but he quickly realized his mistake, and proceeded to twist his meaning. "it makes me mad. it makes me plumb crazed when i think o' that bully feller, the padre, bein' give dead away by the folks at the farm. buck? psha'! who's buck agin a feller like bob richards? bob's the greatest sheriff ever stepped in montana. he'll twist buck so he won't know rye whisky from sow-belly. buck's grit, elegant grit, but bob--wal, i'd say he's the wisest guy west of chicago, when it comes to stringin' up a crook." "i'm with you, boss," cried diamond jack, in a quick rage. "this farm needs lookin' to to-night sure. we got to git in 'fore sheriffs git around. they're playin' a low-down racket. jonahs don't cut no ice with me, but they're chasin' up glory agin the camp. that's how i read it. guess none of us is saints, anyways i don't seem to hear no wings flappin'; but givin' folks up to the law is--low." abe allinson grunted, and a general atmosphere of silent approval prevailed. beasley, whose eyes were watching every expression, pushed the ball further along. "low?" he cried. "you, jack, don't know the guy we're so dead keen to help out. if you did you'd git right up on to your hind legs an' cuss terrible--an' you've cussed some in your time. but for him this camp wouldn't be the bonanza it is. you wouldn't be nettin' a pile of dollars every night in my bar. i wouldn't be runnin' a big proposition in dollar makin'. these boys wouldn't be chasin' gold on full bellies. gee, it makes me mad--an' thirsty. let's get around inside an' see what that glass rustler of mine can do." the response was immediate and complete. no man had ever been known to refuse beasley's hospitality. everybody drank. and they drank again at diamond jack's expense. then later they drank at their own. and all the while beasley, with consummate skill, shepherded them to his own ends. it was truly wonderful to see the manner in which he handled them. he adopted the simplest tactics, once he had set the ball rolling, contenting himself with dropping in a word here and there every time the subject of the sheriff drifted toward his ears. he knew these men. he possessed that keenness of insight into his customers which no successful saloon-keeper fails to acquire. he understood their weaknesses in a manner which left it a simple enough task to play upon them. in this case the basis of his procedure was drink--strong, harsh whisky, of a violent type. the banking clouds rose ponderously upon the hilltops, blacking out the twilight with an abruptness which must have held deep significance for men less occupied. but the dominant overcast of their minds was the coming of the sheriff. for many of them it was far more ominous than any storm of nature. the bar filled to overflowing. no one cared to gamble. there would have been no room for them, anyway. even diamond jack showed no inclination to pursue his trade. perhaps this was the most significant feature of all. his was a weighty word thrown in the balance of public opinion. perhaps this was the result of his well-understood shrewdness. at any rate he never failed to find a ready audience for his opinions, and to-night his opinions were strongly and forcefully declared. beasley listened to him with interest, and smiled as he observed him moving about amongst the crowd drinking with one, treating another, his tongue never idle in his denunciation of sheriffs, and all those who called in their aid. it almost seemed as if the man was acting under orders, orders, perhaps inspired by a subtler mind, to disguise the real source whence they sprang. the gambler was truly a firebrand, and so well did he handle his people, so well did he stir them by his disgust and righteous horror at the employment of a sheriff in their midst, that by nine o'clock the camp was loud in its clamor for retribution to be visited upon those who had brought such a terror into their midst. beasley's amiability grew. his bartender watched it in amazement. but it oppressed him. his pessimism resented it. he hated joy, and the evidences of joy in others. there was real pleasure for him in diamond jack's hectoring denunciations. it was something which appealed to him. besides, he could see the gambler was harassed, perhaps afraid of the sheriff himself. he even envied him his fear. but beasley's satisfaction was depressing, and, as a protest, he neglected to overcharge the more drunken of their customers. beasley must not have all the satisfaction. but, as far as beasley was concerned, the bartender was little better than a piece of furniture that night. his employer had almost forgotten his existence. truth to tell, beasley had lost his head in his disease of venom. one thought, and one thought only urged him. to-night, before the advent of the sheriff to seize upon the person of the hated padre, he hoped, by one stroke, to crush the heart of buck, and bow the proud head of the girl who had so plainly showed her dislike and contempt for him, in the dust of shame and despair. it was a moment worth waiting for. it was a moment of joy he would not lightly forego. nor did he care what time, patience, or money it cost him. to strike at those whom he hated was as the breath of life to him. and he meant to drink deeply of his cup of joy. his moment came. it came swiftly, suddenly, like most matters of great import. his opportunity came at the psychological moment, when the last shred of temperance had been torn from wild, lawless hearts, which, in such moments, were little better than those of savage beasts. it came when the poison of complaint and bitterness had at last searched out the inmost recesses of stunted, brutalized minds. and beasley snatched at it hungrily, like a worm-ridden dog will snatch at the filthiest offal. the drunken voice of abe allinson lifted above the general din. he was lolling against one end of the counter, isolated from his fellows by reason of his utterly stupefied condition. he was in a state when he no longer had interest for his companions. he rolled about blear-eyed and hopelessly mumbling, with a half-emptied glass in his hand, which he waved about uncertainly. suddenly an impotent spasm of rage seemed to take hold of him. with a hoarse curse he raised his glass and hurled it crashing against the wall. then, with a wild, prolonged whoop he shouted the result of his drunken cogitations. "we'll burn 'em! drown 'em! shoot 'em! hang 'em! come on, fellers, foller me!" he made a staggering effort to leave his support. he straightened up. for a moment he poised, swaying. then he pitched forward on his face and lay stretched full length upon the floor. but all had heard. and beasley snatched at his opportunity. he sprang upon the counter in the moment of astonished quiet, and, before tongues broke loose again, he had the whole attention of the crowd. "here, boys," he cried. "abe's right. drunk as he is, he's right. only he sure wants to do too much--more than his legs'll let him." he grinned. "we're goin' to do this thing right now. but we're goin' to do it like good citizens of a dandy city. we ain't goin' to act like a gang of lynchers. we're dealin' with a gal, with gold ha'r an' blue eyes, an' we're goin' to deal accordin'. we ain't lookin' fer her life. that's too easy, an', wal--she's a woman. no, we're goin' to rid this place of her an' all her tribe. we're goin' to make it so she can't stop to do no more harm, bringin' sheriffs around. we're goin' to burn her home right out, an' we're goin' to set her in her wagon an' team, an' let her drive to hell out of here. we're goin' to do it right now, before the sheriff gets busy along here. after that we'll be too late. are you game? who's comin'? we're goin' to burn that jonah farm till ther' ain't a stick left above ground to say it ever stood there. that's what we're goin' to do, an' i'm the man who'll start the bonfire. say, we'll make it like a fourth o' july. we'll have one royal time--an' we'll be quit of all jonahs." as he finished speaking he leapt to the ground amidst the crowd. nor did he need to wait to hear the response to his appeal. it came in one of those unanimous, drunken roars, only to be heard in such a place, at such a time, or on a battle-field, when insensate fury demands a raucous outlet. every man in the place, lost, for the moment, to all the dictates of honest manhood, was ready to follow the leadership of one whom, in sober moments, they all disliked. it was an extraordinary exhibition of the old savage which ever lies so near the surface in men upon the fringe of civilization. nor did beasley give them time to think. his orders came rapidly. the bartender, for once his eyes sparkling at the thought of trouble about to visit an unsuspecting fellow-creature, hurled himself to the task of dealing out one large final drink to everybody. then when a sufficient supply of materials of an inflammatory nature had been gathered together, the saloon-keeper placed himself at the head of his men, supported by the only too willing diamond jack, and the procession started out. chapter xxxii stronger than death from the time of her aunt's going to leeson butte to the morning of her return to the farm joan passed through a nightmare of uncertainty and hopelessness. every moment of her time seemed unreal. her very life seemed unreal. it was as though her mind were detached from her body, and she was gazing upon the scenes of a drama in which she had no part, while yet she was weighted down with an oppressive fear of the tragedy which she knew was yet to come. every moment she felt that the threat of disaster was growing. that it was coming nearer and nearer, and that now no power on earth could avert it. twice only during that dreary interval of waiting she saw buck. but even his presence did little more than ease her dread and despair, leaving it crushing her down the more terribly with the moment of his going. he came to her with his usual confidence, but it was only with information of his own preparations for his defense of his friend. she could listen to them, told in his strong, reliant manner, with hope stirring her heart and a great, deep love for the man thrilling her every nerve. but with his going came the full realization of the significance of the necessity of such preparations. the very recklessness of them warned her beyond doubt how small was the chance of the padre's escape. buck had declared his certainty of outwitting the law, even if it necessitated using force against the man whom he intended to save. left to her own resources joan found them weak enough. so weak indeed that at last she admitted to herself that the evidences of the curse that had dogged her through life were no matters of distorted imagination. they were real enough. terribly real. and the admission found her dreading and helpless. she knew she had gone back to the fatal obsession, which, aided by the padre and her lover, she had so loyally contended. she knew in those dark moments she was weakly yielding. these men had come into her life, had sown fresh seeds of promise, but they had been sown in soil choked with weeds of superstition, and so had remained wholly unfruitful. how could it be otherwise? hard upon the heels of buck's love had come this deadly attack of fate upon him and his. the miracle of it was stupendous. it had come in a way that was utterly staggering. it had come, not as with those others who had gone before, but out of her life. it had come direct from her and hers. and the disaster threatened was not merely death but disgrace, disgrace upon a good man, even upon her lover, which would last as long as they two had life. the sense of tragedy merged into the maddening thought of the injustice of it. it was monstrous. it was a tyranny for which there was no justification, and it goaded her to the verge of hysteria. whatever she did now the hand of fate would move on irrevocably fulfilling its purpose to the bitter end. she knew it. in spite of all buck's confidence, all his efforts to save his friend, the disaster would be accomplished, and her lover would be lost to her in the vortex of her evil destiny. fool--fool that she had been. wicked even, yes, wicked, that she had not foreseen whither her new life was drifting. it was for her to have anticipated the shoals of trouble in the tide of buck's strong young life. it was for her to have prevented the mingling of their lives. it was for her to have shut him out of her thoughts and denied him access to the heart that beat so warmly for him. she had been weak, so weak. on every count she had failed to prove the strength she had believed herself to possess. it was a heart-breaking thought. but she loved. it would have been impossible to have denied her love. she would not have denied it if she could. her rebellion against her fate now carried her further. she had the right to love this man. she had the right which belongs to every woman in the world. and he desired her love. he desired it above all things in the world--and he had no fear. then the strangeness of it. with all that had gone before she had had no misgivings until the moment he had poured out all the strength of his great love into her yearning ears. she had not recognized the danger besetting them. she had not paused to ask a question of herself, to think of the possibilities. she loved him, and the thought of his love thrilled her even now amidst all her despair. but the moment his words of love had been spoken, even with the first wonderful thrill of joy had come the reality of awakening. then--then it was that the evil of her fate had unmasked itself and showed its hideous features, leering, mocking, in the memory of what had gone before, taunting her for her weakly efforts to escape the doom marked out for her. all this she thought of in her black moments. all this and far, far more than could ever take shape in words. and her terror of what was to come became unspeakable. but through it all one thing, one gleam of hope obtruded itself. it was not a tangible hope. it was not even a hope that could have found expression. it was merely a picture that ever confronted her, even when darkness seemed most nearly to overwhelm her. it was the picture of buck's young face, full of strength and confidence. somehow the picture was always one of hope. it caught no reflection of her own trouble, but lived in her memory undiminished by any despair, however black. once or twice she found herself wondering at it. sometimes she felt it to be merely a trick of memory to taunt her with that which could never be, and so she tried to shut out the vague hopes it aroused. but, as time went on, and the hour for her aunt's return drew near, the recurrence of the picture became so persistent that it was rarely out of her mental vision. it was a wonderful thought. she saw him as she had seen him when first he laughed her threat of disaster and death to scorn. she could never forget that moment. she could hear his laugh now, that laugh, so full of youthful courage, which had rung through the old barn. pondering thus her mind suddenly traveled back to something which, in the midst of all her tribulations, had completely passed out of her recollection. she was startled. she was startled so that she gasped with the sudden feeling it inspired. what was it? something her aunt had said. yes, she remembered now. and with memory the very words came back to her, full of portentous meaning. and as they rushed pell-mell through her straining brain a great uplifting bore her toward that hope which she suddenly realized was not yet dead. "go you and find a love so strong that no disaster can kill it. and maybe life may still have some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse from your suffering shoulders. it--it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than disaster. it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than--death." they were her aunt's words spoken in the vehemence of her prophetic passion. it was the one thing, she had warned her, that could save her. was this the love she had found? was this the love to lead her to salvation--this wonderful love of buck's? was this that which was to leave life some compensations? was this that which was stronger than disaster--than death? yes, yes! her love was her life. and now without it she must die. yes, yes! buck--young, glorious in his courage and strength. he was stronger than disaster, and their love--was it not stronger than death? from the moment of this wonderful recollection, a gentle calm gradually possessed her. the straining of those two long wakeful nights, the nightmare of dread which had pursued her into the daylight hours, left her with a sudden ease of thought she had never hoped to find again. it all came back to her. her aunt had told her whither she must seek the key that would unlock the prison gates of fate, and all inadvertently she had found it. in buck's love must lay her salvation. with that stronger than death no disaster could come. he was right, and she was all wrong. he had laughed them to scorn--she must join in his laugh. so at last came peace. the last wakeful night before the morning of her aunt's return terminated in a few hours of refreshing, much-needed slumber. hope had dawned, and the morrow must bring the morrow's events. she would endeavor to await them with something of the confidence which supported buck. * * * * * the room was still, so still that its atmosphere might have been likened to the night outside, which was heavy with the presage of coming storm. there was a profound feeling of opposing forces at work, yet the silence remained undisturbed. it was nearly nine o'clock, and the yellow lamplight shed its soft monotony over the little parlor, revealing the occupants of the room in attitudes of tense concentration, even antagonism. mercy lascelles swayed slowly to and fro in the new rocking-chair joan had purchased for her comfort. her attenuated figure was huddled down in that familiar attitude which the girl knew so well, but her face wore an expression which joan had never beheld before. usually her hard eyes were coldly unsmiling. now they smiled--terribly. usually her thin cheeks were almost dead white in their pallor. now they were flushed and hectic with a suggestion of the inward fire that lit her eyes. the harsh mouth was irrevocably set, till nose and chin looked as though they soon must meet, while the hideous dark rings showed up the cruel glare of her eyes, which shone diabolically. joan stood some paces away. she was looking down aghast at the crouching figure, and her eyes were horrified. this was the first she had seen of her relative since her return that morning. the old woman had shut herself up in her bedroom, refusing to speak, or to eat, all day. but now she had emerged from her seclusion, and joan had been forced to listen to the story of her journey. it was a painful story, and still more painfully told. it was full of a cruel enjoyment such as never in her life joan had believed this woman capable of. her eccentricities were many, her nervous tendencies strange and often weird, but never had such a side of her character as she now presented been allowed to rise to the surface. at first joan wondered as she listened. she wondered at the fierce purpose which underlaid this weakly body. but with each passing moment, with each fresh detail of her motives and methods, her wonder deepened to a rapidly growing conviction which filled her with horror and repulsion. she told herself that the woman was no longer sane. at last she had fallen a victim to her racked and broken nerves, as the doctors had prophesied. to them, and to the everlasting brooding upon her disappointments and injuries for all these long years. this she felt, and yet the feeling conveyed no real conviction to her mind. all she knew was that loathing and repulsion stirred her, until the thought revolted her that she was breathing the same air as one who could be capable of such vicious cruelty. but she struggled to stifle all outward sign. and though she was only partly successful she contrived to keep her words calm, even if her eyes, those windows of her simple girl's soul, would not submit to such control. "i'm over fifty now, girl," mercy finished up, in a low suppressed tone, husky with feeling, yet thrilling with a cruel triumph. "over fifty, and, for the last twenty and more years of it, i have waited for this moment. i have waited with a patience you can never understand because you have never been made to suffer as i have. but i knew it would come. i have known it every day of those twenty years, because i have read it in that book in which i have read so many things which concern human life. i was robbed of life years and years ago. yes, life. i have been a dead woman these twenty years. my life was gone when your father died, leaving you, another woman's child, in my hands. god in heaven! sometimes i wonder why i did not strangle the wretched life out of you years ago--you, another woman's child, but yet with charles stanmore's blood in your veins. perhaps it was because of that i spared your life. perhaps it was because i read your fate, and knew you had to suffer, that i preferred my sister's child should reap the reward of her mother's crime--yes, crime. perhaps it was that while charles stanmore lived my hopes and longings were still capable of fulfilment. but he is dead--dead years and years ago. and with his death my life went out too. now there is only revenge. no, not revenge," she laughed, "justice to be dealt out. that justice it is my joy to see dispensed. that justice it is my joy to feel that my hand has brought its administering about. "i have laid all the information necessary. i have a lawyer in leeson butte in communication with my man in new york. and--and the sheriff and his men will be here before daylight. oh, yes, i can afford to tell you now that the work is accomplished. you shall have no opportunity of communicating with your friends. i shall not sleep to-night. nor will you leave this house. there is a means of holding you here. a means which will never be far from my hand." she tapped the bosom of her dress significantly, and joan understood that she had armed herself. "the arrest will be made while they are still sleeping in that old fort of theirs--and your young buck will pay the penalty if he interferes. yes, yes," she added, rubbing her lean, almost skeleton hands together in an access of satisfaction, "when you sip your coffee in the morning, my girl, your buck's foster-father will be on his way to the jail from which he will only emerge for the comfort of an electric chair. i have endured twenty years of mental torture, but--i have not endured them in vain." the cold, consummate completeness with which the woman detailed her carefully considered plans turned joan's heart to stone. it chilled her and left her shivering in the awful heat. for one moment, one weak moment when her woman's spirit quailed before the deadly array of facts, she felt faint, and one hand sought the table for support. but with a tremendous effort she recovered herself. it was the thought of buck which helped her. she could not let him fall into the trap so well laid by this--this creature, without an effort to save them both. in a flash her mind pictured the scene of the padre's capture. she saw the fort surrounded by the "deputies." she saw the padre shackled before he could rise from his blankets. she saw buck, under cover of ruthless firearms, hurl himself to the rescue and pay for his temerity with his life. in a sudden overwhelming passion of appeal she flung herself on her knees before the terrible old woman. "aunt, aunt!" she cried. "you cannot be so heartless, so cruel. there is a mistake. you are mistaken. the padre swears to his innocence, and if you knew him as i know him, as all this countryside knows him, you _must_ believe. he is not capable of murder. my father committed suicide. think, think of all that went before his death, and you, too, will see that everything points to suicide. oh, aunt, think of what you are doing. the plans you have made _must_ involve the man i love. a perfectly innocent man, as even you know. if my father was all your world, so is buck all mine. he will defend the padre. i know him. and as you say he will pay the penalty with his life. if you have one grain of pity, if you have one remaining thought of love for my dead father, then spare this man to his daughter. where is the right that you should involve buck? you do not even know him. oh, aunt, you have lived all these twenty years with me. in your own way you have cared for me. sacrifice your enmity against this innocent man. it will give you a peace of mind you have never known before, and will give me the happiness of the man i love." mercy's eyes lit with fine scorn as she caught at joan's final words. "the happiness of the man you love!" she cried with passionate anger, "why should i give you your man's love? why should i help any woman to a happiness i have never been allowed to taste? perhaps it pleases me to think that your buck will be involved. have i not warned you of the disaster which you have permitted him to court? listen, girl, not one detail of all that which i have waited for will i forego. not one detail. when it is accomplished nothing on earth matters to me. the sooner i am off it the better. the sooner i leave this world for other realms the sooner i shall be able to pursue those others who have injured me and passed on to--a fresh habitation. do you understand? do you understand that i will brook no interference from you? peace, child, i want no more talk. when this night is over i leave here--nor shall i ever willingly cross your path again. you are another woman's child, and so long as you live, so long as we are brought into contact, the sting of the past must ever remain in my heart. go to your bed, and leave me to watch and wait until the morning." the old woman's domination was strong--it was so strong that joan felt appalled before the terrible mental force she was putting forth. the horror of her diseased mind sickened her, and filled her with something closely allied to terror. but she would not submit. her love was greater than her courage, her power to resist for herself. she was thinking of those two men, but most of all she was thinking of buck. she was determined upon another effort. and when that effort was spent--upon still another. "listen to me, aunt," she cried with no longer any attempt at appeal, with no longer any display of regard for this woman as a relation. "i am mistress in my own house, and i shall do as i choose. i, too, shall sit up and you will have to listen to me." mercy smiled ironically. "yes, you are mistress in your own house, so long as you do not attempt to interfere with my plans. sit up, girl, if you choose, and talk. i am prepared to listen even though your twaddle bores me." a sound caught joan's attention, and the desperate position of her lover and his friend set thought flashing swiftly through her mind. the sound was of mrs. ransford moving in the kitchen. "then listen to this," she cried. "you have told me that i am cursed. you have told me that death and disaster must follow me wherever i go. i love buck. it is the first and only time i shall ever love. i know that. he is the love of my whole life. without him, without his love, life to me is inconceivable. he and his love are so precious to me that i would give my life for his at any moment--now, if need be. i want you to know that. you have armed yourself so that i shall not interfere with your plans. i tell you it is useless, for i shall warn him--cost me what it may." she watched the other closely. she watched for the effect of her words--every one of which was spoken from the bottom of her heart. the effect was what she anticipated. she knew this woman's expressed intention was deliberate, and would be carried out. one hand moved toward her lean bosom, and joan knew, without doubt, what she had to face. turning her back deliberately she moved across to the window, which was wide open in a vain attempt to cool the superheated room, and took up her place near the table, so that she was in full view of her aunt's insane eyes. then she went on at once-- "you call it justice that you would mete out to the padre. i tell you it is a ruthless, cold-hearted revenge, which amounts to deliberate murder. it is murder because you know he cannot prove his innocence. that, perhaps, is your affair. but buck's life is mine. and in threatening the padre you threaten him, because he will defend his friend to the last. perhaps by this, in your insane vanity, you hope to justify yourself as a seer and prophetess, instead of being forced to the admission that you are nothing but a mountebank, an unscrupulous mountebank--and even worse. but i will humor you. i will show you how your own words are coming back on you. i had almost forgotten them, so lost was i in my foolish belief in your powers. you told me there was salvation for me in a love that was stronger than death. well, i have found that love. and if, as you claim, there is truth in your science, then i challenge you, the disaster and death you would now bring about cannot--will not take place. you are only a woman of earthly powers, a heartless creature, half demented by your venomous hatred of a good man. your ends can, and will be defeated." she paused, breathing hard with the emotion which the effort of her denunciation had inspired, and in that pause she beheld a vision of devilish hatred and purpose such as she could never have believed possible in her aunt. "you would rebel! you challenge me!" cried mercy, springing from her chair with a movement almost unbelievable in so ailing a creature. "you are mad--utterly mad. it is not i who am insane, but you--you. you call me a mountebank. what has your life been? has not everything i have told you been part of it? even here--here. did i not tell you you could not escape your curse? have you escaped it? and you think you can escape it now." she laughed suddenly, a hideous laugh which set joan shuddering. "the love you have found must prove itself. you say it is the love that will save you. i tell you it is not. nothing can save this man now. nothing can save your buck if he interferes now. nothing can save you, if you interfere now. i tell you i have taken every care that there is no loophole of escape. no earthly power can serve you." "no earthly power?" joan echoed the words unconsciously, while she stood fascinated by that terrible face so working with malignant hatred. but only for a moment it held her. her love was stronger that all her woman's fears. her buck was in danger, and that other. the warning. she must get that warning to them. suddenly she leant forward upon the table as though to emphasize what she had to say. "whatever happens to-night, aunt," she cried, her big eyes glowing in a growing excitement, her red-gold hair shining like burnished copper in the light from the lamp which was so near to it, "i hope god may forgive you this terrible wicked spirit which is driving you. some day i may find it in my heart to forgive you. that which i have to do you are driving me to, and i pray god i may succeed." as the last word left her lips she seized the lamp from the table, and, with all her strength, hurled it through the open window. as it sped it extinguished itself and crashed to the ground outside, leaving the room in utter darkness. at the same instant she sprang to the sill of the open window, and flung herself from the room. as she, too, fell to the ground a shot rang out behind her, and she felt the bullet tear through her masses of coiled hair. but her excitement was at fever heat. she waited for nothing. her lover's life was claiming every nerve in her body. his life, and that other's. she scrambled to her feet and dodged clear of the window, just as a chorus of harsh execration reached her ears. she looked toward the barns and hay corrals whence the sound came, and, on the instant, a hideous terror seized upon her. the barn was afire! the hay had just been fired! and, in the inky blackness of the night, the ruddy glow leapt suddenly and lit up the figures of a crowd of men, now shouting and blaspheming at the result of the shot from the house. for one moment joan stood still, trembling in every limb, heedless of the vengeful creature behind her. she was overwhelmed by the now utter and complete hopelessness of her case. her horses were in the barn which had been fired. and they were her only means of reaching her lover. then in a moment, as she beheld the shouting crowd coming toward the house, voicing their intent to burn that, along with its occupants, her mind went back to those still within. the wretched woman, whose death by burning might save the padre, and her rough but faithful housekeeper. regardless of all consequences to herself, now regardless even of the lives of those two men she had hoped to save, she ran back to the house. flight alone could save the women inside from this drunken crowd. flight--and at once. for, resentful at the shot which had felled one of their comrades, the lawless minds of these creatures saw but one course to pursue. well enough joan knew their doctrine of a life for a life. she must go back. she must save those two from this ravening horde. chapter xxxiii the tempest breaks buck moved out of cæsar's stall. he had just finished lightly securing the double cinchas of his saddle. the bulging saddle-bags had been made fast behind the cantle and the wallets strapped upon the horn. now the great animal was hungrily devouring an added feed of oats which his master had poured into its manger. the man glanced over the equipments, and moved to the other end of the stable, where stood the padre's heavily built chestnut. it, too, was ready saddled as though for a journey. here again the saddle-bags and wallets had been filled and adjusted. here again the creature was devouring an extra feed. buck heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away to where the lantern was hanging on a nail in the wooden wall. close beside this a belt, loaded down with revolver ammunition, and carrying two holsters from which the butts of a pair of heavy revolvers protruded, was suspended from another nail. this he took down and strapped about his waist. his work for the night was done, and all his preparations made. the night itself must direct the further course of action for him. as far as he could see he had prepared for every possible development, but, as he admitted to himself, he could only see from his own point of view. he was at work against two opposing forces. there was the law and bob richards on the one hand, and, on the other, the padre, with a determination equal to his own. of the two, he felt that the redoubtable bob, backed by the law, would be far the easier to deal with. this night, he anticipated, was to be the last he spent in that old fort. he more than anticipated it; he felt certain. he had heard early in the day of the return of joan's aunt mercy, and this was an all-sufficient reason for his belief. since that moment he had completed every preparation which before he had only tentatively considered; and such matters had been attended to entirely independent of his friend. this had to be. it was useless to inform him of anything, worse than useless, until the last moment, when he intended that his schemes should be executed to the last detail. after much painful thought he had finally decided upon coercion to gain his ends. no mere bluff, but a straightforward, honest declaration of his intentions. it was very hurtful that he must do this thing. but he could not help it. he had resolved on saving his friend from himself, and no considerations of personal feelings or, in fact, anybody's feelings, should be allowed to stand in his way. he regarded his duty as a man, and not as a law-abiding citizen. he had no real understanding of the law. his was the only law that guided him, and his law demanded of him, rightly or wrongly, the defense from all harm of those whom he loved. his manhood dictated this, and he had no thought of personal danger, or toward what painful destiny it might carry him. the future belonged to the future, life and death were things of no more account than waking to daylight, or the profound slumbers of night. those who would injure him or his friend must be dealt with in the only way he understood. to outwit them was his first thought, but he must defeat their ends if it cost him his life. this was the man who had learned from the book of life, as it is written in the earth's rough places. he was not naturally desperate, but, as with the creatures of the forests, which had taught him so many lessons, when brought to bay in defense of their own, so he was ready to bare his teeth--and use them. he reached for the lantern with the thought of extinguishing it. but he changed his mind. there was no window that the light might become a beacon. he would close the door and leave it burning. he turned to pass out, but remained where he was. the padre was standing in the doorway, and his steady eyes were upon the saddled horses. buck had no word of greeting to offer. his dark eyes were intently fixed upon the other's face. in a moment his friend turned to him. "it's just on nine, buck," he said, in his kindest fashion. "we haven't eaten yet--it's ready." it was buck's turn to glance over at the horses so busily eating their oats. a curious smile lit his eyes. he knew well enough that the other had more than fathomed the meaning of those preparations. he was glad he had made no attempt to conceal them. that sort of thing was never his way. he had nothing to conceal from his friend. "i had a few chores to git fixed," he said easily, indicating the horses. "they'll sure need a good feed before daylight, i guess." the padre pointed at his belt and revolvers. "and you're sleeping in--them." "guess i'm not sleepin'--to-night." "no--i suppose not." the padre looked into the strong young face with a speculative glance. buck returned his look with a sudden eagerness. "you heard?" he asked sharply. "i've heard--mercy is back." buck watched him turn away to continue his survey of the horses. "so have you--i s'pose," the older man went on a moment later, indicating the horses. "yep. guess they'll need to do a long journey soon. mebbe--to-night." "cæsar?" said the padre. "both," returned buck, with an emphasis, the meaning of which could not well be missed. the padre's eyes were smiling. he glanced round the tumbled-down old barn. they had contrived to house their horses very comfortably, and buck kept them wonderfully cared for. these things appealed to him in a way that made him regret many things. "who's riding--my plug?" the padre asked deliberately. buck shrugged. "why ask?" he said doggedly. "who generally does? i don't seem to guess we need beat around," he went on impatiently. "that ain't bin our way, padre. guess those hosses are ready for us. they'll be ready night an' day--till the time comes. then--wal, we're both goin' to use 'em." the younger man's impatience had no disturbing effect upon the other. but his smile deepened to a great look of affection. "still chewin' that bone?" he said. then he shook his head. "what's the use? we're just men, you and i; we got our own way of seeing things. twenty years ago maybe i'd have seen things your way. twenty years hence no doubt you'll see things mine----" "jest so," buck broke in, his eyes lighting, and a strong note suddenly adding force to his interruption. "but i'm not waitin' twenty years so's to see things diff'rent." "that's what i should have said--twenty years ago." buck's face suddenly flushed, and his dark brows drew together as he listened to the calm words of his friend. in a moment his answer was pouring from his lips in a hot tide which swept his hearer along and made him rejoice at the bond which existed between them. nor, in those moments, could he help feeling glad for that day when he had found the hungry wayfarer at the trail-side. "ther's more than twenty years between us, sure," buck cried with intense feeling. "nuthin' can alter that, an' ther's sure nuthin' can make us see out o' the same eyes, nor feel with the same feelin's. ther's nuthin' can make things seem the same to us. i know that, an' it ain't no use you tellin' me. guess we're made diff'rent that way--an' i allow it's as well. if we weren't, wal, i guess neither of us would have things right. see here, padre, you give most everything to me you could, ever since you brought me along to the farm. that's because it's your way to give. i hadn't nuthin' to give. i haven't nuthin' to give now. i can't even give way. guess you can, though, because it's your nature, and because i'm askin' it. padre, i'm goin' to act mean. i'm goin' to act so mean it'll hurt you. but it won't hurt you more than it'll hurt me. mebbe it won't jest hurt you so much. but i'm goin' to act that way--because it's my way--when i'm set up agin it. you're settin' me up agin it now." he paused, vainly watching the other's steady eyes for a sign. "go on." the padre's smile was undiminished. buck made an impatient movement, and pointed at the horses. "see them? ther' they stand," he cried. "ther' they'll sure stand till we both set out for the long trail. i got it all fixed. i got more than that fixed. see these guns?" he tapped one of the guns at his waist. "they're loaded plumb up. the belt's full of shots. i got two repeatin' rifles stowed away, an' their magazines are loaded plumb up, too. wal--unless you say right here you're goin' to hit the trail with me, when--things get busy; unless you tell me right out you're goin' to let me square off jest a bit of the score you got chalked up agin me all these years by lettin' me help you out in this racket, then i'm goin' to set right out ther' by the old stockade, and when bob richards gets around, he an' as many of his dogone dep'ties as i can pull down are goin' to get their med'cine. they'll need to take me with you, padre. guess i'm sharin' that 'chair' with you, if they don't hand it me before i get ther'. what i'm sayin' goes, every word of it. this thing goes, jest as sure as i'll blow bob richards to hell before he lays hand on you." the younger man's eyes shone with a passionate determination. there was no mistaking it. his was a fanatical loyalty that was almost staggering. the padre drew a sharp breath. he had not studied this youngster for all those years without understanding something of the recklessness he was capable of. buck's lips were tightly compressed, his thin nostrils dilating with the intense feeling stirring him. his cheeks were pale, and his dark eyes flashed their burning light in the dim glow of the lantern. he stood with hands gripping, and the muscles of his bare arms writhed beneath the skin with the force with which they clenched. he was strung to an emotion such as the padre had never before seen in him, and it left the older man wavering. he glanced away. "aren't we worrying this thing on the crossways?" he said, endeavoring to disguise his real feelings. but buck would have none of it. he was in no mood for evasion. in no mood for anything but the straightest of straight talk. "ther's no crosswise to me," he cried bluntly, with a heat that might almost have been taken for anger. then, in a moment, his manner changed. his tone softened, and the drawn brows smoothed. "say, you bin better'n a father to me. you sure have. can i stand around an' see you passed over to a low-down sort o' law that condemns innocent folks? no, padre, not--not even for joan's sake. i jest love that little joan, padre. i love her so desprit bad i'd do most anything for her sake. you reckon this thing needs doin' for her." he shook his head. "it don't. an' if it did, an' she jest wanted it done--which she don't--i'd butt in to stop it. say, i love her that way i want to fix her the happiest gal in this country--in the world. but if seein' you go to the law without raisin' a hand to stop it was to make her happy, guess her chances that way 'ud be so small you couldn't never find 'em. if my life figures in her happiness, an' i'm savin' that life while you take your chance of penitentiary an'--the 'chair,' wal, i guess she'll go miserable fer jest as many years as she goes on livin'." the padre turned away. it was impossible for him to longer face those earnest young eyes pleading to be allowed to give their life for his liberty. the reckless prodigality of the youngster's heart filled him with an emotion that would not be denied. he moved over to where cæsar stood, and smoothed the great creature's silky quarters with a shaking hand. buck's storming he could have withstood, but not--this. the other followed his every movement, as a beggar watches for the glance of sympathy. and as the moments passed, and the padre remained silent, his voice, keyed sharply, further urged him. "wal?" but the other was thinking, thinking rapidly of all those things which his conscience, and long years of weary hiding prompted. he was trying to adapt his focus anew. his duty had seemed so plain to him. then, too, his inclination had been at work. his intention had not seemed a great sacrifice to him. he was weary of it all--these years of avoiding his fellows. these years during which his mind had been thrown back upon the thought of whither all his youthful, headlong follies and--cowardice had driven him. strong man as he was, something of his strength had been undermined by the weary draining of those years. he no longer had that desire to escape, which, in youth, had urged him. he was almost anxious to face his accusers. and with that thought he knew that he was getting old. yes, he was getting old--and buck--buck was almost his son. he could not see the boy's young life thrown away for him, a life so full of promise, so full of quiet happiness. he knew that that would happen if he persisted. he knew that every word of buck's promise would be carried out to the letter. that was his way. there was no alternative left now but for him to give way. so he turned back and held out his hand. "what you say--goes," he said huskily. "i--i hope what we're doing is right." buck caught the strong hand in his, and the other winced under his grip. "right?" he cried, his eyes shining with a great happiness. "right? you'll save that old woman the worst crime on earth. you're savin' the law from a crime which it's no right to commit. you're handin' little joan a happiness you can't even guess at in keepin' your liberty--an' me, wal, you're handin' me back my life. say, i ain't goin' to thank you, padre. i don't guess i know how. that ain't our way." he laughed happily. "guess the score you got agin me is still mountin' right up. i don't never seem to git it squared. wal, we'll let it go. maybe it's almost a pity bob richards won't never have the chance of thanking you for--savin' his life, too." the delight in his manner, his shining joy were almost sufficient recompense to the padre. he had given way to this youngster as he always gave way. it had been so from the first. yes, it was always so, and--he was glad. buck turned toward the door, and, as he did so, his arm affectionately linked into that of his friend. "we'll need that supper, padre," he said, more soberly. "there's a long night, and it ain't easy to guess what may happen before daylight. come right along." they passed the doorway, but proceeded no farther. buck held up his hand, and they stood listening. "wait! hark!" he cried, and both turned their eyes toward the westward hills. as they stood, a low, faint growl of thunder murmured down the distant hillsides, and died away in the long-drawn sigh of a rising wind. the wind swept on, and the rustling trees and suddenly creaking branches of the forest answered that sharp, keen breath. "it's coming--from the northwest," said the padre, as though the direction were significant. "yes." buck nodded with understanding. "that's wher' the other come from." they stood for some moments waiting for a further sign. but nothing came. the night was pitch black. there was no break anywhere in the sky. the lamplight in the house stared out sharp and clear, but the house itself, as with the barns and other outbuildings, the stockade, even the line of the tree tops where they met the sky, was quite lost in the inky night. "it'll come quick," said the padre. "sure." they moved on to the house, and in a few minutes were sitting down to one of those silent meals which was so much a part of their habit. yet each man was alert. each man was thinking of those things which they knew to be threatening. each man was ready for what might be forthcoming. be it tempest or disaster, be it battle or death, each was ready to play his part, each was ready to accept the verdict as it might be given. buck was the first to push back from the table. he rose from his seat and lit his pipe. then, as the pungent fumes lolled heavily on the superheated air, he passed over to the open window and took his seat upon the sill. the padre was more leisurely. he remained in his seat and raked out the bowl of his pipe with the care of a keen smoker. then he cut his tobacco carefully from his plug, and rolled it thoughtfully in the palms of his hands. "say, about little joan," he said abruptly. "will she join us on----?" his question remained unfinished. at that instant buck sprang from his seat and leant out of the window. the padre was at his side in an instant. "what----?" "holy mackinaw! look!" cried buck, in an awed tone. he was pointing with one arm outstretched in a direction where the ruined stockade had fallen, leaving a great gaping space. the opening was sharply silhouetted against a wide glow of red and yellow light, which, as they watched, seemed to grow brighter with each passing moment. each man was striving to grasp the full significance of what he beheld. it was fire. it needed no second thought to convince them of that. but where--what? it was away across the valley, beyond the further lip which rose in a long, low slope. it was to the left of devil's hill, but very little. for that, too, was dimly silhouetted, even at that distance. the padre was the first to speak. "it's big. but it's not the camp," he said. "maybe it's the--forest." for a moment buck made no answer. but a growing look of alarm was in his straining eyes. "it's not a prairie fire," the padre went on. "there's not enough grass that way. say, d'you think----" a sudden fear had leapt into his eyes, too, and his question remained unfinished. buck stirred. he took a deep breach. the alarm in his eyes had suddenly possessed his whole being. something seemed to be clutching his heart, so that he was almost stifled. "it's none o' them things," he said, striving to keep his voice steady. then of a sudden he reached out, and clutched the arm of his friend, so that his powerful fingers sank deep into its flesh. "it's the--farm!" he cried, in a tone that rang with a terrible dread. "come on! the hosses!" and he dashed from the room before the last sound of his voice had died out. the padre was hard on his heels. with danger abroad he was no laggard. joan--poor little joan! and there were miles to be covered before her lover could reach her. but the dark shadows of disaster were crowding fast. evil was abroad searching every corner of the mountain world for its prey. almost in a moment the whole scene was changed, and the dull inertia of past days was swept aside amidst a hurricane of storm and demoniacal tempest. a crash of appalling thunder greeted the ears of the speeding men. the earth seemed to shake to its very foundations. ear-splitting detonations echoed from crag to crag, and down deep into the valleys and canyons, setting the world alive with a sudden chaos. peal after peal roared over the hills, and the lightning played, hissing and shrieking upon ironstone crowns, like a blinding display of pyrotechnics. there was no pause in the sudden storm. there was no mercy for wretched human nerves. the blinding light was one endless chain, sweeping across the heavens as though bent on forever wresting from its path the black shadows that defied it. and amidst all this turmoil, amidst all the devastating roar, which shook the earth as though bent on wrecking the very mountains themselves, amidst all the blinding, hellish light, so fierce, so intense, that the last secrets of the remotest forest depths must be yielded up, two horsemen dashed down the trail from the fur fort as fast as sharp spurs could drive their eager beasts. chapter xxxiv the eyes of the hills the thunder roared without intermission. it rose and fell, that was all. from a truculent piano it leapt to a titanic crescendo only to find relief again in a fierce growling dissatisfaction. it seemed less of an elemental war than a physical attack upon a shuddering earth. the electric fires rifting the darkness of this out-world night were beyond compare in their terror. the radiance of sunlight might well have been less than the blaze of a rush candle before the staggering brilliancy. it was wild, wild and fearsome. it was vicious and utterly terrifying. below the quaking earth was in little better case. only was the scene here in closer touch with human understanding. here the terror was of earth, here disaster was of human making. here the rack of heart was in destruction by wanton fire. shrieking, hissing, crackling, only insignificant by comparison with the war of the greater elements, flames licked up and devoured with ravening appetites the tinder-like structures of joan's farm. the girl was standing in the open. a confined enough open space almost completely surrounded by fire. before her were the blazing farm buildings, behind her was the raging furnace that once had been her home. and on one side of her the flames commingled so as to be impassable. her head was bowed and her eyes were closed, her hands were pressed tight over her ears in a vain attempt to shut out cognizance of the terror that reigned about and above her. she stood thus despairing. she was afraid, terribly afraid. beside her was her aunt, that strange creature whose brain had always risen superior to the sufferings of the human body. now she was crushed to earth in mute submission to the powers which overwhelmed her. she lay huddled upon the ground utterly lost to all consciousness. terror had mercifully saved her from a contemplation of those things which had inspired it. these two were alone. the other woman had gone, fled at the first coming of that dreaded fiend--fire. and those others, those wretched, besotted creatures whose mischief had brought about this wanton destruction, they too had fled. but their flight was in answer to the wrathful voice of the heavens which they feared and dreaded above all things in the wild world to which they belonged. alone, helpless, almost nerveless, joan waited that end which she felt could not long be delayed. she did not know, she could not understand. on every hand was a threat so terrible that in her weakness she believed that life could not long last. the din in the heavens, the torturing heat so fierce and painful. the glare of light which penetrated even her closed eyelids, the choking gasps of smoke-laden, scorching air with which she struggled. death itself must come, nor could it be far from her now. the wind rushed madly down from the hilltops. it swept over forest and plain, it howled through canyon and crevasse in its eager haste to reach the centre of the battle of elements. it pounced upon the blinding smoke-cloud and swept it from its path and plunged to the heart of the conflagration with a shriek and roar of cruel delight. one breath, like the breath of a tornado, and its boisterous lungs had sent its mischief broadcast in the flash of an eye. with a howl of delight it tore out the blazing roof of the house, and, lifting it bodily, hurled it like a molten meteor against the dark walls of the adjacent pine forest. joan saw nothing of this, she understood nothing. she was blind and deaf to every added terror. all she felt, all she understood was storm, storm, always storm. her poor weary brain was reeling, her heart was faint with terror. she was alive, she was conscious, but she might well have been neither in the paralysis that held her. it meant no more that that avalanche of fire, hurled amidst the resinous woods, had suddenly brought into existence the greatest earthly terror that could visit the mountain world; it meant no more to her that an added roar of wind could create a greater peril; it meant no more to her that, in a moment, the whole world about her would be in a blaze so that the burning sacrifice should be complete. nothing could possibly mean more to her, for she was at the limit of human endurance. but other eyes, other brains were alive to all these things, eyes and minds trained by a knowledge which only that mountain world could teach. to them the significance was all absorbing. to them this new terror was a thousandfold more appalling than all other storm and tempest. with the forest afire there was safety for neither human nor beast. with that forest afire flight was well-nigh impossible. with that forest afire to save any living creature would be well-nigh a miracle, and miracles had no place in their thoughts. yet those eyes, so watchful, remained unchanged. those straining brains only strained the harder. those eager hearts knew no flinching from their purpose, and if they quailed it was merely at the natural dread for those whom they were seeking to succor. even in face of the added peril their purpose remained. the heavens might roar their thunders, the lightnings might blind their staring eyes, the howling gale might strew their path with every obstruction, nothing could change them, nothing could stop them but death itself. so with horses a-lather they swept along. their blood-stained spurs told their tale of invincible determination. these two men no longer sat in their saddles, they were leaning far out of them over their racing horses' necks, urging them and easing them by every trick in a horseman's understanding. they were making a trail which soon they knew would be a path of fire. they knew that with every stride of the stalwart creatures under them they were possibly cutting off the last hope of a retreat to safety. they knew, none better, that once amidst that furnace which lay directly ahead it was something worse than an even chance of life. buck wiped the dripping sweat out of his eyes that he might get a clearer view. the blaze of lightning was of no use to him. it only helped to make obscure that which the earthly fires were struggling to reveal. the padre's horse was abreast of his saddle. the sturdy brute was leaving cæsar to make the pace while she doggedly pursued. "we'll make it yet!" shouted buck, over his shoulder, amidst the roar of thunder. the padre made no attempt at response. he deemed it useless. buck slashed cæsar's flanks with ruthless force. the blazing farm was just ahead, as was also the roaring fire of the forest. it was the latter on which both men were concentrating their attention. for the moment its path lay eastward, away to the right of the trail. but this they knew was merely the howling force of the wind. with a shift of direction by half a point and the gale would drive it straight down the trail they were on. the trail bent away to the left. and as they swung past the turn buck again shouted. "now for it!" he dashed his spurs again at the flanks of his horse, and the great beast stretched out for a final burst across the bridge over the narrow creek. chapter xxxv from out of the abyss joan swayed where she stood. she stumbled and fell; and the fall went on, and on, and on. it seemed to her that she was rushing down through endless space toward terrors beyond all believing. it seemed to her that a terrific wind was beating on her, and driving her downward toward a fiercely storm-swept ocean, whose black, hideous waves were ever reaching up to engulf her. she cried out. she knew she cried out, and she knew she cried out in vain. some one, it seemed to her, was far, far up above her, watching, seeking to aid her, but powerless to respond to her heart-broken cries. still she called, and she knew she must go on calling, till the dark seas below drowned the voice in her throat. now shadows arose about her, mocking, cruel shadows. they were definite figures, but she could not give them definite form in her mind. she reached out toward them, clutching vainly at fluttering shapes, but ever missing them in her headlong career. she sped on, buffeted and hurtling, and torn; on, on, making that hideous journey through space. her despairing thoughts flashed at lightning speed through her whirling brain. faster they came, faster and faster, till she had no time to recognize, no power to hold them. she could see them, yes, she could literally see them sweep by, vanishing like shadows in that black space of terror. then came a sudden accession of sharp stabbing pain. it seemed to tick through her body as might a clock, and each stab came as with the sway of the pendulum, and with a regularity that was exquisite torture. the stabs of pain came quicker, the pendulum was working faster. faster and faster it swung, and so the torture was ever increasing. now the pain was in her head, her eyes, her ears, her brain. the agony was excruciating. her head was bursting. she cried louder and louder, and, with every cry, the pain increased until she felt she was going mad. then suddenly the pendulum stopped swinging and her cries and her agony ceased, and all was still, silent and dark. it might have been a moment, or it might have been ages. suddenly this wonderful peace was disturbed. it was as though she had just awakened from a deep refreshing sleep in some strange, unfamiliar world. the darkness remained, but it was the darkness of peace. the beating wind had gone, and she only heard it sighing afar off. she was calling again, but no longer in despair. she was calling to that some one far above her with the certain knowledge that she would be answered. the darkness was passing, too. yes, and she was no longer falling, but soaring up, up, winging her way above, without effort, without pain. the savage waves were receding, their voices had died to a low murmur, like the voice of a still, summer sea on a low foreshore. now, too, between every cry she waited for that answer which she knew must be forthcoming. it was some man's voice she was awaiting, some man, whose name ever eluded her searching brain. she strained to hear till the pulses of her ear-drums throbbed, for she knew when she heard the voice she would recognize the speaker. hark, there it was, far, far away. yes, she could hear it, but how far she must have fallen. there it was again. it was louder, and--nearer. again and again it came. it was quite plain. it was a voice that set her brain and heart afire with longing. it was a voice she loved more than all the world. hark! what was that it said? yes, there it was again. "pore little gal, pore little joan." now she knew, and a flood of thankfulness welled up in her heart. a great love thrilled through her veins, and tears flooded her eyes, tears of thankfulness and joy. tears for herself, for him, for all the world. it was buck's voice full of pity and a tender love. in a moment she was awake. she knew she was awake to a sort of dazed consciousness, because instantly her brain was flooded with all the horror of memory. memory of the storm, the fire, of the devastation of her home. for long minutes she had no understanding of anything else. she was consumed by the tortures of that memory. yes, it was still storming, she could hear the howling of the wind, the roar of thunder, and the hiss and crackling of fire. where was she? ah, she knew. she was outside, with the fire before and behind her. and her aunt was at her side. she reached out a hand to reassure herself, and touched something soft and warm. but what was that? surely it was buck's voice again? "thank god, little gal, i tho't you was sure dead." in desperate haste she struggled to rise to her feet, but everything seemed to rock and sway under her. and then, as buck spoke again, she abandoned her efforts. "quiet, little gal, lie you still, or i can't hold you. you're dead safe fer the moment. i've got you. we're tryin' to git out o' this hell, cæsar an' me. an' cæsar's sure doin' his best. don't you worrit. the padre's behind, an' he's got your auntie safe." joan's mind had suddenly become quite clear. there was no longer any doubt in it. now she understood where she was. buck had come to save her. she was in his arms, on cæsar's back--and she knew she would be saved. with an effort she opened her eyes and found herself looking into the dark face of the man she loved, and a great sigh of contentment escaped her. she closed them again, but it was only to open them almost immediately. again she remembered, and looked about her. everywhere was the lurid glow of fire, and she became aware of intense heat. above her head was the roar of tempest, and the vivid, hellish light of the storm. buck had called it "hell." "the whole world seems to be afire," she said suddenly. buck looked down into her pale face. "well nigh," he said. then he added, "yes, it's afire, sure. it's afire that bad the almighty alone guesses if we'll git out." but his doubt inspired no apprehension. somehow joan's confidence was the effect of his strong supporting arm. she stirred again in his arms. but it was very gently. "buck," she said, "let me sit up. it will ease you--and help poor cæsar. i'm--i'm not afraid now." buck gave a deep-throated laugh. he felt he wanted to laugh, now he was sure that joan was alive. "you don't need. say, you don't weigh nuthin'. an' cæsar, why, cæsar's mighty proud i'm lettin' him carry you." but the girl had her way, and, in a moment, was sitting up with one arm about the man's broad shoulders. it brought her face near to his, and buck bent his head toward her, and kissed the wonderful ripe lips so temptingly adjacent. for a moment joan abandoned herself to the joy of that kiss. then the rhythmic sway of cæsar's body under her reminded her that there were other things. she wanted to ask buck how they had known and come to her help. she wanted to ask a dozen woman's questions. but she refrained. buck had spoken of "hell," and she gazed about her seeking the reason of his doubt. in a few minutes she was aware of it all. in a few minutes she realized that he had well named the country through which they were riding. in a few minutes she knew that it was a race for life, and that their hope was in the great heart of cæsar. far as the eye could see in that ruddy light, tortured and distorted by the flashes of storm above, was an ocean of fire spread out. the crowning billows of smoke, like titanic foam-crests, rolled away upward and onward before them. they, too, were ruddy-tinted by the reflection from below. they crowded in every direction. they swept along abreast of them, they rose up behind them, and the distance was lost in their choking midst. the scorching air was laden to suffocation by the odors of burning resin. she knew they were on a trail, a narrow, confined trail, which was lined by unburnt woods. and the marvel of it filled her. "these woods are untouched," she said. again buck laughed. it was a grim laugh which had no mirth, but yet was it dashed by a wonderful recklessness. "so far," he said. then he added, with a quick look up at the belching smoke, "if they weren't i don't guess we'd be here now. say, it's god's mercy sure this trail heads from the farm southeast. further on it swings away at a fork. one trail goes due east, an' the other sou'west. one of 'em's sure cut by the fire. an' the other--wal, it's a gamble with luck." "it's the only way out?" the girl's eyes were wide with her question and the knowledge of the meaning of a reply in the affirmative. "that's so." "we're like--rats in a trap." a sharp oath escaped the man's lips. "we ain't beat yet," he cried fiercely. the reply was the heart of the man speaking. joan understood it. and from it she understood more. she understood the actual peril in the midst of which they were. there was nothing more to be said. buck's whole attention was upon the billows of smoke and the lurid reflections thereon. the thunders above them, the blinding lightnings, left him undisturbed. the wind, the smoke and the fire were his only concern now. already, ahead, he could see in the vague light where the trail gave to the left. beyond that was the fork. joan gave no thought to these things. she had no right understanding of how best they could be served. she was studying the face of the man, the dark, brave face that was now her whole world. she was aware of the horseman behind, with his burden, she was aware of the horrors surrounding them, but the face of the man held her, held her without a qualm of fear--now. if death lay before them she was in his arms. buck's thoughts were far enough from death. he had snatched the woman he loved from its very jaws, and he had no idea of yielding. there was no comfort for him in the thought of their dying together. living, yes. life was more sweet to him just then than ever it had been before. and he meant that they two should live on, and on. they passed the bend and the forking trail loomed up amidst the shadows. the crisis had come. and as they reached the vital spot buck took hold of the horse and reined him up. in a moment the padre was at his side with his inanimate burden. joan stared at the still form of her relative while the men talked. "it's got us beat to the eastward," said buck, without a moment's hesitation. "yes. the fire's right across the trail. it's impassable." the padre's eyes were troubled. the eastward trail led to the open plains. "we must make the other," buck said sharply, gathering up his reins. "yes. that means----" "devil's hill, if the fire ain't ahead of us." "and if it is?" curiously enough the padre, even, seemed to seek guidance from buck. "it sure will be if we waste time--talkin'." cæsar leapt at his bit in response to the sharp stroke of the spur. now buck had no thought for anything but the swift traveling fire on his left. it was the pace of his horse against the pace at which the gale was driving this furnace. it was the great heart of his horse against endurance. would it stand the test with its double burden? if they could reach that bald, black hill, there was safety and rest. if not--but they must reach it. they must reach it if it was the last service he ever claimed from his faithful servant. for once in his life the mystery of the hill afforded buck hope and comfort. for once it was a goal to be yearned for, and he could think of no greater delight than to rest upon its black summit far from the reach of the hungry flames, that now, like an invading army, were seeking by every means to envelop him. could they make it? a hundred thoughts and sensations were passing through the man's body and mind. he was sub-consciously estimating cæsar's power by the gait at which he was traveling. he was guessing at the rate of the racing fire. he was calculating the direction of the wind to an absurd fraction. he was observing without interest the racing of a strangely assorted commingling of forest creatures down the trail, seeking safety in flight from the speeding fire. he cared nothing for them. he had no feelings of pity for anything or any one but joan. every hope in his heart, every atom of power in his body, every thought was for her well-being and ultimate safety. oh, for the rain; oh, for such a rain as he had seen that time before. but the storming heavens were dry-eyed and merciless. that freakish phenomenon of a raging thunder-storm without the usual deluge of rain was abroad with all its deadly danger. it was extraordinary. it was so extraordinary that buck was utterly at a loss. why, why? and his impatient questioning remained without answer. there had been every indication of rain and yet none had come----what was that? cæsar suddenly seemed to sway drunkenly. he shook his head in the manner of a horse irritated, and alarm set his ears flat back in his head, and he stretched his neck, and, of his own accord, increased his pace. buck saw nothing to cause this sudden disturbance other than that which had been with them all the time, and yet his horse's alarm was very evident. a moment later occurred something still more unusual. cæsar stumbled. he did not fall. it was a mere false step, and, as he recovered, buck felt the poor beast trembling under him. was it the end of his endurance? no. the horse was traveling even faster than before, and he found it necessary to check the faithful creature, an attention that quickly aroused its opposition. buck's puzzled eyes lifted from his horse to the rapidly nearing fire. it must be that cæsar must have realized its proximity, and, in his effort to outstrip it, had brought about his own floundering. so he no longer checked the willing creature, and the race went on at the very limit of the horse's pace. then, in a moment, again came that absurd reeling and uncertainty. and buck's added puzzlement found expression in words, while his eyes watched closely for some definite cause. "ther's suthin' amiss with cæsar," he said, with an unconcern of manner which his words belied. "what do you mean?" joan's eyes lifted to his in sudden alarm. then she added, "i seemed to notice something." "seems like he's--drunk." buck laughed. "perhaps--the earth's shaking. i shouldn't wonder, with this--this storm." "shaking?" buck echoed her word, but his mind had suddenly seized upon it with a different thought from hers. if the earth were shaking, it would not be with the storm above. his eyes peered ahead. devil's hill lay less than a mile away, and that was where he reckoned the fire would strike the trail. devil's hill. a sudden uncomfortable repulsion at the thought of its barren dome took hold of him. for some subtle reason it no longer became the haven to be yearned for that it had been. rather was it a resting-place to be sought only in extremity--if the earth were shaking. his attention now became divided between the fire and cæsar. the horse was evidently laboring. he was moving without his accustomed freedom of gait, and yet he did not seem to be tiring. half the distance to the foot of the hill had been covered. the fire was nearing rapidly, so near indeed was it that the air was alive with a perfect hail of glowing sparks, swept ahead of it by the terrific wind. the scorching air was becoming unendurable, and the mental strain made the trail seem endless, and their efforts almost hopeless. buck looked down at the girl's patient face. "it's hot--hot as hell," he said with another meaningless laugh. the girl read through his words and the laugh--read through them to the thought behind them, and promptly protested. "don't worry for me. i can stand--anything now." the added squeeze of her arm upon his shoulders set buck's teeth gritting. suddenly he reined cæsar in. "i must know 'bout that--shakin'," he said. for a second the horse stood with heaving body. it was only a moment, but in that moment he spread out his feet as though to save himself from falling. then in answer to the spur he sped on. "it's the earth, sure," cried buck. and had there been another escape he would have turned from the barren hill now rising amidst the banking smoke-clouds ahead of him. "earthquake!" said the girl. "yes." nothing more was said. the air scorched their flesh, and joan was fearful lest the falling sparks should fire her clothing. with every passing moment cæsar was nearing their forbidding goal. the fire was so adjacent that the roar and crackle of it shrieked in their ears, and through the trees shone the hideous gleam of flame. it was neck and neck, and their hope lay beneath them. buck raked the creature's flanks again with his spurs, and the gallant beast responded. on, on they sped at a gait that buck knew well could not last for long. but with every stride the hill was coming nearer, and it almost seemed as if cæsar understood their necessity, and his own. once joan looked back. that sturdy horse of the padre was doggedly pursuing. step for step he hugged his stable companion's trail, but he was far, far behind. "the padre," cried joan. "they are a long way back." "god help him!" cried buck, through clenched teeth. "i can't. to wait fer him sure means riskin' you." "but----" joan broke off and turned her face up to the canopy of smoke driving across them. "rain!" she cried, with a wild thrill of hope. "rain--and in a deluge." in a moment the very heavens seemed to be emptying their reservoirs. it came, not in drops, but in streams that smote the earth, the fire, themselves with an almost crushing force. in less than half a minute they were drenched to the skin, and the water was pouring in streams from their extremities. "we've won out," cried buck, with a great laugh. "thank god," cried joan, as she turned her scorched face up to receive the grateful water. buck eased the laboring cæsar. "that fire won't travel now, an'--ther's the hill," the man nodded. they had steadied to a rapid gallop. the hill, as buck indicated, was just ahead. joan's anxious eyes looked for the beginning of the slope. yes, it was there. less than two hundred yards ahead. the air filled with steam as the angry fire strove to battle with its arch-enemy. but the rain was as merciless in its onslaught as had been the storm, and the fire itself. the latter had been given full scope to work its mischief, and now it was being called to its account. heavier and heavier the deluge fell, and the miracle of its irresistible power was in the rapid fading of the ruddy glow in the smoke-laden atmosphere. the fire was beaten from the outset and its retreat before the opposing element was like a panic flight. in five minutes cæsar was clawing his way up over the boulder-strewn slopes of the hill, and joan knew that, for the time at least, they were safe. she knew, too, if the rain held for a couple of hours, the blazing woods would be left a cold waste of charred wreckage. * * * * * but the rain did not hold. it lasted something less than a quarter of an hour. it was like a merciful act of providence that came at the one moment when it could serve the fugitives. the chances had been all against them. buck had known it. the fire must have met them at the foot of the hill and so barred their ultimate escape. the padre behind had been inevitably doomed. chapter xxxvi the cataclysm two hours later two men and a girl gazed out from the plateau of devil's hill. the whole earth it seemed was a raging sea of fire. once more the forests were ablaze in every direction. the blistering tongues of fire had licked up the heavy rain, and were again roaring destruction over the land. far as the eye could reach the lurid pall of smoke was spread out, rolling upward and onward, borne upon the bosom of the gale. in its midst, and through it, the merciless flames leapt up and up. the booming of falling timbers, and the roar of the flames smote painfully upon the hearts of the watchers. it was a spectacle to crush every earthly hope. it was a sight so painful as to drive the mind of man distracted. in all their lives these people had never imagined such a terror. in all their lives they could never witness such again. they stood there silent and awed. they stood there with eyes straining and ear-drums throbbing with the din of the battle. their horses were roaming at will and the still form of aunt mercy was at their feet. there was no shelter. there was no hope. only they knew that where they stood was safety, at least, from the fire below. presently joan knelt at her aunt's side and studied her ashen features in the ruddy light. the woman's unconsciousness had remained through all that journey. or was she dead? joan could not make up her mind. once, as she knelt, she reeled and nearly fell across that still body. and when, recovering herself, she looked up at the men she saw that they were braced, with feet apart, supporting each other. then, in the roar of the storm she heard buck's voice shouting in the padre's ear. "guess--ther's more to come yet," he said with a profound significance. she saw the padre's nod, and she wondered at the fresh danger he saw ahead. buck turned and looked out over the desolate plateau with troubled eyes. she followed his gaze. strangely she had little fear, even with that trouble in her lover's eyes. the plateau was desperately gloomy. it was hot, too, up there, terribly hot. but joan had no thought for that except that she associated it with the hot wind blowing up from below. her observation was narrowed to a complete dependence on buck. he was her hope, her only hope. suddenly she saw him reel. then, in a moment, she saw that both men were down on hands and knees, and, almost at the instant, she, herself, was hurled flat upon the ground beside the body of her aunt. the earth was rocking, and now she understood more fully her lover's trouble. her courage slowly began to ebb. she fought against it, but slowly a terror of that dreadful hill crept up in her heart, and she longed to flee anywhere from it--anywhere but down into that caldron of fire below. but the thought was impossible. death was on every hand beyond that hill, and the hill itself was--quaking. now buck was speaking again. "we'll have to git som'ere from here," he said. the padre answered him-- "where?" it was an admission of the elder man's weakness. buck must guide. the girl's eyes remained upon her lover's face; she was awaiting his reply. she understood, had always known it, that all human help for her must come from him. her suspense was almost breathless. "there's shelter by the lake," buck said, after a long pause. "we can get to leeward of the rock, an'--it's near the head of that path droppin' to the creek. the creek seems better than anywher' else--after this." his manner was decided, but his words offered poor enough comfort. the padre agreed, and, at once, they moved across to joan. for the moment the earth was still again. its convulsive shudder had passed. joan struggled to her feet, but her increasing terror left her clinging to the man she loved. the padre silently gathered mercy into his arms, and the journey across the plateau began. but as they moved away the subterranean forces attacked again. again came that awful rocking, and shaking, which left them struggling for a foothold. twice they were driven to their knees, only to stagger on as the convulsions lessened. it was a nightmare of nervous tension. every step of the journey was fraught with danger, and every moment it seemed as though the hill must fall beneath them to a crumbling wreckage. with heart-sick apprehension joan watched the growing form of the great rock, which formed the source of the lake, as it loomed out of the smoke-laden dusk. it was so high, so sheer. what if it fell, wrecked with those dreadful earth quakings? but her terror found no voice, no protest. she would not add to the burden of these men. the rock passed behind them, and her relief was intense as the shadow was swallowed up again in the gloom. then a further relief came to her as the edge of the plateau was reached, and the padre set his burden down at the head of the narrow path which suggested a possible escape to the creek below. she threw herself beside her aunt, and heard buck speaking again to his friend. "stop right here with the women," he said. "i'm goin' around that lake--seems to me we need to get a peek at it." joan understood something of what he feared. she remembered the weirdness of that suspended lake, and thought with a shudder of the dreadful earth quakings. so she watched him go with heart well-nigh breaking. buck moved cautiously away into the gloom. he knew the lake shore well. the evident volcanic origin of it might well answer many questions and doubts in his mind. its rugged shore offered almost painful difficulties with the, now, incessant quakings below. but he struggled on till he came to the eminence he sought. here he took up a position, lying on his stomach so that he had a wide view of the surface of the wind-swept water. he remained for a long while watching, watching, and striving to digest the signs he beheld. they were many, and alarming. but their full meaning was difficult to his untutored mind. here it was that the padre ultimately found him. he had been gone so long that the elder man's uneasiness for his safety had sent him in search. "what d'you make of it, buck?" he demanded, as he came up, his apprehensions finding no place in his manner. buck displayed no surprise. he did not even turn his head. "the fires are hotting. the water's nigh boiling. there's goin' to be a mighty bust-up." the padre looked out across the water. "there's fire around us, fire above us, and now--fire under us. we've got to choose which we're going to face, buck--quick." the padre's voice was steady. his feelings were under perfect control. buck laughed grimly. "ther's fire we know, an' fire we don't. guess we best take the fire we know." they continued to gaze out across the lake in silence after that. then the padre spoke again. "what about the horses?" he asked. the question seemed to trouble buck, for he suddenly caught his breath. but, in a moment, his answer came with decision. "guess they must take their chances," he said. "same as we have to. i hate to leave him, but cæsar's got sense." "yes." the padre's eyes were fixed upon one spot on the surface of the water. it was quite plain, even in that light, that a seething turmoil was going on just beneath it. he pointed at the place, but went on talking of the other things in his mind. "say, you best take this pocketbook. we may get separated before the night's out. it's half the farm money. you see--ther's no telling," he ended up vaguely. for one instant buck removed his eyes from the surface of the lake to glance at the snow-white head of his friend. then he reached out and took the pocketbook. "maybe joan'll need it, anyway," he said, and thrust it in his pocket. "we must----say, git busy! look!" buck's quick eyes had suddenly caught sight of a fresh disturbance in the water. of a sudden the whole surface of the lake seemed to be rising in a great commotion. and as he finished speaking two terrific detonations roared up from somewhere directly beneath them. in an instant both men were on their feet and racing in headlong flight for the point where they had left the women. "get joan!" shouted the padre from behind. he was less swift of foot than buck. "get joan! i'll see to the other." buck reached the girl's side. she had heard the explosions of the underworld and stood shaking with terror. "we're up agin it, joan," he cried. and before the panic-stricken girl could reply she was in his strong young arms speeding for the downward path, which was their only hope. "but the padre! aunt mercy!" cried joan, in a sudden recollection. "they're comin' behind. he'll see to her----god in heaven!" a deafening roar, a hundred times greater than the first explosions, came from directly beneath the man's feet. the air was full of it. to the fugitives it was as if the whole world had suddenly been riven asunder. for one flashing moment it seemed to buck that he had been struck with fearful force from somewhere behind him, and as the blow fell he was hurled headlong down the precipitous path. a confused, painful sense of cruel buffeting left him only half-conscious. there was a roar in his ears like the bombardment of unearthly artillery. it filled his brain to the exclusion of all else, while he hugged the girl close in his arms with some instinct of saving her, and shielding her from the cruel blows with his own body. beyond that he had practically no sensation. beyond that he had no realization whatever. they were falling, falling, and every limb in his body seemed to find the obstructions with deadly certainty. how far, how long they were falling, whither the awful journey was carrying them, these things passed from him utterly. then, abruptly, all sensation ceased. the limit of endurance had been reached. for him, at least, the battle for life seemed ended. the greater forces might contest in bitter rage. element might war with element, till the whole face of the world was changed; for providence, in a belated mercy, had suspended animation, and spared these two poor atoms of humanity a further witness of a conflict of forces beyond their finite understanding. chapter xxxvii alone-- "buck! buck!" faint and small, the cry was lost in the wilderness of silence. it died out, a heart-broken moan of despair, fading to nothingness in the still, desolate world. then came another sound. it was the crash of a falling tree. it was louder, but it, too, could scarcely break the stillness, so silent was the world, so desolate was it in the absence of all life. day had broken. the sky was brilliant with swift-speeding clouds of fleecy white. the great sun had lifted well above the horizon, and already its warming rays were thirstily drinking from a sodden, rain-drenched earth. the perfect calm of a summer morning reigned. up above, high up, where it was quite lost to the desolation below, a great wind was still speeding on the fleecy storm-clouds, brushing them from its path and replacing them with the frothing scud of a glorious day. but the air had not yet regained its wonted freshness. the reek of charred timber was everywhere. it poisoned the air, and held memory whence it would willingly escape. "oh, buck, speak to me! open your eyes! oh, my love, my dear, dear love!" the cry had grown in pitch. it was the cry of a woman whose whole soul is yearning for the love which had been ruthlessly torn from her bosom. again it died away in a sob of anguish, and all was still again. not a sound broke the appalling quiet. not a leaf rustled, for the world seemed shorn of all foliage. not a sound came from the insect world, for even the smallest, the most minute of such life seemed to have fled, or been destroyed. there was neither the flutter of a wing, nor the voice of the prowling carnivora, for even the winged denizens of the mountains and the haunting scavengers had fled in terror from such a wilderness of desolation. "buck, oh, my buck! speak, speak! he's dead! oh, my god, he's dead!" louder the voice came, and now in its wail was a note of hysteria. fear had made harsh the velvet woman's tones. fear, and a rising resentment against the cruel sentence that had been passed upon her. she crouched down, rocking herself amidst a low scrub upon which the dead leaves still hung where the fires had scorched them. but the fire had not actually passed over them. a wide spread of barren rock intervened between the now skeleton woods and where the girl sat huddled. in front of her lay the figure of a man, disheveled and bleeding, and scarcely recognizable for the staunch youth who had yielded himself to the buffets of life that the woman he loved might be spared. but joan only saw the radiant young face she loved, the slim, graceful figure so full of life and strength. he was hers. and--and death had snatched him from her. death had claimed him, when all that she could ever long for seemed to be within her grasp. death, ruthless, fierce, hateful death had crushed out that life in its cruellest, most merciless fashion. she saw nothing of the ruin which lay about her. she had no thought of anything else, she had no thought of those others. all she knew was that her buck, her brave buck, lay before her--dead. the girl suddenly turned her despairing eyes to the white heavens, their deep blue depths turned to a wonderful violet of emotion. her wealth of golden hair hung loose about her shoulders, trailing about her on the sodden earth, where it had fallen in the midst of the disaster that had come upon her. her rounded young figure was bent like the figure of an aged woman, and the drawn lines of anguish on her beautiful face gave her an age she did not possess. "oh, he is not dead!" she cried, in a vain appeal. "tell me he is not dead!" she cried, to the limitless space beyond the clouds. "he is all i have, all i have in the world. oh, god, have mercy upon me! have mercy!" her only reply was the stillness. the stillness as of death. she raised her hands to her face. there were no tears. she was beyond that poor comfort. dry, hard sobs racked her body, and drove the rising fever to her poor brain. for long moments she remained thus. then, after a while, her sobs ceased and she became quite still. she dropped her hands inertly from her face, and let them lie in her lap, nerveless, helpless, while she gazed upon the well-loved features, so pale under the grime and tanning of the skin. she sat quite still for many minutes. it almost seemed as if the power of reason had at last left her, so colorless was her look, so unchanging was her vacant expression. but at last she stirred. and with her movement a strange light grew in her eyes. it was a look bordering upon the insane, yet it was full of resolve, a desperate resolve. her lips were tightly compressed, and she breathed hard. she made no sound. there were no further lamentations. slowly she reached out one hand toward the beloved body. nor was the movement a caress. it passed across the tattered garments, through which the painfully contused flesh peered hideously out at her. it moved with definite purpose toward one of the gaping holsters upon the man's waist-belt. her hand came to a pause over the protruding butt of a revolver. just for a moment there was hesitation. then it dropped upon it and her fingers clasped the weapon firmly. she withdrew it, and in a moment it rested in her lap. she gazed down upon it with straining, hopeless eyes. it was as if she were struggling to nerve herself for that one last act of cowardice which the despairing find so hard to resist. then, with a deep-drawn sigh, she raised the weapon with its muzzle ominously pointing at her bosom. again came a pause. then she closed her eyes, as though fearing to witness the passing of the daylight from her life, and her forefinger moved to embrace the trigger. it reached its object, and its pressure tightened. but as it tightened, and the trigger even moved, she felt the warm grip of a hand close over hers, and the pistol was turned from its direction with a wrench. her startled eyes abruptly opened, and her grip upon the weapon relaxed, while a cry broke from her ashen lips. she had left the gun in buck's hand, and his dark eyes were gazing into hers from his bed amongst the crushed branches of the bush amidst which he was lying. for long moments she stared at him almost without understanding. then, slowly, the color returned to her cheeks and lips, and great tears of joy welled up into her loving eyes. "buck," she murmured, as the heavy tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with unspeakable joy. "my--my buck." for answer the man's eyes smiled. her heaven had opened at last. chapter xxxviii --in the wilderness the golden sun was high in the heavens. its splendor was pouring down upon a gently steaming earth. but all its joyous light, all its perfect beneficence could not undo one particle of the havoc the long dark hours of night had wrought. high up on a shattered eminence, where a sea of tumbled rock marked the face of devil's hill, where the great hot lake had been held suspended, joan and buck gazed out upon the battle-ground of nature's forces. presently the girl's eyes came back to the face of her lover. she could not long keep them from the face, which, such a few hours ago, she had believed she would never behold again in life. she felt as though he were one returned to her from the grave, and feared lest she should wake to find his returning only a dream. he was a strange figure. the tattered remains of his clothing were scarcely enough to cover his nakedness, and joan, with loving, unskilled hands, had lavered and dressed his wounds with portions of her own undergarments and the waters of the creek, whither, earlier, she had laboriously supported his enfeebled body. but providence had spared him an added mercy besides bringing him back to life. it seemed a sheer miracle that his bones had been left whole. his flesh was torn, his whole body was terribly bruised and lacerated, but that worst of all disasters in life had been spared him, and he was left with the painful use of every limb. but the thought of this miracle left the man untouched. only did joan remember, and offer up her thankfulness. the man was of the wild, he was young, life was with him, life with all its joys and sorrows, all its shadowy possibilities, so he recked nothing of what he had escaped. that was his way. while joan's devoted eyes watched the steady light in his, staring out so intently at the wreck of world before him, no word passed her lips. it was as though he were the lord of their fate and she waited his commands. but for long buck had no thought for their personal concerns. he forgot even the pains which racked his torn body, he forgot even the regrets which the destruction he now beheld had first inspired him with. he was marveling, he was awed at the thought of those dread elements, those titanic forces he had witnessed at play. there lay the hideous skeleton picked bare to the bones. every semblance of the beauty lines, which, in the earth's mature completion, it had worn, had vanished, and only mouldering remains were left. how had it happened? what terrible, or sublime purpose, had been achieved during that night of terror? he could not think. his eyes dropped to that which lay immediately before him. he was gazing into chaotic depths of torn black rock amidst which a great cascade of water poured out from the bowels of the earth and flowed on to join the waters of yellow creek. it was the site where had hung the suspended lake. half the great hill had been torn away by some terrible subterranean upheaval, which seemed to have solely occurred on that side where the lake had been, and where the hill had confronted the distant camp. gone were the workings of the miners. gone was that great bed of auriferous soil. and in their places lay an ocean of rock, so vast, so torn, that the power which had hurled it broadcast was inconceivable to his staggered mind. for a while he contemplated the scene with thoughts struggling and emotions stirring. then with a sigh he looked out beyond. the valley of the creek, that little narrow strip of open grass-land, bordered by pine forests all its length, was gone, too. the creek was now a wide-spread expanse of flowing water, which had swept from its path the last vestige of the handiwork of those people who had lived upon the banks of the original stream. there was not a sign of a house or log hut to be seen anywhere. gone, gone, swept away like the buildings of children's toy bricks. what of those who had dwelt where the water now flowed? had they, too, gone on the rushing tide? he wondered. where had been their escape? maybe they had had time. and yet, somehow it seemed doubtful. the skeleton forests stretched out on every hand to a great distance. they backed where the camp had stood. they rose up beyond the northern limits. to the west of the water it was the same. had he not witnessed the furnace upon that side? and here, here to the south would they have faced this terrible barrier belching out its torrential waters, perhaps amidst fire and smoke? he did not know. he could not think. they were gone as everything else that indicated life was gone, and--they two were left alone in a wilderness of stricken earth. he sighed again as he thought of the gracious woods which the long centuries had built up. all nature's wonderful labors, the patient efforts of ages, wiped out in a few moments of her own freakish mood. it was heart-breaking to one who had always loved the wild hills where the all-powerful dame's whimsies had so long run riot. then as he stared out upon the steaming horizon where hills greater and greater rose up confronting him and narrowed the limits of his vision, he saw where the dividing line ran. he remembered suddenly that even in her destructions nature had still controlled. the floods of the heavens must have been abruptly poured out at some time during the night, or the fire would still be raging on, searching out fresh fuel beyond those hills, traveling on on and on through the limitless forests which lay to the north, and south, and west. the memory gave him fresh hope. it told him that the world was still outside waiting to welcome them to its hostels. and so he turned at last to the patient woman at his side. "it seems so a'mighty queer, little joan," he said gently. "it seems so a'mighty queer i can't rightly get the hang of things. yesterday--yesterday--why, yesterday all this," he waved an arm to indicate the broken world about him, "was as god made it, an' now ther's jest ruin--blank ruin that'll take all your life, and mine, an' dozens who're comin' after us to--to build up agin. yesterday this camp was full of busy folk chasin' a livin' from the products nature had set here. now she's wiped 'em out. why? yesterday a good man was threatened by man's law, an' it looked as if that law was to suck us all into its web an' make criminals of us. now he's gone an' the law'll be chased back to hunt around for its prey in places with less danger to 'em. it's all queer--mighty queer. an' it's queerer still to think of you an' me sittin' here puzzlin' out these things." "yes." joan nodded without removing her eyes from the face she loved so well. then after a pause she went on-- "you think--he's dead?" buck was some time before he answered her. his grave eyes were fixed on a spot across the water, where a break in the charred remains of the forest revealed a sky-line of green grass. "how else?" he said, at last. "he was behind me with your aunt. he was on the hill. you've scoured what remains of the plateau. wal, he ain't there, an' he didn't come down the path wher' we come. we ain't see 'em anyways. yep," he went on, with a sigh, "guess the padre's dead, an' one o' them rocks down ther' is markin' his grave. seems queer. he went with her. she was the woman he had loved. they've gone together, even though she just--hated him. he was a good man an'--he'd got grit. he was the best man in the world an'--an' my big friend." his voice was husky with emotion, and something like a sob came with his last word, and joan's eyes filled with tears of sympathy and regret. "tell me," he went on, after a pause. "i ain't got it right. the fall knocked you plumb out. an' then?" his eyes were still on the distant break of the trees. "i don't know what happened," joan said wearily, spreading out her drenched skirt to the now blazing sun. "i know i woke up quite suddenly, feeling so cold that even my teeth were chattering. the rain was falling like--like hailstones. it was dark, so dark, and i was terribly afraid. i called to you, but got no answer, and--and i thought i was alone. it was terrible. the thunder had ceased, and the lightning was no longer playing. there was no longer any forest fire, or--or earthquakings. all was still and black, and the rain--oh, it was dreadful. i sat where i was, calling you at intervals. i sat on, and on, and on, till i thought the dark would never go, that day would never break again, and i began to think that all the world had come to an end, and i, alone, was left. then at last the rain stopped, and i saw that day was breaking. but it was not until broad daylight that i knew where i was. and then--and then i saw you lying close at my feet. oh, buck, don't let me think of it any more. don't remind me of it. it was awful. i believed you were dead--dead. and it seemed to me that my heart died, too. it was so dreadful that i think i--i was mad. and then--you saved me--again." buck raised a stiff arm and gently drew her toward him with a wonderfully protecting movement. the girl yielded herself to him, and he kissed her sweet upturned lips. "no, little joan, gal. don't you think of it. we got other things to think of--a whole heap." "yes, yes," cried the girl eagerly. "we've got life--together." buck nodded with a grave smile. "an' we must sure keep it." he released her and struggled to his feet, where he stood supporting himself by clinging to a projection of rock. "what do you mean, buck? what are you going to do?" joan demanded anxiously, springing to her feet and shaking out her drenched skirt. "do? why, look yonder. ther' across the water. ther' wher' them burnt-up woods break. see that patch o' grass on the sky-line? look close, an' you'll see two--somethings standin' right ther'. wal, we got to git near enough that way so cæsar can hear my whistle." "cæsar? is--is that cæsar? why--how----?" buck nodded his head. "maybe i'm guessin'. i ain't sayin'. but--wal, you can't be sure this ways off. y' see, cæsar has a heap o' sense, an' his saddle-bags are loaded down with a heap o' good food. an' you're needin' that--same as me." chapter xxxix love's victory the rightness of buck's conjecture was proved before evening, but not without long and painful effort. joan was utterly weary, and the man was reduced to such weakness and disability as, in all his life, he had never known. but they faced their task with the knowledge that with every moment of delay in procuring food their chances of escape from that land of ruin were lessening. with food, and, consequently, with buck's horse, safety would be practically assured. they would then, too, be able to prosecute a search for the man they both had learned to love so well. with nightfall their hopes were realized, but only at a terrible cost to the man. so great had become his weakness and suffering that it was joan who was forced to make provision for the night. both horses were grazing together with an unconcern that was truly equine. nor, when reviewed, was their escape the miracle it appeared. at the height of the storm they had been left on the farthest confines of the plateau of devil's hill, where no fire would reach them, and at a considerable distance from the lake. their native terror of fire would have held them there in a state bordering on paralysis. in all probability no power on earth could have induced them to stir from the spot where they had been left, until the drenching rain had blotted out the furnace raging below. this had been buck's thought. then, perhaps, laboring under a fear of the quakings caused by the subterranean fires of the hill, and their hungry stomachs crying out for food, they had left the dreaded hill in quest of the pastures they craved. the well-stocked saddle-bags, which buck's forethought had filled for the long trail, now provided these lonely wanderers in the wilderness with the food they needed, the saddle-blankets and the saddles furnished their open-air couches, and the horses, well, the horses were there to afford them escape when the time came, and, in the meantime, could be left to recover from the effects of the storm and stress through which they, too, had passed. with the following dawn buck's improvement was wonderful, and joan awoke from a deep, night-long slumber, refreshed and hopeful. an overhauling of their supplies showed them sufficient food, used sparingly, to last a week. and with this knowledge buck outlined their plans to the girl, who hung upon his every word. "we can't quit yet," he said, when they had broken their fast. the girl waited, watching his dark contemplative eyes as they looked across the water at the diminished hill. "nope," he went on. "we owe him more'n that. we must chase around, an'--find him. we must----" "yes," joan broke in, her eyes full of eager acquiescence. "we must not leave him--to--to--the coyotes." she shuddered. "no. guess i'll git the horses." "you? oh, buck--let me. i am well and strong. it is my turn to do something now. your work is surely finished." her pleading eyes smiled up into his, but the man shook his head with that decision she had come to recognize and obey almost without question. "not on your life, little gal," he said, in his kindly, resolute fashion, and joan was left to take her woman's place in their scheme of things. but she shared in the search of the hill and the woods. she shared in the ceaseless hunt for three long, weary, heart-breaking days over a land of desolation and loneliness. she rode at buck's side hour after hour on the sturdy horse that had served the padre so faithfully, till her body was healthily weary, and her eyes grew heavy with straining. but she welcomed the work. for, with the tender mother eye of the woman in her, she beheld that which gladdened her heart, and made the hardest work a mere labor of love. each passing day, almost with each passing hour, she witnessed the returning vigor of the man she loved. his recuperative powers were marvelous, and she watched his bodily healing as though he were her own helpless offspring. for the rest their search was hopeless. the battling forces of a storm-riven earth had claimed their toll to the last fraction, and with the cunning of the miser had secreted the levy. not a trace was there of any human life but their own. the waters from the hill swept the little valley, and hugged to their bosom the secrets that lay beneath their surface. and the fall of rock held deeply buried all that which it had embraced in its rending. the farm was utterly destroyed, and with it had fallen victims every head of stock joan had possessed. the old fur fort had yielded to the fire demon, where, for all the ages, it had resisted the havoc of storm. there was nothing left to mark the handiwork of man, nothing but the terrible destruction it had brought about. thus it was on the fourth morning, after breaking their fast, and the horses had been saddled, buck once more packed the saddle-bags and strapped them into their places behind the saddles. joan watched him without question. she no longer had any question for that which he chose to ordain. when all was ready he lifted her into her saddle, which she rode astride, in the manner of the prairie. she was conscious of his strength, now returned to its full capacity. she was nothing in his arms now, she might have been a child by the ease with which he lifted her. he looked to her horse's bridle, he saw that she was comfortable. then he vaulted into cæsar's saddle with all his old agility. "which way, buck?" the girl spoke with the easy manner of one who has little concern, but her eyes belied her words. a strange thrill was storming in her bosom. "leeson butte," said buck, a deep glow shining in his dark eyes. joan let her horse amble beside the measured, stately walk of cæsar. her reins hung loose, and her beautiful eyes were shining as they gazed out eagerly ahead. she was thrilling with a happiness that conflicted with a strange nervousness at the naming of their destination. she had no protest to offer, no question. it was as if the lord of her destiny had spoken, and it was her happiness and desire to obey. they rode on, and their way lay amidst the charred skeleton of a wide, stately wood. the air was still faint with the reek of burning. there was no darkness here beyond the blackened tree trunks, for the brilliant summer sun lit up the glades, which, for ages, no sun's rays had ever penetrated. the sense of ruin was passing from the minds of these children of the wilderness. their focus had already adapted itself. almost, even, their youthful eyes and hearts saw new beauties springing up about them. it was the work of that wonderful fount of hope, which dies so hardly in us all, and in youth never. at length they left the mouldering skeletons behind them, and the gracious, waving, tawny grass of the plains opened out before their gladdened eyes. a light breeze tempered the glorious sunlight, and set ripples afloat upon the waving crests of the motionless rollers of a grassy ocean. buck drew his horse down to a walk beside the girl, and his look had lost its reflection of the sadness they were leaving behind. he had no desire now to look back. for all his life the memory of his "big friend" would remain, for the rest his way lay directly ahead, his life, and his--hope. "it's all wonderful--wonderful out here, little joan," he said, smiling tenderly down upon her sweet face from the superior height at which cæsar carried him. "seems like we're goin' to read pages of a--fresh book. seems like the old book's all mussed up, so we can't learn its lessons ever again." joan returned the warmth of his gaze. but she shook her head with an assumption of wisdom. "it's the same book, dear, only it's a different chapter. you see the story always goes on. it must go on--to the end. characters drop out. they die, or are--killed. incidents happen, some pleasant, some--full of sadness. but that's all part of the story, and must be. the story always goes on to the end. you see," she added with a tender smile, "the hero's still in the picture." "an' the--gal-hero." joan shook her head decidedly. "there's no heroine to this story," she said. "you need courage to be a heroine, and i--i have none. do you know, buck," she went on seriously, "when i look back on all that's gone i realize how much my own silly weakness has caused the trouble. if i had only had the courage to laugh at my aunt's prophecies, my aunt's distorted pronouncements, all this trouble would have been saved. i should never have come to the farm. my aunt would never have found the padre. those men would never have fired those woods when they burnt my farm, and--and the gentle-hearted padre would never have lost his life." it was buck's turn to shake his head. "wrong, wrong, little gal," he said with a warmth of decision. "when you came to us--to me, an' we saw your trouble, we jest set to work to clear a heap o' cobwebs from your mind. that was up to us, because you were sure sufferin', and you needed help. but all we said, all we told you not to believe, those things were sure marked out, an' you, an' all of us had to go thro' with 'em. we can't talk away the plans o' providence. you jest had to come to that farm. you jest had to do all the things you did. maybe your auntie, in that queer way of hers, told you the truth, maybe she saw things us others didn't jest see. who can tell?" joan's eyes lit with a startled look as she listened to the man's words. they made her wonder at the change in him. had that terrible cataclysm impressed him with a new view of the life by which he was surrounded? it might be. then, suddenly, a fresh thought occurred to her. a memory rose up and confronted her, and a sudden joyous anxiety thrilled her. "do you really think that, buck?" she cried eagerly. "do you? do you?" "things seem changed, little gal," he said, half ruefully. "seems to me the past week's been years an' years long." he laughed. "maybe i got older. maybe i think those things now, same as most folks think 'em--when they get older." but joan was full of her own thought, and she went on eagerly, passing his reasons by. "listen, buck, when aunt mercy told me all my troubles, she told me something else. but it seemed so small by the side of those other things, that i--that i almost forgot it. what was it? her words? yes, yes, i asked her, was there no hope for me? no means by which i could be saved from my fate? and she said that my only hope lay in finding a love that was stronger than death. these were her words---- "'i loved your father with a passion nothing, no disaster could destroy. go you, child, and find you such a love. go you and find a love so strong that no disaster can kill it. and maybe life may still have some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse from your suffering shoulders. it--it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than disaster. it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than--death.'" her words dropped to a whisper as she finished speaking, and she waited, like a criminal awaiting sentence, for the man's judgment on them. her eyes were downcast, and her rounded bosom was stirring tumultuously. what would he say? what would he think? and yet she must have told him. was he not the one person in the world who held her fate in his hands? yes, he must know all there was in her mind. and she knew in her heart that he would understand as she wanted him to understand. buck suddenly reined cæsar in, and brought him to a standstill, turning him about so that he looked back upon the world they were leaving behind them forever. in silence joan responded to his movement, and her horse closed up against the other. "guess your auntie's notions were all queer, so queer they're mighty hard to understand," he said reflectively. "but seems to me she's hit a big truth some way. that curse is sure lifted--sure, sure." he pointed at the grim outline of devil's hill, now fading in the distance. "look ther' yonder. yonder's the disaster, yonder is--death. an' we--we've sure passed through it. she's right. our love is stronger than disaster--stronger than death." then he turned and gazed ardently into her upturned face. "guess we sure found that love together, little gal. an' it's ours to keep forever an' ever. ther' ain't no other love comin' around. i'm yours fer jest so long as i have life, an' you--wal, you're jest my whole, whole world." he leant toward her, his dark eyes shining with his great love. reaching out he drew her toward him, his strong, protecting arm encircling her slim waist. "say, little gal," he went on urgingly, "we're goin' right on now to leeson butte. ther's a passon ther' who can fix us right. an' when that's done, an' ther' ain't nuthin' in the world can come between us, why, then i sure got two mighty strong hands yearnin' to git busy handin' you those things which can make a woman's life easy, an'--an' happy. will you come, little joan? will you sure come?" his eager young face was close to hers, and his deep breath fanned her warm cheek. she gave him no verbal reply. at that moment she had no words. but she turned toward him. and, as she turned, her lips met his in one long, passionate kiss. he needed no other reply. she was giving him herself. it was the soul of the woman speaking. some moments later their horses were again heading for leeson butte. the eyes of the girl were shining with a happiness such as she had never known before, and buck sat with head erect, and the light of a great purpose in his eyes. for a while they rode thus. then the man's eyes twinkled with a sudden thought. for a moment he glanced at the golden head so close beside him. then he smiled. "say, little joan," he cried, "guess you're that gal-hero after all." joan responded to his look. "how?" she inquired, with a heightened color. "why, jest git a look at me. me! you're goin' to marry me! i'd sure say you've a heap more grit than any gal-hero i've heard tell of." joan surveyed his unkempt figure,--the torn clothing, his unshaven face; the bandages made of her own undergarments, which he still wore,--and the happy smile on her young face broadened. "well, you see, buck, dear," she said joyously, "you can't be a proper hero if you don't carry the scars of battle on you." she sighed contentedly. "no, i'm afraid it doesn't need much 'grit' to marry you." transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. indian why stories sparks from war eagle's lodge-fire frank b. linderman [co skee see co cot] i dedicate this little book to my friend charles m. russell the cowboy artist george bird grinnell the indian's friend and to all others who have known and loved old montana for i hold them all as kin who have builded fires where nature wears no make-up on her skin preface the great northwest--that wonderful frontier that called to itself a world's hardiest spirits--is rapidly becoming a settled country; and before the light of civilizing influences, the blanket-indian has trailed the buffalo over the divide that time has set between the pioneer and the crowd. with his passing we have lost much of the aboriginal folk-lore, rich in its fairy-like characters, and its relation to the lives of a most warlike people. there is a wide difference between folk-lore of the so-called old world and that of america. transmitted orally through countless generations, the folk-stories of our ancestors show many evidences of distortion and of change in material particulars; but the indian seems to have been too fond of nature and too proud of tradition to have forgotten or changed the teachings of his forefathers. childlike in simplicity, beginning with creation itself, and reaching to the whys and wherefores of nature's moods and eccentricities, these tales impress me as being well worth saving. the indian has always been a lover of nature and a close observer of her many moods. the habits of the birds and animals, the voices of the winds and waters, the flickering of the shadows, and the mystic radiance of the moonlight--all appealed to him. gradually, he formulated within himself fanciful reasons for the myriad manifestations of the mighty mother and her many children; and a poet by instinct, he framed odd stories with which to convey his explanations to others. and these stories were handed down from father to son, with little variation, through countless generations, until the white man slaughtered the buffalo, took to himself the open country, and left the red man little better than a beggar. but the tribal story-teller has passed, and only here and there is to be found a patriarch who loves the legends of other days. old-man, or napa, as he is called by the tribes of blackfeet, is the strangest character in indian folk-lore. sometimes he appears as a god or creator, and again as a fool, a thief, or a clown. but to the indian, napa is not the deity; he occupies a somewhat subordinate position, possessing many attributes which have sometimes caused him to be confounded with manitou, himself. in all of this there is a curious echo of the teachings of the ancient aryans, whose belief it was that this earth was not the direct handiwork of the almighty, but of a mere member of a hierarchy of subordinate gods. the indian possesses the highest veneration for the great god, who has become familiar to the readers of indian literature as manitou. no idle tales are told of him, nor would any indian mention him irreverently. but with napa it is entirely different; he appears entitled to no reverence; he is a strange mixture of the fallible human and the powerful under-god. he made many mistakes; was seldom to be trusted; and his works and pranks run from the sublime to the ridiculous. in fact, there are many stories in which napa figures that will not bear telling at all. i propose to tell what i know of these legends, keeping as near as possible to the indian's style of story-telling, and using only tales told me by the older men of the blackfeet, chippewa, and cree tribes. contents why the chipmunk's back is striped how the ducks got their fine feathers why the kingfisher always wears a war-bonnet why the curlew's bill is long and crooked old-man remarks the world why blackfeet never kill mice how the otter skin became great medicine old-man steals the sun's leggings old-man and his conscience old-man's treachery why the night-hawk's wings are beautiful why the mountain-lion is long and lean the fire-leggings the moon and the great snake why the deer has no gall why indians whip the buffalo-berries from the bushes old-man and the fox why the birch-tree wears the slashes in its bark mistakes of old-man how the man found his mate dreams retrospection introduction it was the moon when leaves were falling, for napa had finished painting them for their dance with the north wind. just over the ragged mountain range the big moon hung in an almost starless sky, and in shadowy outline every peak lay upon the plain like a giant pattern. slowly the light spread and as slowly the shadows stole away until the october moon looked down on the great indian camp--a hundred lodges, each as perfect in design as the tusks of a young silver-tip, and all looking ghostly white in the still of the autumn night. back from the camp, keeping within the ever-moving shadows, a buffalo-wolf skulked to a hill overlooking the scene, where he stopped to look and listen, his body silhouetted against the sky. a dog howled occasionally, and the weird sound of a tom-tom accompanying the voice of a singer in the indian village reached the wolf's ears, but caused him no alarm; for not until a great herd of ponies, under the eyes of the night-herder, drifted too close, did he steal away. near the centre of the camp was the big painted lodge of war eagle, the medicine-man, and inside had gathered his grandchildren, to whom he was telling the stories of the creation and of the strange doings of napa, the creator. being a friend of the old historian, i entered unhindered, and with the children listened until the hour grew late, and on the lodge-wall the dying fire made warning shadows dance. why the chipmunk's back is striped what a splendid lodge it was, and how grand war eagle looked leaning against his back-rest in the firelight! from the tripod that supported the back-rest were suspended his weapons and his medicine-bundle, each showing the wonderful skill of the maker. the quiver that held the arrows was combined with a case for the bow, and colored quills of the porcupine had been deftly used to make it a thing of beauty. all about the lodge hung the strangely painted linings, and the firelight added richness to both color and design. war eagle's hair was white, for he had known many snows; but his eyes were keen and bright as a boy's, as he gazed in pride at his grandchildren across the lodge-fire. he was wise, and had been in many battles, for his was a warlike tribe. he knew all about the world and the people in it. he was deeply religious, and every indian child loved him for his goodness and brave deeds. about the fire were little buffalo calf, a boy of eleven years; eyes-in-the-water, his sister, a girl of nine; fine bow, a cousin of these, aged ten, and bluebird, his sister, who was but eight years old. not a sound did the children make while the old warrior filled his great pipe, and only the snapping of the lodge-fire broke the stillness. solemnly war eagle lit the tobacco that had been mixed with the dried inner bark of the red willow, and for several minutes smoked in silence, while the children's eyes grew large with expectancy. finally he spoke: "napa, old-man, is very old indeed. he made this world, and all that is on it. he came out of the south, and travelled toward the north, making the birds and animals as he passed. he made the perfumes for the winds to carry about, and he even made the war-paint for the people to use. he was a busy worker, but a great liar and thief, as i shall show you after i have told you more about him. it was old-man who taught the beaver all his cunning. it was old-man who told the bear to go to sleep when the snow grew deep in winter, and it was he who made the curlew's bill so long and crooked, although it was not that way at first. old-man used to live on this world with the animals and birds. there was no other man or woman then, and he was chief over all the animal-people and the bird-people. he could speak the language of the robin, knew the words of the bear, and understood the sign-talk of the beaver, too. he lived with the wolves, for they are the great hunters. even to-day we make the same sign for a smart man as we make for the wolf; so you see he taught them much while he lived with them. old-man made a great many mistakes in making things, as i shall show you after a while; yet he worked until he had everything good. but he often made great mischief and taught many wicked things. these i shall tell you about some day. everybody was afraid of old-man and his tricks and lies--even the animal-people, before he made men and women. he used to visit the lodges of our people and make trouble long ago, but he got so wicked that manitou grew angry at him, and one day in the month of roses, he built a lodge for old-man and told him that he must stay in it forever. of course he had to do that, and nobody knows where the lodge was built, nor in what country, but that is why we never see him as our grandfathers did, long, long ago. "what i shall tell you now happened when the world was young. it was a fine summer day, and old-man was travelling in the forest. he was going north and straight as an arrow--looking at nothing, hearing nothing. no one knows what he was after, to this day. the birds and forest-people spoke politely to him as he passed but he answered none of them. the pine-squirrel, who is always trying to find out other people's business, asked him where he was going, but old-man wouldn't tell him. the woodpecker hammered on a dead tree to make him look that way, but he wouldn't. the elk-people and the deer-people saw him pass, and all said that he must be up to some mischief or he would stop and talk a while. the pine-trees murmured, and the bushes whispered their greeting, but he kept his eyes straight ahead and went on travelling. "the sun was low when old-man heard a groan" (here war eagle groaned to show the children how it sounded), "and turning about he saw a warrior lying bruised and bleeding near a spring of cold water. old-man knelt beside the man and asked: 'is there war in this country?' "'yes,' answered the man. 'this whole day long we have fought to kill a person, but we have all been killed, i am afraid.' "'that is strange,' said old-man; 'how can one person kill so many men? who is this person, tell me his name!' but the man didn't answer--he was dead. when old-man saw that life had left the wounded man, he drank from the spring, and went on toward the north, but before long he heard a noise as of men fighting, and he stopped to look and listen. finally he saw the bushes bend and sway near a creek that flowed through the forest. he crawled toward the spot, and peering through the brush saw a great person near a pile of dead men, with his back against a pine-tree. the person was full of arrows, and he was pulling them from his ugly body. calmly the person broke the shafts of the arrows, tossed them aside, and stopped the blood flow with a brush of his hairy hand. his head was large and fierce-looking, and his eyes were small and wicked. his great body was larger than that of a buffalo-bull and covered with scars of many battles. "old-man went to the creek, and with his buffalo-horn cup brought some water to the person, asking as he approached: "'who are you, person? tell me, so i can make you a fine present, for you are great in war.' "'i am bad sickness,' replied the person. 'tribes i have met remember me and always will, for their bravest warriors are afraid when i make war upon them. i come in the night or i visit their camps in daylight. it is always the same; they are frightened and i kill them easily.' "'ho!' said old-man, 'tell me how to make bad sickness, for i often go to war myself.' he lied; for he was never in a battle in his life. the person shook his ugly head and then old-man said: "'if you will tell me how to make bad sickness i will make you small and handsome. when you are big, as you now are, it is very hard to make a living; but when you are small, little food will make you fat. your living will be easy because i will make your food grow everywhere.' "'good,' said the person, 'i will do it; you must kill the fawns of the deer and the calves of the elk when they first begin to live. when you have killed enough of them you must make a robe of their skins. whenever you wear that robe and sing--"now you sicken, now you sicken," the sickness will come--that is all there is to it.' "'good,' said old-man, 'now lie down to sleep and i will do as i promised.' "the person went to sleep and old-man breathed upon him until he grew so tiny that he laughed to see how small he had made him. then he took out his paint sack and striped the person's back with black and yellow. it looked bright and handsome and he waked the person, who was now a tiny animal with a bushy tail to make him pretty. "'now,' said old-man, 'you are the chipmunk, and must always wear those striped clothes. all of your children and their children, must wear them, too.' "after the chipmunk had looked at himself, and thanked old-man for his new clothes, he wanted to know how he could make his living, and old-man told him what to eat, and said he must cache the pine-nuts when the leaves turned yellow, so he would not have to work in the winter time. "'you are a cousin to the pine-squirrel,' said old-man, 'and you will hunt and hide as he does. you will be spry and your living will be easy to make if you do as i have told you.' "he taught the chipmunk his language and his signs, showed him where to live, and then left him, going on toward the north again. he kept looking for the cow-elk and doe-deer, and it was not long before he had killed enough of their young to make the robe as the person told him, for they were plentiful before the white man came to live on the world. he found a shady place near a creek, and there made the robe that would make bad sickness whenever he sang the queer song, but the robe was plain, and brown in color. he didn't like the looks of it. suddenly he thought how nice the back of the chipmunk looked after he had striped it with his paints. he got out his old paint sack and with the same colors made the robe look very much like the clothes of the chipmunk. he was proud of the work, and liked the new robe better; but being lazy, he wanted to save himself work, so he sent the south-wind to tell all the doe-deer and the cow-elk to come to him. they came as soon as they received the message, for they were afraid of old-man and always tried to please him. when they had all reached the place where old-man was he said to them: "'do you see this robe?' "'yes, we see it,' they replied. "'well, i have made it from the skins of your children, and then painted it to look like the chipmunk's back, for i like the looks of that person's clothes. i shall need many more of these robes during my life; and every time i make one, i don't want to have to spend my time painting it; so from now on and forever your children shall be born in spotted clothes. i want it to be that way to save me work. on all the fawns there must be spots of white like this (here he pointed to the spots on bad sickness's robe) and on all of the elk-calves the spots shall not be so white and shall be in rows and look rather yellow.' again he showed them his robe, that they might see just what he wanted. "'remember,' he said, 'after this i don't want to see any of your children running about wearing plain clothing, because that would mean more painting for me. now go away, and remember what i have said, lest i make you sick.' "the cow-elk and the doe-deer were glad to know that their children's clothes would be beautiful, and they went away to their little ones who were hidden in the tall grass, where the wolves and mountain-lions would have a hard time finding them; for you know that in the tracks of the fawn there is no scent, and the wolf cannot trail him when he is alone. that is the way manitou takes care of the weak, and all of the forest-people know about it, too. "now you know why the chipmunk's back is striped, and why the fawn and elk-calf wear their pretty clothes. "i hear the owls, and it is time for all young men who will some day be great warriors to go to bed, and for all young women to seek rest, lest beauty go away forever. ho!" how the ducks got their fine feathers another night had come, and i made my way toward war eagle's lodge. in the bright moonlight the dead leaves of the quaking-aspen fluttered down whenever the wind shook the trees; and over the village great flocks of ducks and geese and swan passed in a never-ending procession, calling to each other in strange tones as they sped away toward the waters that never freeze. in the lodge war eagle waited for his grandchildren, and when they had entered, happily, he laid aside his pipe and said: "the duck-people are travelling to-night just as they have done since the world was young. they are going away from winter because they cannot make a living when ice covers the rivers. "you have seen the duck-people often. you have noticed that they wear fine clothes but you do not know how they got them; so i will tell you to-night. "it was in the fall when leaves are yellow that it happened, and long, long ago. the duck-people had gathered to go away, just as they are doing now. the buck-deer was coming down from the high ridges to visit friends in the lowlands along the streams as they have always done. on a lake old-man saw the duck-people getting ready to go away, and at that time they all looked alike; that is, they all wore the same colored clothes. the loons and the geese and the ducks were there and playing in the sunlight. the loons were laughing loudly and the diving was fast and merry to see. on the hill where old-man stood there was a great deal of moss, and he began to tear it from the ground and roll it into a great ball. when he had gathered all he needed he shouldered the load and started for the shore of the lake, staggering under the weight of the great burden. finally the duck-people saw him coming with his load of moss and began to swim away from the shore. "'wait, my brothers!' he called, 'i have a big load here, and i am going to give you people a dance. come and help me get things ready.' "'don't you do it,' said the gray goose to the others; 'that's old-man and he is up to something bad, i am sure.' "so the loon called to old-man and said they wouldn't help him at all. "right near the water old-man dropped his ball of moss and then cut twenty long poles. with the poles he built a lodge which he covered with the moss, leaving a doorway facing the lake. inside the lodge he built a fire and when it grew bright he cried: "'say, brothers, why should you treat me this way when i am here to give you a big dance? come into the lodge,' but they wouldn't do that. finally old-man began to sing a song in the duck-talk, and keep time with his drum. the duck-people liked the music, and swam a little nearer to the shore, watching for trouble all the time, but old-man sang so sweetly that pretty soon they waddled up to the lodge and went inside. the loon stopped near the door, for he believed that what the gray goose had said was true, and that old-man was up to some mischief. the gray goose, too, was careful to stay close to the door but the ducks reached all about the fire. politely, old-man passed the pipe, and they all smoked with him because it is wrong not to smoke in a person's lodge if the pipe is offered, and the duck-people knew that. "'well,' said old-man, 'this is going to be the blind-dance, but you will have to be painted first. "'brother mallard, name the colors--tell how you want me to paint you.' "'well,' replied the mallard drake, 'paint my head green, and put a white circle around my throat, like a necklace. besides that, i want a brown breast and yellow legs: but i don't want my wife painted that way.' "old-man painted him just as he asked, and his wife, too. then the teal and the wood-duck (it took a long time to paint the wood-duck) and the spoonbill and the blue-bill and the canvasback and the goose and the brant and the loon--all chose their paint. old-man painted them all just as they wanted him to, and kept singing all the time. they looked very pretty in the firelight, for it was night before the painting was done. "'now,' said old-man, 'as this is the blind-dance, when i beat upon my drum you must all shut your eyes tight and circle around the fire as i sing. every one that peeks will have sore eyes forever.' "then the duck-people shut their eyes and old-man began to sing: 'now you come, ducks, now you come--tum-tum, tum; tum-tum, tum.' "around the fire they came with their eyes still shut, and as fast as they reached old-man, the rascal would seize them, and wring their necks. ho! things were going fine for old-man, but the loon peeked a little, and saw what was going on; several others heard the fluttering and opened their eyes, too. the loon cried out, 'he's killing us--let us fly,' and they did that. there was a great squawking and quacking and fluttering as the duck-people escaped from the lodge. ho! but old-man was angry, and he kicked the back of the loon-duck, and that is why his feet turn from his body when he walks or tries to stand. yes, that is why he is a cripple to-day. "and all of the duck-people that peeked that night at the dance still have sore eyes--just as old-man told them they would have. of course they hurt and smart no more but they stay red to pay for peeking, and always will. you have seen the mallard and the rest of the duck-people. you can see that the colors old-man painted so long ago are still bright and handsome, and they will stay that way forever and forever. ho!" why the kingfisher always wears a war-bonnet autumn nights on the upper missouri river in montana are indescribably beautiful, and under their spell imagination is a constant companion to him who lives in wilderness, lending strange, weird echoes to the voice of man or wolf, and unnatural shapes in shadow to commonplace forms. the moon had not yet climbed the distant mountain range to look down on the humbler lands when i started for war eagle's lodge; and dimming the stars in its course, the milky-way stretched across the jewelled sky. "the wolf's trail," the indians call this filmy streak that foretells fair weather, and to-night it promised much, for it seemed plainer and brighter than ever before. "how--how!" greeted war eagle, making the sign for me to be seated near him, as i entered his lodge. then he passed me his pipe and together we smoked until the children came. entering quietly, they seated themselves in exactly the same positions they had occupied on the previous evenings, and patiently waited in silence. finally war eagle laid the pipe away and said: "ho! little buffalo calf, throw a big stick on the fire and i will tell you why the kingfisher wears a war-bonnet." the boy did as he was bidden. the sparks jumped toward the smoke-hole and the blaze lighted up the lodge until it was bright as daytime, when war eagle continued: "you have often seen kingfisher at his fishing along the rivers, i know; and you have heard him laugh in his queer way, for he laughs a good deal when he flies. that same laugh nearly cost him his life once, as you will see. i am sure none could see the kingfisher without noticing his great head-dress, but not many know how he came by it because it happened so long ago that most men have forgotten. "it was one day in the winter-time when old-man and the wolf were hunting. the snow covered the land and ice was on all of the rivers. it was so cold that old-man wrapped his robe close about himself and his breath showed white in the air. of course the wolf was not cold; wolves never get cold as men do. both old-man and the wolf were hungry for they had travelled far and had killed no meat. old-man was complaining and grumbling, for his heart is not very good. it is never well to grumble when we are doing our best, because it will do no good and makes us weak in our hearts. when our hearts are weak our heads sicken and our strength goes away. yes, it is bad to grumble. "when the sun was getting low old-man and the wolf came to a great river. on the ice that covered the water, they saw four fat otters playing. "'there is meat,' said the wolf; 'wait here and i will try to catch one of those fellows.' "'no!--no!' cried old-man, 'do not run after the otter on the ice, because there are air-holes in all ice that covers rivers, and you may fall in the water and die.' old-man didn't care much if the wolf did drown. he was afraid to be left alone and hungry in the snow--that was all. "'ho!' said the wolf, 'i am swift of foot and my teeth are white and sharp. what chance has an otter against me? yes, i will go,' and he did. "away ran the otters with the wolf after them, while old-man stood on the bank and shivered with fright and cold. of course the wolf was faster than the otter, but he was running on the ice, remember, and slipping a good deal. nearer and nearer ran the wolf. in fact he was just about to seize an otter, when splash!--into an air-hole all the otters went. ho! the wolf was going so fast he couldn't stop, and swow! into the air-hole he went like a badger after mice, and the current carried him under the ice. the otters knew that hole was there. that was their country and they were running to reach that same hole all the time, but the wolf didn't know that. "old-man saw it all and began to cry and wail as women do. ho! but he made a great fuss. he ran along the bank of the river, stumbling in the snowdrifts, and crying like a woman whose child is dead; but it was because he didn't want to be left in that country alone that he cried--not because he loved his brother, the wolf. on and on he ran until he came to a place where the water was too swift to freeze, and there he waited and watched for the wolf to come out from under the ice, crying and wailing and making an awful noise, for a man. "well--right there is where the thing happened. you see, kingfisher can't fish through the ice and he knows it, too; so he always finds places like the one old-man found. he was there that day, sitting on the limb of a birch-tree, watching for fishes, and when old-man came near to kingfisher's tree, crying like an old woman, it tickled the fisher so much that he laughed that queer, chattering laugh. "old-man heard him and--ho! but he was angry. he looked about to see who was laughing at him and that made kingfisher laugh again, longer and louder than before. this time old-man saw him and swow! he threw his war-club at kingfisher; tried to kill the bird for laughing. kingfisher ducked so quickly that old-man's club just grazed the feathers on his head, making them stand up straight. "'there,' said old-man, 'i'll teach you to laugh at me when i'm sad. your feathers are standing up on the top of your head now and they will stay that way, too. as long as you live you must wear a head-dress, to pay for your laughing, and all your children must do the same. "this was long, long ago, but the kingfishers have not forgotten, and they all wear war-bonnets, and always will as long as there are kingfishers. "now i will say good night, and when the sun sleeps again i will tell you why the curlew's bill is so long and crooked. ho!" why the curlew's bill is long and crooked when we reached war eagle's lodge we stopped near the door, for the old fellow was singing--singing some old, sad song of younger days and keeping time with his tom-tom. somehow the music made me sad and not until it had ceased, did we enter. "how! how!"--he greeted us, with no trace of the sadness in his voice that i detected in his song. "you have come here to-night to learn why the curlew's bill is so long and crooked. i will tell you, as i promised, but first i must smoke." in silence we waited until the pipe was laid aside, then war eagle began: "by this time you know that old-man was not always wise, even if he did make the world, and all that is on it. he often got into trouble but something always happened to get him out of it. what i shall tell you now will show you that it is not well to try to do things just because others do them. they may be right for others, and wrong for us, but old-man didn't understand that, you see. "one day he saw some mice playing and went near to watch them. it was spring-time, and the frost was just coming out of the ground. a big flat rock was sticking out of a bank near a creek, and the sun had melted the frost from the earth about it, loosening it, so that it was about to fall. the chief-mouse would sing a song, while all the other mice danced, and then the chief would cry 'now!' and all the mice would run past the big rock. on the other side, the chief-mouse would sing again, and then say 'now!'--back they would come--right under the dangerous rock. sometimes little bits of dirt would crumble and fall near the rock, as though warning the mice that the rock was going to fall, but they paid no attention to the warning, and kept at their playing. finally old-man said: "'say, chief-mouse, i want to try that. i want to play that game. i am a good runner.' "he wasn't, you know, but he thought he could run. that is often where we make great mistakes--when we try to do things we were not intended to do. "'no--no!' cried the chief-mouse, as old-man prepared to make the race past the rock. 'no!--no!--you will shake the ground. you are too heavy, and the rock may fall and kill you. my people are light of foot and fast. we are having a good time, but if you should try to do as we are doing you might get hurt, and that would spoil our fun.' "'ho!' said old-man, 'stand back! i'll show you what a runner i am.' "he ran like a grizzly bear, and shook the ground with his weight. swow!--came the great rock on top of old-man and held him fast in the mud. my! how he screamed and called for aid. all the mice-people ran away to find help. it was a long time before the mice-people found anybody, but they finally found the coyote, and told him what had happened. coyote didn't like old-man very much, but he said he would go and see what he could do, and he did. the mice-people showed him the way, and when they all reached the spot--there was old-man deep in the mud, with the big rock on his back. he was angry and was saying things people should not say, for they do no good and make the mind wicked. "coyote said: 'keep still, you big baby. quit kicking about so. you are splashing mud in my eyes. how can i see with my eyes full of mud? tell me that. i am going to try to help you out of your trouble.' he tried but old-man insulted coyote, and called him a name that is not good, so the coyote said, 'well, stay there,' and went away. "again old-man began to call for helpers, and the curlew, who was flying over, saw the trouble, and came down to the ground to help. in those days curlew had a short, stubby bill, and he thought that he could break the rock by pecking it. he pecked and pecked away without making any headway, till old-man grew angry at him, as he did at the coyote. the harder the curlew worked, the worse old-man scolded him. old-man lost his temper altogether, you see, which is a bad thing to do, for we lose our friends with it, often. temper is like a bad dog about a lodge--no friends will come to see us when he is about. "curlew did his best but finally said: 'i'll go and try to find somebody else to help you. i guess i am too small and weak. i shall come back to you.' he was standing close to old-man when he spoke, and old-man reached out and grabbed the curlew by the bill. curlew began to scream--oh, my--oh, my--oh, my--as you still hear them in the air when it is morning. old-man hung onto the bill and finally pulled it out long and slim, and bent it downward, as it is to-day. then he let go and laughed at the curlew. "'you are a queer-looking bird now. that is a homely bill, but you shall always wear it and so shall all of your children, as long as there are curlews in the world.' "i have forgotten who it was that got old-man out of his trouble, but it seems to me it was the bear. anyhow he did get out somehow, and lived to make trouble, until manitou grew tired of him. "there are good things that old-man did and to-morrow night, if you will come early, i will tell you how old-man made the world over after the water made its war on the land, scaring all the animal-people and the bird-people. i will also tell you how he made the first man and the first woman and who they were. but now the grouse is fast asleep; nobody is stirring but those who were made to see in the dark, like the owl and the wolf.-- ho!" old-man remakes the world the sun was just sinking behind the hills when we started for war eagle's lodge. "to-morrow will be a fine day," said other-person, "for grandfather says that a red sky is always the sun's promise of fine weather, and the sun cannot lie." "yes," said bluebird, "and he said that when this moon was new it travelled well south for this time of year and its points were up. that means fine, warm weather." "i wish i knew as much as grandfather," said fine-bow with pride. the pipe was laid aside at once upon our entering the lodge and the old warrior said: "i have told you that old-man taught the animals and the birds all they know. he made them and therefore knew just what each would have to understand in order to make his living. they have never forgotten anything he told them--even to this day. their grandfathers told the young ones what they had been told, just as i am telling you the things you should know. be like the birds and animals--tell your children and grandchildren what i have told you, that our people may always know how things were made, and why strange things are true. "yes--old-man taught the beaver how to build his dams to make the water deeper; taught the squirrel to plant the pine-nut so that another tree might grow and have nuts for his children; told the bear to go to sleep in the winter, when the snow made hard travelling for his short legs--told him to sleep, and promised him that he would need no meat while he slept. all winter long the bear sleeps and eats nothing, because old-man told him that he could. he sleeps so much in the winter that he spends most of his time in summer hunting. "it was old-man who showed the owl how to hunt at night and it was old-man that taught the weasel all his wonderful ways--his bloodthirsty ways--for the weasel is the bravest of the animal-people, considering his size. he taught the beaver one strange thing that you have noticed, and that is to lay sticks on the creek-bottoms, so that they will stay there as long as he wants them to. "whenever the animal-people got into trouble they always sought old-man and told him about it. all were busy working and making a living, when one day it commenced to rain. that was nothing, of course, but it didn't stop as it had always done before. no, it kept right on raining until the rivers overran their banks, and the water chased the weasel out of his hole in the ground. yes, and it found the rabbit's hiding-place and made him leave it. it crept into the lodge of the wolf at night and frightened his wife and children. it poured into the den of the bear among the rocks and he had to move. it crawled under the logs in the forest and found the mice-people. out it went to the plains and chased them out of their homes in the buffalo skulls. at last the beavers' dams broke under the strain and that made everything worse. it was bad--very bad, indeed. everybody except the fish-people were frightened and all went to find old-man that they might tell him what had happened. finally they found his fire, far up on a timbered bench, and they said that they wanted a council right away. "it was a strange sight to see the eagle sitting next to the grouse; the rabbit sitting close to the lynx; the mouse right under the very nose of the bobcat, and the tiny humming-bird talking to the hawk in a whisper, as though they had always been great friends. all about old-man's fire they sat and whispered or talked in signs. even the deer spoke to the mountain-lion, and the antelope told the wolf that he was glad to see him, because fear had made them all friends. "the whispering and the sign-making stopped when old-man raised his hand-like that" (here war eagle raised his hand with the palm outward)--"and asked them what was troubling them. "the bear spoke first, of course, and told how the water had made him move his camp. he said all the animal-people were moving their homes, and he was afraid they would be unable to find good camping-places, because of the water. then the beaver spoke, because he is wise and all the forest-people know it. he said his dams would not hold back the water that came against them; that the whole world was a lake, and that he thought they were on an island. he said he could live in the water longer than most people, but that as far as he could see they would all die except, perhaps, the fish-people, who stayed in the water all the time, anyhow. he said he couldn't think of a thing to do--then he sat down and the sign-talking and whispering commenced again. "old-man smoked a long time--smoked and thought hard. finally he grabbed his magic stone axe, and began to sing his war-song. then the rest knew he had made up his mind and knew what he would do. swow! he struck a mighty pine-tree a blow, and it fell down. swow! down went another and another, until he had ten times ten of the longest, straightest, and largest trees in all the world lying side by side before him. then old-man chopped off the limbs, and with the aid of magic rolled the great logs tight together. with withes of willow that he told the beaver to cut for him, he bound the logs fast together until they were all as one. it was a monstrous raft that old-man had built, as he sang his song in the darkness. at last he cried, 'ho! everybody hurry and sit on this raft i have made'; and they did hurry. "it was not long till the water had reached the logs; then it crept in between them, and finally it went on past the raft and off into the forest, looking for more trouble. "by and by the raft began to groan, and the willow withes squeaked and cried out as though ghost-people were crying in the night. that was when the great logs began to tremble as the water lifted them from the ground. rain was falling--night was there, and fear made cowards of the bravest on the raft. all through the forest there were bad noises--noises that make the heart cold--as the raft bumped against great trees rising from the earth that they were leaving forever. "higher and higher went the raft; higher than the bushes; higher than the limbs on the trees; higher than the woodpecker's nest; higher than the tree tops, and even higher than the mountains. then the world was no more, for the water had whipped the land in the war it made against it. "day came, and still the rain was falling. night returned, and yet the rain came down. for many days and nights they drifted in the falling rain; whirling and twisting about while the water played with the great raft, as a bear would play with a mouse. it was bad, and they were all afraid--even old-man himself was scared. "at last the sun came but there was no land. all was water. the water was the world. it reached even to the sky and touched it all about the edges. all were hungry, and some of them were grumbling, too. there are always grumblers when there is great trouble, but they are not the ones who become great chiefs--ever. "old-man sat in the middle of the raft and thought. he knew that something must be done, but he didn't know what. finally he said: 'ho! chipmunk, bring me the spotted loon. tell him i want him.' "the chipmunk found the spotted loon and told him that old-man wanted him, so the loon went to where old-man sat. when he got there, old-man said: "'spotted loon you are a great diver. nobody can dive as you can. i made you that way and i know. if you will dive and swim down to the world i think you might bring me some of the dirt that it is made of--then i am sure i can make another world.' "'it is too deep, this water,' replied the loon, 'i am afraid i shall drown.' "'well, what if you do?' said old-man. 'i gave you life, and if you lose it this way i will return it to you. you shall live again!' "'all right, old-man,' he answered, 'i am willing to try'; so he waddled to the edge of the raft. he is a poor walker--the loon, and you know i told you why. it was all because old-man kicked him in the back the night he painted all the duck-people. "down went the spotted loon, and long he stayed beneath the water. all waited and watched, and longed for good luck, but when he came to the top he was dead. everybody groaned--all felt badly, i can tell you, as old-man laid the dead loon on the logs. the loon's wife was crying, but old-man told her to shut up and she did. "then old-man blew his own breath into the loon's bill, and he came back to life. "'what did you see, brother loon?' asked old-man, while everybody crowded as close as he could. "'nothing but water,' answered the loon, 'we shall all die here, i cannot reach the world by swimming. my heart stops working.' "there were many brave ones on the raft, and the otter tried to reach the world by diving; and the beaver, and the gray goose, and the gray goose's wife; but all died in trying, and all were given a new life by old-man. things were bad and getting worse. everybody was cross, and all wondered what old-man would do next, when somebody laughed. "all turned to see what there could be to laugh at, at such a time, and old-man turned about just in time to see the muskrat bid good-by to his wife--that was what they were laughing at. but he paid no attention to old-man or the rest, and slipped from the raft to the water. flip!--his tail cut the water like a knife, and he was gone. some laughed again, but all wondered at his daring, and waited with little hope in their hearts; for the muskrat wasn't very great, they thought. "he was gone longer than the loon, longer than the beaver, longer than the otter or the gray goose or his wife, but when he came to the surface of the water he was dead. "old-man brought muskrat back to life, and asked him what he had seen on his journey. muskrat said: 'i saw trees, old-man, but i died before i got to them.' "old-man told him he was brave. he said his people should forever be great if he succeeded in bringing some dirt to the raft; so just as soon as the muskrat was rested he dove again. "when he came up he was dead, but clinched in his tiny hand old-man found some dirt--not much, but a little. a second time old-man gave the muskrat his breath, and told him that he must go once more, and bring dirt. he said there was not quite enough in the first lot, so after resting a while the muskrat tried a third time and a third time he died, but brought up a little more dirt. "everybody on the raft was anxious now, and they were all crowding about old-man; but he told them to stand back, and they did. then he blew his breath in muskrat's mouth a third time, and a third time he lived and joined his wife. "old-man then dried the dirt in his hands, rubbing it slowly and singing a queer song. finally it was dry; then he settled the hand that held the dirt in the water slowly, until the water touched the dirt. the dry dirt began to whirl about and then old-man blew upon it. hard he blew and waved his hands, and the dirt began to grow in size right before their eyes. old-man kept blowing and waving his hands until the dirt became real land, and the trees began to grow. so large it grew that none could see across it. then he stopped his blowing and sang some more. everybody wanted to get off the raft, but old-man said 'no.' "'come here, wolf,' he said, and the wolf came to him. "'you are swift of foot and brave. run around this land i have made, that i may know how large it is.' "the wolf started, and it took him half a year to get back to the raft. he was very poor from much running, too, but old-man said the world wasn't big enough yet so he blew some more, and again sent the wolf out to run around the land. he never came back--no, the old-man had made it so big that the wolf died of old age before he got back to the raft. then all the people went out upon the land to make their living, and they were happy, there, too. "after they had been on the land for a long time old-man said: 'now i shall make a man and a woman, for i am lonesome living with you people. he took two or three handfuls of mud from the world he had made, and moulded both a man and a woman. then he set them side by side and breathed upon them. they lived!--and he made them very strong and healthy--very beautiful to look upon. chippewas, he called these people, and they lived happily on that world until a white man saw an eagle sailing over the land and came to look about. he stole the woman--that white man did; and that is where all the tribes came from that we know to-day. none are pure of blood but the two humans he made of clay, and their own children. and they are the chippewas! "that is a long story and now you must hurry to bed. to-morrow night i will tell you another story--ho!" why blackfeet never kill mice muskrat and his grandmother were gathering wood for the camp the next morning, when they came to an old buffalo skull. the plains were dotted with these relics of the chase, for already the hide-hunting white man had played havoc with the great herds of buffalo. this skull was in a grove of cottonwood-trees near the river, and as they approached two mice scampered into it to hide. muskrat, in great glee, secured a stick and was about to turn the skull over and kill the mice, when his grandmother said: "no, our people never kill mice. your grandfather will tell you why if you ask him. the mice-people are our friends and we treat them as such. even small people can be good friends, you know--remember that." all the day the boy wondered why the mice-people should not be harmed; and just at dark he came for me to accompany him to war eagle's lodge. on the way he told me what his grandmother had said, and that he intended to ask for the reason, as soon as we arrived. we found the other children already there, and almost before we had seated ourselves, muskrat asked: "grandfather, why must we never kill the mice-people? grandmother said that you knew." "yes," replied war eagle, "i do know and you must know. therefore i shall tell you all to-night why the mice-people must be let alone and allowed to do as they please, for we owe them much; much more than we can ever pay. yes--they are great people, as you will see. "it happened long, long ago, when there were few men and women on the world. old-man was chief of all then, and the animal-people and the bird-people were greater than our people, because we had not been on earth long and were not wise. "there was much quarrelling among the animals and the birds. you see the bear wanted to be chief, under old-man, and so did the beaver. almost every night they would have a council and quarrel over it. beside the bear and beaver, there were other animals, and also birds, that thought they had the right to be chief. they couldn't agree and the quarrelling grew worse as time went on. some said the greatest thief should be chosen. others thought the wisest one should be the leader; while some said the swiftest traveller was the one they wanted. so it went on and on until they were most all enemies instead of friends, and you could hear them quarrelling almost every night, until old-man came along that way. "he heard about the trouble. i forget who told him, but i think it was the rabbit. anyhow he visited the council where the quarrelling was going on and listened to what each one had to say. it took until almost daylight, too. he listened to it all--every bit. when they had finished talking and the quarrelling commenced as usual, he said, 'stop!' and they did stop. "then he said to them: 'i will settle this thing right here and right now, so that there will be no more rows over it, forever.' "he opened his paint sack and took from it a small, polished bone. this he held up in the firelight, so that they might all see it, and he said: "'this will settle the quarrel. you all see this bone in my right hand, don't you?' "'yes,' they replied. "'well, now you watch the bone and my hands, too, for they are quick and cunning.' "old-man began to sing the gambling song and to slip the bone from one hand to the other so rapidly and smoothly that they were all puzzled. finally he stopped singing and held out his hands--both shut tight, and both with their backs up. "'which of my hands holds the bone now?' he asked them. "some said it was in the right hand and others claimed that it was the left hand that held it. old-man asked the bear to name the hand that held the bone, and the bear did; but when old-man opened that hand it was empty--the bone was not there. then everybody laughed at the bear. old-man smiled a little and began to sing and again pass the bone. "'beaver, you are smart; name the hand that holds the bone this time.' "the beaver said: 'it's in your right hand. i saw you put it there.' "old-man opened that hand right before the beaver's eyes, but the bone wasn't there, and again everybody laughed--especially the bear. "'now, you see,' said old-man, 'that this is not so easy as it looks, but i am going to teach you all to play the game; and when you have all learned it, you must play it until you find out who is the cleverest at the playing. whoever that is, he shall be chief under me, forever.' "some were awkward and said they didn't care much who was chief, but most all of them learned to play pretty well. first the bear and the beaver tried it, but the beaver beat the bear easily and held the bone for ever so long. finally the buffalo beat the beaver and started to play with the mouse. of course the mouse had small hands and was quicker than the buffalo--quicker to see the bone. the buffalo tried hard for he didn't want the mouse to be chief but it didn't do him any good; for the mouse won in the end. "it was a fair game and the mouse was chief under the agreement. he looked quite small among the rest but he walked right out to the centre of the council and said: "'listen, brothers--what is mine to keep is mine to give away. i am too small to be your chief and i know it. i am not warlike. i want to live in peace with my wife and family. i know nothing of war. i get my living easily. i don't like to have enemies. i am going to give my right to be chief to the man that old-man has made like himself.' "that settled it. that made the man chief forever, and that is why he is greater than the animals and the birds. that is why we never kill the mice-people. "you saw the mice run into the buffalo skull, of course. there is where they have lived and brought up their families ever since the night the mouse beat the buffalo playing the bone game. yes--the mice-people always make their nests in the heads of the dead buffalo-people, ever since that night. "our people play the same game, even today. see," and war eagle took from his paint sack a small, polished bone. then he sang just as old-man did so long ago. he let the children try to guess the hand that held the bone, as the animal-people did that fateful night; but, like the animals, they always guessed wrong. laughingly war eagle said: "now go to your beds and come to see me to-morrow night. ho!" how the otter skin became great "medicine" it was rather late when we left war eagle's lodge after having learned why the indians never kill the mice-people; and the milky way was white and plain, dimming the stars with its mist. the children all stopped to say good night to little sees-in-the-dark, a brand-new baby sister of bluebird's; then they all went to bed. the next day the boys played at war, just as white boys do; and the girls played with dolls dressed in buckskin clothes, until it grew tiresome, when they visited relatives until it came time for us all to go to their grandfather's lodge. he was smoking when we entered, but soon laid aside the pipe and said: "you know that the otter skin is big medicine, no doubt. you have noticed that our warriors wear it sometimes and you know that we all think it very lucky to wear the skin of the otter. but you don't know how it came to be great; so i shall tell you. "one time, long before my grandfather was born, a young-man of our tribe was unlucky in everything. no woman wanted to marry him, because he couldn't kill enough meat to keep her in food and clothes. whenever he went hunting, his bow always broke or he would lose his lance. if these things didn't happen, his horse would fall and hurt him. everybody talked about him and his bad luck, and although he was fine-looking, he had no close friends, because of his ill fortune. he tried to dream and get his medicine but no dream would come. he grew sour and people were sorry for him all the time. finally his name was changed to 'the unlucky-one,' which sounds bad to the ear. he used to wander about alone a good deal, and one morning he saw an old woman gathering wood by the side of a river. the unlucky-one was about to pass the old woman when she stopped him and asked: "'why are you so sad in your handsome face? why is that sorry look in your fine eyes?' "'because,' replied the young-man, 'i am the unlucky-one. everything goes wrong with me, always. i don't want to live any longer, for my heart is growing wicked.' "'come with me,' said the old woman, and he followed her until she told him to sit down. then she said: 'listen to me. first you must learn a song to sing, and this is it.' then she sang a queer song over and over again until the young-man had learned it well. "'now do what i tell you, and your heart shall be glad some day.' she drew from her robe a pair of moccasins and a small sack of dried meat. 'here,' she said, 'put these moccasins on your feet and take this sack of meat for food, for you must travel far. go on down this river until you come to a great beaver village. their lodges will be large and fine-looking and you will know the village by the great size of the lodges. when you get to the place, you must stand still for a long time, and then sing the song i taught you. when you have finished the singing, a great white beaver, chief of all the beavers in the world, will come to you. he is wise and can tell you what to do to change your luck. after that i cannot help you; but do what the white beaver tells you, without asking why. now go, and be brave!' "the young-man started at once. long his steps were, for he was young and strong. far he travelled down the river--saw many beaver villages, too, but he did not stop, because the lodges were not big, as the old woman told him they would be in the right village. his feet grew tired for he travelled day and night without resting, but his heart was brave and he believed what the old woman had told him. "it was late on the third day when he came to a mighty beaver village and here the lodges were greater than any he had ever seen before. in the centre of the camp was a monstrous lodge built of great sticks and towering above the rest. all about, the ground was neat and clean and bare as your hand. the unlucky-one knew this was the white beaver's lodge--knew that at last he had found the chief of all the beavers in the world; so he stood still for a long time, and then sang that song. "soon a great white beaver--white as the snows of winter--came to him and asked: 'why do you sing that song, my brother? what do you want of me? i have never heard a man sing that song before. you must be in trouble.' "'i am the unlucky-one,' the young-man replied. 'i can do nothing well. i can find no woman who will marry me. in the hunt my bow will often break or my lance is poor. my medicine is bad and i cannot dream. the people do not love me, and they pity me as they do a sick child.' "'i am sorry for you,' said the white beaver--chief of all the beavers in the world--'but you must find my brother the coyote, who knows where old-man's lodge is. the coyote will do your bidding if you sing that song when you see him. take this stick with you, because you will have a long journey, and with the stick you may cross any river and not drown, if you keep it always in your hand. that is all i can do for you, myself.' "on down the river the unlucky-one travelled and the sun was low in the west on the fourth day, when he saw the coyote on a hillside near by. after looking at coyote for a long time, the young-man commenced to sing the song the old woman had taught him. when he had finished the singing, the coyote came up close and asked: "'what is the matter? why do you sing that song? i never heard a man sing it before. what is it you want of me?' "then the unlucky-one told the coyote what he had told the white beaver, and showed the stick the beaver-chief had given him, to prove it. "'i am hungry, too,' said the unlucky-one, 'for i have eaten all the dried meat the old woman gave me.' "'wait here,' said the coyote, 'my brother the wolf has just killed a fat doe, and perhaps he will give me a little of the meat when i tell him about you and your troubles.' "away went the coyote to beg for meat, and while he was gone the young-man bathed his tired feet in a cool creek. soon the coyote came back with meat, and young-man built a fire and ate some of it, even before it was warm, for he was starving. when he had finished the coyote said: "'now i shall take you to old-man's lodge, come.' "they started, even though it was getting dark. long they travelled without stopping--over plains and mountains--through great forests and across rivers, until they came to a cave in the rough rocks on the side of a mighty mountain. "'in there,' said the coyote, 'you will find old-man and he can tell you what you want to know.' "the unlucky-one stood before the black hole in the rocks for a long time, because he was afraid; but when he turned to speak to the coyote he found himself to be alone. the coyote had gone about his own business--had silently slipped away in the night. "slowly and carefully the young-man began to creep into the cave, feeling his way in the darkness. his heart was beating like a tom-tom at a dance. finally he saw a fire away back in the cave. "the shadows danced about the stone sides of the cave as men say the ghosts do; and they frightened him. but looking, he saw a man sitting on the far side of the fire. the man's hair was like the snow and very long. his face was wrinkled with the seams left by many years of life and he was naked in the firelight that played about him. "slowly the young-man stood upon his feet and began to walk toward the fire with great fear in his heart. when he had reached the place where the firelight fell upon him, the old-man looked up and said: "'how, young-man, i am old-man. why did you come here? what is it you want?' "then the unlucky-one told old-man just what he had told the old woman and the white beaver and the coyote, and showed the stick the beaver had given him, to prove it. "'smoke,' said old-man, and passed the pipe to his visitor. after they had smoked old-man said: "'i will tell you what to do. on the top of this great mountain there live many ghost-people and their chief is a great owl. this owl is the only one who knows how you can change your luck, and he will tell you if you are not afraid. take this arrow and go among those people, without fear. show them you are unarmed as soon as they see you. now go!' "out into the night went the unlucky-one and on up the mountain. the way was rough and the wind blew from the north, chilling his limbs and stinging his face, but on he went toward the mountain-top, where the storm-clouds sleep and the winter always stays. drifts of snow were piled all about, and the wind gathered it up and hurled it at the young man as though it were angry at him. the clouds waked and gathered around him, making the night darker and the world lonelier than before, but on the very top of the mountain he stopped and tried to look through the clouds. then he heard strange singing all about him; but for a long time there was no singer in sight. finally the clouds parted and he saw a great circle of ghost-people with large and ugly heads. they were seated on the icy ground and on the drifts of snow and on the rocks, singing a warlike song that made the heart of the young-man stand still, in dread. in the centre of the circle there sat a mighty owl--their chief. ho!--when the ghost-people saw the unlucky-one they rushed at him with many lances and would have killed him but the owl-chief cried, 'stop!' "the young-man folded his arms and said: 'i am unarmed--come and see how a blackfoot dies. i am not afraid of you.' "'ho!' said the owl-chief, 'we kill no unarmed man. sit down, my son, and tell me what you want. why do you come here? you must be in trouble. you must smoke with me.' "the unlucky-one told the owl-chief just what he had told the old woman and the beaver and the coyote and old-man, and showed the stick that the white beaver had given him and the arrow that old-man had given to him to prove it. "'good,' said the owl-chief, 'i can help you, but first you must help yourself. take this bow. it is a medicine-bow; then you will have a bow that will not break and an arrow that is good and straight. now go down this mountain until you come to a river. it will be dark when you reach this river, but you will know the way. there will be a great cottonwood-tree on the bank of the stream where you first come to the water. at this tree, you must turn down the stream and keep on travelling without rest, until you hear a splashing in the water near you. when you hear the splashing, you must shoot this arrow at the sound. shoot quickly, for if you do not you can never have any good luck. if you do as i have told you the splasher will be killed and you must then take his hide and wear it always. the skin that the splasher wears will make you a lucky man. it will make anybody lucky and you may tell your people that it is so. "'now go, for it is nearly day and we must sleep.' "the young-man took his bow and arrow and the stick the white beaver had given him and started on his journey. all the day he travelled, and far into the night. at last he came to a river and on the bank he saw the great cottonwood-tree, just as the ghost owl had told him. at the tree the young-man turned down the stream and in the dark easily found his way along the bank. very soon he heard a great splashing in the water near him, and--zipp--he let the arrow go at the sound--then all was still again. he stood and looked and listened, but for a long time could see nothing--hear nothing. "then the moon came out from under a cloud and just where her light struck the river, he saw some animal floating--dead. with the magic stick the young-man walked out on the water, seized the animal by the legs and drew it ashore. it was an otter, and the young-man took his hide, right there. "a wolf waited in the brush for the body of the otter, and the young-man gave it to him willingly, because he remembered the meat the wolf had given the coyote. as soon as the young-man had skinned the otter he threw the hide over his shoulder and started for his own country with a light heart, but at the first good place he made a camp, and slept. that night he dreamed and all was well with him. "after days of travel he found his tribe again, and told what had happened. he became a great hunter and a great chief among us. he married the most beautiful woman in the tribe and was good to her always. they had many children, and we remember his name as one that was great in war. that is all--ho!" old-man steals the sun's leggings firelight--what a charm it adds to story-telling. how its moods seem to keep pace with situations pictured by the oracle, offering shadows when dread is abroad, and light when a pleasing climax is reached; for interest undoubtedly tends the blaze, while sympathy contributes or withholds fuel, according to its dictates. the lodge was alight when i approached and i could hear the children singing in a happy mood, but upon entering, the singing ceased and embarrassed smiles on the young faces greeted me; nor could i coax a continuation of the song. seated beside war eagle was a very old indian whose name was red robe, and as soon as i was seated, the host explained that he was an honored guest; that he was a sioux and a friend of long standing. then war eagle lighted the pipe, passing it to the distinguished friend, who in turn passed it to me, after first offering it to the sun, the father, and the earth, the mother of all that is. in a lodge of the blackfeet the pipe must never be passed across the doorway. to do so would insult the host and bring bad luck to all who assembled. therefore if there be a large number of guests ranged about the lodge, the pipe is passed first to the left from guest to guest until it reaches the door, when it goes back, unsmoked, to the host, to be refilled ere it is passed to those on his right hand. briefly war eagle explained my presence to red robe and said: "once the moon made the sun a pair of leggings. such beautiful work had never been seen before. they were worked with the colored quills of the porcupine and were covered with strange signs, which none but the sun and the moon could read. no man ever saw such leggings as they were, and it took the moon many snows to make them. yes, they were wonderful leggings and the sun always wore them on fine days, for they were bright to look upon. "every night when the sun went to sleep in his lodge away in the west, he used the leggings for a pillow, because there was a thief in the world, even then. that thief and rascal was old-man, and of course the sun knew all about him. that is why he always put his fine leggings under his head when he slept. when he worked he almost always wore them, as i have told you, so that there was no danger of losing them in the daytime; but the sun was careful of his leggings when night came and he slept. "you wouldn't think that a person would be so foolish as to steal from the sun, but one night old-man--who is the only person who ever knew just where the sun's lodge was--crept near enough to look in, and saw the leggings under the sun's head. "we have all travelled a great deal but no man ever found the sun's lodge. no man knows in what country it is. of course we know it is located somewhere west of here, for we see him going that way every afternoon, but old-man knew everything--except that he could not fool the sun. "yes--old-man looked into the lodge of the sun and saw the leggings there--saw the sun, too, and the sun was asleep. he made up his mind that he would steal the leggings so he crept through the door of the lodge. there was no one at home but the sun, for the moon has work to do at night just as the children, the stars, do, so he thought he could slip the leggings from under the sleeper's head and get away. "he got down on his hands and knees to walk like the bear-people and crept into the lodge, but in the black darkness he put his knee upon a dry stick near the sun's bed. the stick snapped under his weight with so great a noise that the sun turned over and snorted, scaring old-man so badly that he couldn't move for a minute. his heart was not strong--wickedness makes every heart weaker--and after making sure that the sun had not seen him, he crept silently out of the lodge and ran away. "on the top of a hill old-man stopped to look and listen, but all was still; so he sat down and thought. "'i'll get them to-morrow night when he sleeps again'; he said to himself. 'i need those leggings myself, and i'm going to get them, because they will make me handsome as the sun.' "he watched the moon come home to camp and saw the sun go to work, but he did not go very far away because he wanted to be near the lodge when night came again. "it was not long to wait, for all the old-man had to do was to make mischief, and only those who have work to do measure time. he was close to the lodge when the moon came out, and there he waited until the sun went inside. from the bushes old-man saw the sun take off his leggings and his eyes glittered with greed as he saw their owner fold them and put them under his head as he had always done. then he waited a while before creeping closer. little by little the old rascal crawled toward the lodge, till finally his head was inside the door. then he waited a long, long time, even after the sun was snoring. "the strange noises of the night bothered him, for he knew he was doing wrong, and when a loon cried on a lake near by, he shivered as with cold, but finally crept to the sleeper's side. cautiously his fingers felt about the precious leggings until he knew just how they could best be removed without waking the sun. his breath was short and his heart was beating as a war-drum beats, in the black dark of the lodge. sweat--cold sweat, that great fear always brings to the weak-hearted--was dripping from his body, and once he thought that he would wait for another night, but greed whispered again, and listening to its voice, he stole the leggings from under the sun's head. "carefully he crept out of the lodge, looking over his shoulder as he went through the door. then he ran away as fast as he could go. over hills and valleys, across rivers and creeks, toward the east. he wasted much breath laughing at his smartness as he ran, and soon he grew tired. "'ho!' he said to himself, 'i am far enough now and i shall sleep. it's easy to steal from the sun--just as easy as stealing from the bear or the beaver.' "he folded the leggings and put them under his head as the sun had done, and went to sleep. he had a dream and it waked him with a start. bad deeds bring bad dreams to us all. old-man sat up and there was the sun looking right in his face and laughing. he was frightened and ran away, leaving the leggings behind him. "laughingly the sun put on the leggings and went on toward the west, for he is always busy. he thought he would see old-man no more, but it takes more than one lesson to teach a fool to be wise, and old-man hid in the timber until the sun had travelled out of sight. then he ran westward and hid himself near the sun's lodge again, intending to wait for the night and steal the leggings a second time. "he was much afraid this time, but as soon as the sun was asleep he crept to the lodge and peeked inside. here he stopped and looked about, for he was afraid the sun would hear his heart beating. finally he started toward the sun's bed and just then a great white owl flew from off the lodge poles, and this scared him more, for that is very bad luck and he knew it; but he kept on creeping until he could almost touch the sun. "all about the lodge were beautiful linings, tanned and painted by the moon, and the queer signs on them made the old coward tremble. he heard a night-bird call outside and he thought it would surely wake the sun; so he hastened to the bed and with cunning fingers stole the leggings, as he had done the night before, without waking the great sleeper. then he crept out of the lodge, talking bravely to himself as cowards do when they are afraid. "'now,' he said to himself, 'i shall run faster and farther than before. i shall not stop running while the night lasts, and i shall stay in the mountains all the time when the sun is at work in the daytime!' "away he went--running as the buffalo runs--straight ahead, looking at nothing, hearing nothing, stopping at nothing. when day began to break old-man was far from the sun's lodge and he hid himself in a deep gulch among some bushes that grew there. he listened a long time before he dared to go to sleep, but finally he did. he was tired from his great run and slept soundly and for a long time, but when he opened his eyes--there was the sun looking straight at him, and this time he was scowling. old-man started to run away but the sun grabbed him and threw him down upon his back. my! but the sun was angry, and he said: "'old-man, you are a clever thief but a mighty fool as well, for you steal from me and expect to hide away. twice you have stolen the leggings my wife made for me, and twice i have found you easily. don't you know that the whole world is my lodge and that you can never get outside of it, if you run your foolish legs off? don't you know that i light all of my lodge every day and search it carefully? don't you know that nothing can hide from me and live? i shall not harm you this time, but i warn you now, that if you ever steal from me again, i will hurt you badly. now go, and don't let me catch you stealing again!' "away went old-man, and on toward the west went the busy sun. that is all. "now go to bed; for i would talk of other things with my friend, who knows of war as i do. ho!" old-man and his conscience not so many miles away from the village, the great mountain range so divides the streams that are born there, that their waters are offered as tribute to the atlantic, pacific, and arctic oceans. in this wonderful range the indians believe the winds are made, and that they battle for supremacy over gunsight pass. i have heard an old story, too, that is said to have been generally believed by the blackfeet, in which a monster bull-elk that lives in gunsight pass lords it over the winds. this elk creates the north wind by "flapping" one of his ears, and the south wind by the same use of his other. i am inclined to believe that the winds are made in that pass, myself, for there they are seldom at rest, especially at this season of the year. to-night the wind was blowing from the north, and filmy white clouds were driven across the face of the nearly full moon, momentarily veiling her light. lodge poles creaked and strained at every heavy gust, and sparks from the fires inside the lodges sped down the wind, to fade and die. in his lodge war eagle waited for us, and when we entered he greeted us warmly, but failed to mention the gale. "i have been waiting," he said. "you are late and the story i shall tell you is longer than many of the others." without further delay the story-telling commenced. "once old-man came upon a lodge in the forest. it was a fine one, and painted with strange signs. smoke was curling from the top, and thus he knew that the person who lived there was at home. without calling or speaking, he entered the lodge and saw a man sitting by the fire smoking his pipe. the man didn't speak, nor did he offer his pipe to old-man, as our people do when they are glad to see visitors. he didn't even look at his guest, but old-man has no good manners at all. he couldn't see that he wasn't wanted, as he looked about the man's lodge and made himself at home. the linings were beautiful and were painted with fine skill. the lodge was clean and the fire was bright, but there was no woman about. "leaning against a fine back-rest, old-man filled his own pipe and lighted it with a coal from the man's fire. then he began to smoke and look around, wondering why the man acted so queerly. he saw a star that shone down through the smoke-hole, and the tops of several trees that were near the lodge. then he saw a woman--way up in a tree top and right over the lodge. she looked young and beautiful and tall. "'whose woman is that up there in the tree top?' asked old-man. "'she's your woman if you can catch her and will marry her,' growled the man; 'but you will have to live here and help me make a living.' "'i'll try to catch her, and if i do i will marry her and stay here, for i am a great hunter and can easily kill what meat we want,' said old-man. "he went out of the lodge and climbed the tree after the woman. she screamed, but he caught her and held her, although she scratched him badly. he carried her into the lodge and there renewed his promise to stay there always. the man married them, and they were happy for four days, but on the fifth morning old-man was gone--gone with all the dried meat in the lodge--the thief. "when they were sure that the rascal had run away the woman began to cry, but not so the man. he got his bow and arrows and left the lodge in anger. there was snow on the ground and the man took the track of old-man, intending to catch and kill him. "the track was fresh and the man started on a run, for he was a good hunter and as fast as a deer. of course he gained on old-man, who was a much slower traveller; and the sun was not very high when the old thief stopped on a hilltop to look back. he saw the man coming fast. "'this will never do,' he said to himself. 'that queer person will catch me. i know what i shall do; i shall turn myself into a dead bull-elk and lie down. then he will pass me and i can go where i please.' "he took off his moccasins and said to them: 'moccasins, go on toward the west. keep going and making plain tracks in the snow toward the big-water where the sun sleeps. the queer-one will follow you, and when you pass out of the snowy country, you can lose him. go quickly for he is close upon us.' "the moccasins ran away as old-man wanted them to, and they made plain tracks in the snow leading away toward the big-water. old-man turned into a dead bull-elk and stretched himself near the tracks the moccasins had made. "up the hill came the man, his breath short from running. he saw the dead elk, and thought it might be old-man playing a trick. he was about to shoot an arrow into the dead elk to make sure; but just as he was about to let the arrow go, he saw the tracks the moccasins had made. of course he thought the moccasins were on old-man's feet, and that the carcass was really that of a dead elk. he was badly fooled and took the tracks again. on and on he went, following the moccasins over hills and rivers. faster than before went the man, and still faster travelled the empty moccasins, the trail growing dimmer and dimmer as the daylight faded. all day long, and all of the night the man followed the tracks without rest or food, and just at daybreak he came to the shore of the big-water. there, right by the water's edge, stood the empty moccasins, side by side. "the man turned and looked back. his eyes were red and his legs were trembling. 'caw--caw, caw,' he heard a crow say. right over his head he saw the black bird and knew him, too. "'ho! old-man, you were in that dead bull-elk. you fooled me, and now you are a crow. you think you will escape me, do you? well, you will not; for i, too, know magic, and am wise.' "with a stick the man drew a circle in the sand. then he stood within the ring and sang a song. old-man was worried and watched the strange doings from the air overhead. inside the circle the man began to whirl about so rapidly that he faded from sight, and from the centre of the circle there came an eagle. straight at the crow flew the eagle, and away toward the mountains sped the crow, in fright. "the crow knew that the eagle would catch him, so that as soon as he reached the trees on the mountains he turned himself into a wren and sought the small bushes under the tall trees. the eagle saw the change, and at once began turning over and over in the air. when he had reached the ground, instead of an eagle a sparrow-hawk chased the wren. now the chase was fast indeed, for no place could the wren find in which to hide from the sparrow-hawk. through the brush, into trees, among the weeds and grass, flew the wren with the hawk close behind. once the sparrow-hawk picked a feather from the wren's tail--so close was he to his victim. it was nearly over with the wren, when he suddenly came to a park along a river's side. in this park were a hundred lodges of our people, and before a fine lodge there sat the daughter of the chief. it was growing dark and chilly, but still she sat there looking at the river. the sparrow-hawk was striking at the wren with his beak and talons, when the wren saw the young-woman and flew straight to her. so swift he flew that the young-woman didn't see him at all, but she felt something strike her hand, and when she looked she saw a bone ring on her finger. this frightened her, and she ran inside the lodge, where the fire kept the shadows from coming. old-man had changed into the ring, of course, and the sparrow-hawk didn't dare to go into the lodge; so he stopped outside and listened. this is what he heard old-man say: "'don't be frightened, young-woman, i am neither a wren nor a ring. i am old-man and that sparrow-hawk has chased me all the day and for nothing. i have never done him harm, and he bothers me without reason.' "'liar--forked-tongue,' cried the sparrow-hawk. 'believe him not, young-woman. he has done wrong. he is wicked and i am not a sparrow-hawk, but conscience. like an arrow i travel, straight and fast. when he lies or steals from his friends i follow him. i talk all the time and he hears me, but lies to himself, and says he does not hear. you know who i am, young-woman, i am what talks inside a person.' "old-man heard what the sparrow-hawk said, and he was ashamed for once in his life. he crawled out of the lodge. into the shadows he ran away--away into the night, and the darkness--away from himself! "you see," said war eagle, as he reached for his pipe, "old-man knew that he had done wrong, and his heart troubled him, just as yours will bother you if you do not listen to the voice that speaks within yourselves. whenever that voice says a thing is wicked, it is wicked--no matter who says it is not. yes--it is very hard for a man to hide from himself. ho!" old-man's treachery the next afternoon muskrat and fine bow went hunting. they hid themselves in some brush which grew beside an old game trail that followed the river, and there waited for a chance deer. chickadees hopped and called, "chick-a-de-de-de" in the willows and wild-rose bushes that grew near their hiding-place; and the gentle little birds with their pretty coats were often within a few inches of the hands of the young hunters. in perfect silence they watched and admired these little friends, while glance or smile conveyed their appreciation of the bird-visits to each other. the wind was coming down the stream, and therefore the eyes of the boys seldom left the trail in that direction; for from that quarter an approaching deer would be unwarned by the ever-busy breeze. a rabbit came hopping down the game trail in believed perfect security, passing so close to fine bow that he could not resist the desire to strike at him with an arrow. both boys were obliged to cover their mouths with their open hands to keep from laughing aloud at the surprise and speed shown by the frightened bunny, as he scurried around a bend in the trail, with his white, pudgy tail bobbing rapidly. they had scarcely regained their composure and silence when, "snap!" went a dry stick. the sharp sound sent a thrill through the hearts of the boys, and instantly they became rigidly watchful. not a leaf could move on the ground now--not a bush might bend or a bird pass and escape being seen by the four sharp eyes that peered from the brush in the direction indicated by the sound of the breaking stick. two hearts beat loudly as fine bow fitted his arrow to the bowstring. tense and expectant they waited--yes, it was a deer--a buck, too, and he was coming down the trail, alert and watchful--down the trail that he had often travelled and knew so well. yes, he had followed his mother along that trail when he was but a spotted fawn--now he wore antlers, and was master of his own ways. on he came--nearly to the brush that hid the hunters, when, throwing his beautiful head high in the air, he stopped, turning his side a trifle. zipp--went the arrow and, kicking out behind, away went the buck, crashing through willows and alders that grew in his way, until he was out of sight. then all was still, save the chick-a-de-de-de, chick-a-de-de-de, that came constantly from the bushes about them. out from the cover came the hunters, and with ready bow they followed along the trail. yes--there was blood on a log, and more on the dead leaves. the arrow had found its mark and they must go slowly in their trailing, lest they lose the meat. for two hours they followed the wounded animal, and at last came upon him in a willow thicket--sick unto death, for the arrow was deep in his paunch. his sufferings were ended by another arrow, and the chase was done. with their knives the boys dressed the buck, and then went back to the camp to tell the women where the meat could be found--just as the men do. it was their first deer; and pride shone in their faces as they told their grandfather that night in the lodge. "that is good," war eagle replied, as the boys finished telling of their success. "that is good, if your mother needed the meat, but it is wrong to kill when you have plenty, lest manitou be angry. there is always enough, but none to waste, and the hunter who kills more than he needs is wicked. to-night i shall tell you what happened to old-man when he did that. yes, and he got into trouble over it. "one day in the fall when the leaves were yellow, and the deer-people were dressed in their blue robes--when the geese and duck-people were travelling to the country where water does not freeze, and where flowers never die, old-man was travelling on the plains. "near sundown he saw two buffalo-bulls feeding on a steep hillside; but he had no bow and arrow with him. he was hungry, and began to think of some way to kill one of the bulls for meat. very soon he thought out a plan, for he is cunning always. "he ran around the hill out of sight of the bulls, and there made two men out of grass and sage-brush. they were dummies, of course, but he made them to look just like real men, and then armed each with a wooden knife of great length. then he set them in the position of fighting; made them look as though they were about to fight each other with the knives. when he had them both fixed to suit, he ran back to the place where the buffalo were calling: "'ho! brothers, wait for me--do not run away. there are two fine men on the other side of this hill, and they are quarrelling. they will surely fight unless we stop them. it all started over you two bulls, too. one of the men says you are fat and fine, and the other claims you are poor and skinny. don't let our brothers fight over such a foolish thing as that. it would be wicked. now i can decide it, if you will let me feel all over you to see if you are fat or poor. then i will go back to the men and settle the trouble by telling them the truth. stand still and let me feel your sides--quick, lest the fight begin while i am away.' "'all right,' said the bulls, 'but don't you tickle us.' then old-man walked up close and commenced to feel about the bulls' sides; but his heart was bad. from his robe he slipped his great knife, and slyly felt about till he found the spot where the heart beats, and then stabbed the knife into the place, clear up to the hilt. "both of the bulls died right away, and old-man laughed at the trick he had played upon them. then he gave a knife to both of his hands, and said: "'get to work, both of you! skin these bulls while i sit here and boss you.' "both hands commenced to skin the buffalo, but the right hand was much the swifter worker. it gained upon the left hand rapidly, and this made the left hand angry. finally the left hand called the right hand 'dog-face.' that is the very worst thing you can call a person in our language, you know, and of course it made the right hand angry. so crazy and angry was the right hand that it stabbed the left hand, and then they began to fight in earnest. "both cut and slashed till blood covered the animals they were skinning. all this fighting hurt old-man badly, of course, and he commenced to cry, as women do sometimes. this stopped the fight; but still old-man cried, till, drying his tears, he saw a red fox sitting near the bulls, watching him. 'hi, there, you--go away from there! if you want meat you go and kill it, as i did.' "red fox laughed--'ha!--ha!--ha!--foolish old-man--ha!--ha!' then he ran away and told the other foxes and the wolves and the coyotes about old-man's meat. told them that his own hands couldn't get along with themselves and that it would be easy to steal it from him. "they all followed the red fox back to the place where old-man was, and there they ate all of the meat--every bit, and polished the bones. "old-man couldn't stop them, because he was hurt, you see; but it all came about through lying and killing more meat than he needed. yes--he lied and that is bad, but his hands got to quarrelling between themselves, and family quarrels are always bad. do not lie; do not quarrel. it is bad. ho!" why the night-hawk's wings are beautiful i was awakened by the voice of the camp-crier, and although it was yet dark i listened to his message. the camp was to move. all were to go to the mouth of the maria's--"the river that scolds at the other"--the indians call this stream, that disturbs the waters of the missouri with its swifter flood. on through the camp the crier rode, and behind him the lodge-fires glowed in answer to his call. the village was awake, and soon the thunder of hundreds of hoofs told me that the pony-bands were being driven into camp, where the faithful were being roped for the journey. fires flickered in the now fading darkness, and down came the lodges as though wizard hands had touched them. before the sun had come to light the world, we were on our way to "the river that scolds at the other." not a cloud was in the sky, and the wind was still. the sun came and touched the plains and hilltops with the light that makes all wild things glad. here and there a jack-rabbit scurried away, often followed by a pack of dogs, and sometimes, though not often, they were overtaken and devoured on the spot. bands of graceful antelope bounded out of our way, stopping on a knoll to watch the strange procession with wondering eyes, and once we saw a dust-cloud raised by a moving herd of buffalo, in the distance. so the day wore on, the scene constantly changing as we travelled. wolves and coyotes looked at us from almost every knoll and hilltop; and sage-hens sneaked to cover among the patches of sage-brush, scarcely ten feet away from our ponies. toward sundown we reached a grove of cottonwoods near the mouth of the maria's, and in an incredibly short space of time the lodges took form. soon, from out the tops of a hundred camps, smoke was curling just as though the lodges had been there always, and would forever remain. as soon as supper was over i found the children, and together we sought war eagle's lodge. he was in a happy mood and insisted upon smoking two pipes before commencing his story-telling. at last he said: "to-night i shall tell you why the nighthawk wears fine clothes. my grandfather told me about it when i was young. i am sure you have seen the night-hawk sailing over you, dipping and making that strange noise. of course there is a reason for it. "old-man was travelling one day in the springtime; but the weather was fine for that time of year. he stopped often and spoke to the bird-people and to the animal-people, for he was in good humor that day. he talked pleasantly with the trees, and his heart grew tender. that is, he had good thoughts; and of course they made him happy. finally he felt tired and sat down to rest on a big, round stone--the kind of stone our white friend there calls a bowlder. here he rested for a while, but the stone was cold, and he felt it through his robe; so he said: "'stone, you seem cold to-day. you may have my robe. i have hundreds of robes in my camp, and i don't need this one at all.' that was a lie he told about having so many robes. all he had was the one he wore. "he spread his robe over the stone, and then started down the hill, naked, for it was really a fine day. but storms hide in the mountains, and are never far away when it is springtime. soon it began to snow--then the wind blew from the north with a good strength behind it. old-man said: "'well, i guess i do need that robe myself, after all. that stone never did anything for me anyhow. nobody is ever good to a stone. i'll just go back and get my robe.' "back he went and found the stone. then he pulled the robe away, and wrapped it about himself. ho! but that made the stone angry--ho! old-man started to run down the hill, and the stone ran after him. ho! it was a funny race they made, over the grass, over smaller stones, and over logs that lay in the way, but old-man managed to keep ahead until he stubbed his toe on a big sage-brush, and fell--swow! "'now i have you!' cried the stone--'now i'll kill you, too! now i will teach you to give presents and then take them away,' and the stone rolled right on top of old-man, and sat on his back. "it was a big stone, you see, and old-man couldn't move it at all. he tried to throw off the stone but failed. he squirmed and twisted--no use--the stone held him fast. he called the stone some names that are not good; but that never helps any. at last he began to call: "'help!--help!--help!' but nobody heard him except the night-hawk, and he told the old-man that he would help him all he could; so he flew away up in the air--so far that he looked like a black speck. then he came down straight and struck that rock an awful blow--'swow!'--and broke it in two pieces. indeed he did. the blow was so great that it spoiled the night-hawk's bill, forever--made it queer in shape, and jammed his head, so that it is queer, too. but he broke the rock, and old-man stood upon his feet. "'thank you, brother night-hawk,' said old-man, 'now i will do something for you. i am going to make you different from other birds--make you so people will always notice you.' "you know that when you break a rock the powdered stone is white, like snow; and there is always some of the white powder whenever you break a rock, by pounding it. well, old-man took some of the fine powdered stone and shook it on the night-hawk's wings in spots and stripes--made the great white stripes you have seen on his wings, and told him that no other bird could have such marks on his clothes. "all the night-hawk's children dress the same way now; and they always will as long as there are night-hawks. of course their clothes make them proud; and that is why they keep at flying over people's heads--soaring and dipping and turning all the time, to show off their pretty wings. "that is all for to-night. muskrat, tell your father i would run buffalo with him tomorrow--ho!" why the mountain-lion is long and lean have you ever seen the plains in the morning--a june morning, when the spurred lark soars and sings--when the plover calls, and the curlew pipes his shriller notes to the rising sun? then is there music, indeed, for no bird outsings the spurred lark; and thanks to old-man he is not wanting in numbers, either. the plains are wonderful then--more wonderful than they are at this season of the year; but at all times they beckon and hold one as in a spell, especially when they are backed or bordered by a snow-capped mountain range. looking toward the east they are boundless, but on their western edge superb mountains rear themselves. all over this vast country the indians roamed, following the great buffalo herds as did the wolves, and making their living with the bow and lance, since the horse came to them. in the very old days the "piskun" was used, and buffalo were enticed to follow a fantastically dressed man toward a cliff, far enough to get the herd moving in that direction, when the "buffalo-man" gained cover, and hidden indians raised from their hiding places behind the animals, and drove them over the cliff, where they were killed in large numbers. not until cortez came with his cavalry from spain, were there horses on this continent, and then generations passed ere the plains tribes possessed this valuable animal, that so materially changed their lives. dogs dragged the indian's travois or packed his household goods in the days before the horse came, and for hundreds--perhaps thousands of years, these people had no other means of transporting their goods and chattels. as the indian is slow to forget or change the ways of his father, we should pause before we brand him as wholly improvident, i think. he has always been a family-man, has the indian, and small children had to be carried, as well as his camp equipage. wolf-dogs had to be fed, too, in some way, thus adding to his burden; for it took a great many to make it possible for him to travel at all. when the night came and we visited war eagle, we found he had other company--so we waited until their visit was ended before settling ourselves to hear the story that he might tell us. "the crows have stolen some of our best horses," said war eagle, as soon as the other guests had gone. "that is all right--we shall get them back, and more, too. the crows have only borrowed those horses and will pay for their use with others of their own. to-night i shall tell you why the mountain lion is so long and thin and why he wears hair that looks singed. i shall also tell you why that person's nose is black, because it is part of the story. "a long time ago the mountain-lion was a short, thick-set person. i am sure you didn't guess that. he was always a great thief like old-man, but once he went too far, as you shall see. "one day old-man was on a hilltop, and saw smoke curling up through the trees, away off on the far side of a gulch. 'ho!' he said, 'i wonder who builds fires except me. i guess i will go and find out.' "he crossed the gulch and crept carefully toward the smoke. when he got quite near where the fire was, he stopped and listened. he heard some loud laughing but could not see who it was that felt so glad and gay. finally he crawled closer and peeked through the brush toward the fire. then he saw some squirrel-people, and they were playing some sort of game. they were running and laughing, and having a big time, too. what do you think they were doing? they were running about the fire--all chasing one squirrel. as soon as the squirrel was caught, they would bury him in the ashes near the fire until he cried; then they would dig him out in a hurry. then another squirrel would take the lead and run until he was caught, as the other had been. in turn the captive would submit to being buried, and so on--while the racing and laughing continued. they never left the buried one in the ashes after he cried, but always kept their promise and dug him out, right away. "'say, let me play, won't you?' asked old-man. but the squirrel-people all ran away, and he had a hard time getting them to return to the fire. "'you can't play this game,' replied the chief-squirrel, after they had returned to the fire. "'yes, i can,' declared old-man, 'and you may bury me first, but be sure to dig me out when i cry, and not let me burn, for those ashes are hot near the fire.' "'all right,' said the chief-squirrel, 'we will let you play. lie down,'--and old-man did lie down near the fire. then the squirrels began to laugh and bury old-man in the ashes, as they did their own kind. in no time at all old-man cried: 'ouch!--you are burning me--quick!--dig me out.' "true to their promise, the squirrel-people dug old-man out of the ashes, and laughed at him because he cried so quickly. "'now, it is my turn to cover the captive,' said old-man, 'and as there are so many of you, i have a scheme that will make the game funnier and shorter. all of you lie down at once in a row. then i will cover you all at one time. when you cry--i will dig you out right away and the game will be over.' "they didn't know old-man very well; so they said, 'all right,' and then they all laid down in a row about the fire. "old-man buried them all in the ashes--then he threw some more wood on the fire and went away and left them. every squirrel there was in the world was buried in the ashes except one woman squirrel, and she told old-man she couldn't play and had to go home. if she hadn't gone, there might not be any squirrels in this world right now. yes, it is lucky that she went home. "for a minute or so old-man watched the fire as it grew hotter, and then went down to a creek where willows grew and made himself a great plate by weaving them together. when he had finished making the plate, he returned to the fire, and it had burned low again. he laughed at his wicked work, and a raven, flying over just then, called him 'forked-tongue,' or liar, but he didn't mind that at all. old-man cut a long stick and began to dig out the squirrel-people. one by one he fished them out of the hot ashes; and they were roasted fine and were ready to eat. as he fished them out he counted them, and laid them on the willow plate he had made. when he had dug out the last one, he took the plate to the creek and there sat down to eat the squirrels, for he was hungry, as usual. old-man is a big eater, but he couldn't eat all of the squirrels at once, and while eating he fell asleep with the great plate in his lap. "nobody knows how long it was that he slept, but when he waked his plate of squirrels was gone--gone completely. he looked behind him; he looked about him; but the plate was surely gone. ho! but he was angry. he stamped about in the brush and called aloud to those who might hear him; but nobody answered, and then he started to look for the thief. old-man has sharp eyes, and he found the trail in the grass where somebody had passed while he slept. 'ho!' he said, 'the mountain-lion has stolen my squirrels. i see his footprints; see where he has mashed the grass as he walked with those soft feet of his; but i shall find him, for i made him and know all his ways.' "old-man got down on his hands and knees to walk as the bear-people do, just as he did that night in the sun's lodge, and followed the trail of the mountain-lion over the hills and through the swamps. at last he came to a place where the grass was all bent down, and there he found his willow plate, but it was empty. that was the place where the mountain-lion had stopped to eat the rest of the squirrels, you know; but he didn't stay there long because he expected that old-man would try to follow him. "the mountain-lion had eaten so much that he was sleepy and, after travelling a while after he had eaten the squirrels, he thought he would rest. he hadn't intended to go to sleep; but he crawled upon a big stone near the foot of a hill and sat down where he could see a long way. here his eyes began to wink, and his head began to nod, and finally he slept. "without stopping once, old-man kept on the trail. that is what counts--sticking right to the thing you are doing--and just before sundown old-man saw the sleeping lion. carefully, lest he wake the sleeper, old-man crept close, being particular not to move a stone or break a twig; for the mountain-lion is much faster than men are, you see; and if old-man had wakened the lion, he would never have caught him again, perhaps. little by little he crept to the stone where the mountain-lion was dreaming, and at last grabbed him by the tail. it wasn't much of a tail then, but enough for old-man to hold to. ho! the lion was scared and begged hard, saying: "'spare me, old-man. you were full and i was hungry. i had to have something to eat; had to get my living. please let me go and do not hurt me.' ho! old-man was angry--more angry than he was when he waked and found that he had been robbed, because he had travelled so far on his hands and knees. "'i'll show you. i'll teach you. i'll fix you, right now. steal from me, will you? steal from the man that made you, you night-prowling rascal!' "old-man put his foot behind the mountain-lion's head, and, still holding the tail, pulled hard and long, stretching the lion out to great length. he squalled and cried, but old-man kept pulling until he nearly broke the mountain-lion in two pieces--until he couldn't stretch him any more. then old-man put his foot on the mountain-lion's back, and, still holding the tail, stretched that out until the tail was nearly as long as the body. "'there, you thief--now you are too long and lean to get fat, and you shall always look just like that. your children shall all grow to look the same way, just to pay you for your stealing from the man that made you. come on with me'; and he dragged the poor lion back to the place where the fire was, and there rolled him in the hot ashes, singeing his robe till it looked a great deal like burnt hair. then old-man stuck the lion's nose against the burnt logs and blackened it some--that is why his face looks as it does to-day. "the mountain-lion was lame and sore, but old-man scolded him some more and told him that it would take lots more food to keep him after that, and that he would have to work harder to get his living, to pay for what he had done. then he said, 'go now, and remember all the mountain-lions that ever live shall look just as you do.' and they do, too! "that is the story--that is why the mountain-lion is so long and lean, but he is no bigger thief than old-man, nor does he tell any more lies. ho!" the fire-leggings there had been a sudden change in the weather. a cold rain was falling, and the night comes early when the clouds hang low. the children loved a bright fire, and to-night war eagle's lodge was light as day. away off on the plains a wolf was howling, and the rain pattered upon the lodge as though it never intended to quit. it was a splendid night for story-telling, and war eagle filled and lighted the great stone pipe, while the children made themselves comfortable about the fire. a spark sprang from the burning sticks, and fell upon fine bow's bare leg. they all laughed heartily at the boy's antics to rid himself of the burning coal; and as soon as the laughing ceased war eagle laid aside the pipe. an indian's pipe is large to look at, but holds little tobacco. "see your shadows on the lodge wall?" asked the old warrior. the children said they saw them, and he continued: "some day i will tell you a story about them, and how they drew the arrows of our enemies, but to-night i am going to tell you of the great fire-leggings. "it was long before there were men and women on the world, but my grandfather told me what i shall now tell you. "the gray light that hides the night-stars was creeping through the forests, and the wind the sun sends to warn the people of his coming was among the fir tops. flowers, on slender stems, bent their heads out of respect for the herald-wind's master, and from the dead top of a pine-tree the yellowhammer beat upon his drum and called 'the sun is awake--all hail the sun!' "then the bush-birds began to sing the song of the morning, and from alders the robins joined, until all live things were awakened by the great music. where the tall ferns grew, the doe waked her fawns, and taught them to do homage to the great light. in the creeks, where the water was still and clear, and where throughout the day, like a delicate damaskeen, the shadows of leaves that overhang would lie, the speckled trout broke the surface of the pool in his gladness of the coming day. pine-squirrels chattered gayly, and loudly proclaimed what the wind had told; and all the shadows were preparing for a great journey to the sand hills, where the ghost-people dwell. "under a great spruce-tree--where the ground was soft and dry, old-man slept. the joy that thrilled creation disturbed him not, although the sun was near. the bird-people looked at the sleeper in wonder, but the pine squirrel climbed the great spruce-tree with a pine-cone in his mouth. quickly he ran out on the limb that spread over old-man, and dropped the cone on the sleeper's face. then he scolded old-man, saying: 'get up--get up--lazy one--lazy one--get up--get up.' "rubbing his eyes in anger, old-man sat up and saw the sun coming--his hunting leggings slipping through the thickets--setting them afire, till all the deer and elk ran out and sought new places to hide. "'ho, sun!' called old-man, 'those are mighty leggings you wear. no wonder you are a great hunter. your leggings set fire to all the thickets, and by the light you can easily see the deer and elk; they cannot hide. ho! give them to me and i shall then be the great hunter and never be hungry.' "'good,' said the sun, 'take them, and let me see you wear my leggings.' "old-man was glad in his heart, for he was lazy, and now he thought he could kill the game without much work, and that he could be a great hunter--as great as the sun. he put on the leggings and at once began to hunt the thickets, for he was hungry. very soon the leggings began to burn his legs. the faster he travelled the hotter they grew, until in pain he cried out to the sun to come and take back his leggings; but the sun would not hear him. on and on old-man ran. faster and faster he flew through the country, setting fire to the brush and grass as he passed. finally he came to a great river, and jumped in. sizzzzzzz--the water said, when old-man's legs touched it. it cried out, as it does when it is sprinkled upon hot stones in the sweat-lodge, for the leggings were very hot. but standing in the cool water old-man took off the leggings and threw them out upon the shore, where the sun found them later in the day. "the sun's clothes were too big for old-man, and his work too great. "we should never ask to do the things which manitou did not intend us to do. if we keep this always in mind we shall never get into trouble. "be yourselves always. that is what manitou intended. never blame the wolf for what he does. he was made to do such things. now i want you to go to your fathers' lodges and sleep. to-morrow night i will tell you why there are so many snakes in the world. ho!" the moon and the great snake the rain had passed; the moon looked down from a clear sky, and the bushes and dead grass smelled wet, after the heavy storm. a cottontail ran into a clump of wild-rose bushes near war eagle's lodge, and some dogs were close behind the frightened animal, as he gained cover. little buffalo calf threw a stone into the bushes, scaring the rabbit from his hiding-place, and away went bunny, followed by the yelping pack. we stood and listened until the noise of the chase died away, and then went into the lodge, where we were greeted, as usual, by war eagle. to-night he smoked; but with greater ceremony, and i suspected that it had something to do with the forthcoming story. finally he said: "you have seen many snakes, i suppose?" "yes," replied the children, "we have seen a great many. in the summer we see them every day." "well," continued the story-teller, "once there was only one snake on the whole world, and he was a big one, i tell you. he was pretty to look at, and was painted with all the colors we know. this snake was proud of his clothes and had a wicked heart. most snakes are wicked, because they are his relations. "now, i have not told you all about it yet, nor will i tell you to-night, but the moon is the sun's wife, and some day i shall tell you that story, but to-night i am telling you about the snakes. "you know that the sun goes early to bed, and that the moon most always leaves before he gets to the lodge. sometimes this is not so, but that is part of another story. "this big snake used to crawl up a high hill and watch the moon in the sky. he was in love with her, and she knew it; but she paid no attention to him. she liked his looks, for his clothes were fine, and he was always slick and smooth. this went on for a long time, but she never talked to him at all. the snake thought maybe the hill wasn't high enough, so he found a higher one, and watched the moon pass, from the top. every night he climbed this high hill and motioned to her. she began to pay more attention to the big snake, and one morning early, she loafed at her work a little, and spoke to him. he was flattered, and so was she, because he said many nice things to her, but she went on to the sun's lodge, and left the snake. "the next morning very early she saw the snake again, and this time she stopped a long time--so long that the sun had started out from the lodge before she reached home. he wondered what kept her so long, and became suspicious of the snake. he made up his mind to watch, and try to catch them together. so every morning the sun left the lodge a little earlier than before; and one morning, just as he climbed a mountain, he saw the big snake talking to the moon. that made him angry, and you can't blame him, because his wife was spending her time loafing with a snake. "she ran away; ran to the sun's lodge and left the snake on the hill. in no time the sun had grabbed him. my, the sun was angry! the big snake begged, and promised never to speak to the moon again, but the sun had him; and he smashed him into thousands of little pieces, all of different colors from the different parts of his painted body. the little pieces each turned into a little snake, just as you see them now, but they were all too small for the moon to notice after that. that is how so many snakes came into the world; and that is why they are all small, nowadays. "our people do not like the snake-people very well, but we know that they were made to do something on this world, and that they do it, or they wouldn't live here. "that was a short story, but to-morrow night i will tell you why the deer-people have no gall on their livers; and why the antelope-people do not wear dew-claws, for you should know that there are no other animals with cloven hoofs that are like them in this. "i am tired to-night, and i will ask that you go to your lodges, that i may sleep, for i am getting old. ho!" why the deer has no gall bright and early the next morning the children were playing on the bank of "the river that scolds the other," when fine bow said: "let us find a deer's foot, and the foot of an antelope and look at them, for to-night grandfather will tell us why the deer has the dew-claws, and why the antelope has none." "yes, and let us ask mother if the deer has no gall on its liver. maybe she can show both the liver of a deer and that of an antelope; then we can see for ourselves," said bluebird. so they began to look about where the hides had been grained for tanning; and sure enough, there were the feet of both the antelope and the deer. on the deer's feet, or legs, they found the dew-claws, but on the antelope there were none. this made them all anxious to know why these animals, so nearly alike, should differ in this way. bluebird's mother passed the children on her way to the river for water, and the little girl asked: "say, mother, does the deer have gall on his liver?" "no, my child, but the antelope does; and your grandfather will tell you why if you ask him." that night in the lodge war eagle placed before his grandchildren the leg of a deer and the leg of an antelope, as well as the liver of a deer and the liver of an antelope. "see for yourselves that this thing is true, before i tell you why it is so, and how it happened." "we see," they replied, "and to-day we found that these strange things are true, but we don't know why, grandfather." "of course you don't know why. nobody knows that until he is told, and now i shall tell you, so you will always know, and tell your children, that they, too, may know. "it was long, long ago, of course. all these things happened long ago when the world was young, as you are now. it was on a summer morning, and the deer was travelling across the plains country to reach the mountains on the far-off side, where he had relatives. he grew thirsty, for it was very warm, and stopped to drink from a water-hole on the plains. when he had finished drinking he looked up, and there was his own cousin, the antelope, drinking near him. "'good morning, cousin,' said the deer. 'it is a warm morning and water tastes good, doesn't it?' "'yes,' replied the antelope, 'it is warm to-day, but i can beat you running, just the same.' "'ha-ha!' laughed the deer--'you beat me running? why, you can't run half as fast as i can, but if you want to run a race let us bet something. what shall it be?' "'i will bet you my gall-sack,' replied the antelope. "'good,' said the deer, 'but let us run toward that range of mountains, for i am going that way, anyhow, to see my relations.' "'all right,' said the antelope. 'all ready, and here we go.' "away they ran toward the far-off range. all the way the antelope was far ahead of the deer; and just at the foot of the mountains he stopped to wait for him to catch up. "both were out of breath from running, but both declared they had done their best, and the deer, being beaten, gave the antelope his sack of gall. "'this ground is too flat for me,' said the deer. 'come up the hillside where the gulches cut the country, and rocks are in our way, and i will show you how to run. i can't run on flat ground. it's too easy for me.' another race with you on your own ground, and i think i can beat you there, too.' "together they climbed the hill until they reached a rough country, when the deer said: "'this is my kind of country. let us run a race here. whoever gets ahead and stays there, must keep on running until the other calls on him to stop.' "'that suits me,' replied the antelope, 'but what shall we bet this time? i don't want to waste my breath for nothing. i'll tell you--let us bet our dew-claws.' "'good. i'll bet you my dew-claws against your own, that i can beat you again. are you all ready?--go!' "away they went over logs, over stones and across great gulches that cut the hills in two. on and on they ran, with the deer far ahead of the antelope. both were getting tired, when the antelope called: "'hi, there--you! stop, you can beat me. i give up.' "so the deer stopped and waited until the antelope came up to him, and they both laughed over the fun, but the antelope had to give the deer his dew-claws, and now he goes without himself. the deer wears dew-claws and always will, because of that race, but on his liver there is no gall, while the antelope carries a gall-sack like the other animals with cloven hoofs. "that is all of that story, but it is too late to tell you another to-night. if you will come to-morrow evening, i will tell you of some trouble that old-man got into once. he deserved it, for he was wicked, as you shall see. ho!" why the indians whip the buffalo-berries from the bushes the indian believes that all things live again; that all were created by one and the same power; that nothing was created in vain; and that in the life beyond the grave he will know all things that he knew here. in that other world he expects to make his living easier, and not suffer from hunger or cold; therefore, all things that die must go to his heaven, in order that he may be supplied with the necessities of life. the sun is not the indian's god, but a personification of the deity; his greatest manifestation; his light. the indian believes that to each of his creations god gave some peculiar power, and that the possessors of these special favors are his lieutenants and keepers of the several special attributes; such as wisdom, cunning, speed, and the knowledge of healing wounds. these wonderful gifts, he knew, were bestowed as favors by a common god, and therefore he revered these powers, and, without jealousy, paid tribute thereto. the bear was great in war, because before the horse came, he would sometimes charge the camps and kill or wound many people. although many arrows were sent into his huge carcass, he seldom died. hence the indian was sure that the bear could heal his wounds. that the bear possessed a great knowledge of roots and berries, the indian knew, for he often saw him digging the one and stripping the others from the bushes. the buffalo, the beaver, the wolf, and the eagle--each possessed strange powers that commanded the indian's admiration and respect, as did many other things in creation. if about to go to war, the indian did not ask his god for aid--oh, no. he realized that god made his enemy, too; and that if he desired that enemy's destruction, it would be accomplished without man's aid. so the indian sang his song to the bear, prayed to the bear, and thus invoked aid from a brute, and not his god, when he sought to destroy his fellows. whenever the indian addressed the great god, his prayer was for life, and life alone. he is the most religious man i have ever known, as well as the most superstitious; and there are stories dealing with his religious faith that are startling, indeed. "it is the wrong time of year to talk about berries," said war eagle, that night in the lodge, "but i shall tell you why your mothers whip the buffalo-berries from the bushes. old-man was the one who started it, and our people have followed his example ever since. ho! old-man made a fool of himself that day. "it was the time when buffalo-berries are red and ripe. all of the bushes along the rivers were loaded with them, and our people were about to gather what they needed, when old-man changed things, as far as the gathering was concerned. "he was travelling along a river, and hungry, as he always was. standing on the bank of that river, he saw great clusters of red, ripe buffalo-berries in the water. they were larger than any berries he had ever seen, and he said: "'i guess i will get those berries. they look fine, and i need them. besides, some of the people will see them and get them, if i don't.' "he jumped into the water; looked for the berries; but they were not there. for a time old-man stood in the river and looked for the berries, but they were gone. "after a while he climbed out on the bank again, and when the water got smooth once more there were the berries--the same berries, in the same spot in the water. "'ho!--that is a funny thing. i wonder where they hid that time. i must have those berries!' he said to himself. "in he went again--splashing the water like a grizzly bear. he looked about him and the berries were gone again. the water was rippling about him, but there were no berries at all. he felt on the bottom of the river but they were not there. "'well,' he said, 'i will climb out and watch to see where they come from; then i shall grab them when i hit the water next time.' "he did that; but he couldn't tell where the berries came from. as soon as the water settled and became smooth--there were the berries--the same as before. ho!--old-man was wild; he was angry, i tell you. and in he went flat on his stomach! he made an awful splash and mussed the water greatly; but there were no berries. "'i know what i shall do. i will stay right here and wait for those berries; that is what i shall do'; and he did. "he thought maybe somebody was looking at him and would laugh, so he glanced along the bank. and there, right over the water, he saw the same bunch of berries on some tall bushes. don't you see? old-man saw the shadow of the berry-bunch; not the berries. he saw the red shadow-berries on the water; that was all, and he was such a fool he didn't know they were not real. "well, now he was angry in truth. now he was ready for war. he climbed out on the bank again and cut a club. then he went at the buffalo-berry bushes and pounded them till all of the red berries fell upon the ground--till the branches were bare of berries. "'there,' he said, 'that's what you get for making a fool of the man who made you. you shall be beaten every year as long as you live, to pay for what you have done; you and your children, too.' "that is how it all came about, and that is why your mothers whip the buffalo-berry bushes and then pick the berries from the ground. ho!" old-man and the fox i am sure that the plains indian never made nor used the stone arrow-head. i have heard white men say that they had seen indians use them; but i have never found an indian that ever used them himself, or knew of their having been used by his people. thirty years ago i knew indians, intimately, who were nearly a hundred years old, who told me that the stone arrow-head had never been in use in their day, nor had their fathers used them in their own time. indians find these arrow-points just as they find the stone mauls and hammers, which i have seen them use thousands of times, but they do not make them any more than they make the stone mauls and hammers. in the old days, both the head of the lance and the point of the arrow were of bone; even knives were of bone, but some other people surely made the arrow-points that are scattered throughout the united states and europe, i am told. one night i asked war eagle if he had ever known the use, by indians, of the stone arrow-head, and he said he had not. he told me that just across the canadian line there was a small lake, surrounded by trees, wherein there was an island covered with long reeds and grass. all about the edge of this island were willows that grew nearly to the water, but intervening there was a narrow beach of stones. here, he said, the stone arrow-heads had been made by little ghost-people who lived there, and he assured me that he had often seen these strange little beings when he was a small boy. whenever his people were camped by this lake the old folks waked the children at daybreak to see the inhabitants of this strange island; and always when a noise was made, or the sun came up, the little people hid away. often he had seen their heads above the grass and tiny willows, and his grandfather had told him that all the stone arrow-heads had been made on that island, and in war had been shot all over the world, by magic bows. "no," he said, "i shall not lie to you, my friend. i never saw those little people shoot an arrow, but there are so many arrows there, and so many pieces of broken ones, that it proves that my grandfather was right in what he told me. besides, nobody could ever sleep on that island." i have heard a legend wherein old-man, in the beginning, killed an animal for the people to eat, and then instructed them to use the ribs of the dead brute to make knives and arrow-points. i have seen lance-heads, made from shank bones, that were so highly polished that they resembled pearl, and i have in my possession bone arrow-points such as were used long ago. indians do not readily forget their tribal history, and i have photographed a war-bonnet, made of twisted buffalo hair, that was manufactured before the present owner's people had, or ever saw, the horse. the owner of this bonnet has told me that the stone arrow-head was never used by indians, and that he knew that ghost-people made and used them when the world was young. the bow of the plains indian was from thirty-six to forty-four inches long, and made from the wood of the choke-cherry tree. sometimes bows were made from the service (or sarvice) berry bush, and this bush furnished the best material for arrows. i have seen hickory bows among the plains indians, too, and these were longer and always straight, instead of being fashioned like cupid's weapon. these hickory bows came from the east, of course, and through trading, reached the plains country. i have also seen bows covered with the skins of the bull-snake, or wound with sinew, and bows have been made from the horns of the elk, in the early days, after a long course of preparation. before lewis and clark crossed this vast country, the blackfeet had traded with the hudson bay company, and steel knives and lance-heads, bearing the names of english makers, still remain to testify to the relations existing, in those days, between those famous traders and men of the piegan, blood, and blackfoot tribes, although it took many years for traders on our own side of the line to gain their friendship. indeed, trappers and traders blamed the hudson bay company for the feeling of hatred held by the three tribes of blackfeet for the "americans"; and there is no doubt that they were right to some extent, although the killing of the blackfoot warrior by captain lewis in may have been largely to blame for the trouble. certain it is that for many years after the killing, the blackfeet kept traders and trappers on the dodge unless they were hudson bay men, and in drove the "american" trappers and traders from their fort at three-forks. it was early when we gathered in war eagle's lodge, the children and i, but the story-telling began at once. "now i shall tell you a story that will show you how little old-man cared for the welfare of others," said war eagle. "it happened in the fall, this thing i shall tell you, and the day was warm and bright. old-man and his brother the red fox were travelling together for company. they were on a hillside when old-man said: 'i am hungry. can you not kill a rabbit or something for us to eat? the way is long, and i am getting old, you know. you are swift of foot and cunning, and there are rabbits among these rocks.' "'ever since morning came i have watched for food, but the moon must be wrong or something, for i see nothing that is good to eat,' replied the fox. 'besides that, my medicine is bad and my heart is weak. you are great, and i have heard you can do most anything. many snows have known your footprints, and the snows make us all wise. i think you are the one to help, not i.' "'listen, brother,' said old-man, 'i have neither bow nor lance--nothing to use in hunting. your weapons are ever with you--your great nose and your sharp teeth. just as we came up this hill i saw two great buffalo-bulls. you were not looking, but i saw them, and if you will do as i want you to we shall have plenty of meat. this is my scheme; i shall pull out all of your hair, leaving your body white and smooth, like that of the fish. i shall leave only the white hair that grows on the tip of your tail, and that will make you funny to look at. then you are to go before the bulls and commence to dance and act foolish. of course the bulls will laugh at you, and as soon as they get to laughing you must act sillier than ever. that will make them laugh so hard that they will fall down and laugh on the ground. when they fall, i shall come upon them with my knife and kill them. will you do as i suggest, brother, or will you starve?' "'what! pull out my hair? i shall freeze with no hair on my body, old-man. no--i will not suffer you to pull my hair out when the winter is so near,' cried the fox. "'ho! it is vanity, my brother, not fear of freezing. if you will do this we shall have meat for the winter, and a fire to keep us warm. see, the wind is in the south and warm. there is no danger of freezing. come, let me do it,' replied old-man. "'well--if you are sure that i won't freeze, all right,' said the fox, 'but i'll bet i'll be sorry.' "so old-man pulled out all of the fox's hair, leaving only the white tip that grew near the end of his tail. poor little red fox shivered in the warm breeze that old-man told about, and kept telling old-man that the hair-pulling hurt badly. finally old-man finished the job and laughed at the fox, saying: 'why, you make me laugh, too. now go and dance before the bulls, and i shall watch and be ready for my part of the scheme.' "around the hill went the poor red fox and found the bulls. then he began to dance before them as old-man had told him. the bulls took one look at the hairless fox and began to laugh. my! how they did laugh, and then the red fox stood upon his hind legs and danced some more; acted sillier, as old-man had told him. louder and louder laughed the bulls, until they fell to the ground with their breath short from the laughing. the red fox kept at his antics lest the bulls get up before old-man reached them; but soon he saw him coming, with a knife in his hand. "running up to the bulls, old-man plunged his knife into their hearts, and they died. into the ground ran their blood, and then old-man laughed and said: 'ho, i am the smart one. i am the real hunter. i depend on my head for meat--ha!--ha!-ha!' "then old-man began to dress and skin the bulls, and he worked hard and long. in fact it was nearly night when he got the work all done. "poor little red fox had stood there all the time, and old-man never noticed that the wind had changed and was coming from the north. yes, poor red fox stood there and spoke no word; said nothing at all, even when old-man had finished. "'hi, there, you! what's the matter with you? are you sorry that we have meat? say, answer me!' "but the red fox was frozen stiff--was dead. yes, the north wind had killed him while old-man worked at the skinning. the fox had been caught by the north wind naked, and was dead. old-man built a fire and warmed his hands; that was all he cared for the red fox, and that is all he cared for anybody. he might have known that no person could stand the north wind without a robe; but as long as he was warm himself--that was all he wanted. "that is all of that story. to-morrow night i shall tell you why the birch-tree wears those slashes in its bark. that was some of old-man's work, too. ho!" why the birch-tree wears the slashes in its bark the white man has never understood the indian, and the example set the western tribes of the plains by our white brethren has not been such as to inspire the red man with either confidence or respect for our laws or our religion. the fighting trapper, the border bandit, the horse-thief and rustler, in whose stomach legitimately acquired beef would cause colic--were the indians' first acquaintances who wore a white skin, and he did not know that they were not of the best type. being outlaws in every sense, these men sought shelter from the indian in the wilderness; and he learned of their ways about his lodge-fire, or in battle, often provoked by the white ruffian in the hope of gain. they lied to the indian--these first white acquaintances, and in after-years, the great government of the united states lied and lied again, until he has come to believe that there is no truth in the white man's heart. and i don't blame him. the indian is a charitable man. i don't believe he ever refused food and shelter or abused a visitor. he has never been a bigot, and concedes to every other man the right to his own beliefs. further than that, the indian believes that every man's religion and belief is right and proper for that man's self. it was blowing a gale and snow was being driven in fine flakes across the plains when we went to the lodge for a story. every minute the weather was growing colder, and an early fall storm of severity was upon us. the wind seemed to add to the good nature of our host as he filled and passed me the pipe. "this is the night i was to tell you about the birch-tree, and the wind will help to make you understand," said war eagle after we had finished smoking. "of course," he continued, "this all happened in the summer-time when the weather was warm, very warm. sometimes, you know, there are great winds in the summer, too. "it was a hot day, and old-man was trying to sleep, but the heat made him sick. he wandered to a hilltop for air; but there was no air. then he went down to the river and found no relief. he travelled to the timberlands, and there the heat was great, although he found plenty of shade. the travelling made him warmer, of course, but he wouldn't stay still. "by and by he called to the winds to blow, and they commenced. first they didn't blow very hard, because they were afraid they might make old-man angry, but he kept crying: "'blow harder--harder--harder! blow worse than ever you blew before, and send this heat away from the world.' "so, of course, the winds did blow harder--harder than they ever had blown before. "'bend and break, fir-tree!' cried old-man, and the fir-tree did bend and break. 'bend and break, pine-tree!' and the pine-tree did bend and break. 'bend and break, spruce-tree!' and the spruce-tree did bend and break. 'bend and break, o birch-tree!' and the birch-tree did bend, but it wouldn't break--no, sir!--it wouldn't break! "'ho! birch-tree, won't you mind me? bend and break! i tell you,' but all the birch-tree would do was to bend. "it bent to the ground; it bent double to please old-man, but it would not break. "'blow harder, wind!' cried old-man, 'blow harder and break the birch-tree.' the wind tried to blow harder, but it couldn't, and that made the thing worse, because old-man was so angry he went crazy. 'break! i tell you--break!' screamed old-man to the birch-tree. "'i won't break,' replied the birch; 'i shall never break for any wind. i will bend, but i shall never, never break.' "'you won't, hey?' cried old-man, and he rushed at the birch-tree with his hunting-knife. he grabbed the top of the birch because it was touching the ground, and began slashing the bark of the birch-tree with the knife. all up and down the trunk of the tree old-man slashed, until the birch was covered with the knife slashes. "'there! that is for not minding me. that will do you good! as long as time lasts you shall always look like that, birch-tree; always be marked as one who will not mind its maker. yes, and all the birch-trees in the world shall have the same marks forever.' they do, too. you have seen them and have wondered why the birch-tree is so queerly marked. now you know. "that is all--ho!" mistakes of old-man all night the storm raged, and in the morning the plains were white with snow. the sun came and the light was blinding, but the hunters were abroad early, as usual. that day the children came to my camp, and i told them several stories that appeal to white children. they were deeply interested, and asked many questions. not until the hunters returned did my visitors leave. that night war eagle told us of the mistakes of old-man. he said: "old-man made a great many mistakes in making things in the world, but he worked until he had everything good. i told you at the beginning that old-man made mistakes, but i didn't tell you what they were, so now i shall tell you. "one of the things he did that was wrong, was to make the big-horn to live on the plains. yes, he made him on the plains and turned him loose, to make his living there. of course the big-horn couldn't run on the plains, and old-man wondered what was wrong. finally, he said: 'come here, big-horn!' and the big-horn came to him. old-man stuck his arm through the circle his horns made, and dragged the big-horn far up into the mountains. there he set him free again, and sat down to watch him. ho! it made old-man dizzy to watch the big-horn run about on the ragged cliffs. he saw at once that this was the country the big-horn liked, and he left him there. yes, he left him there forever, and there he stays, seldom coming down to the lower country. "while old-man was waiting to see what the big-horn would do in the high mountains, he made an antelope and set him free with the big-horn. ho! but the antelope stumbled and fell down among the rocks. he couldn't man called to the antelope to come back to him, and the antelope did come to him. then he called to the big-horn, and said: "'you are all right, i guess, but this one isn't, and i'll have to take him somewhere else.' "he dragged the antelope down to the prairie country, and set him free there. then he watched him a minute; that was as long as the antelope was in sight, for he was afraid old-man might take him back to the mountains. "he said: 'i guess that fellow was made for the plains, all right, so i'll leave him there'; and he did. that is why the antelope always stays on the plains, even to-day. he likes it better. "that wasn't a very long story; sometime when you get older i will tell you some different stories, but that will be all for this time, i guess. ho!" how the man found his mate each tribe has its own stories. most of them deal with the same subjects, differing only in immaterial particulars. instead of squirrels in the timber, the blackfeet are sure they were prairie-dogs that old-man roasted that time when he made the mountain-lion long and lean. the chippewas and crees insist that they were squirrels that were cooked and eaten, but one tribe is essentially a forest-people and the other lives on the plains--hence the difference. some tribes will not wear the feathers of the owl, nor will they have anything to do with that bird, while others use his feathers freely. the forest indian wears the soft-soled moccasin, while his brother of the plains covers the bottoms of his footwear with rawhide, because of the cactus and prickly-pear, most likely. the door of the lodge of the forest indian reaches to the ground, but the plains indian makes his lodge skin to reach all about the circle at the bottom, because of the wind. one night in war eagle's lodge, other-person asked: "why don't the bear have a tail, grandfather?" war eagle laughed and said: "our people do not know why, but we believe he was made that way at the beginning, although i have heard men of other tribes say that the bear lost his tail while fishing. "i don't know how true it is, but i have been told that a long time ago the bear was fishing in the winter, and the fox asked him if he had any luck. "'no,' replied the bear, 'i can't catch a fish.' "'well,' said the fox, 'if you will stick your long tail down through this hole in the ice, and sit very still, i am sure you will catch a fish.' "so the bear stuck his tail through the hole in the ice, and the fox told him to sit still, till he called him; then the fox went off, pretending to hunt along the bank. it was mighty cold weather, and the water froze all about the bear's tail, yet he sat still, waiting for the fox to call him. yes, the bear sat so still and so long that his tail was frozen in the ice, but he didn't know it. when the fox thought it was time, he called: "'hey, bear, come here quick--quick! i have a rabbit in this hole, and i want you to help me dig him out.' ho! the bear tried to get up, but he couldn't. "'hey, bear, come here--there are two rabbits in this hole,' called the fox. "the bear pulled so hard to get away from the ice, that he broke his tail off short to his body. then the fox ran away laughing at the bear. "i hardly believe that story, but once i heard an old man who visited my father from the country far east of here, tell it. i remembered it. but i can't say that i know it is true, as i can the others. "when i told you the story of how old-man made the world over, after the water had made its war upon it, i told you how the first man and woman were made. there is another story of how the first man found his wife, and i will tell you that. "after old-man had made a man to look like himself, he left him to live with the wolves, and went away. the man had a hard time of it, with no clothes to keep him warm, and no wife to help him, so he went out looking for old-man. "it took the man a long time to find old-man's lodge, but as soon as he got there he went right in and said: "'old-man, you have made me and left me to live with the wolf-people. i don't like them at all. they give me scraps of meat to eat and won't build a fire. they have wives, but i don't want a wolf-woman. i think you should take better care of me.' "'well,' replied old-man, 'i was just waiting for you to come to see me. i have things fixed for you. you go down this river until you come to a steep hillside. there you will see a lodge. then i will leave you to do the rest. go!' "the man started and travelled all that day. when night came he camped and ate some berries that grew near the river. the next morning he started down the river again, looking for the steep hillside and the lodge. just before sundown, the man saw a fine lodge near a steep hillside, and he knew that was the lodge he was looking for; so he crossed the river and went into the lodge. "sitting by the fire inside, was a woman. she was dressed in buckskin clothes, and was cooking some meat that smelled good to the man, but when she saw him without any clothes, she pushed him out of the lodge, and dropped the door. "things didn't look very good to that man, i tell you, but to get even with the woman, he went up on the steep hillside and commenced to roll big rocks down upon her lodge. he kept this up until one of the largest rocks knocked down the lodge, and the woman ran out, crying. "when the man heard the woman crying, it made him sorry and he ran down the hill to her. she sat down on the ground, and the man ran to where she was and said: "'i am sorry i made you cry, woman. i will help you fix your lodge. i will stay with you, if you will only let me.' "that pleased the woman, and she showed the man how to fix up the lodge and gather some wood for the fire. then she let him come inside and eat. finally, she made him some clothes, and they got along very well, after that. "that is how the man found his wife--ho!" dreams as soon as manhood is attained, the young indian must secure his "charm," or "medicine." after a sweat-bath, he retires to some lonely spot, and there, for four days and nights, if necessary, he remains in solitude. during this time he eats nothing; drinks nothing; but spends his time invoking the great mystery for the boon of a long life. in this state of mind, he at last sleeps, perhaps dreams. if a dream does not come to him, he abandons the task for a time, and later on will take another sweat-bath and try again. sometimes dangerous cliffs, or other equally uncomfortable places, are selected for dreaming, because the surrounding terrors impress themselves upon the mind, and even in slumber add to the vividness of dreams. at last the dream comes, and in it some bird or animal appears as a helper to the dreamer, in trouble. then he seeks that bird or animal; kills a specimen; and if a bird, he stuffs its skin with moss and forever keeps it near him. if an animal, instead of a bird, appears in the dream, the indian takes his hide, claws, or teeth; and throughout his life never leaves it behind him, unless in another dream a greater charm is offered. if this happens, he discards the old "medicine" for the new; but such cases are rare. sometimes the indian will deck his "medicine-bundle" with fanciful trinkets and quill-work at other times the "bundle" is kept forever out of the sight of all uninterested persons, and is altogether unadorned. but "medicine" is necessary; without it, the indian is afraid of his shadow. an old chief, who had been in many battles, once told me his great dream, withholding the name of the animal or bird that appeared therein and became his "medicine." he said that when he was a boy of twelve years, his father, who was chief of his tribe, told him that it was time that he tried to dream. after his sweat-bath, the boy followed his father without speaking, because the postulant must not converse or associate with other humans between the taking of the bath and the finished attempt to dream. on and on into the dark forest the father led, followed by the naked boy, till at last the father stopped on a high hill, at the foot of a giant pine-tree. by signs the father told the boy to climb the tree and to get into an eagle's nest that was on the topmost boughs. then the old man went away, in order that the boy might reach the nest without coming too close to his human conductor. obediently the boy climbed the tree and sat upon the eagle's nest on the top. "i could see very far from that nest," he told me. "the day was warm and i hoped to dream that night, but the wind rocked the tree top, and the darkness made me so much afraid that i did not sleep. "on the fourth night there came a terrible thunder-storm, with lightning and much wind. the great pine groaned and shook until i was sure it must fall. all about it, equally strong trees went down with loud crashings, and in the dark there were many awful sounds--sounds that i sometimes hear yet. rain came, and i grew cold and more afraid. i had eaten nothing, of course, and i was weak--so weak and tired, that at last i slept, in the nest. i dreamed; yes, it was a wonderful dream that came to me, and it has most all come to pass. part is yet to come. but come it surely will. "first i saw my own people in three wars. then i saw the buffalo disappear in a hole in the ground, followed by many of my people. then i saw the whole world at war, and many flags of white men were in this land of ours. it was a terrible war, and the fighting and the blood made me sick in my dream. then, last of all, i saw a 'person' coming--coming across what seemed the plains. there were deep shadows all about him as he approached. this 'person' kept beckoning me to come to him, and at last i did go to him. "'do you know who i am,' he asked me. "'no, "person," i do not know you. who are you, and where is your country?' "'if you will listen to me, boy, you shall be a great chief and your people shall love you. if you do not listen, then i shall turn against you. my name is "reason."' "as the 'person' spoke this last, he struck the ground with a stick he carried, and the blow set the grass afire. i have always tried to know that 'person.' i think i know him wherever he may be, and in any camp. he has helped me all my life, and i shall never turn against him--never." that was the old chief's dream and now a word about the sweat-bath. a small lodge is made of willows, by bending them and sticking the ends in the ground. a completed sweat-lodge is shaped like an inverted bowl, and in the centre is a small hole in the ground. the lodge is covered with robes, bark, and dirt, or anything that will make it reasonably tight. then a fire is built outside and near the sweat-lodge in which stones are heated. when the stones are ready, the bather crawls inside the sweat-lodge, and an assistant rolls the hot stones from the fire, and into the lodge. they are then rolled into the hole in the lodge and sprinkled with water. one cannot imagine a hotter vapor bath than this system produces, and when the bather has satisfied himself inside, he darts from the sweat-lodge into the river, winter or summer. this treatment killed thousands of indians when the smallpox was brought to them from saint louis, in the early days. that night in the lodge war eagle told a queer yarn. i shall modify it somewhat, but in our own sacred history there is a similar tale, well known to all. he said: "once, a long time ago, two 'thunders' were travelling in the air. they came over a village of our people, and there stopped to look about. "in this village there was one fine, painted lodge, and in it there was an old man, an aged woman, and a beautiful young woman with wonderful hair. of course the 'thunders' could look through the lodge skin and see all that was inside. one of them said to the other: 'let us marry that young woman, and never tell her about it.' "'all right,' replied the other 'thunder.' 'i am willing, for she is the finest young woman in all the village. she is good in her heart, and she is honest.' "so they married her, without telling her about it, and she became the mother of twin boys. when these boys were born, they sat up and told their mother and the other people that they were not people, but were 'thunders,' and that they would grow up quickly. "'when we shall have been on earth a while, we shall marry, and stay until we each have four sons of our own, then we shall go away and again become "thunders,"' they said. "it all came to pass, just as they said it would. when they had married good women and each had four sons, they told the people one day that it was time for them to go away forever. "there was much sorrow among the people, for the twins were good men and taught many good things which we have never forgotten, but everybody knew it had to be as they said. while they lived with us, these twins could heal the sick and tell just what was going to happen on earth. "one day at noon the twins dressed themselves in their finest clothes and went out to a park in the forest. all the people followed them and saw them lie down on the ground in the park. the people stayed in the timber that grew about the edge of the park, and watched them until clouds and mists gathered about and hid them from view. "it thundered loudly and the winds blew; trees fell down; and when the mists and clouds cleared away, they were gone--gone forever. but the people have never forgotten them, and my grandfather, who is in the ground near rocker, was a descendant from one of the sons of the 'thunders.' ho!" retrospection it was evening in the bad-lands, and the red sun had slipped behind the far-off hills. the sundown breeze bent the grasses in the coulees and curled tiny dust-clouds on the barren knolls. down in a gulch a clear, cool creek dallied its way toward the missouri, where its water, bitter as gall, would be lost in the great stream. here, where nature forbids man to work his will, and where the she wolf dens and kills to feed her litter, an aged indian stood near the scattered bones of two great buffalo-bulls. time had bleached the skulls and whitened the old warrior's hair, but in the solitude he spoke to the bones as to a boyhood friend: "ho! buffalo, the years are long since you died, and your tribe, like mine, was even then shrinking fast, but you did not know it; would not believe it; though the signs did not lie. my father and his father knew your people, and when one night you went away, we thought you did but hide and would soon come back. the snows have come and gone many times since then, and still your people stay away. the young-men say that the great herds have gone to the sand hills, and that my father still has meat. they have told me that the white man, in his greed, has killed--and not for meat--all the buffalo that our people knew. they have said that the great herds that made the ground tremble as they ran were slain in a few short years by those who needed not. can this be true, when ever since there was a world, our people killed your kind, and still left herds that grew in numbers until they often blocked the rivers when they passed? our people killed your kind that they themselves might live, but never did they go to war against you. tell me, do your people hide, or are the young-men speaking truth, and have your people gone with mine to sand hill shadows to come back no more?" "ho! red man--my people all have gone. the young-men tell the truth and all my tribe have gone to feed among the shadow-hills, and your father still has meat. my people suffer from his arrows and his lance, yet there the herds increase as they did here, until the white man came and made his war upon us without cause or need. i was one of the last to die, and with my brother here fled to this forbidding country that i might hide; but one day when the snow was on the world, a white murderer followed on our trail, and with his noisy weapon sent our spirits to join the great shadow-herds. meat? no, he took no meat, but from our quivering flesh he tore away the robes that napa gave to make us warm, and left us for the wolves. that night they came, and quarrelling, fighting, snapping 'mong themselves, left but our bones to greet the morning sun. these bones the coyotes and the weaker ones did drag and scrape, and scrape again, until the last of flesh or muscle disappeared. then the winds came and sang--and all was done." told in the hills a novel by marah ellis ryan author of that girl montana, the bondwoman, a flower of france, etc. new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, by rand mcnally & co. chicago. copyright, by rand mcnally & co. chicago. all rights reserved (told in the hills) in all reverence--in all gratitude to the friends granted me by the west fayette springs, penn. kopa mesika-- nika sikhs klaksta kumtucks-- klaksta yakwa mamook elahan, nika mahsie--mahsie kwanesum. m. e. r. thou shalt not see thy brother's ox, or his sheep, go astray. ... thou shalt bring it unto thine own house, and it shall be with thee until thy brother seek after it, and thou shalt restore it to him again.... ... and with all lost things of thy brother's which he hath lost, and thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise.... in any case thou shalt deliver him the pledge again when the sun goeth down.--deuteronomy. [illustration: mowitza forged ahead, her sturdy persistence suggesting a realization of her own importance] list of illustrations mowitza forged ahead, her sturdy persistence suggesting a realization of her own importance at a sharp cut of the whip, betty sprang forward cooling it to suit baby's lips, she knelt beside the squaw told in the hills part first the pledge "the only one of the name who is not a gentleman"; those words were repeated over and over by a young fellow who walked, one autumn morning, under the shade of old trees and along a street of aristocratic houses in old new orleans. he would have been handsome had it not been for the absolutely wicked expression of his face as he muttered to himself while he walked. he looked about twenty-five--dark and tall--so tall as to be a noticeable man among many men, and so well proportioned, and so confidently careless in movement as not to be ungainly--the confidence of strength. some negroes whom he passed turned to look after him, even the whites he met eyed him seriously. he looked like a man off a sleepless journey, his eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard, and over all was a malignant expression as of lurking devilishness. he stopped at a house set back from the street, and half-smothered in the shade of the trees and great creeping vines that flung out long arms from the stone walls. there was a stately magnificence about its grand entrance, and its massive proportions--it showed so plainly the habitation of wealth. evidently the ill-natured looking individual was not a frequent visitor there, for he examined the house, and the numbers about, with some indecision; then his eyes fell on the horse-block, in the stone of which a name was carved. a muttered something, which was not a blessing, issued from his lips as he read it, but with indecision at an end he strode up the walk to the house. a question was answered by the dubious-looking darky at the door, and a message was sent somewhere to the upper regions; then the darky, looking no less puzzled, requested the gentleman to follow him to the "young massa's" study. the gentleman did so, noting with those wicked side glances of his the magnificence of the surroundings, and stopping short before a picture of a brunette, willowy girl that rested on an easel. the face was lovely enough to win praise from any man, but an expression, strangely akin to that bestowed on the carven name outside, escaped him. through the lattice of the window the laughter of woman came to him--as fresh and cheery as the light of the young sun, and bits of broken sentences also--words of banter and retort. "ah, but he is beautiful--your husband!" sighed a girlish voice with the accent of france; "so impressibly charming! and so young. you two children!" some gay remonstrance against childishness was returned, and then the first voice went on: "and the love all of one quick meeting, and one quick, grand passion that only the priest could bring cure for? and how shy you were, and how secret--was it not delightful? another juliet and her romeo. only it is well your papa is not so ill-pleased." "why should he be? my family is no better than my husband's--only some richer; but we never thought of that--we two. i thought of his beautiful changeable eyes, and he thought of my black ones, and--well, i came home to papa a wife, and my husband said only, 'i love her,' when we were blamed for the haste and the secrecy, and papa was won--as i think every one is, by his charming boyishness; but," with a little laugh, "he is not a boy." "though he is younger than yourself?" "well, what then? i am twenty-three. you see we are quite an old couple, for he is almost within a year of being as old. come; my lord has not yet come down. i have time to show you the roses. i am sure they are the kind you want." their chatter and gaiety grew fainter as they walked away from the window, and their playful chat added no light to the visitor's face. he paced up and down the room with the eager restlessness of some caged thing. a step sounded outside that brought him to a halt--a step and a mellow voice with the sweetness of youth in it. then the door opened and a tall form entered swiftly, and quick words of welcome and of surprise came from him as he held out his hand heartily. but it was not taken. the visitor stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat, and surveyed his host with a good deal of contempt. yet he was a fine, manly-looking fellow, almost as tall as his visitor, and fairer in coloring. his hair was a warmer brown, while the other man's was black. his eyes were frank and open, while the other's were scowling and contracted. they looked like allegorical types of light and darkness as they stood there, yet something in the breadth of forehead and form of the nose gave a suggestion of likeness to their faces. the younger one clouded indignantly as he drew back his offered hand. "why, look here, old fellow, what's up?" he asked hastily, and then the indignation fled before some warmer feeling, and he went forward impulsively, laying his hand on the other's arm. "just drop that," growled his visitor, "i didn't come here for that sort of thing, but for business--yes--you can bet your money on that!" his host laughed and dropped into a chair. "well, you don't look as if you come on a pleasure trip," he agreed, "and i think you might look a little more pleasant, considering the occasion and--and--everything. i thought father would come down sure, when i wrote i was married, but i didn't expect to see anyone come in this sort of a temper. what is it? has your three-year-old come in last in the fall race, or have you lost money on some other fellow's stock, and what the mischief do you mean by sulking at me?" "it isn't the three-year-old, and it isn't money lost," and the dark eyes were watching every feature of the frank young face; "the business i've come on is--you." "look here," and the young fellow straightened up with the conviction that he had struck the question, "is it because of my--marriage?" "rather." still those watchful eyes never changed. "well," and the fair face flushed a little, "i suppose it wasn't just the correct thing; but you're not exactly the preacher for correct deportment, are you?" and the words, though ironical, were accompanied by such a bright smile that no offense could be taken from them. "but i'll tell you how it happened. sit down. i would have sent word before, if i'd suspected it myself, but i didn't. now don't look so glum, old fellow. i never imagined you would care. you see we were invited to make up a yachting party and go to key west. we never had seen each other until the trip, and--well, we made up for the time we had lost in the rest of our lives; though i honestly did not think of getting married--any more than you would. and then, all at once, what little brains i had were upset. it began in jest, one evening in key west, and the finale of it was that before we went to sleep that night we were married. no one knew it until we got back to new orleans, and then i wrote home at once. now, i'm ready for objections." "when you left home you were to be back in two months--it is four now. why didn't you come?" "well, you know i was offered the position of assistant here to doctor grenier; that was too good to let go." "exactly; but you could have got off, i reckon, to have spent your devoted father's birthday at home--if you had wanted to." "he was your father first," was the good-humored retort. "why didn't you come home?" there was a hesitation in the younger face. for the first time he looked ill at ease. "i don't know why i should give you any reason except that i did not want to," he returned, and then he arose, walking back and forth a couple of times across the room and stopping at a window, with his back to his visitor. "but i will," he added, impulsively. "i stayed away on account of--annie." the dark eyes fairly blazed at the name. "yes?" "i--i was a fool when i was home last spring," continued the young fellow, still with his face to the window. "i had never realized before that she had grown up or that she was prettier than anyone i knew, until you warned me about it--you remember?" "i reckon i do," was the grim reply. "well, i tried to be sensible. i did try," he protested, though no contradiction was made. "and after i left i concluded i had better stay away until--well, until we were both a little older and more level-headed." "it's a pity you didn't reach that idea before you left," said the other significantly. "what!" "and before you turned back for that picture you had forgotten." "what do you mean" and for the first time a sort of terror shone in his face--a dread of the dark eyes that were watching him so cruelly. "tell me what it is you mean, brother." "you can just drop that word," was the cold remark. "i haven't any relatives to my knowledge. your father told me this morning i was the only one of the name who was not a gentleman. i reckon i'll get along without either father or brother for the rest of my life. the thing i came here to see about is the homestead. it is yours and mine--or will be some day. what do you intend doing with your share?" "well, i'm not ready to make my will yet," said the other, still looking uneasy as he waited further explanations. "i rather think you'll change your mind about that, and fix it right here, and now. to-day i want you to transfer every acre of your share to annie." "what?" "to insure her the home you promised your mother she should always have." "but look here--" "to insure it for her and--her child." the face at the window was no longer merely startled, it was white as death. "good god! you don't mean that!" he gasped. "it is not true. it can't be true!" "you contemptible cur! you damnable liar!" muttered the other through his teeth. "you sit there like the whelp that you are, telling me of this woman you have married, with not a thought of that girl up in kentucky that you had a right to marry. shooting you wouldn't do her any good, or i wouldn't leave the work undone. now i reckon you'll make the transfer." the other had sat down helplessly, with his head in his hands. "i can't believe it--i can't believe it," he repeated heavily. "why--why did she not write to me?" "it wasn't an easy thing to write, i reckon," said the other bitterly, "and she waited for you to come back. she did send one letter, but you were out on the water with your fine friends, and it was returned. the next we heard was the marriage. word got there two days ago, and then--she told me." "you!" and he really looked unsympathetic enough to exempt him from being chosen as confidant of heart secrets. "yes; and she shan't be sorry for it if i can help it. what about that transfer?" "i'll make it;" and the younger man rose to his feet again with eyes in which tears shone. "i'll do anything under god's heaven for her! i've never got rid of the sight of her face. it--it hoodooed me. i couldn't get rid of it!--or of remorse. i thought it best to stay away, we were so young to marry, and there was my profession to work for yet; and then on top of all my sensible plans there came that invitation on the yacht--and so you know the whole story; and now--what will become of her?" "you fix that transfer, and i'll look after her." "you! i don't deserve this of you, and--" "no; i don't reckon you do," returned the other, tersely; "and when you--damn your conceit!--catch me doing that or anything else on your account, just let me know. it isn't for either one of you, for that matter. it's because i promised." the younger dropped his arms and head on the table. "you promised!" he groaned. "i--i promised as well as you, and mother believed me--trusted me, and, now--oh, mother! mother!" his remorseful emotion did not stir the least sympathy in his listener, only a chilly unconcern as to his feelings in the matter. "you, you cried just about that way when you made the promise," he remarked indifferently. "it was wasted time and breath then, and i reckon it's the same thing now. you can put in the rest of your life in the wailing and gnashing of teeth business if you want to--you might get the woman you married to help you, if you tell her what she has for a husband. but just now there are other things to attend to. i am leaving this part of the country in less than six hours, and this thing must be settled first. i want your promise to transfer to annie all interest you have in the homestead during your life-time, and leave it to her by will in case the world is lucky enough to get rid of you." "i promise." his head was still on the table; he did not look up or resent in any way the taunts thrown at him. he seemed utterly crushed by the revelations he had listened to. "and another thing i want settled is, that you are never again to put foot on that place or in that house, or allow the woman you married to go there, that you will neither write to annie nor try to see her." "but there might be circumstances--" "there are no circumstances that will keep me from shooting you like the dog you are, if you don't make that promise, and keep it," said the other deliberately. "i don't intend to trust to your word. but you'll never find me too far out of the world to get back here if you make it necessary for me to come. and the promise i expect is that you'll never set foot on the old place again without my consent--" and the phrase was too ironical to leave much room for hope. "i promise. i tell you i'll do anything to make amends," he moaned miserably. "your whole worthless life wouldn't do that!" was the bitter retort. "now, there is one thing more i want understood," and his face became more set and hardened; "annie and her child are to live in the house that should be theirs by right, and they are to live there respected--do you hear? that man you call father has about as much heart in him as a sponge. he would turn her out of the house if he knew the truth, and in this transfer of yours he is to know nothing of the reason--understand that. he is quite ready to think it prompted by your generous, affectionate heart, and the more he thinks that, the better it will be for annie. you will have a chance to pose for the rest of your life as one of the most honorable of men, and the most loyal to a dead mother's trust," and a sound that would have been a laugh but for its bitterness broke from him as he walked to the door; "that will suit you, i reckon. one more lie doesn't matter, and the thing i expect you to do is to make that transfer to-day and send it to annie with a letter that anyone could read, and be none the wiser--the only letter you're ever to write her. you have betrayed that trust; it's mine now." "and you'll be worth it," burst out the other heart-brokenly; "worth a dozen times over more than i ever could be if i tried my best. you'll take good care of her, and--and--good god! if i could only speak to her once!" "if you do, i'll know it, and i'll kill you!" said the man at the door. he was about to walk out when the other arose bewilderedly. "wait," he said, and his livid face was convulsed pitifully. he was so little more than a boy. "this that you have told me has muddled my head. i can't think. i know the promises, and i'll keep them. if shooting myself would help her, i'd do that; but you say you are leaving the country, and annie is to live on at the old place, and--and yet be respected? i can't understand how, with--under the--the circumstances. i--" "no, i don't reckon you can," scowled the other, altogether unmoved by the despairing eyes and broken, remorseful words. "it isn't natural that you should understand a man, or how a man feels; but annie's name shall be one you had a right to give her four months ago--" "what are you saying?" broke in the other with feverish intensity; "tell me! tell me what it is you mean!" "i mean that she shan't be cheated out of a name for herself and child by your damned rascality! her name for the rest of her life will be the same as yours--just remember that when you forward that transfer. she is my wife. we were married an hour before i started." then the door closed, and the dark, malignant looking fellow stalked out into the morning sunlight, and through the scented walk where late lillies nodded as he passed. he seemed little in keeping with their fragrant whiteness, for he looked not a whit less scowlingly wicked than on his entrance; and of some men working on the lawn, one said to another: "looks like he got de berry debbel in dem snappin' eyes--see how dey shine. mighty rakish young genelman to walk out o' dat doah--look like he been on a big spree." and when the bride and her friend came chattering in, with their hands full of roses, they found a strange, unheard-of thing had happened. the tall young husband, so strong, so long acclimated, had succumbed to the heat of the morning, or the fragrance of the tuberose beside him, and had fallen in a fainting fit by the door. part second "a cultus corrie" chapter i. on scot's mountain. "the de'il tak' them wi' their weeman folk, whose nerves are too delicate for a squaw man, or an injun guide. i'd tak' no heed o' them if i was well, an' i'll do less now i'm plagued wi' this reminder o' that grizzly's hug. it gives me many's the twinge whilst out lookin' to the traps." "where's your gallantry, macdougall?" asked a deep, rather musical voice from the cabin door; "and your national love for the 'winsome sex,' as i've heard you call it? if ladies are with them you can't refuse." "can i not? well, i can that same now," said the first speaker, emphasizing his speech by the vim with which he pitched a broken-handled skillet into the cupboard--a cupboard made of a wooden box. "mayhaps you think i haven't seen a white woman these six months, i'll be a breakin' my neck to get to their camp across there. well, i will not; they may be all very fine, no doubt--folk from the east; but ye well know a lot o' tenderfeet in the bush are a sight worse to tak' the care of than the wild things they'll be tryin' to hunt. 'a man's a fool who stumbles over the same stone twice,' is an old, true sayin', an' i know what i'm talkin' of. it's four years this autumn since i was down in the walla walla country, an' there was a fine party from the east, just as these are; an' they would go up into the blue mountains, an' they would have me for a guide; an' if the lord'll forgive me for associatin' with sich a pack o' lunatics for that trip, i'll never be caught wi' the same bait again." "what did they do to you?" asked the voice, with a tinge of amusement in it. "to me? they did naught to me but pester me wi' questions of insane devisin'. scarce a man o' them could tether a beast or lasso one that was astray. they had a man servant, a sort o' flunky, to wait on them and he just sat around like a bump on a log, and looked fearsomely for injuns an' grizzlies. they would palaver until all hours in the night, about the scientific causes of all things we came across. many a good laugh i might have had, if i had na been disgusted wi' the pretenses o' the poor bodies. why, they knew not a thing but the learnin' o' books. they were from the east--down east, they said; that is, the southeast, i suppose they meant to say; and their flunky said they were well-to-do at home, and very learned, the poor fools! well, i'll weary myself wi' none others o' the same ilk." "you're getting cranky, mac, from being too much alone;" and the owner of the voice lounged lazily up from the seat of the cabin door, and stood looking in at the disgusted scotchman, bending ever so slightly a dark, well-shaped head that was taller than the cross-piece above the door. "am i, now?" asked the old man, getting up stiffly from filling a pan of milk for the cat. "well, then, i have a neighbor across on the maple range that is subject o' late to the same complaint, but from a wide difference o' reason;" and he nodded his head significantly at the man in the door, adding: "an' there's a subject for a debate, jack genesee, whether loneliness is worse on the disposition than the influence o' wrong company." jack genesee straightened out of his lounging attitude, and stepped back from the door-way with a decision that would impress a man as meaning business. "none o' that, macdougall," he said curtly, dropping his hand with a hillman's instinct to the belt where his revolvers rested. "i reckon you and i will be better friends through minding our own business and keeping to our own territory in future;" and whistling to a beautiful brown mare that was browsing close to the cabin, he turned to mount her, when the old man crossed the floor quickly and laid a sinewy, brown hand on his arm. "bide a bit, genesee," he said, his native accent always creeping upward in any emotion. "friends are rare and scarce in this chinook land. you're a bit hasty in your way, and mayhaps i'm a bit curious in mine; but i'll no let ye leave davy macdougall's like that just for the want o' sayin' i'm regretful at havin' said more than i should o' you and yours. i canna lose a friend o' four years for a trifle like that." the frankness of the old man's words made the other man drop the bridle and turn back with outstretched hand. "that's all right, mac," he said, heartily; "say no more about it. i am uglier than the devil to get along with sometimes, and you're about straight when you say i'm a crank; only--well, it's nobody's fault but my own." "no, o' course not," said macdougall in a conciliatory tone as he went back to his dish-washing at the table--the dishes were tin pans and cups, and the dish-pan was an iron pot--"to be sure not; but the half-breeds are pizen in a man's cabin, an' that talapa, wi' the name that's got from a prairie wolf an' the injun de'il, is well called--a full-blood injun is easier to manage, my lad; an' then," he added, quizzically, "i'm but givin' ye the lay o' the land where i've fought myself, an' mayhaps got wounded." the "lad," who was about thirty-five, laughed heartily at this characteristic confession. there was evidently some decided incongruity between the old scotchman's statement and his quaint housewifery, as he wrapped a cloth reduced to strings around a fork and washed out a coffee-pot with the improvised mop. something there was in it that this man genesee appreciated, and his continued laughter drew the beautiful mare again to his side, slipping her velvety nose close to his ear, and muzzling there like a familiar spirit that had a right to share her master's emotions. "all right, mowitza," he said in a promising tone; "we'll hit the bush by and by. but old sulky here is slinging poisoned arrows at our kloocheman. we can't stand that, you know. we don't like cooking our own grub, do we, mowitza? shake your head and tell him 'halo'--that's right. skookum kiutan! skookum, mowitza!" and the man caressed the silky brown head, and murmured to her the indian jargon of endearment and praise, and the mare muzzled closer and whinnied an understanding of her master. macdougall put away the last pan, threw a few knots of cedar on the bit of fire in the stone fire-place, and came to the door just as the sun, falling back of the western mountains, threw a flood of glory about the old cabin of the mountaineer. the hill-grass back of it changed from uncertain green to spears of amber as the soft september winds stole through it. away below in the valley, the purple gloom of dark spruces was burying itself in night's shadows. here and there a poison-vine flashed back defiance under its crimson banners, and again a white-limbed aspen shone like a shapely ghost from between lichen-covered bowlders. but slowly the gloaming crept upward until the shadow-line fell at the cabin door, and then up, up, past spruce and cedar, past the scrub of the dwarf growths, past the invisible line that the snakes will not cross, on up to the splintered crest, where the snows glimmer in the sunshine, and about which the last rays of the sun linger and kiss and fondle, long after a good-bye has been given to the world beneath. such was but one of the many recurring vistas of beauty which the dwellers of the northern hills are given to delight in--if they care to open their eyes and see the glorious smile with which the earth ever responds to the kiss of god. macdougall had seen many of the grand panoramas which day and night on scot's mountain give one, and he stood in the door unheeding this one. his keen eyes, under their shaggy brows, were directed to the younger man's bronzed face. "there ye go!" he said, half peevishly; "ye jabber chinook to that talapa and to the mare until it's a wonder ye know any english at all; an' when ye be goin' back where ye belong, it'll be fine, queer times ye'll have with your ways of speech." genesee only laughed shortly--an indian laugh, in which there is no melody. "i don't reckon i belong anywhere, by this time, except in this chinook region; consequently," he added, looking up in the old man's interested face, "i'm not likely to be moving anywhere, if that's what you're trying to find out." macdougall made a half-dissenting murmur against trying to find out anything, but genesee cut him short without ceremony. "the fact is, mac," he continued; "you are a precious old galoot--a regular nervous old numbskull. you've been as restless as a newly-caught grizzly ever since i went down to coeur d'alene, two weeks ago--afraid i was going to cut loose from tamahnous peak and pack my traps and go back to the diggin's; is that it? don't lie about it. the whole trip wasn't worth a good lie, and all it panned out for me was empty pockets." "lord! lad, ye canna mean to say ye lost--' "every damned red," finished mr. genesee complacently. "an' how--" "cards and mixed drinks," he said, laconically. "angels in the wine-rooms, and a slick individual at the table who had a better poker hand than i had. how's that as a trade for six months' work? how does it pan out in the balance with half-breeds?" evidently it staggered macdougall. "it is no much like ye to dissipate, genesee," he said, doubtfully. "o' course a man likes to try his chance on the chips once in a way, and to the kelpies o' the drinkin' places one must leave a few dollars, but the mixin' o' drinks or the muddlin' o' the brains is no natural to ye; it may be a divarsion after the hill life, but there's many a kind that's healthier." "you're a confounded old humbug," said genesee coolly; "you preach temperance to me, and get drunk as a fiddler all alone here by yourself--not much scotch in that way of drinking, i can tell you. hello! who's that?" macdougall leaned forward and peered down the path where the sound of a horse's feet were heard coming around the bend. "it's that man o' hardy's comin' again about a guide, i have na doubt. i'll send him across seven-mile creek to tyee-kamooks. they can get a siwash guide from him, or they can lose themsel's for all me," he said, grumpily, incited thereto, no doubt, by genesee's criticism of his habits. he often grumbled that his friend from the maple range was mighty "tetchy" about his own faults, and mighty cool in his opinions of others. a dark, well-built horse came at an easy, swinging pace out of the gloom of the spruce boughs and over the green sward toward the cabin; his rider, a fair, fine-looking fellow, in a ranchman's buckskin suit, touched his hat ever so lightly in salute, a courtesy the others returned, genesee adding the chinook word that is either salutation or farewell, "klahowya, stranger," and the old man giving the more english speech of "good evening; won't ye light, stranger?" "no; obliged to you, but haven't time. i suppose i'm speaking to mr. macdougall," and he took his eyes from the tall, dark form of genesee to address his speech to the old trapper. "yes, i'm davy macdougall, an' i give a guess you're from the new sheep ranch that's located down kootenai park; you're one of hardy's men." "no; i'm hardy." "are ye, now?" queried the old fellow in surprise. "i expected to see an older man--only by the cause of hearin' you were married, i suppose. well, now, i'm right glad to meet wi' a new neighbor--to think of a ranch but a bit of ten miles from scot's mountain, an' a white family on it, too! will ye no' light an' have a crack at a pipe an' a glass?" hardy himself was evidently making a much better impression on macdougall than the messenger who had come to the cabin in the morning. "no, partner, not any for me," answered the young ranchman, but with so pleasant a negative that even a westerner could not but accept graciously such a refusal. "i just rode up from camp myself to see you about a guide for a small party over into the west branch of the rockies. ivans, who came to see you this morning, tells me that you are disabled yourself--" "yes; that is, i had a hug of a grizzly two weeks back that left the ribs o' my right side a bit sore; but--" the old man hesitated; evidently his reluctance to act as guide to the poor fools was weakening. this specimen of an eastern man was not at all the style of the tourists who had disgusted him so. "an' so i told your man i thought i could na guide you," he continued in a debatable way, at which hardy's blonde mustache twitched suspiciously, and genesee stooped to fasten a spur that had not needed attention before; for the fact was mac had felt "ower cranky" that morning, and the messenger had been a stupid fellow who irritated him until he swore by all the carpenter's outfit of a certain workman in nazareth that he would be no guide for "weemen folk and tenderfeet" in the hills. his vehemence had caused the refusal of ivans to make a return trip, and hardy, remembering ivans' account, was amused, and had an idea that the dark, quiet fellow with the musical voice was amused as well. "yes," agreed the stranger; "i understood you could not come, but i wanted to ask if you could recommend an indian guide. i had jim kale engaged--he's the only white man i know in this region; the men on my place are all from south of the flathead country. he sent me word yesterday he couldn't come for a week--confound these squaw men! he's gone to hunt caribou with his squaw's people, so i brought my party so far myself, but am doubtful of the trail ahead. one of the ladies is rather nervous about indians, and that prevented me from getting a guide from them at first; but if we continue, she must accustom herself to montana surroundings." "that's the worst o' the weemen folk when it comes to the hills," broke in macdougall, "they've over easy to be frightened at shadows; a roof an' four walls is the best stoppin' place for a' o' them." the young ranchman laughed easily. "i don't believe you have known many of our kentucky women, mr. macdougall; they are not hot-house plants, by any means." genesee pushed a wide-brimmed light hat back from his face a little, and for the first time joined the conversation. "a kentucky party, did you say, sir?" he queried, with half-careless interest. "yes," said hardy, turning toward him; "relatives of mine from back east, and i wanted to give them a taste of montana hill life, and a little hunting. but i can't go any farther into the hills alone, especially as there are three ladies in the party; and a man can't take many risks when he has them to consider." "that's so," said genesee, with brief sympathy; "big gang?" "no--only six of us. my sister and her husband, and a cousin, a young lady, are the strangers. then one of the men off my ranch who came to look after the pack-mules, and my wife and self. i have an extra horse for a guide if i can pick one up." "i shouldn't be surprised if you could," said genesee reflectively; "the woods are full of them, if you want indian guides, and if you don't--well, it doesn't seem the right thing to let visitors leave the country disappointed, especially ladies, and i reckon i might take charge of your outfit for a week or so." macdougall nearly dropped his pipe in his surprise at the offer. "well, i'll be--" he began; but genesee turned on him. "what's the matter with that?" he asked, looking at mac levelly, with a glance that said: "keep your mouth shut." "if i want to turn guide and drop digging in that hill back there, why shouldn't i? it'll be the 'divarsion' you were suggesting a little while back; and if mr. hardy wants a guide, give me a recommend, can't you?" "do you know the country northwest of here?" asked hardy eagerly. it was plain to be seen he was pleased at his "find." "do you live here in the chinook country? you may be a neighbor of mine, but i haven't the pleasure of knowing your name." "that's mac's fault," said the other fellow coolly; "he's master of ceremonies in these diggin's, and has forgotten his business. they call me genesee jack mostly, and i know the kootenai hills a little." "indeed, then, he does mr. hardy," said macdougall, finding his voice. "ye'll find no siwash born on the hills who knows them better than does genesee, only he's been bewitched like, by picks and shovels an' a gulch in the maple range, for so long it's a bit strange to see him actin' as guide; but you're a lucky man to be gettin' him, mr. hardy, i'll tell ye that much." "i am willing to believe it," said hardy frankly. "could you start at once with us, in the morning?" "i reckon so." "i will furnish you a good horse," began the ranchman; but genesee interrupted, shaking his head with a gesture of dissent. "no, i think not," he said in the careless, musical voice that yet could be so decided in its softness; and he whistled softly, as a cricket chirrups, and the brown mare came to him with long, cat-like movements of the slender limbs, dropping her head to his shoulder. "this bit of horse-flesh is good enough for me," he said, slipping a long, well-shaped hand over the silky cheek; "an' where i go, mowitza goes--eh, pet?" the mare whinnied softly as acknowledgment of the address, and hardy noticed with admiration the fine points in her sinewy, supple frame. "mowitza," he repeated. "that in chinook means the deer, does it not--or the elk; which is it? i haven't been here long enough to pick up much of the jargon." "well, then, ye'll be hearin' enough of it from genesee," broke in macdougall. "he'll be forgettin' his native language in it if he lives here five years longer; an'--" "there, you've said enough," suggested genesee. "after giving a fellow a recommend for solid work, don't spoil it by an account of his fancy accomplishments. you're likely to overdo it. yes, mowitza means a deer, and this one has earned her name. we'll both be down at your camp by sun-up to-morrow; will that do?" "it certainly will," answered hardy in a tone of satisfaction. "and the folks below will be mighty glad to know a white man is to go with us. jim kale rather made them doubtful of squaw men, and my sister is timid about indians as steady company through the hills. i must get back and give them the good news. at sun-up to-morrow, mr. genesee?" "at sun-up to-morrow." chapter ii. as the sun rose. do you know the region of the kootenai that lies in the northwest corner of a most northwestern state--where the "bunch-grass" of the grazing levels bends even now under a chance wild stallion and his harem of silken-coated mates; where fair upland "parks" spread back from the cool rush of the rivers; where the glittering peaks of the mountains glow at the rise and fall of night like the lances of a guard invincible, that lift their grand silence as a barrier against the puny strife of the outside world? do you know what it is to absorb the elastic breath of the mountains at the awakening of day? to stand far above the levels and watch the faint amethystine peaks catch one by one their cap of gold flung to them from an invisible sun? to feel the blood thrill with the fever of an infinite possession as the eyes look out alone over a seemingly creatureless scene of vastness, of indefiniteness of all vague promise, in the growing light of day? to feel the cool crispness of the heights, tempered by the soft "chinook" winds? to feel the fresh wet dews of the morning on your hands and on your face, and to know them in a dim way odorous--odorous with the virginity of the hills--of the day dawn, with all the sweet things of form or feeling that the new day brings into new life? a girl on scot's mountain seemed to breathe in all that intoxication of the hill country, as she stood on a little level, far above the smoke of the camp-fire, and watched the glowing, growing lights on the far peaks. a long time she had stood there, her riding-dress gathered up above the damp grass, her cap in her hand, and her brown hair tossing in a bath of the winds. twice a shrill whistle had called her to the camp hidden by the spruce boughs, but she had only glanced down toward the valley, shook her head mutinously, and returned to the study of her panorama; for it seemed so entirely her own--displaying its beauties for her sole surprisal--that it seemed discourteous to ignore it or descend to lower levels during that changing carnival of color. so she just nodded a negative to her unseen whistler below, determined not to leave, even at the risk of getting the leavings of the breakfast--not a small item to a young woman with a healthy, twenty-year-old appetite. something at last distracted that wrapt attention. what was it? she heard no sound, had noticed no movement but the stir of the wind in the leaves and the grasses, yet she shrugged her shoulders with a twitchy movement of being disturbed and not knowing by what. then she gathered her skirts a little closer in her hand and took a step or so backward in an uncertain way, and a moment later clapped the cap on her tumbled hair, and turned around, looking squarely into the face of a stranger not a dozen steps from her, who was watching her with rather sombre, curious eyes. their steady gaze accounted for the mesmeric disturbance, but her quick turn gave her revenge, for he flushed to the roots of his dark hair as she caught him watching her like that, and he did not speak just at first. he lifted his wide-brimmed hat, evidently with the intention of greeting her, but his tongue was a little unruly, and he only looked at her, and she at him. they stood so in reality only a flash of seconds, though it seemed a continuous stare of minutes to both; then the humorous side of the situation appealed to the girl, and her lips twitched ever so slightly as she recovered her speech first and said demurely: "good morning, sir." "how are you?" he returned; and having regained the use of his tongue, he added, in an easier way: "you'll excuse me, lady, if i sort of scared you?" "oh, no, i was not at all startled," she answered hastily, "only a little surprised." "yes," he agreed, "so was i. that's why i stood there a-staring at you--couldn't just make out if you were real or a ghost, though i never before saw even the ghost of a white woman in this region." "and you were watching to see if i would vanish into thin air like a macbeth witch, were you?" she asked quizzically. he might be on his native heath and she an interloper, but she was much the most at her ease--evidently a young lady of adaptability and considerable self-possession. his eyes had grown wavering and uncertain in their glances, and that flush made him still look awkward, and she wondered if macbeth's witches were not unheard-of individuals to him, and she noticed with those direct, comprehensive eyes that a suit of buckskin can be wonderfully becoming to tall, lazy-looking men, and that wide, light sombreros have quite an artistic effect as a frame for dark hair and eyes; and through that decision she heard him say: "no. i wasn't watching you for anything special, only if you were a real woman, i reckoned you were prospecting around looking for the trail, and--and so i just waited to see, knowing you were a stranger." "and is that all you know about me?" she asked mischievously. "i know much more than that about you." "how much?" "oh, i know you're just coming from davy macdougall's, and you are going to hardy's camp to act as commander-in-chief of the eastern tramps in it, and your name is mr. jack genesee--and--and--that is all." "yes, i reckon it is," he agreed, looking at her in astonishment. "it's a good deal, considering you never saw me before, and i don't know--" "and you don't know who i am," she rejoined easily. "well, i can tell you that, too. i'm a wanderer from kentucky, prospecting, as you would call it, for something new in this kootenai country of yours, and my name is rachel hardy." "that's a good, square statement," he smiled, put at his ease by the girl's frankness. "so you're one of the party i'm to look after on this cultus corrie?" "yes, i'm one of them--cousin hardy says the most troublesome of the lot, because i always want to be doing just the things i've no business to"; then she looked at him and laughed a little. "i tell you this at once," she added, "so you will know what a task you have undertaken, and if you're timid, you might back out before it's too late--are you timid?" "do i look it?" "n--no"; but she didn't give him the scrutiny she had at first--only a swift glance and a little hurry to her next question: "what was that queer term you used when speaking of our trip--cul--cultus?" "oh, cultus corrie! that's chinook for pleasure ride." "is it? what queer words they have. cousin harry was telling me it was a mongrel language, made up of indian, french, english, and any stray words from other tongues that were adjustable to it. is it hard to learn?" "i think not--i learned it." "what becoming modesty in that statement!" she laughed quizzically. "come, mr. jack genesee, suppose we begin our cultus corrie by eating breakfast together; they've been calling me for the past half-hour." he whistled for mowitza, and miss rachel hardy recognized at once the excellence of this silken-coated favorite. "mowitza; what a musical name!" she remarked as she followed the new guide to the trail leading down the mountain. "it sounds russian--is it?" "no; another chinook word--look out there; these stones are bad ones to balance on, they're too round, and that gully is too deep below to make it safe." "i'm all right," she announced in answer to the warning as she amused herself by hopping bird-like from one round, insecure bowlder to another, and sending several bounding and crashing into the gully that cut deep into the heart of the mountain. "i can manage to keep my feet on your hills, even if i can't speak their language. by the way, i suppose you don't care to add professor of languages to your other titles, do you, mr. jack genesee?" "i reckon i'm in the dark now, miss, sort of blind-fold--can't catch onto what you mean." "oh, i was just thinking i might take up the study of chinook while out here, and go back home overwhelming the natives by my novel accomplishment." and she laughed so merrily at the idea, and looked so quizzically at genesee jack's dark, serious face, that he smiled in sympathy. they had only covered half the trail leading down to the camp, but already, through the slightly strange and altogether unconventional meeting, she found herself making remarks to him with the freedom of a long-known chum, and rather enjoying the curious, puzzled look with which he regarded her when she was quick enough to catch him looking at her at all. "stop a moment," she said, just as the trail plunged from the open face of the mountain into the shadow of spruce and cedar. "you see this every morning, i suppose, but it is a grand treat to me. see how the light has crept clear down to the level land now. i came up here long before there was a sign of the sun, for i knew the picture would be worth it. isn't it beautiful?" her eyes, alight with youth and enthusiasm, were turned for a last look at the sun-kissed country below, to which she directed his attention with one bare, outstretched hand. "yes, it is," he agreed; but his eyes were not on the valley of the kootenai, but on the girl's face. chapter iii. what is a squaw man? "rache, i want you to stop it." the voice had an insinuating tone, as if it would express "will you stop it?" the speaker was a chubby, matronly figure, enthroned on a hassock of spruce boughs, while the girl stretched beside her was drawing the fragrant spikes of green, bit by bit, over closed eyes and smiling; only the mouth and chin could be seen under the green veil, but the corners of the mouth were widening ever so little. smiles should engender content; they are supposed to be a voucher of sweet thoughts, but at times they have a tendency to bring out all that is irritable in human nature, and the chubby little woman noted that growing smile with rising impatience. "i am not jesting," she continued, as if there might be a doubt on that question; "and i wish you would stop it." "you haven't given it a name yet. say, clara, that sounds like an invitation to drink, doesn't it?--a western invitation." but her fault-finder was not going to let her escape the subject like that. "i am not sure it has a name," she said curtly. "no one seems to know whether it is genesee jack or jack genesee, or whether both are not aliases--in fact, the most equivocal sort of companion for a young girl over these hills." "what a tempest you raise about nothing, clara," said the girl good-humoredly; "one would think that i was in hourly danger of being kidnaped by mr. genesee jack--the name is picturesque in sound, and suits him, don't you think so? but i am sure the poor man is quite harmless, and stands much more in awe of me than i do of him." "i believe you," assented her cousin tartly. "i never knew you to stand in awe of anything masculine, from your babyhood. you are a born flirt, for all your straightforward, independent ways. oh, i know you." "so i hear you say," answered miss hardy, peering through the screen of cedar sprays, her eyes shining a little wickedly from their shadows. "you have a hard time of it with me, haven't you, dear? by the way, clara, who prompted you to this lecture--hen?" "no, hen did not; neither he nor alec seem to have eyes or ears for anything but deer and caribou; they are constantly airing their new-found knowledge of the country. i had to beg alec to come to sleep last night, or i believe they would have gossiped until morning. the one redeeming point in your genesee jack is that he doesn't talk." "he isn't my genesee jack," returned the girl; "but he does talk, and talk well, i think. you do not know him, that is all, and you never will, with those starchy manners of yours. not talk!--why, he has taught me a lot of chinook, and told me all about a miner's life and a hunter's. not talk!--i've only known him a little over a week, and he has told me his life for ten years back." "yes, with no little encouragement from you, i'll wager." "well, my bump of curiosity was enlarged somewhat as to his life," acknowledged the girl. "you see he has such an unusual personality, unusually interesting, i mean. i never knew any man like him in the east. why, he only needs a helmet instead of the sombrero, and armor instead of the hunting suit, and he would make an ideal launcelot." "good gracious, rache! do stop raving over the man, or i shall certainly have hen discharge him and take you back to civilization at once." "but perhaps i won't go back--what then; and perhaps hen could not be able to see your reason for getting rid of a good guide," said the girl coolly, knowing she had the upper hand of the controversy; "and as to the raving, you know i never said a word about him until you began to find fault with everything, from the cut of his clothes to the name he gives, and then--well, a fellow must stand up for his friends, you know." "of course a fellow must," agreed someone back of them, and the young ranchman from the east came down under the branches from the camp-fire just kindled; "that is a manly decision, rache, and does you credit. but what's the argument?" "oh, clara thinks i am taking root too quickly in the soil of loose customs out here," explained the girl, covering the question, yet telling nothing. "she doesn't approve of our savage mode of life, does she?" he queried, sympathetically; "and she hasn't seen but a suggestion of its horrors yet. too bad jim kale did not come; she could have made the acquaintance of a specimen that would no doubt be of interest to her--a squaw man with all his native charms intact." "hen," said the girl, rising on her elbow, "i wish you would tell me just what you mean by a 'squaw man'; is it a man who buys squaws, or sells them, or eats them, or--well, what does he do?" "he marries them--sometimes," was the laconic reply, as if willing to drop the question. but miss rache, when interested, was not to be thrust aside until satisfied. "is that all?" she persisted; "is he a sort of mormon, then--an indian mormon? and how many do they marry?" "i never knew them to marry more than one," hazarded mr. hardy. "but, to tell the truth, i know very little about their customs; i understand they are generally a worthless class of men, and the term 'squaw man' is a stigma, in a way--the most of them are rather ashamed of it, i believe." "i don't see why," began rache. "no, i don't suppose you do," broke in her cousin hardy with a relative's freedom, "and it is not necessary that you should; just confine your curiosity to other phases of missoula county that are open for inspection, and drop the squaw men." "i haven't picked up any of them yet," returned the girl, rising to her feet, "but i will the first chance i get; and i give you fair warning, you might as well tell me all i want to know, for i will find out." "i'll wager she will," sighed clara, as the girl walked away to where their traps and sachels were stacked under a birch tree, and while she turned things topsy-turvy looking for something, she nodded her head sagaciously over her shoulder at the two left behind; "to be sure she will--she is one of the girls who are always stumbling on just the sort of knowledge that should be kept from them; and this question of your horrid social system out here--well, she will know all about it if she has to interview ivans or your guide to find out; and i suppose it is an altogether objectionable topic?" the intonation of the last words showed quite as much curiosity as the girl had declared, only it was more carefully veiled. "oh, i don't know as it is," returned her brother; "except under--well--circumstances. but, some way, a white man is mightily ashamed to have it known that he has a squaw wife. ivans told me that many of them would as soon be shot as to have it known back east where they came from." "yes," remarked a gentleman who joined them during this speech, and whose brand-new hunting suit bespoke the "got-up-regardless" tourist; "it is strange, don't you think so? why, back east we would hear of such a marriage and think it most romantic; but out here--well, it seems hard to convince a westerner that there is any romance about an indian." "and i don't wonder, alec, do you?" asked mrs. houghton, turning to her husband as if sure of sympathy from him; "all the squaws we have seen are horribly slouchy, dirty creatures. i have yet to see the indian maiden of romance." "in their original state they may have possessed all the picturesque dignities and chivalrous character ascribed to them," answered mr. houghton, doubtfully; "but if so, their contact with the white race has caused a vast degeneration." "which it undoubtedly has," returned hardy, decidedly. "mixing of races always has that effect, and in the indian country it takes a most decided turn. the siwash or indian men of this territory may be a thieving, whisky-drinking lot, but the chances are that nine-tenths of the white men who marry among them become more worthless and degraded than the indian." "there are, i suppose, exceptions," remarked houghton. "well, there may be," answered hardy, "but they are not taken into consideration, and that is why a man dislikes to be classed among them. there is something of the same feeling about it that there is back home about a white man marrying a negro." "then why do they do it, if they are ashamed of it?" queried mrs. houghton with logical directness. "well, i suppose because there are no white women here for them to marry," answered her brother, "and indians or half-breeds are always to be found." "if ministers are not," added houghton. "exactly!" "oh, good gracious!" ejaculated the little matron in a tone of disgust; "no wonder they are ashamed--even the would-be honest ones are likely to incur suspicion, because, as you say, the exceptions are too few for consideration. a truly delightful spot you have chosen; the moral atmosphere would be a good field for a missionary, i should say--yet you would come here." "yes, and i am going to stay, too," said hardy, in answer to this sisterly tirade. "we see or know but little of those poor devils or their useless lives--only we know by hearing that such a state of things exists. but as for quitting the country because of that--well, no, i could not be bought back to the east after knowing this glorious climate. why, tillie and i have picked out a tree to be buried under--a magnificent fellow that grows on the plateau above our house--just high enough to view the four-mile park from. she is as much in love with the freedom of these hills as i am." "poor child!" said his sister, commiseratingly; "to think of her being exiled in that park, twenty miles from a white woman!--didn't you say it was twenty?" "yes," and her brother leaned his back against the tree and smiled down at her; "it's twenty and a half, and the white woman whom you see at the end of the trip keeps a tavern--runs it herself, and sells the whisky that crosses the bar with an insinuating manner that is all her own. i've heard that she can sling an ugly fist in a scrimmage. she is a great favorite with the boys; the pet name they have for her is holland jin." "ugh! horrible! and she--she allows them to call her so?" "certainly; you see it is a trade-mark for the house; her real name is jane holland." "holland jin!" repeated his sister with a shudder. "tillie, come here! have you heard this? hen has been telling me of your neighbor, holland jin. how do you expect to live always in this out-of-the-way place?" out from under the branches where their camp had just been located came tillie, a charmingly plain little wife of less than a year--just her childishly curved red lips and her soft dark eyes to give attractiveness to her tanned face. "yes, i have heard of her," she said in a slow, half-shy way; "she can't be very--very--nice; but one of the stockmen said she was good-hearted if anyone was sick or needed help, so she can't be quite bad." "you dear little soul," said her sister-in-law fondly; "you would have a good word to say for anyone; but you must allow it will be awfully dismal out here without any lady friends." "you are here, and rache." "yes, but when rache and i have gone back to civilization?" the dark eyes glanced at the speaker and then at the tall young ranchman. "hen will be here always." "oh, you insinuating little quaker!" laughed the older woman; "one would think you were married yesterday and the honeymoon only begun, would you not, alec? i wonder if these chinook winds have a tendency to softening of the brain--have they, hen? if so, you and tillie are in a dangerous country. what was it you shot this time, alec--a pole-cat or a flying-squirrel? yes, i'll go and see for myself." and she followed her husband across the open space of the plateau to where ivans was cutting slices of venison from the latest addition to their larder; while hardy stood smiling down, half amusedly, at the flushed face of the little wife. "are you afraid of softening of the brain?" he asked in a tone of concern. she shook her head, but did not look up. she was easily teased, as much so about her husband as if he was still a wooer. and to have shown her fondness in his sister's eyes! what sister could ever yet see the reason for a sister-in-law's blind adoration? "are you going to look on yourself as a martyr after the rest have left you here in solitary confinement with me as a jailer?" another shake of the head, and the drooped eyes were raised for one swift glance. "because i was thinking," continued her tormentor--"i was thinking that if the exile, as clara calls it, would be too severe on you, i might, if it was for your own good--i might send you back with the rest to kentucky." then there was a raising of the head quick enough and a tempestuous flight across the space that separated them, and a flood of remonstrances that ended in happy laughter, a close clasp of arms, and--yes, in spite of the girl who was standing not very far away--a kiss; and hardy circled his wife's shoulders with his long arms, and, with a glance of laughing defiance at his cousin, drew her closer and followed in the wake of the houghtons. the girl had deliberately stood watching that little scene with a curious smile in her eyes, a semi-cynical gaze at the lingering fondness of voice and touch. there was no envy in her face, only a sort of good-natured disbelief. her cousin clara always averred that rachel was too masculine in spirit to ever understand the little tendernesses that burnish other women's lives. chapter iv. banked fires. she did not look masculine, however, as she stood there, slender, and brown from the tan of the winds; the unruly, fluffy hair clustering around a face and caressing a neck that was essentially womanly in every curve; only, slight as the form seemed, one could find strong points in the depth of chest and solid look of the shoulders; a veteran of the roads would say those same points in a bit of horse-flesh would denote capacity for endurance, and, added to the strong-looking hand and the mockery latent in the level eyes, they completed a personality that she had all her life heard called queer. and with a smile that reflected that term, she watched those two married lovers stroll arm in arm to where the freshly-killed deer lay. glancing at the group, she missed the face of their guide, a face she had seen much of since that sunrise in the kootenai. across the sward a little way the horses were picketed, and mowitza's graceful head was bent in search for the most luscious clusters of the bunch-grass; but mowitza's master was not to be seen. she had heard him speak, the night before, of signs of grizzlies around the shank of the mountain, and wondered if he had started on a lone hunt for them. she was conscious of a half-resentful feeling that he had not given her a chance of going along, when he knew she wanted to see everything possible in this out-of-door life in the hills. so, in some ill-humor, she walked aimlessly across the grass where clara's lecture on the conventionalities had been delivered; and pushing ahead under the close-knit boughs, she was walking away from the rest, led by that spirit of exploration that comes naturally to one in a wilderness, and parting a wide-spreading clump of laurel, was about to wedge her way through it, when directly on the other side of that green wall she saw genesee, whom she had supposed was alone after a grizzly. was he asleep? he was lying face downward under the woven green roof that makes twilight in the cedars. the girl stopped, about to retrace her steps quietly, when a sudden thought made her look at him more closely, with a devout prayer in her heart that he was asleep, and asleep soundly; for her quick eyes had measured the short distance between that resting-place and the scene of the conversation of a few minutes ago. she tried wildly to remember what clara had said about him, and, most of all, what answers clara had received. she had no doubt said things altogether idiotic, just from a spirit of controversy, and here the man had been within a few feet of them all the time! she felt like saying something desperately, expressively masculine; but instead of easing her feelings in that manner, she was forced to complete silence and a stealthy retreat. was he asleep, or only resting? the uncertainty was aggravating. and a veritable psyche, she could not resist the temptation of taking a last, sharp look. she leaned forward ever so little to ascertain, and thus lost her chance of retreating unseen; for among the low-hanging branches was one on which there were no needles of green--a bare, straggling limb with twigs like the fingers of black skeletons. in bending forward, she felt one of them fasten itself in her hair; tugging blindly and wildly, at last she loosened their impish clutches, and left as trophy to the tree some erratic, light-brown hair and--she gave up in despair as she saw it--her cap, that swung backward and forward, just out of reach. if it only staid there for the present, she would not care so much; but it was so tantalizingly insecure, hanging by a mere thread, and almost directly above the man. fascinated by the uncertainty, she stood still. would it stay where it was? would it fall? the silent query was soon answered--it fell, dropped lightly down on the man's shoulder, and he, raising his head from the folded arms, showed a face from which the girl took a step back in astonishment. he had not been asleep, then; but to the girl's eyes he looked like a man who had been either fighting or weeping. she had never seen a face so changed, telling so surely of some war of the emotions. he lay in the shadow, one hand involuntarily lifting itself as a shade for his eyes while he looked up at her. "well!" the tone was gruff, almost hoarse; it was as unlike him as his face at that moment, and rachel hardy wondered, blankly, if he was drunk--it was about the only reasonable explanation she could give herself. but even with that she could not be satisfied; there was too much quick anger at the thought--not anger alone, but a decided feeling of disappointment in the man. to be sure, she had been influenced by no one to have faith in him; still--someway-- "are you--are you ill, mr. genesee?" she asked at last. "not that i know of." what a bear the man was! she thought; what need was there to answer a civil question in that tone. it made her just antagonistic enough not to care so much if his feelings had been hurt by clara's remarks, and she asked bluntly: "have you been here long?" "some time." "awake?" "well, yes," and he made a queer sound in his throat, half grunt, half laugh; "i reckon i--was--awake." the slow, half-bitter words impelled her to continue: "then you--you heard the--the conversation over there?" he looked at her, and she thought his eyes were pretty steady for a drunken man's. "well, yes," he repeated, "i reckon--i--heard it." all her temper blazed up at the deliberate confession. if he had seemed embarrassed or wounded, she would have felt sorry; but this stoicism angered her, as the idea of drunkenness had done--perhaps because each set herself and her feelings aside--i do not know, but that may have been the reason; she was a woman. "and you deliberately lay there and listened," she burst out wrathfully, "and let us say all sorts of things, no doubt, when it was your place as a gentleman to let us know you were here? i--i would not have taken you for an eavesdropper, mr. jack genesee!" and with this tirade she turned to make her way back through the laurel. "here!" she obeyed the command in his voice, thinking, as she did so, how quick the man was to get on his feet. in a stride he was beside her, his hand outstretched to stop her; but it was not necessary, his tone had done that, and he thrust both hands into the pockets of his hunting coat. "stop just where you are for a minute, miss," he said, looking down at her; "and don't be so infernally quick about making a judge and jury of yourself--and you look just now as if you'd like to be sheriff, too. i make no pretense of being a gentleman of culture, so you can save yourself the trouble of telling me the duty of one. what little polish i ever had has been knocked off in ten years of hill life out here. i'm not used to talking to ladies, and my ways may seem mighty rough to you; but i want you to know i wasn't listening--i would have got away if i could, but i--was paralyzed." "what?" her tone was coldly unbelieving. his manner was collected enough now. he was talking soberly, if rather brusquely; but--that strange look in his face at first? and the eyes that burned as if for the lack of tears?--those were things not yet understood. "yes," he continued, "that's what i was, i reckon. i heard what she said; she is right, too, when she says i'm no fit company for a lady. i hadn't thought of it before, and it started me to thinking--thinking fast--and i just lay still there and forgot everything only those words; and then i heard the things you said--mighty kind they were, too, but i wasn't thinking of them much--only trying to see myself as people of your sort would see me if they knew me as i do, and i concluded i would pan out pretty small; then i heard something else that was good for me, but bitter to take. and then--" his voice grew uncertain; he was not looking at the girl, but straight ahead of him, his features softened, his eyes half closed at some memory. "and then what, genesee?" she felt a little sorry for him as he was speaking--a little kinder since he had owned his own unworthiness. a touch of remorse even led her to lay a couple of fingers on the sleeve of his coat, to remind him of her presence as she repeated: "and then?" he glanced down at the fingers--the glance made the hand drop to her side very quickly--and then he coolly brushed his sleeve carefully with the other hand. "then for a little bit i was let get a glimpse of what heaven on earth might mean to a man, if he hadn't locked the door against himself and dropped into hell instead. this is a blind trail i'm leading on, is it, miss?--all tsolo. well, it doesn't matter; you would have to drop into a pretty deep gulch yourself before you could understand, and you'll never do that--the almighty forbid!" he added, energetically. "you belong to the mountains and the high places, and you're too sure-footed not to stay there. you can go now. i only stopped you to say that my listening mightn't have been in as mean a spirit as you judged. judging things you don't understand is bad business anyway--let it alone." with that admonition he turned away, striding through the laurel growth and spruce, and on down the mountain, leaving miss hardy feeling more lectured and astonished than she had often been in her life. "well, upon my word!" it is not an original exclamation--she was not equal to any original thought just then; but for some time after his disappearance that was all she could find to say, and she said it standing still there, bare-headed and puzzled; then, gathering up her faculties and her skirts, she made her way back through the low growth, and sat down where clara and herself had sat only a little while before. "and clara says he doesn't talk!" she soliloquized, with a faint smile about her lips. "not talk!--he did not give me a chance to say a word, even if i had wanted to. i feel decidedly 'sat upon,' as hen would say, and i suppose i deserved it." then she missed her cap, and went to look for it; but it was gone. she remembered seeing it in his hand; he must have forgotten and taken it with him. then she sat down again, and all the time his words, and the way he had said them, kept ringing in her head--"judging things you don't understand is bad business." of course he was right; but it seemed strange for her to be taken to task by a man like that on such a subject--an uncouth miner and hunter in the indian hills. but was he quite uncouth? while he made her stop and listen, his earnestness had overleaped that slurred manner of speech that belongs to the ignorant of culture. his words had been clearer cut. there had been the ring of finished steel in his voice, not the thud of iron in the ore, and it had cut clear a path of revelations. the man, then, could do more than ride magnificently, and look a launcelot in buckskin--he could think--how deeply and wildly had been shown by the haggard face she had seen. but the cause of it? even his disjointed explanation had given her no clue. "tsolo," she thought, repeating the chinook word he had used; "that means to lose one's way--to wander in the dark. well, he was right. that is what i am doing"; and then she laughed half mockingly at herself as she added: "and mr. jack genesee has started me on the path--and started me bare-headed. oh, dear, what a muddle! i wonder where my cap is, and i wonder where the man went to, and i wonder--i wonder what he meant by a glimpse of heaven. i haven't seen any signs of it." but she had seen it--seen it and laughed mockingly, unbelievingly, while the man had by the sight been touched into a great heart-ache of desolation. and yet it was a commonplace thing they had seen; only two lives bound together by the wish of their hearts and a wedding ring--an affection so honest that its fondness could be frankly shown to the world. * * * * * that evening genesee came back to camp looking tired, and told ivans there was a grizzly waiting to be skinned in a gully not far off. he had had a hard tussle after it and was too tired to see to the pelt; and then he turned to miss hardy and drew her cap from his pocket. "i picked it up back there in the brush, and forgot to give it to you before going out," he said. that was all--no look or manner that showed any remembrance of their conversation. and for the next two days the girl saw very little of their guide; no more long gallops ahead of the party. mr. genesee had taken a sedate turn, and remained close to the rest, and if any of the ladies received more of his attention than another it was mrs. hardy. he had for her something approaching veneration. in her tender, half-shy love of her husband she seemed to him as the madonna to those of the roman church--a symbol of something holy--of a purity of affection unknown to the rough man of the hills. unpretentious little tillie would have been amazed if she had suspected the pedestal she occupied in the imagination of this dark-faced fellow, whose only affection seemed to be lavished on mowitza. clara always looked at him somewhat askance; and in passing a party of the indians who were berry-hunting in the mountains, she noted suspiciously his ready speech in their own language, and the decided deference paid him by them; the stolid stare of the squaws filled her with forebodings of covetousness for her raiment--of which several of them rather stood in need, though the weather was warm--and that night was passed by her in waking dreams of an indian massacre, with their guide as a leader of the enemy. "do you know them very well?" asked miss hardy, riding up to genesee. "is it entirely chinook they are talking? let me try my knowledge of it. i should like to speak to them in their jargon. can i?" "you can try. here's a siwash, a friend of mine, who is as near a boston (american) man as any of them--try him." and, under genesee's tuition, she asked several questions about the berry yield in the hills, and the distance to markets where pelts could be sold; and the indian answered briefly, expressing distance as much by the sweep of his hand toward the west as by the adjective "siah-si-ah;" and miss hardy, well satisfied with her knowledge, would have liked to add to her possessions the necklace of bear's claws that adorned the bronze throat of the gentleman who answered her questions. the squaws slouched around the camp, curious and dirty, here and there a half-breed showing the paler blood through olive skin. the younger women or girls were a shade less repulsive than their mothers, but none showed material for a romance of indian life. they were as spiritless as ill-kept cattle. back of some tethered ponies miss hardy noticed a dark form dodging as if to avoid being seen. a squaw possessed of shyness was such a direct contradiction of those she had seen, that the white girl found herself watching the indian one with a sort of curiosity--in fact, she rode her horse over in the direction of the ponies, thinking the form she had a glimpse of was only a child; but it was not, for back of the ponies it lay flat to the ground as a snake, only the head raised, the eyes meeting those of miss hardy with a half scowl, and the bright-beaded dress outlining the form of a girl perhaps twenty years old, and dressed much neater than any she had seen in the camp. by the light tinge of color she was evidently a half-breed, and the white girl was about to turn her horse's head, when, with a low exclamation, the other seized a blanket that had slipped from a pony, and quick as a flash had rolled her plump form in it, head and heels, and dropped like one asleep, face downward, in the trampled grass. wondering at the sudden hiding and its cause, miss hardy turned away and met genesee, who was riding toward her. "shaky-looking stock," he commented, supposing she was looking at the ponies. "the rest are going on, miss; we have to do some traveling to reach our last camp by night-fall." as they rode away, miss hardy turned for a last look at that mummy-looking form by the ponies. it apparently had not moved. she wondered if it was genesee the girl was hiding from, and if so, why? was their guide one of those heroes of the border whose face is a thing of terror to indian foe? and was the half-breed girl one of the few timid ones? she could not answer her own questions, and something kept her from speaking to genesee of it; in fact, she did not speak to him of anything with the same freedom since that conversation by the laurel bushes. sometimes she would laugh a little to herself as she thought of how he had brushed off that coat-sleeve; it had angered her, amused her, and puzzled her. that entire scene seemed a perplexing, unreal sort of an affair to her sometimes, especially when looking at their guide as he went about the commonplace duties in the camp or on the trail. an undemonstrative, prosaic individual she knew he appeared to the rest; laconic and decided when he did speak, but not a cheery companion. to her always, after that day, he was a suggestion of a crater in which the fires were banked. chapter v. at last camp. after their stop at the indian camp, which genesee explained was a berrying crowd from the kootenai tribe, there was, of course, comment among the visitors as to the mixed specimens of humanity they had seen there. "i don't wonder a white man is ashamed of an indian wife," said mrs. houghton. "what slouchy creatures!" "all the more reason for a white man to act the part of missionary, and marry them," remarked rachel hardy, "and teach them what the domestic life of a woman should be." genesee turned square around to look at the speaker--perhaps she did not strike him as being a domestic woman herself. whatever the cause of that quick attention, she noticed it, and added: "well, mr. genesee, don't you think so? you must have seen considerable of that sort of life." "i have--some," he answered concisely, but showing no disposition to discuss it, while mrs. houghton was making vain efforts to engage miss hardy's attention by the splendid spread of the country below them; but it was ineffectual. "yes, clara, i see the levels along that river--i've been seeing them for the past two hours--but just now i am studying the social system of those hills"; and then she turned again to their guide. "you did not answer my question, mr. genesee," she said, ignoring mrs. houghton's admonishing glances. "do you not agree with my idea of marriages between whites and indians?" "no!" he said bluntly; "most of the white men i know among the indians need themselves to be taught how people should live; they need white women to teach them. it's uphill work showing an indian how to live decently when a man has forgotten how himself. missionary work! squaw men are about as fit for that as--as hell's fit for a powder-house." and under this emphatic statement and the shocked expression of clara's face, miss hardy collapsed, with the conviction that there must be lights and shades of life in the indian country that were not apparent to the casual visitor. she wondered sometimes that genesee had lived there so long with no family ties, and she seldom heard him speak of any white friend in montana--only of old davy macdougall sometimes. most of his friends had indian names. altogether, it seemed a purposeless sort of existence. "do you expect to live your life out here, like this?" she asked him once. "don't you ever expect to go back home?" "hardly! there is nothing to take me back now." "and only a horse and a gun to keep you here?" she smiled. "n--no; something besides, miss. i've got a right smart of a ranch on the other side of the maple range. it's running wild--no stock on it; but in tamahnous hill there's a hole i've been digging at for the past four years. macdougall reckons i'm 'witched' by it, but it may pan out all right some of these days." "gold hunting?" "no, miss, silver; and it's there. i've got tired more than once and given it the klatawa (the go-by); but i'd always come back, and i reckon i always will until i strike it." "and then?" "well, i haven't got that far yet." and thus any curiosity about the man's life or future was generally silenced. he had told her many things of the past; his life in the mines of colorado and idaho, with now and then the diversion of a government scout's work along the border. all of that he would speak of without reserve, but of the actual present or of the future he would say nothing. "i have read somewhere in a book of a man without a past," remarked the girl to mrs. hardy; "but our guide seems a man utterly without a future." "perhaps he does not like to think of it here alone," suggested tillie thoughtfully; "he must be very lonely sometimes. just see how he loves that horse!" "not a horse, tillie--a klootchman kiuatan," corrected the student of chinook; "if you are going to live out here, you must learn the language of the hills." "you are likely to know it first;" and then, after a little, she added: "but noticing that man's love for his mowitza, i have often thought how kind he would be to a wife. i think he has a naturally affectionate nature, though he does swear--i heard him; and to grow old and wild here among the indians and squaw men seems too bad. he is intelligent--a man who might accomplish a great deal yet. you know he is comparatively young--thirty-five, i heard hen say." "yes," said mrs. houghton sarcastically; "a good age at which to adopt a child. you had better take him back as one of the fixtures on the ranch, tillie; of course he may need some training in the little courtesies of life, but no doubt rachel would postpone her return east and offer her services as tutor;" and with this statement mistress houghton showed her disgust of the entire subject. "she is 'riled,'" said the girl, looking quizzically after the plump retreating form. "why, what in the world--" "nothing in the world, tillie, and that's what's the matter with clara. her ideas of the world are, and always will be, bounded by the rules and regulations of willow centre, kentucky. of course it isn't to be found on a map of the united states, but it's a big place to clara; and she doesn't approve of mr. genesee because he lives outside its knowledge. she intimated yesterday that he might be a horse-thief for any actual acquaintance we had with his resources or manner of living." "ridiculous!" laughed tillie. "that man!" the girl slipped her arm around the little wife's waist and gave her a hug like a young bear. she had been in a way lectured and snubbed by that man, but she bore no malice. the end of their cultus corrie was reached as they went into camp for a two-days' stay, on the shoulder of a mountain from which one could look over into the idaho hills, north into british columbia, and through the fair kootenai valleys to the east, where the home-ranch lay. houghton and hardy each had killed enough big game to become inoculated with the taste for wild life, and the ladies were delighted with the idea of having the spoils of the hunt for the adornment of their homes; and altogether the trip was voted a big success. is there anything more appetizing, after a long ride through the mountains, than to rest under the cedars at sunset and hear the sizzle of broiled meat on the red coals, and have the aroma of coffee borne to you on the breeze that would lull you to sleep if you were not so hungry? "i could have eaten five meals during every twenty-four hours since we started," acknowledged rachel, as she watched with flattering attention the crisping slices of venison that were accumulating on a platter by the fire. and she looked as if both the appetite and the wild living had agreed with her. clara complained that rachel really seemed to pride herself on the amount of tan she had been able to gather from the wind and the sun, while hardy decided that only her light hair would keep her from being taken for an indian. but for all the looks that were gaining a tinge of wildness, and the appetites that would persist in growing ravenous, it was none the less a jolly, pleasant circle that gathered about the evening meal, sometimes eaten on a large flat stone, if any were handy, and again on the grass, where the knives and small articles of table-ware would lose themselves in the tall spears; but, whatever was used as a table, the meal in the evening was the domestic event of the day. at midday there was often but a hasty lunch; breakfast was simply a preparation for travel; but in the evening all were prepared for rest and the enjoyment of either eatables or society. and until the darkness fell there was the review of the day's hunt by the men--hardy and houghton vying with each other in their recitals--or, as ivans expressed it, "swappin' lies"--around the fire. sometimes there would be singing, and blended with the notes of night-birds in the forest would sound the call of human throats echoing upward in old hymns that all had known sometime, in the east. and again tillie would sing them a ballad or a love-song in a sweet, fresh voice; or, with clara, hardy, and houghton, a quartette would add volume to some favorite, their scout a silent listener. rachel never sang with the rest; she preferred whistling, herself. and many a time when out of sight of her on the trail, she was located by that boyish habit she had of echoing the songs of many of the birds that were new to her, learning their notes, and imitating them so well as to bring many a decoyed answer from the woods. between herself and the guide there was no more their former comaraderie. they had never regained their old easy, friendly manner. still, she asked him that night at "last camp" of the music of the indians. had they any? could he sing? had there ever been any of their music published? etc. and he told them of the airs that were more like chants, like the echoes of whispering or moaning forests, set to human words; of the dusky throats that, without training, yet sang together with never a discord; of the love-songs that had in them the minor cadences of sadness. only their war-songs seemed to carry brightness, and they only when echoes of victory. in the low, glowing light of the fire, when the group around it faded in the darkness, he seemed to forget his many listeners, and talked on as if to only one. to the rest it was as if they had met a stranger there that evening for the first time, and found him entertaining. even mrs. houghton dropped her slightly supercilious manner toward him, a change to which he was as indifferent as to her coolness. it may have been tillie's home-songs in the evening that unlocked his lips; or it may have been the realization that the pleasure-trip was ended--that in a short time he would know these people no more, who had brought him home-memories in their talk of home-lives. it may have been a dash of recklessness that urged him to enjoy it for a little only--this association that suggested so much to which he had long been a stranger. whatever the impulse was, it showed a side of his nature that only rachel had gained any knowledge of through those first bright, eager days of their cultus corrie. at tillie's request he repeated some remembered fragments of indian songs that had been translated into the red's language, and of which he gave them the english version or meaning as well as he could. a couple of them he knew entire, and to tillie's delight he hummed the plaintive airs until she caught the notes. and even after the rest had quietly withdrawn and rolled themselves in blankets for the night's rest, hardy and his wife and genesee still sat there with old legends of tsiatko, the demon of the night, for company, and with strange songs in which the music would yet sound familiar to any ears used to the shrilling of the winds through the timber, or the muffled moans of the wood-dove. and in the sweet dusk of the night, rachel, the first to leave the fire, lay among the odorous, spicy branches of the cedar and watched the picture of the group about the fire. all was in darkness, save when a bit of reflected red would outline form or feature, and they looked rather uncanny in the red-and-black coloring. an indian council or the grouping of witches and warlocks it might have been, had one judged the scene only from sight. but the voices of the final three, dropped low though they were for the sake of the supposed sleepers, yet had a tone of pleasant converse that belied their impish appearance. those voices came to rachel dreamily, merging their music with the drowsy odors of a spruce pillow. and through them all she heard tillie and genesee singing a song of some unlettered indian poet: "lemolo mika tsolo siah polaklie, towagh tsee chil-chil siah saghallie. mika na chakko?--me sika chil-chil, opitsah! mika winapia, tsolo--tsolo!" "wild do i wander, far in the darkness, shines bright a sweet star far up above. will you not come to me? you are the star, sweetheart! i wait, lost!--in the dark!" and the white girl's mouth curled dubiously in that smile that always vanquished the tender curves of her lips, and then dropped asleep whispering the refrain, "tsolo--tsolo!" chapter vi. tsolo--tsolo! the retracing of steps, either figuratively or literally, is always provocative of thought to the individual who walks again over the old paths; the waning of a moon never finds the same state of feelings in the heart that had throbbed through it under the gold sickle. back over how many a road do we walk with a sigh, remembering the laughter that had once echoed along it! something has been gained, something has been lost, since; and a human sigh is as likely to be called forth by one cause as the other. miss rachel hardy, who usually laughed at sighs of sentiment, did not indulge in them as one by one the landmarks of the past three weeks rose in sight. but different natures find different vents for feeling, and she may have got rid of hers by the long gallops she took alone over the now known trail, priding herself on her ability to find her way miles ahead of the slower-moving party; and resting herself and horse in some remembered retreat, would await their coming. through these solitary rides she began to understand the fascination such a free, untrammeled existence would have for a man. one must feel a very adam in the midst of this virginity of soil and life of the hills. she had not tillie's domestic ideas of life, else the thought of an eve might also have occurred to her. but though she wasted no breath in sighs over the retraced cultus corrie, neither did she in the mockery that had tantalized clara in the beginning. that lady did not find her self-imposed duty of chaperon nearly so arduous as at first, since, from the time the other ladies awakened to the fact that their guide had a good baritone voice and could be interesting, the girl forgot her role of champion, also her study of mongrel languages; for she dropped that ready use of chinook of which she had been proud, especially in her conversation with him, and only used it if chance threw her in the way of indians hunting or gathering olallie (berries) in the hills. genesee never noticed by word or action the changed manner that dropped him out of her knowledge. once or twice, in crossing a bit of country that was in any way dangerous to a stranger, he had said no one must leave the party or go out of hearing distance; and though the order was a general one, they all knew he meant rachel, and the ladies wondered a little if that generally headstrong damsel would heed it, or if she would want willfully to take the bit in her teeth and go as she pleased--a habit of hers; but she did not; she rode demurely with the rest, showing the respect of a soldier to the orders of a commander. along the last bit of bad country he spoke to her of the enforced care through the jungle of underbrush, where the chetwoot (black bear) was likely to be met and prove a dangerous enemy, at places where the trail led along the edge of ravines, and where a fright to a horse was a risky thing. "it's hard on you, miss, to be kept back here with the rest of us," he said, half apologetically; "you're too used to riding free for this to be any pleasure, but--" "don't distress yourself about me," she answered easily, but without looking at him. "i have felt a little lazy to-day, so has betty, and have been satisfied to loaf; but now we are at the edge of this bad strip, and just down over this bend ahead is a long stretch of level, and i think--yes, i am quite sure--i am ready now for a run." and without waiting to hear either assent or dissent to her intention, she touched betty with the whip, and mowitza and her master were left behind, much to mowitza's dissatisfaction. she gave one plunge ahead as if to follow, but genesee's hand on the bridle had a quick, cruel grip for a moment, and in slow silence they made their way down the timbered slope to the lower levels. the girl, free from companionship save her own thoughts, galloped through the odorous, shadowy table-lands, catching here and there a glimpse of glistening water in a river ahead, as it trailed its length far below the plateaus, and shone like linked diamonds away toward the east. she remembered the river; it was a branch of the kootenai. to be near it meant but a short journey home; two days more, perhaps, and then--well, their outing would be over. she would go back east, and say good-bye to betty; and then she began to think of that man who belonged to these hills and who never need leave them--never need go a mile without his horse, if he did not choose; and she envied him as she could not have thought it possible to do six months before--to envy a man such a primitive existence, such simple possessions! but most human wants are so much a matter of association, and rachel hardy, though all unconscious of it, was most impressionable to surroundings. back of her coolness and carelessness was a sensitive temperament in which the pulses were never stilled. it thrilled her with quick sympathies for which she was vexed with herself, and which she hid as well as she could. she had more than likely never tried to analyze her emotions; they were seldom satisfactory enough for her to grant them so much patience; but had she done so, she would have found her desires molded as much by association and sentiment as most other human nature of her age. once or twice she looked back as she left the timber, but could see nothing of the others, and betty seemed to scent the trail home, and long for the ranch and the white-coated flocks of the pastures, for she struck out over the table-lands, where her hoofs fell so softly in the grass that the wild things of the ground-homes and the birds that rest on the warm earth scampered and flew from under the enemy's feet that were shod with iron. a small herd of elk with uncouth heads and monstrous antlers were startled from the shelter of a knoll around which she cantered; for a moment the natives and the stranger gazed at each other with equal interest, and then a great buck plunged away over the rolling land to the south, and the others followed as if they had been given a word of command. the girl watched them out of sight, finding them, like the most of montana natives, strange and interesting--not only the natives, but the very atmosphere of existence, with its tinges of wildness and coloring of the earth; even the rising and setting of the sun had a distinct character of its own, in the rarefied air of this land that seemed so far off from all else in the world. for in the valley of the kootenai, where the light breaks over the mountains of the east and vanishes again over the mountains of the west, it is hard at times to realize that its glory is for any land but the mellow, sun-kissed "park" whose only gates open to the south. the late afternoon was coming on; only an hour or so of sun, and then the long flush twilight. remembering the camping-spot they were making for, she gave betty rein, thinking to reach it and have a fire built on their arrival, and her hard ride gave her a longing for the sight of the pack-mules with the eatables. another of those ugly, jolting bits of scrub-timber had to be crossed before the haven of rest was reached. betty had almost picked her way through it, when a huge black something came scrambling down through the brush almost in front of them. the little mare shied in terror, and the girl tried to make a circuit of the animal, which she could see was an enormous black bear. it did not seem to notice her, but was rolling and pitching downward as if on a trail--no doubt that of honey in a tree. managing betty was not an easy matter, and it took all of the girl's strength to do so until the black stranger passed, and then, on loosening the bridle, the terrified beast gave a leap forward. there was a crash, a growl from under her feet, and an answering one from the huge beast that had just gone by them; she had been followed by two cubs that had escaped rachel's notice in the thick brush, as all her attention had been given to the mother; but betty's feet coming down on one of the cubs had brought forth a call that the girl knew might mean a war of extermination. with a sharp cut of the whip, betty, wild from the clawing thing at her feet, sprang forward over it with a snort of terror, just as the mother with fierce growls broke through the brush. [illustration: at a sharp cut of the whip, betty sprang forward] once clear of them, the little mare ran like mad through the rough trail over which she had picked her way so carefully but a little before. stones and loose earth clattered down the gully, loosened by her flying feet, and dashed ominously in the mountain stream far below. the girl was almost torn from the saddle by the low branches of the trees under which she was borne. in vain she tried to check or moderate the mare's gait. she could do little but drop low on the saddle and hang there, wondering if she should be able to keep her seat until they got clear of the timber. the swish of some twigs across her eyes half blinded her, and it seemed like an hour went by with betty crashing through the brush, guiding herself, and seeming to lose none of her fright. her ears were deaf to the girl's voice, and at last, stumbling in her headlong run, her rider was thrown against a tree, knowing nothing after the sickening jar, and seeing nothing of betty, who, freed from her burden, recovered her footing, and, triumphant, dashed away on a cultus "coolie" (run) of her own. when rachel recovered her powers of reasoning, she felt too lazy, too tired to use them. she ached all over from the force of the fall, and though realizing that the sun was almost down, and that she was alone there in the timber, all she felt like doing was to drag herself into a more comfortable position and go to sleep; but real sleep did not come easily--only a drowsy stupor, through which she realized she was hungry, and wondered if the rest were eating supper by that time, and if they had found betty, and if--no, rather, when would they find her? she had no doubt just yet that they would find her; she could half imagine how carefully and quickly mowitza would cover the ground after they missed her. of course there were other horses in the party, but mowitza was the only one she happened to think of. she did not know where she was; the mare had struck into a new trail for herself, and had dropped her rider on a timbered slope of one of the foot-hills, where there were no remembered landmarks, and the closeness of night would prevent her from seeking them. twice she roused herself and tried to walk, but she was dizzily sick from the wild ride and the fall that had stunned her, and both times she was compelled to drop back on her couch of grass. the stars began to creep out in the clear, warm sky, and up through the timber the shadows grew black, and it all seemed very peaceful and very lovely. she thought she would not mind sleeping there if she only had a blanket, and--yes, some hot coffee--for through the shadows of the lower hills the dew falls quickly, and already the coolness made itself felt with a little shiver. she searched her pocket for some matches--not a match, therefore no fire. a sound in the distance diverted her thoughts from disappointment, and she strained her ears for a repetition of it. surely it was a shot, but too far off for any call of hers to answer it. she could do nothing but listen and wait, and the waiting grew long, so long that she concluded it could be no one on her trail--perhaps some of the indians in the hills. she would be glad to see even them, she thought, for all she met had seemed kindly disposed. then she fell to wondering about that half-breed girl who had hid back of the ponies; was it genesee she was afraid of, and if so, why? suddenly a light gleamed through the woods above her; a bent figure was coming down the hill carrying a torch, and back of it a horse was following slowly. "genesee!" called a glad voice through the dusk. "genesee!" there was no word in answer; only the form straightened, and with the torch held high above his head he plunged down through the trees, straight as an arrow, in answer to her voice. she had risen to her feet, but swayed unsteadily as she went to meet him. "i am so glad--it--is--you," she said, her hands outstretched as he came close. and then that returning dizziness sent her staggering forward, half on her knees and half in his arms, as he threw the torch from him and caught her. she did not faint, though the only thing she was still conscious of was that she was held in strong arms, and held very closely, and the beat of a heart that was not her own throbbed against her rather nerveless form. he had not yet spoken a word, but his breath coming quickly, brokenly, told of great exhaustion, or it may be excitement. opening her eyes, she looked up into the face that had a strange expression in the red light from the torch--his eyes seemed searching her own so curiously. "i--i'm all right," she half smiled in answer to what she thought an unspoken query, "only"--and a wave of forgetfulness crept over the estrangement of the late days--and she added--"only--hyas till nika" (i am very tired). her eyes were half closed in the content of being found, and the safety of his presence. she had not changed her position or noticed that he had not spoken. his hat had fallen to the ground, and something almost boyish was in the bend of his bared head and the softness of his features as his face drooped low over her own. death brings back the curves of youth to aged faces sometimes--is it the only change that does so? she felt the hand on her shoulder trembling; was it with her weight--and he so strong? a muttered sentence came to her ears, through which she could only distinguish a word that in its suppressed force might belong to either a curse or a prayer--an intense "christ!" that aroused her to a realization of what she had been too contented to remember. she opened her eyes and raised her head from his arm, brushing his lips with her hair as she did so. "were you so much alarmed?" she asked in a clearer, more matter-of-fact way, as she propped herself up on his outstretched arm; "and did you come alone to find me?" he drew back from her with a long, indrawn breath, and reached for his hat. "yes," he said. it was the first time he had spoken to her, and he did so with his eyes still on her face and that curious expression in them. he was half kneeling, his body drawn back and away from her, but his eyes unchanging in their steadiness. as the girl lay there full length on the mountain grass, only her head raised and turned toward him, she might have been a lamia from their attitudes and his expression. "it seemed long to wait," she continued, turning her eyes toward mowitza, who had quietly come near them; "but i was not afraid. i knew you would find me. i would have walked back to meet you if the fall had not made me so dizzy. i am decidedly wake kloshe" (no good); and she smiled as she reached out her hand to him, and he helped her rise to her feet. "i feel all jolted to pieces," she said, taking a few steps toward a tree against which she leaned. "and even now that you have come, i don't know how i am to get to camp." "i will get you there," he answered briefly. "did the mare throw you?" "i am not sure what she did," answered the girl. "she fell, i think, and i fell with her, and when i could see trees instead of stars she had recovered and disappeared. oh! did you see the bear?" "yes, and shot her. she might have killed you when her temper was up over that cub. how did it happen?" each of them was a little easier in speech than at first, and she told him as well as she could of the episode, and her own inability to check betty. and he told her of the fright of the others, and their anxiety, and that he had sent them straight ahead to camp, while he struck into the timber where betty had left the old trail. "i promised them to have word of you soon," he added; "and i reckon they'll be mighty glad you can take the word yourself--it's more than they expected. she might have killed you." his tone and repetition of the words showed the fear that had been uppermost in his thoughts. "yes--she might," agreed the girl. "that is a lesson to me for my willfulness;" and then she smiled mockingly with a gleam of her old humor, adding: "and so in the future, for the sake of my neck and the safety of my bones, i will be most obedient to orders, mr. genesee jack." he only looked at her across the flickering circle of light from the torch. it must have dazzled his eyes, for in putting on his hat he pulled it rather low over his forehead, and turning his back abruptly on her he walked over for mowitza. but he did not bring her at once. he stood with his elbows on her shoulders and his head bent over his clasped hands, like a man who is thinking--or else very tired. rachel had again slipped down beside the tree; her head still seemed to spin around a little if she stood long; and from that point of vantage she could easily distinguish the immovable form in the shifting lights and shadows. "what is the matter with the man?" she asked herself as he stood there. "he was glad to find me--i know it; and why he should deliberately turn his back and walk away like that, i can't see. but he shan't be cool or sulky with me ever again; i won't let him." and with this determination she said: "genesee!" "yes," he answered, but did not move. "now that you have found me, are you going to leave me here all night?" she asked demurely. "no, miss," he answered, and laid his hand on the bridle. "come, mowitza, we must take her to camp;" and striding back with quick, decided movements that were rather foreign to his manner, he said: "here she is, miss; can you ride on that saddle?" "i don't know, i'm sure. i--i--suppose so; but how are you to get there?" "walk," he answered concisely. "why, how far is it?" "about five miles--straight across." "can we go straight across?" "no." she looked up at him and laughed, half vexed. "mr. genesee jack," she remarked, "you can be one of the most aggravatingly non-committal men i ever met. it has grown as dark as a stack of black cats, and i know we must have an ugly trip to make with only one horse between us. do you suppose i have no natural curiosity as to how we are to get there, and when? don't be such a lock-and-key individual. i can't believe it is natural to you. it is an acquired habit, and hides your real self often." "and a good thing it does, i reckon," he returned; "locks and keys are good things to have, miss; don't quarrel with mine or my ways to-night; wait till i leave you safe with your folks, then you can find fault or laugh, whichever you please. it won't matter then." his queer tone kept her from answering at once, and she sat still, watching him adjust the stirrup, and then make a new torch of pine splits and knots. "what do you call a torch in chinook?" she asked after a little, venturing on the supposed safe ground of jargon. "la gome towagh," he answered, splitting a withe to bind them together, and using a murderous looking hunting-knife on which the light glimmered and fretted. "and a knife?" she added. "opitsah." she looked up at him quickly. "opitsah means sweetheart," she returned; "i know that much myself. are you not getting a little mixed, professor?" "i think not," he said, glancing across at her; "the same word is used for both; and," he added, thrusting the knife in its sheath and rising to his feet, "i reckon the men who started the jargon knew what they were talking about, too. come, are you ready?" assuredly, though he had hunted for her, and been glad to find her alive, yet now that he had found her he had no fancy for conversation, and he showed a decided inclination to put a damper on her attempts at it. he lifted her to the saddle, and walking at mowitza's head, they started on their home journey through the night. "the moon will be up soon," he remarked, glancing up at the sky. "we only need a torch for the gulch down below there." she did not answer; the movement of the saddle brought back the dizziness to her head--all the glare of the torch was a blur before her. she closed her eyes, thinking it would pass away, but it did not, and she wondered why he stalked on like that, just as if he did not care, never once looking toward her or noticing how she was dropping forward almost on mowitza's neck. then, as they descended a steep bit of hill, she became too much lost to her surroundings for even that speculation, and could only say slowly: "tsolo, genesee?" "no," he answered grimly, "not now." but she knew or heard nothing of the tone that implied more than it expressed. she could only reach gropingly toward him with one hand, as if to save herself from falling from the saddle. only her finger-tips touched his shoulder--it might have been a drooping branch out of the many under which they went, for all the weight of it; but grim and unresponsive as he was in some ways, he turned, through some quick sympathy at the touch of her hand, and caught her arm as she was about to fall forward. in an instant she was lifted from the saddle to her feet, and his face was as white as hers as he looked at her. "dead!" he said, in a quiet sort of way, as her hand dropped nerveless from his own, and he lifted her in his arms, watching for some show of life in the closed lids and parted lips. and then with a great shivering breath, he drew the still face to his own, and in a half-motherly way smoothed back the fair hair as if she had been a child, whispering over and over: "not dead, my pretty! not you, my girl! here, open your eyes; listen to me; don't leave me like this until i tell you--tell you--god! i wish i was dead beside you! ah, my girl! my girl!" chapter vii. under the chinook moon. ikt polaklie konaway moxt. over the crowns of the far hills the moon wheeled slowly up into the sky, giving the shadows a cloak of blue mist, and vying with the forgotten torch in lighting up the group in the gulch. the night winds rustled through the leaves and sighed through the cedars; and the girl's voice, scarcely louder than the whispers of the wood, said: "genesee! tillie!" "yes, miss," the man answered, as he lowered her head from his shoulder to the sward, making a pillow for her of his hat. with returning life and consciousness she again slipped out of his reach or possession, and himself and his emotions were put aside, to be hidden from her eyes. through the blessing of death, infinite possession comes to so many souls that life leaves beggared; and in those hurried moments of uncertainty, she belonged to him more fully than he could hope for while she lived. "is it you, genesee?" she said, after looking at him drowsily for a little. "i--i thought tillie was here, crying, and kissing me." "no, miss, you fainted, i reckon, and just dreamed that part of it," he answered, but avoiding the eyes that, though drowsy, looked so directly at him. "i suppose so," she agreed. "i tried to reach you when i felt myself going; but you wouldn't look around. did you catch me?" "yes; and i don't think you were quite square with me back there; you told me you were all right; but you must have got hurt more than you owned up to. why didn't you tell me?" "but i am not--indeed i am not!" she persisted. "i was not at all injured except for the jar of the fall; it leaves me dizzy and sick when i sit upright in the saddle--that is all." "and it is enough," he returned decidedly; "do you 'spose, if you'd told me just how you felt, i should have set you there to ride through these hills and hollows?" "what else could you do?" she asked; "you couldn't bring a carriage for me." "may be not, but i could have ridden mowitza myself and carried you." "that would be funny," she smiled. "poor mowitza! could she carry double?" "yes," he answered curtly; perhaps the situation did not strike him in a humorous light. "yes, she can, and that's what she will have to do. let me know when you feel able to start." "i think i do now," she said, raising herself from the ground; "i am a little shaky, but if i do not have to sit upright i can keep my wits about me, i believe. will you help me, please?" he lifted her into the saddle without a word, and then mounting himself, he took her in front of him, circling her with one arm and guiding mowitza with the other, with as much unconcern as if he had carried damsels in like cavalier fashion all his life. they rode on in silence for a little through the shadows of the valley, where the moon's light only fell in patches. his eyes were straight ahead, on the alert for gullies and pitfalls along the blind trail. he seemed to have no glances for the girl whose head was on his shoulder, but whom he held most carefully. once he asked how she felt, and if she was comfortable; and she said "yes, thank you," very demurely, with that mocking smile about her lips. she felt like laughing at the whole situation--all the more so because he looked so solemn, almost grim. she always had an insane desire to laugh when in circumstances where any conventional woman would be gathering up her dignity. it had got her into scrapes often, and she felt as if it was likely to do so now. the movement of the horse no longer made her ill, since she did not have to sit upright; she was only a little dizzy at times, as if from the rocking of a swing, and lazily comfortable with that strong arm and shoulder for support. "i am afraid i am getting heavy," she remarked after a while; "if i could get my arm around back of you and hold either the saddle or reach up to your shoulder, i might not be such a dead weight on your arm." "just as you like," was the brief reply that again aroused her desire to laugh. it did seem ridiculous to be forced into a man's arms like that, and the humorous part of it was heightened, in her eyes, by his apparent sulkiness over the turn affairs had taken. she slipped her arm across his back, however, and up to his shoulder, thus lightening her weight on the arm that circled her, an attempt to which he appeared indifferent. and so they rode on out of the valley into the level land at the foot of the hills, and then into the old trail where the route was more familiar and not so much care needed. the girl raised her head drowsily as she noted some old landmarks in the misty light. "poor mowitza!" she said; "she did not have such a load when she came over this road before; it was the day after you joined us, do you remember?" "yes." remember! it had been the gateway through which he had gained a glimpse into a new world--those days that were tinged with the delightful suggestions of dawn. he smiled rather grimly at the question, but she could not see his face very well, under the shadow of his wide hat. "has mowitza ever before had to carry double?" there was a little wait after her question--perhaps he was trying to remember; then he said: "yes." she wanted to ask who, and under what circumstances, but someway was deterred by his lock-and-key manner, as she called it. she rather commended herself for her good humor under its influence, and wondered that she only felt like laughing at his gruffness. with any other person she would have felt like retaliating, and she lay there looking up into the shadowy face with a mocking self-query as to why he was made an exception of. "genesee!" she began, after one of those long spells of silence; and then the utterance of the name suggested a new train of thought--"by the way, is your name genesee?" he did not answer at once--was he trying to remember that also? "i wish you would tell me," she continued, more gently than was usual with her. "i am going away soon; i should like to know by what real name i am to remember you when i am back in kentucky. is your name jack genesee?" "no," he said at last; "genesee is a name that stuck to me from some mines where i worked, south of this. if i went back to them i would be called kootenai jack, perhaps, because i came from here. plenty of men are known by names out here that would not be recognized at home, if they have a home. "but your name is jack" she persisted. "yes, my name is jack." but he did not seem inclined to give any further information on the subject that just then was of interest to her, and she did not like to question further, but contented herself with observing: "i shan't call you genesee any more." "just as you like, miss." again came that crazy desire of hers to laugh, and although she kept silent, it was a convulsive silence--one of heaving bosom and quivering shoulders. to hide it, she moved restlessly, changing her position somewhat, and glancing about her. "not much farther to go," she remarked; "won't they be surprised to find you carrying me into camp like this? i wonder if betty came this way, or if they found her--the little vixen! there is only one more hill to cross until we reach camp--is there not?" "only one more." "and both mowitza and yourself will need a good rest when we get there," she remarked. "your arm must feel paralyzed. do you know i was just thinking if you had found me dead in that gulch, you would have had to carry me back over this trail, just like this. ugh! what a dismal ride, carrying a dead woman!" his arm closed around her quickly, and he drew a deep breath as he looked at her. "i don't know," he said in a terse way, as if through shut teeth; "perhaps it wouldn't have been so dismal, for i might never have come back. i might have staid there--with you." she could see his eyes plainly enough when he looked at her like that; even the shadows could not cover their warmth; they left little to be expressed in words, and neither attempted any. her face turned away from him a little, but her hand slipped into the clasp of his fingers, and so they rode on in silence. the brow of the last hill was reached. down below them could be seen the faint light from the camp-fire, and for an instant mowitza was halted for a breathing-spell ere she began the descent. the girl glanced down toward the fire-light, and then up to his face. "you can rest now," she said, with the old quizzical smile about her lips, even while her fingers closed on his own. "there is the camp; alta nika wake tsolo" (now you no longer wander in the dark). but there was no answering smile on his face--not even at the pleasure of the language that at times had seemed a tacit bond between them. he only looked at her in the curious way she had grown accustomed to in him, and said: "the light down there is for you; i don't belong to it. just try and remember that after--after you are safe with your folks." "i shall remember a great deal," returned the girl in her independent tone; "among other things, the man who brought me back to them. now, why don't you say, 'just as you like, miss?' you ought to--to be natural." but her raillery brought no more words from him. his face had again its sombre, serious look, and in silence he guided mowitza's feet down toward the glow-light. once a puff of wind sent the girl's hair blowing across her face, and he smoothed it back carefully that he might see her eyes in the moonlight; but the half-caress in the movement was as if given to a child. all the quick warmth was gone from his eyes and speech after that one comprehensive outbreak, and the girl was puzzled at the change that had come in its stead. he was so gentle, but so guarded--the touch even of his fingers on her shoulder was tremulous, as if with the weight of resistance forced into them. she did not feel like laughing any longer, after they began the descent of the hill. his manner had impressed her too strongly with the feeling of some change to come with the end of that ride and the eventful moonlight night, but no words came to her; but her hand remained in his of its own accord, not because it was held there, and she lay very quiet, wondering if he would not speak--would say nothing more to her ere they joined the others, to whom they were moving nearer at every step. he did not. once his fingers closed convulsively over her own. his eyes straight ahead caused her to glance in that direction, and she saw tillie and hardy clearly, in the moonlight, walking together hand-in-hand down toward the glow of the camp-fire. on a ledge of rock that jutted out clear from the shadowy brush, they lingered for an instant. the soft blue light and the silence made them look a little ghostly--a tryst of spirits--as the tall shoulders drooped forward with circling arms into which tillie crept, reaching upward until their faces met. the eyes of those two on horseback turned involuntarily toward each other at the sight of those married lovers, but there was no echo of a caress in their own movements, unless it was the caress of a glance; and in a few moments more they were within speaking distance of the camp. "we are here," he said slowly, as hardy and his wife, hearing the steps of the horse, hurried toward them. "yes, i know," she whispered. it was their good-bye to the night. a neigh from the renegade betty was answered by mowitza, and in an instant all the group about the camp was alive to the fact of the return. but the eager questions received few answers, for genesee handed rachel into the arms of hardy, and said to tillie: "don't let them pester her with questions to-night, mrs. hardy. she has no injuries, i guess, only she's used up and needs rest badly. i found her ready to faint in a gulch back from the trail about three miles. she'll be all right to-morrow, i reckon; only see that she gets a good rest and isn't bothered to-night." no need to tell them that. their gladness at her safe return made them all consideration. genesee and mowitza also came in for a share of their solicitude, and the former for a quantity of thanks that met with rather brusque response. "that's nothing to thank a man for," he said a little impatiently, as the houghtons were contributing their share. "i reckon you don't know much about the duties of a scout or guide in this country, or you would know it was my business to go for the lady--just as it would be to hunt up lost stock, if any had strayed off. there wasn't much of a trick in finding her--betty left too clear a trail; and i reckon it's time we all turned in to sleep instead of talking about it." in the morning rachel awoke refreshed and expectant in a vague way. the incidents of the night before came crowding to her memory, sending the blood tingling through her veins as she thought of their meeting; of the ride; of those few significant words of his, and his face as he had spoken. she wondered at herself accepting it all so dreamily--as if in a lethargy. she was far from a stupor at the thought of it in the light of the early day, as she watched the blue mists rising up, up, from the valleys. was he watching them, too? was he thinking as she was of that ride and its revelations? would he meet her again with that queer, distant manner of his? would he-- her ruminations were cut short by tillie, who thought to awaken her with the proffer of a cup of hot coffee, and who was surprised to find her awake. "yes, i am awake, and hungry, too," she said briskly; "you did not give me nearly enough to eat last night. is breakfast all ready? i wonder how poor mowitza is this morning after her heavy load. say, tillie, did we look altogether ridiculous?" "no, you did not," said tillie stoutly. "it was wonderfully kind of him to bring you so carefully. i always said he had a great deal of heart in him; but he is gone, already." "gone!--where?" and the cup of coffee was set on the grass as if the hunger and thirst were forgotten. "where?" "we don't know," said tillie helplessly. "clara says back to his tribe; but she always has something like that to say of him. it's the queerest thing; even hen is puzzled. he was wakened this morning about dawn by genesee, who told him his time was up with the party; that we could follow the trail alone well enough now; and that he had to join some indian hunters away north of this to-night, so had to make an early start. i guess he forgot to speak of it last night, or else was too tired. he left a good-bye for hen to deliver for him to the rest of us, and a klahowya to you." "did he?" asked the girl with a queer little laugh. "that was thoughtful of him. may his hunting be prosperous and his findings be great." "dear me!" said tillie weakly, "you are just as careless about it as clara, and i did think you would be sorry to lose him. i am, and so is hen; but evidently persuasions were of no avail. he said he could not even wait for breakfast; that he should have gone last night. and the queerest thing about it is that he utterly refused any money from hen, on the plea that the whole affair had been a pleasure ride, not work at all; and so--he is gone." "and so--he is gone," said the girl, mimicking her tone; "what a tragical manner over a very prosaic circumstance! tillie, my child, don't be so impressible, or i shall have to tell hen that our guide has taken your affections in lieu of greenbacks." "rachel!" "matilda!" said the other mildly, looking teasingly over the rim of the coffee-cup she was slowly emptying. "don't startle me with that tone before breakfast, and don't grieve over the exodus of mr. genesee jack. i shall take on my own shoulders the duties of guide in his stead, so you need not worry about getting home safely; and in the meantime i am woefully hungry." she was still a little dizzy as she rose to her feet, and very stiff and sore from her ride; but, joking over her rheumatic joints, she limped over to where the breakfast was spread on a flat rock. "there is one way in which i may not be able to take mr. genesee jack's place, in your estimation," she said lowly to tillie as they were about to join the others. "i shall not be able to tell you stories of indian conjurors or sing you indian love-songs. i can't do anything but whistle." "hen, she wasn't the least bit interested about him leaving like that!" said tillie confidentially to her husband a few hours later. "she never does seem to have much feeling for anything; but after he brought her back so carefully, and after the chumminess there was between them for a while, one would naturally think--" "of course one would," agreed her husband laughingly, "especially if one was an affectionate, match-making little person like yourself, and altogether a woman. but rache--" and his glance wandered ahead to where the slim figure of the girl was seen stubbornly upright on betty--"well, rache never was like the rest of the girls at home, and i fancy she will never understand much of the sentimental side of life. she is too level-headed and practical." chapter viii. the storm--and after. olapitski yahka ships. two weeks later storm-clouds were flying low over the kootenai hills and chasing shadows over the faces of two equestrians who looked at each other in comic dismay. "jim, we are lost!" stated the one briefly. "i allow we are, miss hardy," answered the other, a boy of about fifteen, who gazed rather dubiously back over the way they had come and ahead where a half-blind trail led up along the mountain. "suppose we pitch pennies to see what direction to take," suggested the girl; but the boy only laughed. "haven't much time for that, miss," he answered. "look how them clouds is crowdin' us; we've got to hunt cover or get soaked. this trail goes somewhere; may be to an injun village. i allow we'd better freeze to it." "all right. we'll allow that we had," agreed miss hardy. "betty, get around here, and get up this hill! i know every step is taking us farther from the ranch, but this seems the only direction in which a trail leads. jim, how far do you suppose we are from home?" "'bout fifteen miles, i guess," said the boy, looking blue. "and we haven't found the lost sheep?" "no, we haven't." "and we have got lost?" "yes." "jim, i don't believe we are a howling success as sheep farmers." "i don't care a darn about the sheep just now," declared jim. "what i want to know is where we are to sleep to-night." "oh, you want too much," she answered briskly; "i am content to sit up all night, if i only can find a dry place to stay in--do you hear that?" as the thunder that had grumbled in the distance now sounded its threats close above them. "yes, i hear it, and it means business, too. i wish we were at the end of this trail," he said, urging his horse up through the scrubby growth of laurel. the darkness was falling so quickly that it was not an easy matter to keep the trail; and the wind hissing through the trees made an open space a thing to wish for. jim, who was ahead, gave a shout as he reached the summit of the hill where the trail crossed it. "we're right!" he yelled that she might hear his voice above the thunder and the wind; "there's some sort of a shanty across there by a big pond; it's half a mile away, an' the rain's a-comin'--come on!" and on they went in a wild run to keep ahead of the rain-cloud that was pelting its load at them with the force of hail. the girl had caught a glimpse of the white sheen of a lake or pond ahead of them; the shanty she did not wait to pick out from the gloom, but followed blindly after jim, at a breakneck gait, until they both brought up short, in the shadow of a cabin in the edge of the timber above the lake. "jump off quick and in with you" called jim; and without the ceremony of knocking, she pushed open the door and dived into the interior. it was almost as dark as night. she stumbled around until she found a sort of bed in one corner, and sat down on it, breathless and wet. the rain was coming down in torrents, and directly jim, with the saddles in his arms, came plunging in, shaking himself like a water-spaniel. "great guns! but it's comin' down solid," he gasped; "where are you?" "here--i've found a bed, so somebody lives here. have you any matches?" "i allow i have," answered jim, "if they only ain't wet--no, by george, they're all right." the brief blaze of the match showed him the fire-place and a pile of wood beside it, and a great osier basket of broken bark. "say, miss hardy, we've struck great luck," he announced while on his knees, quickly starting a fire and fanning it into a blaze with his hat; "i wonder who lives here and where they are. stickin' to that old trail was a pay streak--hey?" in the blaze of the fire the room assumed quite a respectable appearance. it was not a shanty, as jim had at first supposed, but a substantial log-cabin, furnished in a way to show constant and recent occupation. a table made like a wide shelf jutted from the wall under the one square window; a bed and two chairs that bespoke home manufacture were covered by bear-skins; on the floor beside the bed was a buffalo-robe; and a large locked chest stood against the wall. beside the fire-place was a cupboard with cooking and table utensils, and around the walls hung trophies of the hunt. a bow and quiver of arrows and a knotted silken sash hung on one wooden peg, and added to a pair of moccasins in the corner, gave an indian suggestion to the occupancy of the cabin, but the furnishing in general was decidedly that of a white person; to the rafters were fastened some beaver-paws and bear-claws, and the skins of three rattlesnakes were pendent against the wall. "well, this is a queer go! ain't it?" remarked jim as he walked around taking a survey of the room. "i'd like to know who it all belongs to. did you ever hear folks about here speak of old davy macdougall?" "yes, i have," answered the girl, sitting down on the buffalo-robe before the fire, to dry her shoulders at the blaze. "well, i believe this is his cabin, and we are about ten mile from home," decided the boy. "i didn't think we'd strayed as far north as scot's mountain, but i allow this is it." "well, i wish he would come home and get supper," said the girl, easily adapting herself to any groove into which she happened to fall; "but perhaps we should have sent him word of our visit. what did you do with the horses, jim?" "put 'em in a shed at the end o' the house--a bang-up place, right on the other side o' this fire-place. whoever lives here keeps either a horse or a cow." "i hope it's a cow, and that there's some milk to be had. jimmy, i wonder if there is anything to eat in that cupboard." "i've been thinkin' o' that myself," said jim in answer to that insinuating speech. "suppose you do something besides think--suppose you look," suggested the more unscrupulous of the foragers; "i'm hungry." "so am i," acknowledged her confederate; "you an' me is most alike about our eatin', ain't we? mrs. houghton said yesterday i had a terrible appetite." the boy at once began making an examination of the larder, wondering, as he did so, what the girl was laughing at. the rain was coming down in torrents through the blackness of the night; now and then the lightning would vie with the fire in lighting up the room, while the thunder seemed at home in that valley of the mountain, for its volleys of sound and their echoes never ceased. small wonder that anyone's house would seem a home to the two, or that they would have no compunction in taking possession of it. "there's coffee here somewhere, i can smell it," announced jim; "an' here's rice an' crackers, an' corn-meal, an' dried raspberries, an' potatoes, an'--yes, here's the coffee! say, miss hardy, we'll have a regular feast!" "i should say so!" remarked that lady, eyeing jim's "find" approvingly; "i think there is a bed of coals here at this side of the fire-place that will just fit about six of those potatoes--can you eat three, jim?" "three will do if they're big enough," said jim, looking dubiously at the potatoes; "but these ain't as good-sized as some i've seen." "then give me two more; that makes five for you and three for me." "hadn't you better shove in a couple more?" asked jim with a dash of liberality. "you know macdougall may come back hungry, an' then we can spare him two--that makes ten to roast." "ten it is!" said the girl, burying two more in the ashes as the share of their host. "jim, see if there is any water in here to make coffee with." "yes, a big jar full," reported the steward; "an' here is a little crock half full of eggs--prairie-chicken, i guess--say, can you make a pone?" "i think i can;" and the cook at once rolled up the sleeves of her riding-dress, and jimmy brought out the eggs and some bits of salt meat--evidently bear-meat--that was hung from the ceiling of the cupboard; at once there began a great beating of eggs and stirring up of a corn pone; some berries were set on the coals to stew in a tin-cup, the water put to boil for the coffee, and an iron skillet with a lid utilized as an oven; and the fragrance of the preparing eatables filled the little room and prompted the hungry lifting of lids many times ere the fire had time to do its work. "that pone's a 'dandy!'" said jim, taking a peep at it; "it's gettin' as brown as--as your hair; an' them berries is done, an' ain't it time to put in the coffee?" acting on this hint, the coffee, beaten into a froth with an egg, had the boiling water poured over it, and set bubbling and aromatic on the red coals. "you mayn't be much use to find strayed-off stock," said jim deliberately, with his head on one side, as he watched the apparent ease with which the girl managed her primitive cooking apparatus; "but i tell you--you ain't no slouch when it comes to gettin' grub ready, and gettin' it quick." "better keep your compliments until you have tried to eat some of the cooking," suggested miss hardy, on her knees before the fire. "i believe the pone is done." "then we'll dish-up in double-quick," said jim, handing her two tin pans for the pone and potatoes. "we'll have to set the berries on in the tin--by george! what's that?" "that" was the neigh of betty in the shed by the chimney, and an answering one from somewhere out in the darkness. through the thunder and the rain they had heard no steps, but jim's eyes were big with suspense as he listened. "my horse has broke loose from the shed," he said angrily, reaching for his hat; "and how the dickens i'm to find him in this storm i don't know." "don't be so quick to give yourself a shower-bath," suggested the girl on the floor; "he won't stray far off, and may be glad to come back to the shed; and then again," she added, laughing, "it may be macdougall." jim looked rather blankly at the supper on the hearth and the girl who seemed so much at home on the buffalo-robe. "by george! it might be," he said slowly; and for the first time the responsibility of their confiscations loomed up before him. "say," he added uneasily, "have you any money?" "money?" she repeated inquiringly; and then seeing the drift of his thoughts, "oh, no, i haven't a cent." "they say macdougall is an old crank," he insinuated, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, to see what effect the statement would have on her. but she only smiled in an indifferent way. "an'--an' ef he wants the money cash down for this lay-out"--and he glanced comprehensively over the hearth--"well, i don't know what to say." "that's easily managed," said the girl coolly; "you can leave your horse in pawn." "an' foot it home ten miles?--not if i know it!" burst out jim; "an' besides it's hardy's horse." "well, then, leave the saddle, and ride home bareback." "i guess not!" protested jim, with the same aggressive tone; "that's my own saddle." after this unanswerable reason, there was an expectant silence in the room for a little while, that was finally broken by jim saying ruefully: "if that is macdougall, he'll have to have them two potatoes." rachel's risible tendencies were not proof against this final fear of jim's, and her laughter drowned his grumblings, and also footsteps without, of which neither heard a sound until the door was flung open and a man walked into the room. jim looked at him with surprised eyes, and managed to stammer, "how are you?" for the man was so far from his idea of old davy macdougall that he was staggered. but miss hardy only looked up, laughing, from her position by the fire, and drew the coffee-pot from the coals with one hand, while she reached the other to the new-comer. "klahowya! mr. jack," she said easily; "got wet, didn't you? you are just in time for supper." "you!" was all he said; and jim thought they were both crazy, from the way the man crossed the room to her and took her one hand in both his as if he never intended letting it go or saying another word, content only to hold her hand and look at her. and miss rachel hardy's eyes were not idle either. "yes, of course it's i," she said, slipping her hand away after a little, and dropping her face that had flushed pink in the fire-light; "i don't look like a ghost, do i? you would not find a ghost at such prosaic work as getting supper." "getting supper?" he said, stepping back a bit and glancing around. for the first time he seemed to notice jim, or have any remembrance of anything but the girl herself. "you mean that you two have been getting supper alone?" "yes, jim and i. mr. jack, this is my friend jim, from the ranch. we tried to guide each other after sheep, and both got lost; and as you did not get here in time to cook supper, of course we had to do it alone." "but i mean was there no one else here?"--he still looked a little dazed and perplexed, his eyes roving uneasily about the room--"i--a--a young indian--" "no!" interrupted the girl eagerly. "do you mean the indian boy who brought me that black bear's skin? i knew you had sent it, though he would not say a word--looked at me as if he did not understand chinook when i spoke." "may be he didn't understand yours," remarked jimmy, edging past her to rake the potatoes out of the ashes. "but he wasn't here when we came," continued miss hardy. "the house was deserted and in darkness when we found it, just as the storm came on in earnest." "and the fire?" said genesee. "there was none," answered the boy. "the ashes were stone-cold. i noticed it; so your injun hadn't had any fire all day." "all day!" repeated the man, going to the door and looking out. "that means a long tramp, and to-night--" "and to-night is a bad one for a tramp back," added jim. "yes," agreed genesee, "that's what i was thinking." if there was a breath of relief in the words, both were too occupied with the potatoes in the ashes to notice it. he shut the door directly as the wind sent a gust of rain inside, and then turned again to the pirates at the fire-place. "what did you find to cook?" he asked, glancing at the "lay-out," as jim called it. "i haven't been here since yesterday, and am afraid you didn't find much--any fresh meat?" miss hardy shook her head. "salt meat and eggs, that's all," she said. "not by a long shot it ain't, mr.--mr jack," said jim, contradicting her flatly. "she's got a first-class supper; an' by george! she can make more out o' nothin' than any woman i ever seen." in his enthusiasm over rachel he was unconscious of the slur on their host's larder. "i never knowed she was such a rattlin' cook!" "i know i have never been given credit for my everyday, wearing qualities," said the girl, without looking up from the eggs she was scrambling in the bake-oven of a few minutes before. the words may have been to jim, but by the man's eyes he evidently thought they were at genesee--such a curious, pained look as that with which he watched her every movement, every curve of form and feature, that shone in the light of the fire. once she saw the look, and her own eyes dropped under it for a moment, but that independence of hers would not let it be for long. "do you want a share of our supper?" she asked, looking up at him quizzically. "yes," he answered, but his steady, curious gaze at her showed that his thoughts were not of the question or answer. not so jim. that young gentleman eyed dubiously first the lay-out and then genesee's physique, trying to arrive at a mental estimate of his capacity and the probable division of the pone and potatoes. "how about that saddle, now, jim?" asked the girl. whereupon jim began a pantomime enjoining silence, back of the chair of the man, who appeared more like a guest than host--perhaps because it was so hard to realize that it was really his hearth where that girl sat as if at home. she noticed his preoccupation, and remarked dryly: "you really don't deserve a share of our cooking after the way you deserted us before!--not even a klahowya when you took the trail." "you're right, i reckon; but don't you be the one to blame me for that," he answered, in a tone that made the command a sort of plea; and miss hardy industriously gave her attention to the supper. "it's all ready," announced jim, as he juggled a pan of hot pone from one hand to another on the way to the table. "ouch! but it's hot! say, wouldn't some fresh butter go great with this!" "didn't you find any?" asked genesee, waking to the practical things of life at jim's remark. "find any? no! is there any?" asked that little gourmand, with hope and doubt chasing each other over his rather thin face. "i don't know--there ought to be;" and lifting a loose board in the floor by the cupboard, he drew forth a closely-woven reed basket, and on a smooth stone in the bottom lay a large piece of yellow butter, around which jim performed a sort of dance of adoration. what a supper that was, in the light of the pitch-pine and the fierce accompaniment of the outside tempest! jim vowed that never were there potatoes so near perfection, in their brown jackets and their steaming, powdery flakes; and the yellow pone, and the amber coffee, and the cool slices of butter that genesee told them was from an indian village thirty miles north. and to the table were brought such tremendous appetites! at least by the cook and steward of the party. and above all, what a delicious atmosphere of unreality pervaded the whole thing! again and again genesee's eyes seemed to say, "can it be you?" and grew warm as her quizzical glances told him it could be no one else. as the night wore on, and the storm continued, he brought in armfuls of wood from the shed without, and in the talk round the fire his manner grew more assured--more at home with the surroundings that were yet his own. long they talked, until jim, unable to think of any more questions to ask of silver-mining and bear-hunting, slipped down in the corner, with his head on a saddle, and went fast asleep. "i'll sit up and keep the fire going," said genesee, at this sign of the late hour; "but you had better get what rest you can on that bunk there--you'll need it for your ride in the morning." "in the morning!" repeated the girl coolly; "that sounds as if you are determined our visit shall end as soon as possible, mr. genesee jack." "don't talk like that!" he said, looking across at her; "you don't know anything about it." and getting up hastily, he walked back and forward across the room; once stopping suddenly, as if with some determination to speak, and then, as she looked up at him, his courage seemed to vanish, and he turned his face away from her and walked to the door. the storm had stilled its shrieks, and was dying away in misty moans down the dip in the hills, taking the rain with it. the darkness was intense as he held the door open and looked into the black vault, where not a glimmer of a star or even a gray cloud could be seen. "it's much nicer in-doors," decided miss hardy, moving her chair against the chimney-piece, and propping herself there to rest. "jim had better lie on the bed, he is so sleepy, and i am not at all so; this chair is good enough for me, if you don't mind." he picked the sleeping boy up without a word, and laid him on the couch of bear-skins without waking him. "there isn't much i do mind," he said, as he came back to the fire-place; "that is, if you are only comfortable." "i am--very much so," she answered, "and would be entirely so if you only seemed a little more at home. as it is, i have felt all evening as if we are upsetting your peace of mind in some way--not as if we are unwelcome, mind you, but just as if you are worried about us." "that so?" he queried, not looking at her; "that's curious. i didn't know i was looking so, and i'm sure you and the boy are mighty welcome to my cabin or anything in the world i can do for you." there was no mistaking the heartiness of the man's words, and she smiled her gratitude from the niche in the corner, where, with her back toward the blaze, only one side of her face was outlined by the light. "very well," she said amicably; "you can do something for me just now--open the door for a little while; the room seems close with being shut up so tight from the rain--and then make yourself comfortable there on that buffalo-robe before the fire. i remember your lounging habits in the camp, and a chair doesn't seem to quite suit you. yes, that looks much better, as if you were at home again." stretched on the robe, with her saddle on which to prop up his shoulders, he lay, looking in the red coals, as if forgetful of her speech or herself. but at last he repeated her words: "at home again! do you know there's a big lot of meaning in those words, miss, especially to a man who hasn't known what home meant for years? and to-night, with white people in my cabin and a white woman to make things look natural, i tell you it makes me remember what home used to be, in a way i have not experienced for many a day." "then i'm glad i strayed off into the storm and your cabin," said the girl promptly; "because a man shouldn't forget his home and home-folks, especially if the memories would be good ones. people need all the good memories they can keep with them in this world; they're a sort of steering apparatus in a life-boat, and help a man make a straight journey toward his future." "that's so," he said, and put his hand up over his eyes as if to shield them from the heat of the fire. he was lying full in the light, while she was in the shadow. he could scarcely see her features, with her head drawn back against the wall like that. and the very fact of knowing herself almost unseen--a voice, only, speaking to him--gave her courage to say things as she could not have said them at another time. "do you know," she said, as she sat there watching him with his eyes covered by his hand--"do you know that once or twice when we have been together i have wished i was a man, that i could say some things to you that a woman or a girl--that is, most girls--can't say very well? one of the things is that i should be glad to hear of you getting out of this life here; there is something wrong about it to you--something that doesn't suit you; i don't know what it is, but i can see you are not the man you might be--and ought to be. i've thought of it often since i saw you last, and sometimes--yes--i've been sorry for my ugly manner toward you. white people, when they meet in these out-of-the-way places in the world, ought to be as so many brothers and sisters to each other; and there were times, often, when i might have helped you to feel at home among us--when i might have been more kind." "more kind? good god!" whispered the man. "and i made up my mind," continued the girl courageously, "that if i ever saw you again, i was going to speak plainly to you about yourself and the dissatisfaction with yourself that you spoke of that day in the laurel thicket. i don't know what the cause of it is, and i don't want to, but if it is any wrong that you've done in--in the past, a bad way to atone is by burying oneself alive, along with all energy and ambition. now, you may think me presuming to say these things to you like this; but i've been wishing somebody would say them to you, and there seems no one here to do it but me, and so--" she stopped, not so much because she had finished as because she felt herself failing utterly in saying the things she had really intended to say. it all sounded very flat and commonplace in her own ears--not at all the words to carry any influence to anyone, and so she stopped helplessly and looked at him. "i'm glad it is you that says them," he answered, still without looking at her, "because you've got the stuff in you for such a good, square friend to a man--the sort of woman a person could go to in trouble, even if they hadn't the passport of a saint to take with them; and i wish--i wish i could tell you to-night something of the things that you've started on. if i could--" he stopped a moment. "i suppose any other girl--" she began in a deprecating tone; but he dropped his hand from his eyes and looked at her. "you're not like other girls," he said with a great fondness in his eyes, "and that's just the reason i feel like telling you all. you're not like any girl i've ever known. i've often felt like speaking to you as if you were a boy--an almighty aggravatin' slip of a boy sometimes; and yet--" he lay silent for a little while, so long that the girl wondered if he had forgotten what he was to try to tell her. the warmth after the rain had made them neglect the fire, and its blaze had dropped low and lower, until she was entirely in the shadow--only across the hearth and his form did the light fall. "and yet," he continued, as if there had been no break in his speech, "there's been many a night i've dreamed of seeing you sit here by this fire-place just as i've seen you to-night; just as bright like and contented, as if all the roughness and poorness of it was nothing to you, or else a big joke for you to make fun of; and then--well, at such times you didn't seem like a boy, but--" again he stopped. "never mind what i'm like," suggested the girl; "that doesn't matter. i guess everyone seems a different person with different people; but you wanted to tell me something of yourself, didn't you?" "that's what i'm trying to get at," he answered, "but it isn't easy. i've got to go back so far to start at the beginning--back ten years, to reckon up mistakes. that's a big job, my girl--my girl." the lingering repetition of those words opened the girl's eyes wide with a sudden memory of that moonlit night in the gulch. then she had not fancied those whispered words! they had been uttered, and by his voice; and those fancied tears of tillie's, and--the kisses! so thick came those thronging memories, that she did not notice his long, dreamy silence. she was thinking of that night, and all the sweet, vague suggestion in it that had vanished with the new day. she was comparing its brief charm with this meeting of to-night that was ignoring it so effectually; that was as the beginning of a new knowledge of each other, with the commonplace and practical as a basis. her reverie was broken sharply by the sight of a form that suddenly, silently, appeared in the door-way. her first impulse of movement or speech was checked as the faint, flickering light shifted across the visage of the new-comer, and she recognized the indian girl who had hidden behind the ponies. a smile was on the dark face as she saw genesee lying there, asleep he must have looked from the door, and utterly oblivious of her entrance. her soft moccasins left no sound as she crossed the floor and dropped down beside him, laying one arm about his throat. he clasped the hand quickly and opened his half-shut eyes. did he, for an instant, mistake it for another hand that had slipped into his that one night? whatever he thought, his face was like that of death as he met the eyes of the indian girl. "talapa!" he muttered, and his fingers closing on her wrist must have twisted it painfully, by the quick change in her half-indian, half-french face. he seemed hardly conscious of it. just then he looked at her as if she was in reality that indian deity of the inferno from whom her name was derived. "hyak nika kelapie!" (i returned quickly), she whined, as if puzzled at her reception, and darting furious sidelong glances from the black eyes that had the width between them that is given to serpents. "nah!" she ejaculated angrily, as no answer was made to her; and freeing her hand, she rose to her feet. she had not once seen the white girl in the shadow. coming from the darkness into the light, her eyes were blinded to all but the one plainly seen figure. but as she rose to her feet, and genesee with her, rachel stooped to the pile of wood beside her, and throwing some bits of pine on the fire, sent the sparks flying upward, and a second later a blaze of light flooded the room. the action was a natural, self-possessed one--it took a great deal to upset miss hardy's equanimity--and she coolly sat down again facing the astonished indian girl and genesee; but her face was very white, though she said not a word. "there is no need for me to try to remember the beginning, is there," said genesee bitterly, looking at her with sombre, moody eyes, "since the end has told its own story? this is--my--my--" did he say wife? she never could be quite sure of the word, but she knew he tried to say it. his voice sounded smothered, unnatural, as it had that day in the laurel thicket when he had spoken of locking himself out from a heaven. she understood what he meant now. "no, there is no need," she said, as quietly as she could, though her heart seemed choking her and her hands trembled. "i hope all will come right for you sometime, and--i understand, now." did she really understand, even then, or know the moral lie the man had told, the lie that, in his abasement, he felt was easier to have her believe than the truth? talapa stood drying her moccasins at the fire, as if not understanding their words; but the slow, cunning smile crept back to her lips as she recognized the white girl, and no doubt remembered that she and genesee had ridden together that day at the camp. he picked up his hat and walked to the door, after her kindly words, putting his hand out ahead of him in a blind sort of way, and then stopped, saying to her gently: "get what rest you can--try to, anyway; you will need it." and then, with some words in indian to talapa, he went out into the night. his words to talapa were in regard to their guests' comfort, for that silent individual at once began preparations for bed-making on her behalf, until rachel told her in chinook that she would sleep in her chair where she was. and there she sat through the night, feeling that the eyes of the indian girl were never taken from her as the motionless form lay rolled in a blanket on the floor, much as it had rolled itself up on the grass that other day. jim was throned in royal state, for he had the bed all to himself, and in the morning opened his eyes in amazement as he smelled the coffee and saw the indian girl moving about as if at home. "yes, we've got a new cook, jim," said miss hardy, from the window; "so we are out of work, you and i. sleep well?" "great!" said jim, yawning widely. "where's mr. jack?" "out, somewhere," returned the girl comprehensively. she did not add that he had been out all night, and jim was too much interested with the prospect of breakfast to be very curious. he had it, as he had the bed--all to himself. miss hardy was not hungry, for a wonder, and talapa disappeared after it was placed on the table. the girl asked jim if that was indian etiquette, but jim didn't know what etiquette was, so he couldn't tell. through that long vigil of the night there had returned to the girl much of her light, ironical manner; but the mockery was more of herself and her own emotions than aught else, for when genesee brought the horses to the door and she looked in his face, any thought of jesting with him was impossible; the signs of a storm were on him as they were on the mountains in the morning light. "i will guide you back to the home trail," he said as he held betty at the door for her to mount. "go in and get some breakfast," was all the answer she made him. but he shook his head, and reached his hand to help her. "what's the matter with everyone this morning?" asked jim. "there hasn't been a bite of breakfast eaten only what i got away with myself." genesee glanced in at the table. "would you eat nothing because it was mine?" he asked in a low tone. "i did not because i could not," she said in the same tone; and then added, good-humoredly: "despite jim's belief in my appetite, it does go back on me sometimes--and this is one of the times. it's too early in the morning for breakfast. are you going with us on foot?" as she noticed mowitza, unsaddled, grazing about the green turf at the edge of the timber. "yes," he answered, "i have not far to go." she slipped past him, and gathering her dress up from the wet grass walked over to where mowitza browsed. the beautiful mare raised her head and came over the grass with long, light steps, as if recognizing the low call of her visitor; and resting her head on the girl's shoulder, there seemed to be a conversation between them perfectly satisfactory to each; while mowitza's owner stood looking at them with a world of conflicting emotions in his face. "i have been saying good-bye to mowitza," she remarked, as she joined them and mounted betty, "and we are both disconsolate. she carried me out of danger once, and i am slow to forget a favor." it was a very matter-of-fact statement; she was a matter-of-fact young woman that morning. genesee felt that she was trying to let him know her memory would keep only the best of her knowledge of him. it was an added debt to that which he already owed her, and he walked in silence at her horse's head, finding no words to express his thoughts, and not daring to use them if he had. the valleys were wrapped in the whitest of mists as they got a glimpse of them from the heights. the sun was struggling through one veil only to be plunged into another, and all the cedar wood was in the drip, drip of tears that follow tempests. where was all that glory of the east at sunrise which those two had once watched from a mountain not far from this? in the east, as they looked now, there were only faint streaks of lavender across the sky--of lavender the color of mourning. he directed jim the way of the trail, and then turned to her. "i don't know what to say to you--or just how low you will think me," he said in a miserable sort of way. "when i think of--of some things, i wonder that you even speak to me this morning--god! i'm ashamed to look you in the face!" and he looked it. all the cool assurance that had been a prominent phase of his personality that evening when hardy met him first, was gone. his handsome, careless face and the independent head were drooped before hers as his broad-brimmed hat was pulled a little lower over his eyes. some women are curious, and this one, whom he had thought unlike all others, rather justified his belief, as she bent over in the saddle and lifted the cover from his dark hair. "don't be!" she said gently--and as he looked up at her she held out her hand--"nika tillikum" (my friend); and the sweetness possible in the words had never been known by him until she uttered them so. "my friend, don't feel like that, and don't think me quite a fool. i've seen enough of life to know that few men under the same circumstances would try as hard to be honest as you did, and if you failed in some ways, the fault was as much mine as yours." "rachel!" it was the first time he had ever called her that. "yes, i had some time to think about it last night," she said, with a little ironical smile about her lips; "and the conclusion i've come to is that we should afford to be honest this morning, and not--not so very much ashamed;" and then she hurried on in her speech, stumbling a little as the clasp of his hand made her unsteady through all her determination. "i will not see you again, perhaps ever. but i want you to know that i have faith in your making a great deal of your life if you try; you have the right foundations--strong will and a good principle. mentally, you have been asleep here in the hills--don't find fault with your awakening. and don't feel so--so remorseful about--that night. there are some things people do and think that they can't help--we couldn't help that night; and so--good-bye--jack." "god bless you, girl!" were the heart-felt, earnest words that answered her good-bye; and with a last firm clasp of hands, she turned betty's head toward the trail jim had taken, and rode away under the cedar boughs. genesee stood bare-headed, with a new light in his eyes as he watched her--the dawn of some growing determination. once she looked back, and seeing him still there, touched her cap in military fashion, and with a smile disappeared in the wet woods. as he turned away there crept from the shrubbery at the junction of the trails talapa, who, with that slow, knowing smile about her full lips, stole after him--in her dusky silence a very shadow of a man's past that grows heavy and wide after the noon is dead, and bars out lives from sunny doors where happiness might be found. his head was bent low, thinking--thinking as he walked back to the cabin that had once held at least a sort of content--a content based on one side of his nature. had the other died, or was it only asleep? and she had told him not to find fault with his awakening--she! he had never before realized the wealth or loss one woman could make to the world. "ashamed to look her in the face!" his own words echoed in his ears as he walked under the wet leaves, with the shadow of the shame skulking unseen after him; and then, little by little, the sense of her farewell came back to him, and running through it, that strong thread of faith in him yet, making his life more worth living. "damned little in my present outfit for her to build any foundation for hope on," he muttered grimly, as he saddled and bridled mowitza, as if in hot haste to be gone somewhere, and then sat down on the door-step as if forgetful of the intention. talapa slipped past him with an armful of bark for the fire. not a word had passed between them since the night before, and the girl watched him covertly from under drooped lids. was she trying to fathom his meditations, or determine how far they were to affect her own future? for as the birds foretell by the signs in the air the change of the summer, so talapa, through the atmosphere of the cabin that morning, felt approach the end of a season that had been to her luxurious with comforts new to her; and though the indian blood in her veins may have disdained the adjuncts of civilization, yet the french tide that crossed it carried to her the gallic yearning for the dainties and delicacies of life. to be sure, one would not find many of those in a backwoodsman's cabin; but all content is comparative, and talapa's basis of comparison was the earthen floor of a thronged "tepee," or wigwam, where blows had been more frequent than square meals; and being a thing feminine, her affections turned to this white man of the woods who could give her a floor of boards and a dinner-pot never empty, and moreover, being of the sex feminine, those bonds of affection were no doubt securely fastened--bonds welded in a circle--endless. at least those attributes, vaguely remembered, are usually conceded to the more gentle half of humanity, and i give talapa the benefit of the belief, as her portrait has been of necessity set in the shadows, and has need of all the high lights that can be found for it. whatever she may have lacked from a high-church point of view, she had at least enviable self-possession. whatever tumult of wounded feeling there may have been in this daughter of the forest, she moved around sedately, with an air that in a white woman would be called martyr-like, and said nothing. it was as well, perhaps, that she had the rare gift of silence, for the man at the door, with his chin resting grimly on his fists, did not seem at all sympathetic, or in the humor to fit himself to anyone's moods. the tones of that girl's voice were still vibrating over chords in his nature that disturbed him. he did not even notice talapa's movements until she ceased them by squatting down with native grace by the fire-place, and then-- "get up off that!" he roared, in a voice that hastened talapa's rising considerably. "that" was the buffalo-robe on which the other girl had throned herself the night before; and what a picture she had made in the fire-light! genesee in two strides crossed the floor, and grabbing the robe, flung it over his shoulder. no, it was not courteous to unseat a lady with so little ceremony--it may not even have been natural to him, so many things are not natural to us human things that are yet so true. "and why so?" asked talapa sullenly, her back against the wall as if in a position to show fight; that is, she said "pe-kah-ta?" but, for the benefit of the civilized reader, the ordinary english is given--"and why so?" genesee looked at her a moment from head to foot, but the scrutiny resulted in silence--no remark. at length he walked back to the chest against the wall, and unlocking it, drew out an account-book, between the leaves of which were some money orders; two of them he took out, putting the rest in his pocket. then, writing a signature on those two--not the name of jack genesee, by the way--he turned to mistress talapa, who had slid from the wall down on the floor minus the buffalo-robe. "here!" he said tersely. "i am going away. klat-awah si-ah--do you understand?" and then, fishing some silver out of his pocket, he handed it to her with the notes. "take these to the settlement--to the bank-store. they'll give you money--money to live all winter. live in the cabin if you want; only get out in the spring--do you hear? i will want it myself then--and i want it alone." without comment, talapa reached up and took the money, looking curiously at the notes, as if to decipher the meaning in the pictured paper, and then: "nika wake tikegh talapa?" she queried, but with nothing in her tone to tell if she cared whether he wanted her or not. "not by a--" he began energetically, and then, "you are your own boss now," he added, more quietly. "go where you please, only you'd better keep clear of the old gang, for i won't buy you from them again--kumtuks?" talapa nodded that she understood, her eyes roving about the cabin, possibly taking note of the wealth that she had until spring to revel in or filch from. genesee noticed that mental reckoning. "leave these things alone," he said shortly. "use them, but leave them here. if any of them are gone when i get back--well, i'll go after them." and throwing the robe over his arm again, he strode out through the door, mounted mowitza, and rode away. it was not a sentimental finale to an idyl of the wood, but by the time the finale is reached, the average human specimen has no sentiment to waste. had they possessed any to begin with? it was hard to tell whether talapa was crushed by the cold cruelty of that leave-taking, or whether she was indifferent; that very uncertainty is a charm exerted over us by those conservative natures that lock within themselves wrath or joy where we ordinary mortals give expression to ours with all the language possessed by us, and occasionally borrow some adjectives that would puzzle us to give a translation of. talapa sat where he left her, not moving except once to shy a pine knot at a rat by the cupboard--and hit it, too, though she did belong to the sex divine. so she sat, pensively dribbling the silver coin from hand to hand, until the morning crept away and the sun shone through the mists. what was it that at last awakened her from an apparent dreamland--the note of that bird whistling in the forest in very gladness that the sun shone again? evidently so, and the indian blood in her veins had taught her the secret of sympathy with the wild things, for she gave an answering call, half voice, half whistle. silence for a little, and then again from the timber came that quavering note, with the rising inflection at the finish that was so near an interrogation. it brought talapa to her feet, and going to the door, she sent a short, impatient call that a little later was answered by the appearance of a comely buck--one of the order of red men--who lounged down the little incline with his head thrust forward as if to scent danger if any was about; but a few words from the girl assuring him that the coast was clear--the fort unguarded--gave him more an air of assurance, as he stepped across the threshhold and squatted down on the side of the bed. "genesee gone?" he queried in the musical medley of consonants. talapa grunted an assent, with love in her eyes for the noble specimen on the bed. "gone far--gone all time--till spring," she communicated, as if sure of being the giver of welcome news. "house all mine--everything mine--all winter." "ugh!" was all the sound given in answer to the information; but the wide mouth curved upward ever so slightly at the corners, and coupled with the interrogative grunt, expressed, no doubt, as much content as generally falls to the lot of individual humanity. one of his boots hurt him, or rather the moccasins which he wore with leggings, and above them old blue pantaloons and a red shirt; the moccasin was ripped, and without ceremony he loosened it and kicked it toward talapa. "mamook tipshin," he remarked briefly; and by that laconic order to sew his moccasin, skulking brave virtually took possession of genesee's cabin and genesee's squaw. through the gray shadows of that morning rachel and jim rode almost in silence down the mountain trail. the memory of the girl was too busy for speech, and the frequent yawns of jim showed that a longer sleep would have been appreciated by him. "say," he remarked at last, as the trail grew wide enough for them to ride abreast, "everything was jolly back here at mr. jack's last night, but i'm blest if it was this morning. the breakfast wasn't anything to brag of, an' the fire was no good, an' the fog made the cabin as damp as rain when the door was open, an' he was glum an' quiet, an' you wasn't much better. say, was it that injun cook o' his you was afeared to eat after?" "not exactly," she answered with a little laugh; "what an observer you are, jim! i suppose the atmosphere of the cabin was the effect of the storm last night." "what? well, the storm wasn't much worse to plow through last night than the wet timber this morning," he answered morosely; "but say, here's the sun coming out at last--by george! how the wind lifts the fog when it gets started. look at it!" and then, as the sunlight really crept in a great shimmer through the pines, he added: "it might just as well have come earlier, or else kept away altogether, for we're as wet now as we can get." "be thankful that it shines at all, jim." "oh, the shine's all right, but it shines too late." "yes," agreed the girl, with a memory of shamed, despairing eyes flitting through her brain. "yes, it always shines too late--for someone." "it's for two of us this time," replied grumbling jim, taking her speech literally. "we've had a nick of a time anyway this trip. why that storm had to wait until just the day we got lost, so as we'd get wet, an' straggle home dead beat--an' without the sheep--i can't see." "no, we can't see," said rachel, with a queer little smile. "perhaps--perhaps it's all because this is the end instead of the beginning of a cultus corrie." part third "prince charlie" chapter i. in the kootenai spring-time. in the spring that followed, what a spirit of promise and enterprise was abroad on the hardy ranch! what multitudes of white lambs, uncertain in the legs, staggered and tottered about the pasture lands! and what musical rills of joy in the mountain streams escaping through the sunshine from their prisons of ice! the flowers rose from the dead once more--such a fragrant resurrection! slipping from out their damp coffins and russet winding-sheets with dauntless heads erect, and eager lips open to the breath of promise. some herald must bear to their earth-homes the tidings of how sweet the sun of may is--perhaps the snow sprites who are melted into tears at his glances and slip out of sight to send him a carpet of many colors instead of the spotless white his looks had banished. it may be so, though only the theory of an alien. and then the winged choruses of the air! what matinees they held in the sylvan places among the white blossoms of the dogwood and the feathery tassels of the river willow, all nodding, swaying in the soft kisses sent by the pacific from the southwest--soft relays of warmth and moisture that moderate those western valleys until they are affronted by the rocky wall that of old was called by the indians the chippewyan mountains, but which in our own day, in the more poetical language of the usurper, has been improved upon and dubbed the "rockies." but all the commonplaces of those aliens can not deprive the inaccessible, conservative solitudes of their wild charms. and after those long months of repression, how warmly their smile bursts forth--and how contagious it is! laugh though the world may at the vibrations of poet hearts echoing the songs of the youngest of seasons, how can they help it? it is never the empty vessel that brims over, and with the spring a sort of inspiration is wakened in the most prosaic of us. the same spirit of change that thrills the saplings with fresh vitality sends through human veins a creeping ecstasy of new life. and all its insidious, penetrating charm seemed abroad there in the northern-land escaped from under the white cloak of winter. the young grass, fresh from the valley rains, warmed into emerald velvet in the sunshine, bordered and braced with yellow buttons of dandelion; while the soil was turned over with the plows, and field and garden stocked with seed for the harvest. energetic, busy days those were after the long months of semi-inaction; even the horses were too mettlesome for farm drudgery--intoxicated, no doubt, by the bracing, free winds that whispered of the few scattered droves away off to the north that bore no harness and owned no master. all things were rebellious at the long restraint, and were breaking into new paths of life for the new season. even a hulking siwash, with his squaw and children, came dragging down the valley in the wake of the freshets, going to the reservation south, content to go any place where they could get regular meals, with but the proviso to be "good injun." they loafed about the ranch two days, resting, and coming in for a share of rations from the hardy table; and the little barefooted "hostiles" would stand about the gate and peer in around the posts of the porch, saying in insinuating tones: "pale papoose?" yes, the spirit of the hills and grazing lands had crept under the rafters and between the walls, and a new life had been given to the world, just as the first violets crept sunward. and of course no other life was ever quite so sweet, so altogether priceless, as this little mite, who was already mistress of all she surveyed; and aunty luce--their one female servant--declared: "them eyes o' hers certainly do see everything in reach of 'em. she's a mighty peart chile, i'm tellin' ye." even jim had taken to loafing around the house more than of old, and showing a good deal of nervous irritation if by any chance "she" was allowed to test her lungs in the slightest degree. the setter pups paled into insignificance, and a dozen times a day he would remark to ivans that it was "the darndest, cutest, little customer he ever saw." "even you have become somewhat civilized, rachel, since baby's arrival," remarked tillie in commendation. yes, rachel was still there. at the last moment, a few appealing glances from tillie and some persuasive words from hen had settled the question, and a rebellion was declared against taking the home trail, and all the words of the houghtons fell on barren soil, for she would not--and she would not. "they will never miss me back there in kentucky," she argued; "there are so many girls there. but out here, femininity is at a premium. let me alone, clara; i may take the prize." "and when am i to tell the folks you will come back?" asked mrs. houghton, with the purpose of settling on a fixed time and then holding her to it. "just tell them the truth, dear--say you don't know," answered the girl sweetly. "i may locate a claim out here yet and develop into a stock-grower. do not look so sulky. i may be of use here; no one needs me in kentucky." "what of nard stevens?" was a final query; at which rachel no longer smiled--she laughed. "oh, you silly clara!" she burst out derisively. "you think yourself so wise, and you never see an inch beyond that little nose of yours. nard needs me no more than i need him--bless the boy! he's a good fellow; but you can not use him as a trump card in this game, my dear. yes, i know that speech is slangy. give my love to nard when you see him--well, then, my kind regards and best wishes if the other term conflicts with your proper spirit, and tell him i have located out here to grow up with the country." and through the months that followed she assuredly grew to the country at all events; the comparative mildness of the winters proving a complete surprise to her, as, hearing of the severe weather of the north, she had not known that its greatest intensity extends only to the eastern wall of the great mountain range, and once crossing the divide, the chinook winds or currents from the pacific give the valleys much the temperature of our middle states, or even more mild, since the snow-fall in the mountains is generally rain in the lowlands. sometimes, of course, with the quick changes that only the wind knows, there would come a swoop downward of cold from the direct north, cutting through the basins, and driving the pacific air back coastward in a fury, and those fitful gusts were to be guarded against by man and beast; and wise were growing those eastern prophets in their quickness to judge from the heavens whether storm or calm was to be with them. but despite clara's many predictions, the days did not grow dull to rachel, and the ranch was not a prison in winter-time. she had too clearly developed the faculty of always making the best of her surroundings and generally drawing out the best points in the people about her. it was that trait of hers that first awakened her interest in that splendid animal, their guide from the maple range. he had disappeared--gone from the kootenai country, so they told her. but where? or for what? that none could answer. her memory sometimes brought her swift flushes of mortification when she thought of him--of their association so pregnant with some sympathy or subtle influence that had set the world so far beyond them at times. now that he was gone, and their knowledge of each other perhaps all over, she tried to coolly reason it all out for herself, but found so much that contained no reason--that had existed only through impulses--impulses not easy to realize once outside the circle of their attending circumstances. those memories puzzled her--her own weakness when she lay in his arms, and her own gift of second-sight that gave her an understanding of him that morning when she turned champion for him against himself. was it really an understanding of him? or was it only that old habit of hers of discovering fine traits in characters voted worthless?--discoveries laughed at by her friends, until her "spectacles of imagination" were sometimes requested if some specimen of the genus homo without any redeeming points was under discussion. was it so in this case? she had asked herself the question more than once during the winter. and if she had been at all pliable in her opinions, she would long ere spring have dropped back to the original impression that the man was a magnificent animal with an intellect, and with spirituality and morality sleeping. but she was not. a certain stubbornness in her nature kept her from being influenced, as the others were, by the knowledge that after all they had had a veritable "squaw man" as a guide. hardy was surprised, and tillie was inconsolable. "i never will believe in an honest face again!" she protested. "nonsense!" laughed rachel. "pocahontas was an indian and rolfe was not hustled out of society in consequence." "n--no," assented tillie, eyeing rachel doubtfully "but then, you see rolfe married pocahontas." "yes?" "and--and ivans told hen he heard that the squaw you saw at genesee's was only a sort of slave. did he tell you and jim that she was his wife?" "i--i don't know;" and rachel suddenly sat down on a chair near the window and looked rather hopelessly at the questioner. "no, i don't believe he said so, but the circumstances and all--well, i took it for granted; he looked so ashamed." "and you thought it was because of a marriage ceremony, not for the lack of one?" "yes," acknowledged the girl, inwardly wondering why that view of the question had not presented itself to her. had she after all imagined herself sighting an eagle, and was it on nearer acquaintance to develop into a vulture--or, worse still, a buzzard--a thing reveling only in carrion, and knowing itself too unclean to breathe the same air with the untainted! so it seemed; so tillie was convinced; so she knew clara would have thought. in fact, in all the range of her female acquaintances she could think of none whose opinion would not have been the same, and she had an impatient sort of wonder with herself for not agreeing with them. but the memory of the man's face that morning, and the echo of that "god bless you, girl!" always drifted her away from utter unbelief in him. she heard considerable about him that winter; that he was thought rather eccentric, and belonged more to the indians than the whites, sometimes living with a tribe of kootenais for weeks, sometimes disappearing, no one knew where, for months, and then settling down in the cabin again and placidly digging away at that hole in the hill by the little lake--the hill itself called by the indians "tamahnous," meaning bewitched, or haunted. and his persistence in that work was one of the eccentric things that made some people say significantly: "they allowed genesee was a good man, but a little 'touched' on the silver question." and for tillie's benefit hen had to explain that the term "good" had nothing whatever to do with the man's moral or spiritual worth; its use was in a purely physical sense. after the snows fell in the mountains there were but few strangers found their way to the new ranch. half locked in as it was by surrounding hills, the passes were likely to be dangerous except to the initiated, and there were not many who had business urgent enough to push them through the drifts, or run their chances with land-slides. but if a stray hunter did come their way, his call was not allowed to be a short one. they had already become too thoroughly western in their hospitality to allow the quick departure of a guest, a trait of which they had carried the germs from old kentucky. what cheery evenings there were in the great sitting-room, with the logs heaped high in the stone fire-place! an uncarpeted room, with long, cushioned settees along two sides of it--and mighty restful they were voted by the loungers after the day's work; a few pictures on the wall, mostly engravings; the only color given the furnishing was in the pink and maroon chintz curtains at the windows, or cushions to the oak chairs. there in the fire-light of the long evenings were cards played, or stories told, or magazines read aloud, rachel and hen generally taking turn about as reader. and tillie in the depths of the cushioned rocker, knitting soft wool stuffs, was a chatelaine, the picture of serene content, with close beside her a foil in the form of black aunty luce, whom only devotion to her young miss would ever have tempted into those wilds; and after the work was over for the night, it was a usual thing to see her slipping in and snuggling down quietly to listen to the stories told or read, her big eyes glancing fearfully toward windows or doors if the indian question was ever touched on; though occasionally, if approached with due ceremony and full faith shown in her knowledge, she would herself add her share to the stories told, her donation consisting principally of sure "hoodoos," and the doings of black witches and warlocks in the land of bayous; for aunty luce had originally come from the swamps of louisiana, where the native religion and superstitions have still a good following. and old aunty's reminiscences added to the variety of their evening's bill of entertainment. a mail-carrier unexpectedly sprang up for them in the winter in the person of a young half-breed called kalitan, or the arrow. he had another name, his father, an englishman, and agent for a fur company, had happened to be around when his swarthy offspring was ushered into the world, and he promptly bestowed on him his own name of thomas alexander. but it was all he did bestow on him--and that only by courtesy, not legality; and alexander junior had not even the pleasure of remembering his father's face, as his mother was soon deserted. she went back to her tribe and reared her son as an indian, even his name in time was forgotten, as by common consent the more characteristic one of kalitan was given him because of the swiftness of foot that had placed him among the best "runners" or messengers in the indian country--and the average speed of a runner will on a long march out-distance that of cavalry. at the military post at fort missoula, kalitan's lines had first fallen among those of genesee, and for some unexplained reason his adherence to that individual became as devoted as mowitza's own. for a long time they had not ranged far apart, genesee seldom leaving the kootenai country that kalitan did not disappear as well. this last trip his occupation was gone, for word had been left with macdougall that the trail was not clear ahead, but if kalitan was wanted he would be sent for, and that sinewy, bronze personage did not seem to think of doing other than wait--and the waiting promised to be long. he took to hanging around scot's mountain more than of old, with the query, "maybe genesee send lettah--s'pose? i go see." and go he would, over and over again, always with a philosophic "s'pose next time," when he returned empty-handed. sometimes he stopped at the ranch, and rachel at once recognized him as the youth who had brought her the black bear skin months before, and pretended at the time utter ignorance of chinook. he would speak chinook fast enough to her now if there was any occasion, his white blood, and the idea that she was genesee's friend, inclining him to sociability seldom known to the aristocratic conservatives of the indian race. the nearest mail station was twenty miles south, and it was quite an item to find a messenger as willing as was kalitan; storm or calm, he would make the trip just the same, carrying his slip of paper on which all the names were written and which he presented as an order to the postmaster. a big mail was a cause of pride to him, especially magazines or packages. letters he did not think of much account, because of their size. to aunty luce he was a thing of dread, as were all of his race. she was firmly convinced that the dusky well-featured face belonged to an imp of the evil one, and that he simply slid over the hills on the cold winds, without even the aid of a broom-stick. the nights that he spent at the ranch found aunty's ebony face closer than ever to the side of mistress tillie's chair. another member had been added to the visiting list at hardy's, and that was the sovereign of scot's mountain. along in midwinter, kalitan brought a scrawled note from "ole man mac," asking for some drugs of which he stood in need. the request brought to light the fact that kalitan one day while paying visits had found "ole man mac" sick in bed--"heap sick--crank--no swallow medicine but white man's." the required white man's medicine was sent, and with it a basket with white bread, fresh butter, and various condiments of home manufacture that tillie's kindly heart prompted her to send to the old trapper--one of their nearest neighbors. the following day rachel and her henchman jim started on kalitan's trail, with the idea of learning personally if any further aid that the ranch could give was needed at the cabin. a snow three days old covered the ground, in which kalitan's trail was easily followed; and then rachel had been over the same route before, starting light-hearted and eager, on that cultus corrie. they reached scot's mountain a little after noon, and found its grizzled, unshaven owner much better than he had been the day before, and close beside him on the pillow lay his one companion, the cat. "well, well! to think o' this!" said the old man, reaching a brawny hand to her from the bunk. "you're the first white woman as ever passed that door-post, and it's rare and glad i am that it's your own self." "why myself more than another?" she asked, rather surprised at his words. "i would have come long ago if i had known i was wanted, or that you even knew of me." "have i not, then?" he queried, looking at her sharply from under his wrinkled, half-closed lids. "but sit ye down, lady. kalitan, bring the chair. and is that a brother--the lad there? i thought i had na heard of one. sit you down close that i can see ye--a sight good for sore een; an' i have no heard o' ye? ah, but i have, though. many's the hour the lad has lain lazy like on the cot here, an' told me o' the gay folk frae the east. ye know i'd be a bit curious o' my new neighbors, an' would be askin' many's the question, an' all the tales would end wi' something about the lass that was ay the blithe rider, an' ever the giver o' good judgment." the girl felt her face grow hot under those sharp old eyes. she scarcely knew what to say, and yet could give no sensible reason for such embarrassment; and then-- "the lad--what lad?" she asked at last. "oh--ay. i clean forgot he is no lad to you. kalitan, will ye be building up that fire a bit? when we have quality to visit we must give them a warm welcome, if no more. an' the lad, as i was sayin'," he continued, "was but genesee--no other; though he looked more the lad when i called him so first." "you are such old friends, then?" "no so old as so close, ye might say. it's a matter o' five year now since he come up in these hills wi' some men who were prospectin', an' one an' another got tired and dropped down the country again till only genesee was left. he struck that haunted hill in the maple range that they all said was of no good, an' he would na leave it. there he stuck in very stubbornness, bewitched like by it; an' the day before his flittin' in the fall found him clear through the hill, helped a bit by striking into an old mine that nobody knew aught of. think o' that!--dug into a mine that had been abandoned by the indians generations ago, most like." "i did not know that the indians ever paid attention to mining. they seem to know no use for gold or silver until the white men teach them it." "true enough; but there the old mine stands, as a clear showin' that some o' the heathen, at some time, did mine in that range; an' the stone mallets an' such like that he stumbled on there shows that the cave was not the result o' accident." "and has he at last given it up as hopeless?" "that's as time may happen to tell," answered the old man sagely; "an' old daddy time his own self could na keep his teeth shut more tight than can genesee if there's a bit secret to hold. but o' the old mine he said little when he was takin' the trail, only, 'it has kept these thousand o' years, davy--it will most like keep until i get back.'" from that speech rachel gathered the first intimation that genesee's absence from the kootenai country was only a transient one. was he then to come back and again drop his life into its old lines? she did not like to think of it--or to question. but that winter visit to "ole man mac," as kalitan called him, was the beginning of an avowed friendship between the old hermit of the northern hills and the young girl from the southern ones. her independent, curious spirit and youthful vitality were a sort of tonic to him, and as he grew better he accepted her invitation to visit the ranch, and from that time on the grizzled head and still athletic frame of the old fellow were not strange to the hardy household. he was there as often as was consistent with the weather in the hills and almost seventy years of braving their hardships; for of late years macdougall did not range widely. his traps could find too many nooks near home for mink, lynx, and the black bear, and from the kootenai tribes on the north he bought pelts, acting the trader as well as trapper; and twice a year making a trip to a settlement to dispose of his wares, with horses from his indian neighbors to transport them with. rachel learned that for forty years he had followed that isolated life--moving steadily farther west or farther north as the grip of civilization made itself felt behind him; and he felt himself crowded if a settler's prairie schooner was sighted within twenty-five miles of him. the girl wondered, often, the cause of that self-exile, but no word or sign gave her any clew. he had come from the eastern highlands of scotland when less than thirty years old, and had struck out at once for the extreme borders of civilization in america; and there he had remained--always on the borders--never quite overtaken. "it will be but a few more stands i can make," he would say to her sometimes. "time is little content to be a laggard, and he is running me close in a race he has na' a doubt of winning." with advancing years, the barrier, whatever the foundation, that he had raised between himself and the world was evidently weakening somewhat; and first through genesee, and now through this girl, had come a growing desire for intercourse with his own race once more. and much teasing did the girl get in consequence of the visits that by the family in general were conceded to belong to rachel in particular, teasing, however, which she bore with indifference, openly claiming that the stronger interest was on her side, and if he forgot his visits she would certainly go herself to scot's mountain to learn the why and wherefore. this she did more than once, through the season, when indoor life grew at all monotonous; sometimes with jim as a companion, and sometimes with kalitan trotting at her mare's head, and guiding very carefully betty's feet over the dangerous places--aunty luce always watching such a departure with prophecies of "miss rache's sea'p a-hangin' round the neck o' that red nigger some o' these days, i'm a-tellin' yeh!" despite prophecies, kalitan proved a most eager and careful guardian, seeming to feel rather proud when he was allowed to be her sole companion. sometimes he would say: "s'pose you hear where genesee is--may be?" and at her negative he, like a philosopher of unlimited patience, would content himself with: "sometime he sure come; s'pose waum illihie"--waum illihie meaning the summer-time; and rachel, noting his faithfulness to that one idea, wondered how many seasons his patience would endure. at last, about the middle of april, he stalked into the ranch door one morning early, scaring aunty luce out of her seven senses, or as many extra ones as she laid claim to. "rashell hardy?" was all he deigned to address to that personage, so inborn in the indian is the scorn of a slave or those of slavish origin. and kalitan, who had lived almost entirely with his tribe, had many of the aristocratic ideas of race that so soon degenerate in the indian of the settlements or haunts of the white man. once aunty luce, not understanding his ideas of caste, thought to propitiate him with some kindly social inquiry as to the state of his health and well-being, and had beat an ignominious retreat to the floor above at the black look of indignation on his face at being questioned by a slave. when rachel took him to task for such a ferocious manner, he answered, with a sullen sort of pride: "i, kalitan, am of a race of chiefs--not a dog to be bidden by black blood;" and she had noticed then, and at other times, that any strong emotion, especially anger, gave an elevated tone and manner of speech to him and his race, lifting it out of the slurred commonplaces of the mongrel jargon--a direct contradiction of their white brother, on whom anger generally has an effect exactly contrary. after that one venture of aunty's at timorous friendliness, she might have been a dumb woman so far as kalitan ever had further knowledge; for her conversations in his presence were from that date carried on entirely in pantomime, often to the annoyance, though always to the amusement, of the family. kalitan's abrupt entrance and query that april morning was answered by a comprehensive nod and wave of pudgy black hands toward the sitting-room, into which he walked without knocking--that, also perhaps, being deemed a prerogative of his lordly race. "why, kalitan, so early!" said rachel in surprise. "are you trying to outrun the sun? what is it?" for her eyes, accustomed to the usual calm of his countenance, recognized at once that some new current of emotion was struggling for supremacy in him that morning. he did not answer at once, but seated himself in impressive silence on the edge of one of the settees, and after a dramatic pause that he considered a fitting prelude to the importance of his communication, he addressed himself to rachel--the only woman, by the way, whom he was ever known to meet or converse with on terms of equality, as indian chivalry does not extend to their exaltation of the gentler sex. "rashell hardy," he said, in a mingling of english and chinook, "i, kalitan, the arrow, shoot to the south. genesee has sent in the talking-paper to ole man mac that the reservation indians south have dug up the hatchet. genesee is taking the trail from the fort, with rifle and many men, and he wants an arrow that can shoot out of sight of any other; so he wants kalitan." and having delivered himself of this modest encomium on his own worth, there was a stage-wait of about a minute, that might have been relieved by some words conceding his superiority, but wasn't. rachel was looking out of the window as if in momentary forgetfulness of the honor done her in this statement of facts. kalitan rose to his feet. "ole man mac come town valley, may be, in two days. i stop to tell you, and say like white man, klahowya." and with the indian word of farewell, he turned to the door, when rachel stopped him. "wait, kalitan," she said, holding out her hand to stop him. "you are going south into the hostile country. will the arrow carry a message as it flies?" "let rashell hardy speak. kalitan is swift. a message is not heavy from a friend." "that is it, kalitan; it is to your friend--genesee." "rachel!" ejaculated tillie, who had been a silent auditor of this queer little scene, with its ceremony and its ludicrous features--ludicrous to any not knowing the red man's weakness for forms and a certain pomposity that seems a childish love of display and praise. but rachel never ridiculed it; instead, she simply let herself drop into his tone, and thus enhanced very much his opinion of her. and at tillie's voice she turned impatiently. "well, why not?" she asked; and her combative air at once reduced tillie to withdrawing as easily as she could from the discussion. "but, dear, the man's reputation! and really you know he is nothing we thought he was. he is scarcely fit for any lady to speak to. it is better to leave such characters alone. one never can tell how far they may presume on even recognition." "yes? after all, tillie, i believe you are very much of the world worldly. did he stop to ask if i was entirely a proper sort of person before he started to hunt for me that time in the kootenai hills?" "nonsense! of course not. but the cases are totally unlike." "naturally. he is a man; i am a woman. but if the cases were reversed, though i might preserve a better reputation, i doubt much if, in some respects, i should equal the stubborn strength of character i have seen that man show at times." "oh, i might have known better than to advise you, rachel, if i wanted to influence you," remarked tillie helplessly. "you are like an irishman, always spoiling for a fight, and hunt up the most ridiculous, impossible theories to substantiate your views; but i am so disappointed in that man--he seemed such a fine fellow. but when we are assured of our mistake, it is time, especially, rachel, for a girl to drop all acquaintance with him." "i wish i was not a girl. then i would not have to be hedged in forever. you would not think it so terrible if hen or ivans, or any of the men, were to meet him as usual or send word to him if they chose." "but that is different." "and i am sick of the differences. the more i see the narrowness of social views, the less i wonder at old macdougall and genesee taking to the mountains, where at least the life, even the life's immoralities, are primitive." "primitive! oh, good lord!" ejaculated tillie in serio-comic despair. "what would you suggest as an improvement on their simplicity?" and then, both being rather good-natured women, the absurdity of their vehemence seemed to strike them, and looking at each other for a second, they both burst out laughing. all this time kalitan stood, showing his silent disdain of this squaw "wau-wau" with the impassive gaze that went straight over their heads at the opposite wall, not seeing the debaters, as if it were beneath his dignity to open his ears to their words. in fact, his dignity had been enhanced several degrees since his visit to the ranch, some ten days before--all because of that "talking-paper," no doubt, that had come from the fort, and his full indian dress--for he would scorn to wear the garb of his father--was decked with several additional trinkets, borrowed or stolen from the tribe, that were likely to render his appearance more impressive. and rachel, glancing at him, was reminded by that manner of dignified toleration that she had kept him waiting no doubt five minutes--and five minutes in the flight of an arrow is a life-time. "tell jack genesee," she said, turning to him in complete negligence of arguments just used, "that rachel hardy sends to him greetings--you understand? that she is glad to hear where he is; a soldier's life is a good one for him, and she will always have faith in his fighting well, and trying to fight on the right side. is that message much to remember?" kalitan poetically answered in chinook to the effect that his heart was in his ears when she spoke, and would be in his tongue when he met genesee, and with that startling statement he made his exit, watched by aunty luce from the stairs on which she had taken refuge. "you are a queer girl, rache," said tillie as rachel stood watching the gaily-decked, sinewy form as it broke into a sort of steady trot, once outside the gate, and was so quickly out of sight down the valley. "am i? try and say something more original," she suggested. "i believe you would make a good missionary," continued tillie debatably. "your theory of civilizing people seems to be all right; but while it may work capitally with those savages born in heathendom, i fear its results when applied to enlightened mortals who have preferred dropping into degraded lives. your laudable energy is likely to be wasted on that sort of material." "what a learned diagnosis for you to make, my child," said miss hardy approvingly. "aunty luce confided to me she was going to make a 'batch' of sugar cookies this morning, and you shall have the very first one as a reward for delivering your little speech so nicely." chapter ii. a recruit from the world. "oh, cam' ye here the fight to shun, or herd the sheep wi' me, man?" spring, with its showers and promises, drifted into the dim perspective, as summer, with flaunting assumption, took possession of the foreground. all through the changing weeks rumors came from the south and east, telling of disaffection among the hereditary lords of the soil, and petty troubles in different localities, that, like low mutterings of far-off thunder, promised storms that might be remembered. some rust on the wheels of the slow-moving machinery of government had caused a delay in the dealings with the people on the reservations. treaties ignored through generations, in both letter and spirit, are not calculated to beget faith in the hearts of the red nations, or teach them belief in the straightness of our tongues. was it the fault of the department of the interior at washington, or the dishonesty of their local agents?--the chicanery of the party in office or the scheme of some political ring that wanted to get in by bringing forward a cause for condemnation of the existing regime? whatever one of the multitudinous excuses was finally given for neglect of duty--treaties, promises of government--mr. lo had now--as he has ever had--to bear the suffering in question, whether just or unjust. small wonder if, now and then, a spark of that old fire in the blood ignites, and even the most tamed spirits rise up ready to write pages of history in blood. the only wonder is that they ever pass by the house or the offspring of the white race without that call of the red heart for vengeance being too strong for the hand to resist. through the late winter, whether through storms or floods or the schemes of men, on one of the reservations to the south the rations had not been forthcoming; and from week to week excuses were given that were no longer listened to with credence by the indians. in vain were visits made, first to the agency, next to the nearest fort, supplicating for their rights. one delegation after another turned back from those visits unsatisfied, told by the first that the rations would be distributed when they arrived, not before; told by the second that the war department was not in any way responsible for deficiencies of the department of the interior, and could not interfere--at the same time advising them to be patient, as eventually their wants would be satisfied. eventually! and in the meantime they could go back to their tribes and eat their horses, their dogs, and see their people grow weak as the children for the want of food. small wonder if one group after another of the younger braves, and even the older warriors, broke loose from the promise of peace and joined the hostile bands that thieved along the border, sweeping the outlying ranches of horses and cattle, and beating a retreat back into the hills with their booty. of course, the rations arrived eventually, and were distributed by those fair-minded personages whose honest dealing with the red man is proverbial along the border; but the provisions came too late to stem the tide of secession that had set in, and the war department had found that, after all, it would be influenced by the actions of the department of the interior, and that its interference was demanded for the protection of the homes on the frontier. as the homes were the homes of white citizens, its action was, of course, one of promptness. white men's votes decide who shall continue to sit in the high places of the land, or who shall step down and out to make way for the new man of new promises. but they found ordinary methods of war were of little avail against the scattered bands, who, like bees in the summer-time, divided their swarms, and honey-combed the hills, knowing every retreat, and posted as to every movement by indian runners and kindred left behind. it was simply a war of skirmishing, and one not likely soon to cease. reinforcements came to the hostile tribes from all the worthless outlaws of the border--some of white, others of mixed blood; and from those mongrels resulted the more atrocious features of the outbreak. they fought and schemed with the indian because they wanted his protection, and any proposed treaty for peace was argued against by them most vehemently. and while an indian makes a good thief, a half-breed makes a better; but the white man, if his taste runs in that direction, is an artist, and to him his red brother is indebted for much teaching in the subtle art through many generations. that, and like accomplishments, made them comrades to be desired by the tribes who depended for their subsistence on the country guarded by troops; and scientific methods of thievery were resorted to, methods that required the superior brain and the white face of the caucasian. thus was the trouble fostered, and the contagion spread, until far-off tribes, hearing of it, missed now one, now another, of their more restless spirits; and the white authorities found it would not do to trust to the peace of any of the nations--the only surety was to guard it. this they tried to do, locating posts and stationing troops near even the most peaceable tribes--their presence suggesting the advisability of remaining so. and, now through one, now another, and generally by macdougall, the people at the ranch heard at times of the arrow and of genesee. they were with the troops, and were together; and the latter's knowledge of indian tactics was counting much in his favor evidently, as his opinions were cited in the reports and prophecies of results, and his influence had decided more than one movement of the campaign that had won him the commendation of his superior officers--circumstances that were, of course, discussed pro and con by the people of the kootenai. there was little of local news in so isolated a place, and rachel declared they were all developing into gossips because of the avidity with which the slightest of events in their own region was talked over; and of course the indian question was an all-absorbing topic, and to aunty luce was attended by a sort of paralysis of terror. in vain to point out the friendly listlessness of the kootenais, their nearest neighbors of the red race, for the kootenais were simple hunters or fishers, making war on none, unless now and then a detachment of thieving blackfeet from east of the mountains would file through the old flathead pass and run off portions of their stock; in the time of the fishing, the greater part of the village would move for the season away from their pasture-lands, in search of the fish that they smoke, dry, and pack in osier baskets for the winter. it was generally during that temporary flitting that a visit from those neighboring tribes would be made, and an assessment levied, to the extent of all loose cattle in reach, and an occasional squaw now and then. and so, though the kootenais were on the most friendly terms with the few whites about them, their relations with their red brethren on the east, and across the line in the northwest territories were decidedly strained. but it was useless to talk "good indian" to aunty who was afraid to stay in the house or out of it; afraid to start back to kentucky, yet sure that delay meant death. and all through the summer, let the rest have faith if they chose, yet the baby's wardrobe and her own were always packed ready for flight at the first sign of danger. with this one exception, the indian question troubled the people at the ranch but little. they found too many duties in the new country to take up their time and attention. the sheep-raising experiment showed signs of such thorough success that it would require more than the skirmishing of the races a couple of hundred miles away to disenchant hardy with the country; and where he was content, tillie was, of course; and rachel--well, rachel was deemed a sort of vagabond in regard to a settlement anywhere. she was satisfied with any place where the fences were not too high, or the limits of her range too narrow. she often wondered that the world in general knew so little of that beautiful corner of the earth. she knew that people flocked to "resorts" that possessed not at all the wealth of beauties that whimsical nature had scattered on those indian hills. in the fall, about a year after the cultus corrie, she began to think that, after all, they might meet with deserved appreciation some day, for one man rode up to them, not for stock, or to locate land, or for any of the few reasons that brought people to the kootenai country, but simply and only for pleasure and rest--so he said. it was in late september, and as he rode leisurely through the dusky shadows of the pines, and along the passionate, restless path of some mountain stream, his expressive face showed a more than casual interest in the prodigality of delightful vistas and the impressive grandeur of the mountains, as they loomed about him or slowly drifted beneath him. all the beauty of autumn was around him, yet he himself looked like one of the people who belong only to summer, judging from his eager eyes and the boyish laugh that broke on the still air as he watched the pranks of some squirrels making holiday in their own domain. not that the stranger was so young. he was not a boy in years; but the spirit of youth, that remains so long with some natures, shone in his glance, and loitered about the sensitive mouth. in seeing him smile, one would forget the thread of premature silver that shone through the bronze of his hair. he was almost beautiful in face; yet his stature, which was much above the average, and his exceptionally complete proportions, saved him from the beauty that is effeminate; but whatever beauty he possessed, however, was in every way refined. it was noon when stragglers of sheep met his gaze, dotting with white the green and amber grasses of the great park, and showing, as he forded missoula creek, a picture before him, framed in the high wall of the hills, and restful with pastoral peace that was a striking contrast to the untamable wilds through which he had passed. "almost there," he whispered eagerly, as he rode along the corrals and was greeted by a tumbling lot of sheep-dogs. "will it be of use?" before he reached the gate he was met by hardy, who, bare-headed, had left the dinner-table to welcome a visitor whom, from the porch, all had decided was a stranger. the host scattered the dogs. there were a few words, a shake of hands, and they could hear hardy's hearty invitation to dismount. meanwhile, aunty luce was bustling about as fast as her stout, short form would allow her, arranging a place at the table for the late guest, and thanking her stars that a real gentleman was to be company for them once more--her opinion that he was a gentleman having foundation in the fact that he wore "store-clothes" instead of the trappings of buckskin affected by the natives of the kootenai. they found he was possessed of more decided points due the idea of a gentleman, both in breeding and education, and before many remarks were exchanged, the rest of the family, as well as aunty, were congratulating themselves on this acquisition from the world. "yes, i am altogether a stranger up here," he said pleasantly, in answer to a query; "and at holland's they told me there was one of my statesmen up in this park; so i asked the way and started west, instead of north, as i had thought of doing." "doing a bit o' prospectin', then?" was macdougall's query. it was a visiting-day of his, and he had been watching the new-comer's face with scrutinizing eyes ever since the first words of self-introduction, in which the visitor's name had been overlooked. "well--yes," answered the other slowly, as if he was not decided, or had not anticipated the question. "i thought as much, since ye carry no hunting gear," remarked the trapper; "and in this country a man is likely to be the one thing or the other." "and in this case it is the other," smiled the stranger, "as i have not as yet found any vocation; i have come out here to forget i ever had one--prospecting for a rest." "well, there is plenty of room here to rest in," said hardy hospitably. "yes, or work in," added rachel; "and a new country needs the workers." tillie threw an admonishing glance as payment for the uncivil speech, and the stranger turned his attention to the speaker. the contour of her face must have been pleasing, since he looked at it interestedly, as if forgetting in its contemplation the words uttered; and then-- "indeed?" he said at last. "well, who knows but that i may develop into a worker; is industry contagious here?" and rachel, whose tone had been more uncivil than her intention, felt herself put at a disadvantage by the suavity that was not a feature of kootenai character. "indeed, then," said macdougall, "it's gettin' to be a brisk, busy country these late days, an' ye canna go a matter o' twenty mile without trippin' up on a settlement. an' ye come from holland's without a guide? that's pretty good for a stranger in the parts, as i doubt na ye be, mr.--" and he stopped suggestively. the stranger laughed, and drew a card from his pocket. "i told mr. hardy my name at the gate," he observed, "but evidently it escaped his memory; he introduced me only as a stranger." "it does not matter, however, what a man is called out here," returned hardy. "it is the man that is valued in the west--not the name given him; now, back home they weighed about equal." "and in my country," said macdougall, looking up from the card, "here's a name that would carry ye many a mile, an' bespeak ye good-will from many an old heart--charles stuart. it's a name to take unco' good care of, my man." "i try to take good care of the owner of it, at all events," answered the stranger; "but it is not an uncommon name in america; there are few parts of the country in which i am not able to find a namesake." "indeed, then, an' i have run across none o' the name these seven odd year," said macdougall; "an' then it was a man in the bitter root mountains, who spelt it with the 'e-w' instead of the 'u,' an' had never e'en heard tell o' prince charlie." "and you have known no one in this country by the name of stuart?" asked the stranger, his eyes seeming to watch at the same time both hardy and the old man. ivans and jim had left the table and lounged out to the stables to smoke. "no," answered hardy; "we are comparatively new-comers here, but all the settlers within a radius of fifty miles are already known to us by name--it is not so difficult where white men are so scarce; and i have never heard of any stuarts among them." "then i have dropped literally into a strange country," said stuart, rising and walking to the end of the porch; "and from what i have seen of it, a decidedly interesting one. hunting good?" "excellent," returned hardy. "we've been too busy to get to the hills so far this year, but now we have a little breathing-spell, and if you would care to try your luck with game, i should take pleasure in showing you our hunting grounds." "that is certainly kind of you," said mr. stuart heartily, "and i will accept the offer most gratefully. the fact is, i've been rather used up with a professional life, and was in hopes a trip up through this country would set me on my feet again. over there at holland's they told me about you and your family, and--" "yes," completed hardy, "a man with his family and household goods up in these hills is a marked individual; but my wife and cousin do not rebel at the exile; they are both philosophers, in their way." "yes?" and stuart's agreement had the intonation of a man who hears, but ceases to grasp the sense of words. some closer thought seemed present with him. he glanced at hardy, a swift, quickly withdrawn scrutiny, and then said: "do you know, mr. hardy, i should like to propose myself for membership in your household for a few weeks; would it be deemed an impertinence? i can't stay at holland centre with any comfort, and this place of yours seems to be a haven of rest. could you give me space to live in for a while, without my being a nuisance to the establishment?" "yes, and welcome," answered hardy. "you don't seem to appreciate what a treat it is to have a visitor from civilization ride our way; and one from our old state is especially in demand. i was going to propose that you move your outfit up here and make the ranch your headquarters while in the country. a nuisance! no, sir." and thus was the simple ceremony concluded that introduced this stranger to the hardys, to the general satisfaction of all concerned. rachel was the only member who did not seem especially delighted. "oh, yes, he is clever and entertaining," she agreed to tillie, "and his manner is so charmingly insinuating that i may end by falling in love with him; but i am beginning with an unreasonable desire to say snappy things to him." "i should say it was unreasonable--a thorough gentleman, of fine family connections. he mentioned several kentucky families that hen might know what his standing was back home, and his profession is that of medicine--i noticed the m. d. on his card; and altogether i can not see what ground you have for objecting." "i am not objecting--bless the man! no," returned rachel; "only, because a man has acquired a charming manner and possesses a handsome face is no reason for me devoting myself to admiration of him, like aunty luce. she is jubilant over having so fine a gentleman to wait on. you are discreetly elated over having so charming a person to entertain; even miss margaret (miss margaret was the baby)--everything feminine about the place has succumbed. and i suppose my reason for keeping on my own side of the fence is that i'm jealous. i am no longer first in the affections of anyone about the place. macdougall is likely to swear allegiance at any time because his name is stuart--and, above all, charlie stuart; even jim is wavering in the balance, and shows a wonderful alacrity in anticipating the wishes of this tenderfoot. is it any wonder i rebel?" "well, for the comfort of the rest of us, do not begin a civil war," admonished tillie, and was only reassured by a promise that there should be no active hostilities. "if you are more comfortable in war than in peace, go south and fight with the skirmishing indians," suggested the little woman. "i will," said rachel. "if you get any more civilized recruits up here to make the place tame and commonplace, i will seek service under the standard of the arrow, or genesee." and at the mention of the last name tillie discreetly subsided. the girl found the raw recruit rapidly making himself a power in the social world of the ranch. there was something of charming grace in the man's personality; and that rare gift of a sympathetic nature that had also the faculty of expression, at once accorded him the trust of women and children. it may be that a degree of physical beauty influenced them also, for his fine, well-shaped head was very good to look at; the poise of the erect, tall figure bespoke serene self-confidence; the curves of his lips, slightly hidden by a mustache, gave a sweetness of expression to the lower part of his face; while the wide brows and fine eyes gave an intellectual cast to a personality that did not lack attractive points. "the lad has the old grace o' the stuarts," macdougall affirmed, sticking to his fancy of connecting the old blood-royal with the slip of the name grown on alien ground. "and it is much the same free-handed manner o' the old stock--free o' their smiles, an' winning o' hearts by the clasp o' the hand; but there's a bit about this one that is a rare puzzle to me. i think like enough it's the eyes, they're main handsome ones; but i'm always a-rackin' o' my brains to tell where i've seen them before." rachel, to whom this speech was made, only laughed. "he has never been west until now, so you can not have seen them," she argued; but her tone made the old man regard her with attention. "what do ye mean by that, lass?" "oh, nothing, only he says so;" and then she went into the house, leaving her guest sitting on the bench of the porch. "the stuart," as the others had already dropped into calling him, after macdougall, had been at the ranch about a week. the proposed hunt was yet to be; and in the meantime he rode through the parks, and saw all that was near-about the ranch. he talked stock raising with hardy, medicinal herbs with aunty luce, babies with tillie, and with rachel numerous worldly topics of interest, that, however, never seemed to change the nature of their acquaintance; which remained much as it was the first day--on her side, arms burnished and ready for action; on his, the serene gentleness of manner, almost a caress, a changeless good-humor that spoke volumes for his disposition, and at times forced even her into a sort of admiration of him. the health-recruiting trip he had come on, he was evidently taking advantage of, for he almost lived out-of-doors, and looked wonderfully healthy and athletic for an invalid. in the house, he wrote a great deal. but the morning rachel left macdougall on the porch, the stuart came sauntering up the path, the picture of careless content with himself and the world. "where has mr. hardy gone?" he inquired, seating himself on the porch. "i've been looking for him out at the pens but the men have all disappeared." "gone up the range for the yearlin's that strayed off the last week; but they'll no go far." "i wanted to ask mr. hardy about mail out here. how often is it brought to the ranch?" "well," said the old man, between the puffs of his pipe, "that depends a bit on how often it is sent for; just whene'er they're a bit slack o' work, or if anybody o' them wants the trip made special; but hardy will be sendin' jimmy across for it, if it's any favor to you--be sure o' that." "oh, for that matter--i seem to be the most useless commodity about the ranch--i could make the trip myself. is jim the usual mail-carrier?" "well, i canna say; andrews, a new man here, goes sometimes, but it's no rare thing for him to come home carrying more weight in whisky than in the letters, an' hardy got a bit tired o' that." "but haven't you a regular mail-carrier for this part of the country?" persisted stuart. macdougall laughed shortly at the idea. "who'd be paying the post?" he asked, "with but the hardys an' myself, ye might say, barring the kootenais; an' i have na heard that they know the use of a postage stamp." "but someone of their tribe does come to the centre for mail," continued stuart in half argument--"an indian youth; have you never seen him?" "from the kootenais? well, i have not, then. it may be, of late, there are white men among them, but canna say; i see little o' any o' them this long time." "and know no other white people in this region?" "no, lad, not for a long time," said the old man, with a half sigh. the listener rose to his feet. "i think," he said, as if a prospect of new interest had suddenly been awakened in his mind--"i think i should like to make a trip up into the country of the kootenais. it is not very far, i believe, and would be a new experience. yes, if i could get a guide, i would go." "well," said macdougall drily, "seeing i've lived next door to the kootenais for some time, i might be able to take ye a trip that way myself." rachel, writing inside the window, heard the conversation, and smiled to herself. "strange that kalitan should have slipped macdougall's memory," she thought; "but then he may have been thinking only of the present, and the stuart, of months back. so he does know some things of people in the kootenai, for all his blind ignorance. and he would have learned more, if he had not been so clever and waited until the rest were gone, to question. i wonder what he is hunting for in this country; i don't believe it is four-footed game." chapter iii. at cross-purposes. "their tricks and craft ha' put me daft, they've taen me in, and a' that." "and so you got back unharmed from the midst of the hostiles?" asked rachel in mock surprise, when, a week later, hardy, stuart, and macdougall returned from their pilgrimage, bringing with them specimens of deer they had sighted on their return. "hostiles is about the last name to apply to them, i should imagine," remarked stuart; "they are as peaceable as sheep." "but they can fight, too," said macdougall, "an' used to be reckoned hard customers to meet; but the blackfeet ha' well-nigh been the finish o' them. the last o' their war-chiefs is an old, old man now, an' there's small chance that any other will ever walk in his moccasins." "i've been told something of the man's character," said rachel, "but have forgotten his name--bald eagle?" "grey eagle. an' there's more character in him worth the tellin' of than you'll find in any siwash in these parts. i doubt na genesee told you tales o' him. he took a rare, strange liking to genesee from the first--made him some presents, an' went through a bit o' ceremony by which they adopt a warrior." "was this genesee of another tribe?" asked stuart, who was always attentive to any information of the natives. "yes," said rachel quickly, anticipating the others, "of a totally different tribe--one of the most extensive in america at present." "a youth? a half-breed?" "no," she replied; "an older man than you, and of pure blood. hen, there is miss margaret pummeling the window for you to notice her. davy macdougall, did you bring me nothing at all as a relic of your trip? well, i must say times are changing when you forget me for an entire week." both the men looked a little amused at rachel's truthful yet misleading replies, and thinking it just one of her freaks, did not interfere, though it was curious to them both that stuart, living among them so many days, had not heard genesee mentioned before. but no late news coming from the southern posts, had made the conversations of their troops flag somewhat; while stuart, coming into their circle, brought new interests, new topics, that had for the while superseded the old, and genesee's absence of a year had made them count him no longer as a neighbor. then it may be that, ere this, rachel had warded off attention from the subject. she scarcely could explain to herself why she did it--it was an instinctive impulse in the beginning; and sometimes she laughed at herself for the folly of it. "never mind," she would reassure herself by saying, "even if i am wrong, i harm no one with the fancy; and i have just enough curiosity to make me wonder what that man's real business is in these wilds, for he is not nearly so careless as his manner, and not nearly so light-hearted as his laugh." "well, did you find any white men among the kootenais?" she asked him abruptly, the day of his return. his head, bent that miss margaret could amuse herself with it, as a toy of immense interest, raised suddenly. much in the girl's tone and manner to him was at times suggestive; this was one of the times. his usually pale face was flushed from his position, and his rumpled hair gave him a totally different appearance as he turned on her a look half-compelling in its direct regard. "what made you ask that?" he demanded, in a tone that matched the eyes. she laughed; to see him throw off his guard of gracious suavity was victory enough for one day. "my feminine curiosity prompted the question," she replied easily. "did you?" "no," he returned, after a rather steady look at her; "none that you could call men." "a specimen, then?" "heaven help the race, if the one i saw was accepted as a specimen," he answered fervently; "a filthy, unkempt individual, living on the outskirts of the village, and much more degraded than any indian i met; but he had a squaw wife." "yes, the most of them have--wives or slaves." "slaves?" he asked incredulously. "actually slaves, though they do not bring the high prices we used to ask for those of darker skin in the south. emancipation has not made much progress up here. it is too much an unknown corner as yet." "is it those of inferior tribes that are bartered, or prisoners taken in battle?" "no, i believe not, necessarily," she replied, "though i suppose such a windfall would be welcomed; but if there happens to be any superfluous members in a family, it is a profitable way to dispose of them, among some of the columbia basin indians, anyway. davy macdougall can give you more information than i, as most of my knowledge is second-hand. but i believe this tribe of the kootenais is a grade above that sort of traffic--i mean bartering their own kindred." "how long have you been out here, miss rachel?" he asked, as abruptly as she had questioned him of the white men. "about a year--a little over." "and you like it?" "yes; i like it." in response to several demands, he had enthroned miss margaret on his lap by this time; and even there she was not contented. his head seemed to have a special fascination for her babyship; and she had such an insinuating way of snuggling upward that she was soon close in his arms, her hands in easy reach of his hair, which she did not pull in infantile fashion, but dallied with, and patted caressingly. there was no mistaking the fact that stuart was prime favorite here at all events; and the affection was not one-sided by any means--unless the man was a thorough actor. his touch, his voice even, acquired a caressing way when miss margaret was to be pleased or appeased. rachel, speaking to tillie of it, wondered if his attraction was to children in general or to this one in particular; and holding the baby so that her soft, pink cheek was against his own, he seemed ruminating over the girl's replies, and after a little-- "yes, you must, of course," he said thoughtfully; "else you could never make yourself seem so much a part of it as you do." during the interval of silence the girl's thoughts had been wandering. she had lost the slight thread of their former topic, and looked a little at sea. "a part of what?" she asked. "why, the life here. you seem as if you had always belonged to it--a bit of local color in harmony with the scenes about us." "how flattering!--charmingly expressed!" murmered miss hardy derisively. "a bit of local color? then, according to mr. stuart's impressions i may look forward to finding myself catalogued among greasy squaws and picturesque squaw men." "you seem to take a great deal of delight in turning all i say or do into ridicule," he observed. "you do it on the principle of the country that guys a 'tenderfoot'; and that is just one of the things that stamp you as belonging to the life here. i try to think of you as a kentucky girl transplanted, but even the fancy eludes me. you impress one as belonging to this soil, and more than that, showing a disposition to freeze out new-comers." "i haven't frozen you out." "no--thanks to my temperament that refuses to congeal. i did not leave all my warmth in the south." "meaning that i did?" "meaning that you, for some reason, appear to have done so." "dear me, what a subtle personage you make of me! come here, margaret; this analyst is likely to prejudice you against your only auntie." "let her be with me," he said softly, as the baby's big blue eyes turned toward rachel, and then were screened by heavy, white lids; "she is almost asleep--little darling. is she not a picture? see how she clings to my finger--so tightly;" and then he dropped his face until his lips touched the soft cheek. "it is a child to thank god for," he said lovingly. the girl looked at him, surprised at the thrill of feeling in his tones. "you spoke like a woman just then," she said, her own voice changed slightly; "like a--a mother--a parent." "did i?" he asked, and arose with the child in his arms to deliver it to aunty luce. "perhaps i felt so; is that weakness an added cause for trying to bar me out from the kootenai hills?" but he walked away without giving her a chance to reply. she saw nothing more of him until evening, and then he was rather quiet, sitting beside tillie and miss margaret, with occasional low-toned remarks to them, but not joining in the general conversation. "what a queer remark that was for a man to make!" thought rachel, looking at him across the room;--"a young man especially"; and that started her to thinking of his age, about which people would have widely different opinions. to see him sometimes, laughing and joking with the rest, he looked a boy of twenty. to hear him talking of scientific researches in his own profession and others, of the politics of the day, or literature of the age, one would imagine him at least forty. but sitting quietly, his face in repose, yet looking tired, his eyes so full of life, yet steeped in reveries, the rare mouth relaxed, unsmiling, then he looked what he probably was, thought the girl--about thirty; but it was seldom that he looked like that. "therefore," reasoned this feminine watcher, "it is seldom that we see him as he really is; query--why?" "perhaps i felt as a parent feels!" how frank his words had been, and how unlike most men he was, to give utterance to that thought with so much feeling, and how caressing to the child! rachel had to acknowledge that he was original in many ways, and the ways were generally charming. his affections were so warm, so frankly bestowed; yet that gracious, tender manner of his, even when compared with the bluntness of the men around him, never made him seem effeminate. rachel, thinking of his words, wondered if he had a sweetheart somewhere, that made him think of a possible wife or children longingly--and if so, how that girl must love him! so, despite her semi-warlike attitude, and her delight in thwarting him, she had appreciation enough of his personality to understand how possible it was for him to be loved deeply. jim, under miss hardy's tuition, had been making an attempt to "rope in" an education, and that night was reading doubtfully the history of our glorious republic in its early days; garnishing the statements now and then with opinions of his own, especially the part relating to the character of the original lords of the soil. "say, miss rache, yer given' me a straight tip on this lay-out?" he said at last, shutting the book and eyeing her closely. the question aroused her from the contemplation of the hermes-like head opposite, though she had, like hardy, been pretending to read. "do you mean, is it true?" she asked. "naw!" answered jim, with the intonation of supreme disgust; "i hain't no call to ask that; but what i'm curious about is whether the galoot as wrote the truck lied by accident--someone sort o' playin' it on him, ye see--er whether he thought the rest o' creation was chumps from away back, an' he just naturally laid himself out to sell them cheap--now say, which is it?" in vain his monitor tried to impress on his mind the truth of the chronicles, and the fact that generations ago the indian could be truly called a noble man, until his child-like faith in the straight tongue of the interloper had made a net for his feet, to escape which they had recourse only to treachery and the tomahawk, thus carving in history a character that in the beginning was not his, but one into which he was educated by the godly people who came with their churches and guns, their religion and whisky, to civilize the credulous people of the forests. jim listened, but in the supercilious disbelief in his eyes rachel read the truth. in trying to establish historical facts for his benefit, she was simply losing ground in his estimation at every statement made. "an' you," he finally remarked, after listening in wonderful silence for him--"an' you've read it all, then?" "yes, most of it." "an' swallowed it as gospel?" "well, not exactly such literal belief as that; but i have read not only this history, but others in support of those facts." "ye have, have yeh?" remarked her pupil, with a sarcastic contempt for her book-learning. "well, i allow this one will do me a life-time, fer i've seen flatheads, an' diggers, an' snakes!" thus ended the first lesson in history. "don't you think," said tillie softly to stuart, "that rachel would win more glory as a missionary to the indians than among her own race? she is always running against stumbling-blocks of past knowledge with the progressive white man." rachel cast one silencing glance at the speaker; tillie laughed. "never mind," she said reassuringly; "i will say nothing about your other attempt, and i only hope you will be willing to confine yourself to the indians near home, and not start out to see some flatheads, and diggers, and snakes for yourself." "lawd bress yeh, honey!" spoke up aunty luce, whose ears were always open to anything concerning their red neighbors; "don' yo' go to puttin' no sech thoughts in her haid. miss rache needs tamin' down, she do, 'stead o' 'couragement." "well, it's precious little encouragement i get here, except to grow rusty in everything," complained rachel. "a crusade against even the diggers would be a break in the monotony. i wish i had gone with you to the kootenai village, mr. stuart; that would have been a diversion." "but rather rough riding," he added; "and much of the life, and--well, there is a great deal one would not care to take a lady to see." "you don't know how rachel rides," said tillie, with a note of praise in her voice; "she rides as hard as the men on the ranch. you must go together for a ride, some day. she knows the country very well already." rachel was thinking of the other part of his speech. "i should not have asked to be taken," she said, "but would have gone on my own independence, as one of the party." "then your independence would have led you to several sights revolting to a refined nature," he said seriously, "and you would have wished yourself well out of it." "well, the kootenais are several degrees superior to other tribes of the columbia basin; so you had better fight shy of jim's knowledge. why," she added, with a little burst of indignation that their good points were so neglected, "the kootenais are a self-supporting people, asking nothing of the government. they are independent traders." "say, miss rachel," broke in jim, "was kalitan a kootenai injun?" "no, though he lived with them often. he was of the gros ventres, a race that belongs to the plains rather than the hills." "you are already pretty well posted about the different tribes," observed stuart. "yes, the lawd knows--humph!" grunted aunty luce, evidently thinking the knowledge not a thing to be proud of. "oh, yes," smiled tillie, "rachel takes easily to everything in these hills. you should hear her talking chinook to a blanket brave, or exchanging compliments with her special friend, the arrow." "the arrow? that is a much more suggestive title than the wahoosh, kah-kwa, sipah, and some other equally meaningless names i jotted down as i heard them up there." "they are only meaningless to strangers," answered the girl. "they all have their own significance." "why, this same arrow is called kalitan," broke in jim; "an' what'd you make out of that? both names mean just the same thing. he was called that even when he was a little fellow, he said, 'cause he could run like a streak. why, he used to make the trip down to the settlement an' be back here with the mail afore supper, makin' his forty miles afoot after breakfast; how's that for movin' over rough country?" the swiftness did not seem to make the desired impression, his listener catching, instead, at the fact of their having had an indian mail-carrier. "and where is your indian messenger of late?" he asked. "he has not visited you since my arrival, has he?" "no; he left this country months ago," said rachel. "kalitan is a bit of a wanderer--never long in one place." "davy macdougall says he'd allus loaf around here if genesee would, but he's sure to go trottin' after genesee soon as he takes a trail." "that is the indian you spoke of this morning, is it not?" asked stuart, looking at rachel. "what!" roared jim; and hardy, who was taking a nap behind a paper, awoke with a start. "genesee an injun! well, that's good!" and he broke into shrill, boyish laughter. "well, you ought to just say it to his face, that's all!" "is he not?" he asked, still looking at the girl, who did not answer. "oh, no," said tillie; "he is a white man, a--a--well, he has lived with the indians, i believe." "i understood you to say he himself was an indian." and rachel felt the steady regard of those warm eyes, while she tried to look unconscious, and knew she was failing. hardy laughed, and shook himself rightly awake. "beg your pardon," he said, coming to the rescue, "but she didn't say so; she only gave you the information that he was pure-blooded; and i should say he is--as much of a white man as you or i." "mine was the mistake," acknowledged stuart, with his old easy manner once more; "but miss rachel's love of a joke did not let me fall into it without a leader. and may i ask who he is, this white man with the indian name--what is he?" rachel answered him then brusquely: "you saw a white man with the kootenais, did you not--one who lives as they do, with a squaw wife, or slave? you described the specimen as more degraded than the indians about him. well, genesee is one of the class to which that man belongs--a squaw man; and he is also an indian by adoption. do you think you would care for a closer acquaintance?" tillie opened her eyes wide at this sweeping denunciation of genesee and his life, while even hardy looked surprised; rachel had always, before, something to say in his favor. but the man she questioned so curtly was the only one who did not change even expression. he evidently forgot to answer, but sat there looking at her, with a little smile in his eyes. once in bed, it did not keep her awake; and the gray morning crept in ere she opened her eyes, earlier than usual, and from a cause not usual--the sound in the yard of a man's voice singing snatches of song, ignoring the words sometimes, but continuing the air in low carols of music, such as speak so plainly of a glad heart. it was not yet sun-up, and she rebelled, drowsily, at the racket as she rolled over toward the window and looked out. there he was, tinkering at something about his saddle, now and then whistling in mimicry of a bird swaying on a leafless reed in the garden. she could see the other men, out across the open space by the barn, moving around as usual, looking after the domestic stock; but until one has had a breakfast, no well-regulated individual is hilarious or demonstrative, and their movements, as she could see, were not marvels of fast locomotion. they looked as she felt, she thought, yawningly, and groped around for her shoes, and finding them, sat down on the side of the bed again and looked out at that musical worker in the yard. she could hear aunty luce tinkling the dishes in the kitchen, and tillie and miss margaret, in the next room, cooing over some love-story of dawn they were telling each other. all seemed drowsy and far off, except that penetrating, cheery voice outside. "the de'il tak' him!" she growled, quoting macdougall; "what does the fellow mean by shouting like that this time of the night? he is as much of a boy as jim." "here awa', there awa', wandering willie. here awa', there awa', haud awa', hame!" warbled the stuart, with an accent that suited his name; and the girl wakened up a bit to the remembrance of the old song, thinking, as she dressed, that, social and cheery as he often was, this was the first time she had ever heard him sing; and what a resonant, yet boyish, timbre thrilled through his voice. she threw up the window. "look here!" she said, with mock asperity, "we are willing to make some allowance for national enthusiasm, mr. charles, prince of the stuarts, but we rebel at scotch love-songs shouted under our windows before daybreak." "all right," he smiled, amiably. "i know one or two irish ones, if you prefer them. "oh, acushla mavourneen! won't you marry me? gramachree, mavourneen; oh, won't you marry me?" click! went the window shut again, and from the inside she saw him looking up at the casement with eyes full of triumph and mischief. he was metamorphosed in some way. yesterday he had been serious and earnest, returning from his hill trip with something like despondency, and now-- she remembered her last sight of him the night before, as he smiled at her from the stairway. ah, yes, yes! all just because he had felt jubilant over outwitting her, or rather over seeing a chance do the work for another. was it for that he was still singing? had her instincts then told her truly when she had connected his presence with the memory of that older man's sombre eyes and dogged exile? well, the exile was his own business, not that of anyone else--least of all that of this debonair individual, with his varying emotions. and she went down the stairs with a resentful feeling against the light-hearted melody of "acushla mavourneen." "be my champion, mrs. hardy," he begged at the breakfast-table, "or i am tabooed forever by miss rachel." "how so?" "by what i intended as an act of homage, giving her a serenade at sunrise in the love-songs of my forefathers." "nonsense!" laughed rachel. "he never knew what his forefathers were until davy macdougall brushed up his history; and you have not thought much of the songs you were trying to sing, else you would know they belong to the people of the present and future as well as the past. "trying to sing!" was all the comment mr. stuart made, turning with an injured air to tillie. "learn some indian songs," advised that little conspirator impressively; "in the kootenai country you must sing chinook if you want to be appreciated." "there speaks one who knows," chimed in hardy lugubriously. "a year ago i had a wife and an undivided affection; but i couldn't sing chinook, and the other fellow could, and for many consecutive days i had to take a back seat." "hen! how dare you?" "in fact," he continued, unrestrained by the little woman's tones or scolding eyes, "i believe i have to thank jealousy for ever reinstating me to the head of the family." "indeed," remarked stuart, with attention impressively flattering; "may i ask how it was effected?" "oh, very simply--very simply. chance brought her the knowledge that there was another girl up the country to whom her hero sang chinook songs, and, presto! she has ever since found english sufficient for all her needs." and tillie, finding she had enough to do to defend herself without teasing rachel, gave her attention to her husband, and the girl turned to stuart. "all this gives no reason for your spasms of scotch expression this morning," she reminded him. "no? well, my father confessor in the feminine, i was musical--beg pardon, tried to be--because i awoke this morning with an unusually light heart; and i sang scotch songs--or tried to sing them--because i was thinking of a scotchman, and contemplating a visit to him to-day." "davy macdougall?" "the same." "and you were with him only yesterday." "and may say good-bye to him to-morrow for a long time." "so you are going?" she asked, in a more subdued tone. "i believe so!" and for the moment the question and answer made the two seem entirely alone, though surrounded by the others. then she laughed in the old quizzical, careless way. "i see now the inspiration to song and jubilance that prevented you from sleeping," she said, nodding her head sagaciously. "it was the thought of escaping from us and our isolated life. is that it?" "no, it is not," he answered earnestly. "my stay here has been a pleasure, and out of it i hope will grow something deeper--a happiness." the feeling in the words made her look at him quickly. his eyes met her own, with some meaning back of their warmth that she did not understand. nine girls out of ten would have thought the words and manner suggestive of a love declaration and would at once have dropped their eyes in the prettiest air of confusion and been becomingly fluttered; but rachel was the tenth, and her eyes were remarkably steady as she returned his glance with one of inquiry, reached for another biscuit, and said: "yes?" but the low tones and his earnestness had not escaped two pairs of eyes at the table--those of mistress tillie and master jim--both of them coming to about the same conclusion in the matter, the one that rachel was flirting, and the other that stuart "had a bad case of spoons." many were the expostulations when, after breakfast, hardy's guest informed him that his exit from their circle was likely to be almost as abrupt as his entrance had been. in vain was there held out to him the sport of their proposed hunt--every persuasive argument was met with a regretful refusal. "i am sorry to put aside that pleasure," he answered; "but, to tell the truth, i scarcely realized how far the season has advanced. the snow will soon be deep in the mountains, they tell me, and before that time i must get across the country to fort owens. it is away from a railroad far enough to make awkward travel in bad weather, and i realize that the time is almost past when i can hope for dry days and sunshine; so, thinking it over last night, i felt i had better start as early as possible." "you know nothing of the country in that direction?" asked hardy. "no more than i did of this; but an old school-fellow of mine is one of the officers there--captain sneath. i have not seen him for years, but can not consider my trip up here complete without visiting him; so, you see--" "better fight shy o' that territory," advised andrews, chipping in with a cowboy's brief say-so. "injun faction fights all through thar, an' it's risky, unless ye go with a squad--a big chance to pack bullets." "then i shall have an opportunity of seeing life there under the most stirring circumstances," replied stuart in smiling unconcern, "for in time of peace a military post is about the dullest place one can find." "to be sure," agreed his adviser, eyeing him dubiously; "an' if ye find yerself sort o' pinin' for the pomp o' war, as i heard an actor spoutin' about once, in a theatre at helena--well, down around bitter root river, an' up the nez perce fork, i reckon you'll find a plenty o' it jest about this time o' year." "and concluding as i have to leave at once," resumed stuart, turning to hardy, "i felt like taking a ride up to macdougall's for a good-bye. i find myself interested in the old man, and would not like to leave without seeing him again." "i rather think i've got to stay home to-day," said his host ruefully, "else i would go with you, but--" "not a word of your going," broke in stuart; "do you think i've located here for the purpose of breaking up your routine of stock and agricultural schemes? not a bit of it! i'm afraid, as it is, your hospitality has caused them to suffer; so not a word of an escort. i wouldn't take a man from the place, so--" "what about a woman?" asked rachel, with a challenging glance that was full of mischief. for a moment he looked at a loss for a reply, and she continued: "because i don't mind taking a ride to davy macdougall's my own self. as you say, the sunny days will be few now, and i may not have another chance for weeks; so here i am, ready to guide you, escort you, and guard you with my life." what was there left for the man to say? "what possessed you to go to-day, rachel?" asked tillie dubiously. "do you think it is quite--" "oh, yes, dear--quite," returned that young lady confidently; "and you need not assume that anxious air regarding either the proprieties or my youthful affections, for, to tell the truth, i am impelled to go through sheer perversity; not because your latest favorite wants me, but simply because he does not." twenty minutes after her offer they were mounted and clattering away over the crisp bronze turf. to stuart the task of entertaining a lady whose remarks to him seldom verged from the ironical was anything but a sinecure--more, it was easy to see that he was unused to it; and an ungallant query to himself was: "why did she come, anyway?" he had not heard her reply to tillie. the air was crisp and cold enough to make their heavy wraps a comfort, especially when they reached the higher land; the sun was showing fitfully, low-flying, skurrying clouds often throwing it in eclipse. "snow is coming," prophesied the girl, with a weather-eye to the north, where the sky was banking up in pale-gray masses; "perhaps not heavy enough to impede your trip south, to owens, but that bit over there looks like a visiting-card of winter." "how weather-wise you are!" he observed. "now i had noticed not the slightest significance in all that; in fact, you seem possessed of several indian accomplishments--their wood-lore, their language, their habit of going to nature instead of an almanac; and did not mrs. hardy say you knew some indian songs? who taught you them?" "songs came near getting us into a civil war at breakfast," she observed, "and i am not sure that the ground is any more safe around indian than scotch ones." "there is something more substantial of the former race" he said, pointing ahead. it was the hulking figure of a siwash, who had seen them first and tried to dodge out of sight, and failing, halted at the edge of a little stream. "hostile?" queried stuart, relying more on his companion's knowledge than his own; but she shook her head. "no; from the reservation, i suppose. he doesn't look like a blanket brave. we will see." coming within speaking distance, she hailed him across the divide of the little stream, and got in reply what seemed to stuart an inextricable mass of staccatos and gutturals. "he is a kootenai," she explained, "and wants to impress on our minds that is a good indian." "he does not look good for much," was the natural remark of the white man, eyeing mr. kootenai critically; "even on his native heath he is not picturesque." "no--poor imp!" agreed the girl, "with winter so close, their concern is more how they are to live than how they appear to people who have no care for them." she learned he was on his way south to the flathead reservation; so he had evidently solved the question of how he intended living for the winter, at all events. he was, however, short of ammunition. when rachel explained his want, stuart at once agreed to give him some. "don't be in a hurry!" advised his commander-in-chief; "wait until we know how it is that he has no ammunition, and so short a distance from his tribe. an indian can always get that much if he is not too lazy to hunt or trap, or is not too much of a thief." but she found the noble red man too proud to answer many questions of a squaw. the fear however, of hostilities from the ever-combative blackfeet seemed to be the chief moving cause. "rather a weak-backed reason," commented rachel; "and i guess you can dig roots from here to the reservation. no powder, no shot." "squaw--papoose--sick," he added, as a last appeal to sympathy. "where?" he waved a dirty hand up the creek. "go on ahead; show us where they are." his hesitation was too slight to be a protest, but still there was a hesitation, and the two glanced at each other as they noticed it. "i don't believe there is either squaw or papoose," decided stuart. "lo is a romancer." but there was, huddled over a bit of fire, and holding in her arms a little bundle of bronze flesh and blood. it was, as the indian had said, sick--paroxysms of shivers assailing it from time to time. "give me your whisky-flask!" rachel said promptly; and dismounting, she poured some in the tin cup at her saddle and set it on the fire--the blue, sputtering flame sending the odor of civilization into the crisp air. cooling it to suit baby's lips, she knelt beside the squaw, who had sat stolidly, taking no notice of the new-comers; but as the girl's hand was reached to help the child she raised her head, and then rachel knew who she was. [illustration: cooling it to suit baby's lips, she knelt beside the squaw] they did not speak, but after a little of the warm liquor had forced itself down the slight throat, rachel left the cup in the mother's hands, and reached again for the whisky. "you can get more from davy macdougall," she said, in a half-conciliatory tone at this wholesale confiscation; "and--and you might give him some ammunition--not much." "what a vanishing of resolves!" he remarked, measuring out an allowance of shot; "and all because of a copper-colored papoose. so you have a bit of natural, womanly weakness?" the girl did not answer; there was a certain air of elation about her as she undid a scarf from her throat and wrapped it about the little morsel of humanity. "go past the sheep ranch," she directed the passive warrior, who stood gazing at the wealth in whisky and powder. "do you know where it is--hardy's? tell them i sent you--show them that," and she pointed to the scarf; "tell them what you need for squaw and papoose; they will find it." skulking brave signified that he understood, and then led betty toward her. "he is not very hospitable," she confided to stuart, in the white man's tongue, "else he would not be in such haste to get rid of us." and although their host did not impress one as having a highly strung nervous organization, yet his manner during their halt gave them the idea that he was ill at ease. they did not tarry long, but having given what help they could, rode away, lighter of whisky and ammunition, and the girl, strange enough, seemed lighter of heart. after they had reached a point high above the little creek, they turned for a look over the country passed. it lay in brown and blue-gray patches, with dashes of dark-green on the highlands, where the pines grew. "what is the white thing moving along that line of timber?" asked the girl, pointing in the direction they had come. it was too far off to see clearly, but with the aid of stuart's field-glass, it was decided to be the interesting family they had stopped with a little ways back. and the white thing noticed was a horse they were riding. it was getting over the ground at the fastest rate possible with its triple weight, for the squaw was honored with a seat back of her lord. "i imagined they were traveling on foot, didn't you?" asked stuart. "what a fool he was to steal a white horse!" remarked the girl contemptuously; "he might know it would be spotted for miles." chapter iv. a trio in witchland. the noon was passed when they reached the cabin on scot's mountain, and found its owner on the point of leaving for the maple range. but quickly replacing his gun on its pegs, he uncovered the fire, set on the coffee-pot, and, with rachel's help, in a very short time had a steaming-hot dinner of broiled bear steaks and "corn-dodgers," with the additional delicacy of a bowl of honey from the wild bees' store. "i have some laid by as a bit of a gift to mr. hardy's lady," he confided to rachel. "i found this fellow," tapping the steak, "in one o' the traps as i was a-comin' my way home; an' the fresh honey on his paws helped me smell out where he had spied it, and a good lot o' it there was that mr. grizzly had na reached." "see here," said stuart, noting that, because of their visit, the old man had relinquished all idea of going to the woods, "we must not interfere with your plans, for at best we have but a short time to stay." and then he explained the reason. when the question of snow was taken into account, davy agreed that stuart's decision was perhaps wise; but "he was main sorry o' the necessity." "an' it's to owens ye be taken' the trail?" he asked. "eh, but that's curious now. i have a rare an' good friend thereabouts that i would be right glad to send a word to; an' i was just about to take a look at his tunnel an' the cabin, when ye come the day, just to see it was all as it should be ere the snows set in." "i should be delighted to be of any service to you," said stuart warmly; "and to carry a message is a very slight one. who is your friend?" "it's just the man genesee, who used to be my neighbor. but he's left me alone now these many months--about a year;" and he turned to rachel for corroboration. "more than a year," she answered briefly. "well, it is now. i'm losin' track o' dates these late days; but you're right, lass, an' the winter would ha' been ower lonely if it had na been for yourself. think o' that, charlie stuart: this slim bit o' womankind substituting herself for a rugged build o' a man taller than you by a half-head, an' wi' no little success, either. but," he added teasingly, "ye owed me the debt o' your company for the sending o' him away; so ye were only honest after all, rachel hardy." rachel laughed, thinking it easier, perhaps, to dispose of the question thus than by any disclaimer--especially with the eyes of stuart on her as they were. "you are growing to be a tease," she answered. "you will be saying i sent kalitan and talapa, next." "but talapa has na gone from the hills?" "hasn't she? well, i saw her on the trail, going direct south, this morning, as fast as she could get over the ground, with a warrior and a papoose as companions." "did ye now? well, good riddance to them. they ha' been loafing around the kootenai village ever since i sent them from the cabin in the summer. that talapa was a sleepy-eyed bit o' old nick. i told genesee that same from the first, when he was wasting his stock o' pity on her. ye see," he said, turning his speech to stuart, "a full-blooded siwash has some redeeming points, and a character o' their own; but the half-breeds are a part white an' a part red, with a good wheen o' the devil's temper thrown in." "she didn't appear to have much of the last this morning," observed rachel. "she looked pretty miserable." "ah, well, tak' the best o' them, an' they look that to the whites. an' so they're flittin' to the reservation to live off the government? skulking bob'll be too lazy to be even takin' the chance o' fightin' with his people against the blackfeet, if trouble should come; and there's been many a straggler from the rebels makin' their way north to the blackfeet, an' that is like to breed mischief." "and your friend is at owens?" "yes--or thereabouts. one o' the foremost o' their scouts, they tell me, an' a rare good one he is, with no prejudice on either side o' the question." "i should think, being a white man, his sympathies would lean toward his own race," observed stuart. "well, that's as may chance. there's many the man who finds his best friends in strange blood. genesee is thought no little of among the kootenais--more, most like, than he would be where he was born and bred. folk o' the towns know but little how to weigh a man." "and is he from the cities?" for the first time davy macdougall looked up quickly. "i know not," he answered briefly, "an', not giving to you a short answer, i care not. few questions make long friends in the hills." stuart was somewhat nonplussed at the bluntness of the hint, and rachel was delighted. "you see," she reminded him wickedly, "one can be an m. d., an l. s. d., or any of the annexations, without kootenai people considering his education finished. but look here, davy macdougall, we only ran up to say 'klahowya,' and have got to get back to-night; so, if you are going over to tamahnous cabin, don't stop on our account; we can go part of the way with you." "but ye can go all the way, instead o' but a part, an' then no be out o' your road either," he said, with eagerness that showed how loath he was to part from his young companions. "ye know," he added, turning to rachel, "it is but three miles by the cross-cut to genesee's, while by the valley ye would cover eight on the way. now, the path o'er the hills is no fit for the feet o' a horse, except it be at the best o' seasons; but this is an ower good one, with neither the rain nor the ice; an' if ye will risk it--" of course they would risk it; and with a draught apiece from an odorous, dark-brown jug, and the gift of a flask that found its way to stuart's pocket, they started. they needed that swallow of brandy as a brace against the cold wind of the hills. it hustled through the pines like winged fiends let loose from the north. dried berries from the bushes and cones from the trees were sent pattering to sleep for the winter, and the sighs through the green roofing, and the moans from twisted limbs, told of the hardihood needed for life up there. the idea impressed stuart so much that he gave voice to it, and was laughed at grimly by the old mountaineer. "oh, well, it just takes man to be man, an' that's all when all's said," he answered "to be sure, there be times when one canna stir for the snow wreaths, but that's to be allowed for; an' then ye may ha' took note that my cabin is in shelter o' all but the south wind, an' that's a great matter. men who live in the mountain maun get used to its frolics; but it's an ugly bit," he acknowledged, as they stopped to rest and look up over the seemingly pathless way they had come; "but i've been thankful for it many's the time, when, unlooked for, genesee and mowitza would show their faces at my door, an' she got so she could make that climb in the dark--think o' that! ah, but she was the wise one!" stuart glanced at rachel, who was more likely than himself to understand what was meant by the "wise one;" but he did not again venture a question. mowitza was another squaw, he supposed, and one of the companions of the man genesee. and the other one they had passed in the morning?--her name also was connected with the scout whom the white girl seemed to champion or condemn as the fancy pleased her. and stuart, as a stranger to the social system of the wilderness, had his curiosity widely awakened. a good deal of it was directed to rachel herself. hearing macdougall speak of the man to her, he could understand that she had no lack of knowledge in that direction--and the direction was one of which the right sort of a girl was supposed to be ignorant; or, if not ignorant, at least to conceal her wisdom in the wise way of her sisters. this one did nothing of the sort; and the series of new impressions received made him observe the girl with a scrutiny not so admiring as he had always, until now, given her. he was irritated with himself that it was so, yet his ideas of what a woman should be were getting some hard knocks at her hands. suddenly the glisten of the little lake came to them through the gray trunks of the trees, and a little later they had descended the series of small circular ridges that terraced the cove from the timber to the waters, that was really not much more than an immense spring that happened to bubble up where there was a little depression to spread itself in and show to advantage. "but a mill would be turned easily by that same bit o' water," observed macdougall; "an' there's where genesee showed the level head in locating his claim where he did." "it looks like wasted power, placed up here," observed stuart, "for it seems about the last place in christendom for a mill." "well, so it may look to many a pair o' eyes," returned the old man, with a wink and a shrug that was indescribable, but suggested a vast deal of unuttered knowledge; "but the lad who set store by it because o' the water-power was a long ways from a fool, i can tell ye." again stuart found himself trying to count the spokes of some shadowy wheels within wheels that had a trick of eluding him; and he felt irritatingly confident that the girl looking at him with quizzical, non-committal eyes could have enlightened him much as to the absent ruler of this domain, who, according to her own words, was utterly degraded, yet had a trick of keeping his personality such a living thing after a year's absence. the cabin was cold with the chill dreariness of any house that is left long without the warmth of an embodied human soul. only the wandering, homeless spirits of the air had passed in and out, in and out of its chinks, sighing through them for months, until, on entrance, one felt an intuitive, sympathetic shiver for their loneliness. a fire was soon crackling on the hearth; but the red gleams did not dance so merrily on the rafters as they had the first time she had been warmed at the fire-place--the daylight was too merciless a rival. it penetrated the corners and showed up the rude bunk and some mining implements; from a rafter hung a roll of skins done up in bands of some pliable withes. evidently genesee's injunction had been obeyed, for even the pottery, and reed baskets, and bowls still shone from the box of shelves. "it's a mystery to me those things are not stolen by the indians," observed stuart, noticing the lack of any fastening on the door, except a bar on the inside. "there's no much danger o' that," said the old man grimly, "unless it be by a siwash who knows naught o' the country. the kootenai people would do no ill to genesee, nor would any injun when he lives in the tamahnous ground." "what territory is that?" "just the territory o' witchcraft--no less. the old mine and the spring, with the circle o' steps down to it, they let well alone, i can tell ye; and as for stealin', they'd no take the worth o' a tenpenny nail from between the two hills that face each other, an' the rocks o' them 'gives queer echoes that they canna explain. oh, yes, they have their witches, an' their warlocks, an' enchanted places, an' will no go against their belief, either." "but," said rachel, with a slight hesitation, "talapa was not afraid to live here." "an' did ye not know, then, that she was not o' kootenai stock?" asked the old man. "well, she was not a bit o' it; genesee bought her of a beast of a blackfoot." "bought her?" asked stuart, and even rachel opened her eyes in attention--perhaps, after all, not knowing so much as the younger man had angrily given her credit for. "just that; an' dear she would ha' been at most any price. but she was a braw thing to look at, an' young enough to be sorry o'er. an' so when he come across her takin' a beating like a mule he could na stand it; an' the only way he could be sure o' putting an end to it was by maken' a bargain; an' that's just what he did, an' a'most afore he had time to take thought, the girl was his, an' he had to tek her with him. well," and the old man laughed comically at the remembrance, "you should ha' seen him at the comin' home!--tried to get her off his hands by leavin' her an' a quitclaim at my cabin; but i'd have none o' that--no half-breed woman could stay under a roof o' mine; an' the finish o' it was he hed to bring her here to keep house for him, an' a rueful commencement it was. then it was but a short while 'til he got hurt one day in the tunnel, an' took a deal o' care before he was on his feet again. well, ye know womankind make natural nurses, an' by the time she had him on the right trail again he had got o' the mind that talapa was a necessity o' the cabin; an' so ye may know she stayed." "in what tunnel was he injured?" asked stuart. "why, just--" "there's your horse ranging calmly up toward the timber," observed rachel, turning from the window to stuart. "do you want to walk to the ranch?" "well, not to-day;" and a moment later he was out of the door and running across the terraced meadow. "don't tell him too much about the tunnel," suggested the girl, when she and the old man were alone. "why, lass,"--he began; but she cut him short brusquely, keeping her eye on the form on the hill-side. "oh, he may be all right; but it isn't like you, davy macdougall, to tell all you know to strangers, even if they do happen to have scotch names--you clannish old goose!" "but the lad's all right." "may be he is; but you've told him enough of the hills now to send him away thinking we are all a rather mixed and objectionable lot. oh, yes, he does too!" as davy tried to remonstrate. "i don't care how much you tell him about the indians; but that tunnel may have something in it that genesee wouldn't want eastern speculators spying into while he's away--do you see?" evidently he did, and the view was not one flattering to his judgment, for, in order to see more clearly, he took off his fur cap, scratched his head, and then replacing the covering with a great deal of energy, he burst out: "well, damn a fool, say i." rachel paid not the slightest attention to this profane plea. "i suppose he's all right," she continued; "only when somebody's interest is at stake, especially a friend's, we oughtn't to take things for granted, and keeping quiet hurts no one, unless it be a stranger's curiosity." the old man looked at her sharply. "ye dinna like him, then?" she hesitated, her eyes on the tall form leading back the horse. just then there seemed a strange likeness to mowitza and genesee in their manner, for the beast was tossing its head impatiently, and he was laughing, evidently teasing it with the fact of its capture. "yes, i do like him," she said at last; "there is much about him to like. but we must not give away other people's affairs because of that." "right you are, my lass," answered davy; "an' it's rare good sense ye show in remindin' me o' the same. it escapes me many's the time that he's a bit of a stranger when all's said; an' do ye know, e'en at the first he had no the ways of a stranger to me. i used to fancy that something in his build, or it may ha' been but the voice, was like to--" "you are either too old or not old enough to have fancies, davy macdougall," interrupted the girl briskly, as stuart re-entered. "well, is it time to be moving?" he looked at his watch. "almost; but come to the fire and get well warmed before we start. i believe it grows colder; here, take this seat." "well, i will not," she answered, looking about her; "don't let your gallantry interfere with your comfort, for i've a chair of my own when i visit this witchy quarter of the earth--yes, there it is." and from the corner by the bunk she drew forward the identical chair on which she had sat through the night at her only other visit. but from her speech stuart inferred that this time was but one of the many. "what are you going to do here, davy macdougall?" she asked, drawing her chair close beside him and glancing comprehensively about the cabin; "weather-board it up for winter?" "naw, scarcely that," he answered good-humoredly; "but just to gather up the blankets or skins or aught that the weather or the rats would lay hold of, and carry them across the hills to my own camp till the spring comes; mayhaps he may come with it." the hope in his voice was not very strong, and the plaintiveness in it was stronger than he knew. the other two felt it, and were silent. "an' will ye be tellin' him for me," he continued, after a little, to stuart, "that all is snug an' safe, an' that i'll keep them so, an' a welcome with them, against his return? an' just mention, too, that his father, grey eagle, thinks the time is long since he left, an' that the enemy--time--is close on his trail. an'--an' that the day he comes back will be holiday in the hills." "the last from grey eagle or yourself?" asked stuart teasingly. but the girl spoke up, covering the old man's momentary hesitation. "from me," she said coolly; "if any name is needed to give color to so general a desire, you can use mine." his face flushed; he looked as if about to speak to her, but, instead, his words were to macdougall. "i will be very glad to carry the word to your friend," he said; "it is but a light weight." "yes, i doubt na it seems so to the carrier, but i would no think it so light a thing to ha' word o' the lad. we ha' been neighbors, ye see, this five year, with but little else that was civilized to come near us. an' there's a wide difference atween neighbors o' stone pavements an' neighbors o' the hills--a fine difference." "yes, there is," agreed the girl; and from their tones one would gather the impression that all the splendors of a metropolis were as nothing when compared with the luxuries of "shack" life in the "bush." "can ye hit the trail down at the forks without me along?" asked macdougall, with a sudden remembrance of the fact that rachel did not know the way so well from the "place of the tamahnous" as she did from scot's mountain. she nodded her head independently. "i can, davy macdougall. and you are paying me a poor compliment when you ask me so doubtfully. i've been prowling through the bush enough for this past year to know it for fifty miles around, instead of twenty. and now if your highness thinks we've had our share of this fire, let us 'move our freight,' 'hit the breeze,' or any other term of the woolly west that means action, and get up and git." "i am at your service," answered stuart, with a graciousness of manner that made her own bravado more glaring by contrast. he could see she assumed much for the sake of mischief and irritation to himself; and his tone in reply took an added intonation of refinement; but the hint was lost on her--she only laughed. "i tell you what it is, davy macdougall," she remarked to that gentleman, "this slip of your nation has been planted in the wrong century. he belongs to the age of lily-like damsels in sad-colored frocks, and knights of high degree on bended knee and their armor hung to the rafters. i get a little mixed in my dates sometimes, but believe it was the age when caps and bells were also in fashion." "dinna mind her at all," advised the old man; "she'd be doin' ye a good turn wi' just as ready a will as she would mak' sport o' ye. do i not know her?--ah, but i do!" "so does the stuart," said rachel; "and as for doing him a good turn, i proved my devotion in that line this morning, when i saved him from a lonely, monotonous ride--didn't i?" she added, glancing up at him. "you look positively impish," was the only reply he made; and returning her gaze with one that was half amusement, half vexation, he went out for the horses. "you see, he didn't want me at all, davy macdougall," confided the girl, and if she felt any chagrin she concealed it admirably. "but they've been talking some about genesee down at the ranch, and--and stuart's interest was aroused. i didn't know how curious he might be--eastern folks are powerful so"--and in the statement and adoption of vernacular she seemed to forget how lately she was of the east herself; "and i concluded he might ask questions, or encourage you to talk about--well, about the tunnel, you know; so i just came along to keep the trail free of snags--see?" the old man nodded, and watched her in a queer, dubious way; as she turned, a moment later, to speak to stuart at the door, she noticed it, and laughed. "you think i'm a bit loony, don't you, davy macdougall? well, i forgive you. may be, some day, you'll see i'm not on a blind trail. come and see us soon, and give me a chance to prove my sanity." "strange that any mind could doubt it," murmured stuart. "come, we haven't time for proofs of the question now. good-bye, macdougall; take care of yourself for the winter. perhaps i'll get back in the summer to see how well you have done so." a hearty promise of welcome, a hand-clasp, a few more words of admonition and farewell, and then the two young people rode away across the ground deemed uncanny by the natives; and the old man went back to his lonely task. on reaching the ranch at dusk, it was rachel who was mildly hilarious, seeming to have changed places with the gay chanter of the dawn. he was not sulky, but something pretty near it was in his manner, and rather intensified under miss hardy's badinage. she told the rest how he divided his whisky with the squaw; hinted at a fear that he intended adopting the papoose; gave them an account of the conversation between himself and skulking brave; and otherwise made their trip a subject for ridicule. "did you meet with indians?" asked tillie, trying to get the girl down to authentic statements. "yes, my dear, we did, and i sent them home to you--or told them to come; but they evidently had not time for morning calls." "were they friendly?" "pretty much--enough so to ask for powder and shot. none of the men sighted them?" "no." "and no other indians?" "no--why?" "only that i would not like talapa to be roughly unhorsed." "talapa! why, rachel, that's--" "yes, of course it is--with a very promising family in tow. say, suppose you hustle aunty up about that supper, won't you? and have her give the stuart something extra nice; he has had a hard day of it." chapter v. a visit in the night-time. yahka kelapie. the snows had dropped a soft cloak over the kootenai hills, and buried the valleys in great beds of crystallized down. rachel's prophecy had proven a true one, for the clouds that day had been a visiting-card from winter. that day was two weeks gone now; so was stuart's leave-taking, and at the ranch life had dropped into the old lines, but with an impression of brightness lost. miss margaret had not yet got over the habit of turning quickly if anyone entered the room, and showing her disappointment in a frown when it was not the one looked for. aunty luce declared she "nevah did see a chile so petted on one who wasn't no kin." all of them discovered they had been somewhat "petted" on the genial nature. again the evenings were passed with magazines or cards; during his stay they had revived the primitive custom of taking turns telling stories, and in that art stuart had proven himself a master, sometimes recounting actual experiences of self or friends, again giving voice to some remembered gem of literature; but, whatever the theme, it was given life, through the sympathetic tendencies of the man who had so much the timber of an actor--or rather an artist--the spirit that tends to reproduce or create. if rachel missed him, she kept quiet about it, and ridiculed the rest if any regrets came to her ears. no one minded that much; rachel ridiculed everyone--even herself. sometimes she thought fate seemed more than willing to help her. one night, two weeks after that ride from the "place of the tamahnous," she was struck with a new conviction of the fact. andrews had gone to holland's for the mail and domestic miscellany. a little after sun-up he had started, and the darkness was three hours old, and yet no sign or sound. the rest had finally given up the idea of getting any letters that night, and had gone to bed. as usual, rachel--the night-owl of the family--was left the last guard at the warm hearth. upstairs she could hear jim's voice in the "boys'" room, telling ivans some exploit whose character was denoted by one speech that made its way through the ceiling of pine boards: "yes, sir; my horse left his'n half a length behind every time it hit the ground." ivans grunted. evidently he had listened to recitals from the same source before, and was too tired for close attention; anyway, the remarks of this truthful james drifted into a monologue, and finally into silence, and no sound of life was left in the house. she had been reading a book stuart had sent back to her by hardy, the day he left. she wondered a little why, for he had never spoken of it to her. it was a novel, a late publication, and by an author whose name she had seen affixed to magazine work; and the charm in it was undeniable--the charm of quiet hearts and restful pictures, that proved the writer a lover of the tender, sympathetic tones of life, rather than the storms and battles of human emotions. it held the girl with a puzzling, unusual interest--one that in spite of her would revert from the expressed thoughts on the paper to the personality of the man who had sent it to her, and she found in many instances, a mystifying likeness. she sat there thinking drowsily over it, and filled with the conviction that it was really time to go to bed; but the big chair was so comfortable, and the little simmer of the burning wood was like a lullaby, and she felt herself succumbing, without the slightest rebellion, to the restful influence. she was aroused by the banging of a door somewhere, and decided that andrews had at last returned; and remembering the number of things he had to bring in, concluded to go out and help him. her impulse was founded as much on economy as generosity, for the late hour was pretty good proof that andrews was comfortably drunk--also that breakages were likely to be in order. it was cloudy--only the snow gave light; the air was not cold, but had in it the softness of rain. over it she walked quickly, fully awakened by the thought of the coffee getting a bath of vinegar, or the mail mucilaged together with molasses. "oh, here you are at last!" she remarked, in that inane way people have when they care not whether you are here or in the other place. "you took your own time." "well, i didn't take any other fellow's!" returned the man from the dark corner where he was unsaddling the horse. andrews was usually very obsequious to miss rachel, and she concluded he must be pretty drunk. "i came out to help you with the things," she remarked from her post in the door-way; "where are they?" "i've got 'em myself," came the gruff tones again from the corner. "i reckon i'll manage without help. you'd better skip for the house--you'll catch cold likely." "why, it isn't cold--are you? i guess aunty left a lunch for you. i'll go and warm the coffee." she started, and then stopped. "say, did you get any letters for me?" "no." with a grumble about her ill-luck, she started back toward the house, the late arrival following a little ways behind with something over his shoulder. once she looked back. "i rather think andrews gets on dignified drunks," she soliloquized; "he is walking pretty straight, anyway." she set the coffee-pot on the coals and glanced at the bundle he had dropped just inside the door--it was nothing but a blanket and a saddle. "well, upon my word!" she began, and rose to her feet; but she did not say any more, for, in turning to vent her displeasure on andrews, she was tongue-tied by the discovery that it was not he who had followed her from the stable. "genesee!" she breathed, in a tone a little above a whisper. "alah mika chahko!" she was too utterly astonished either to move toward him or offer her hand; but the welcome in her indian words was surely plain enough for him to understand. it was just like him, however, not to credit it, and he smiled a grim understanding of his own, and walked over to a chair. "yes, that's who it is," he remarked. "i am sorry, for the sake of your hopes, that it isn't the other fellow; but--here i am." he had thrown his hat beside him and leaned back in the big chair, shutting his eyes sleepily. she had never seen him look so tired. "tillikum, i am glad to see you again," she said, going to him and holding out her hand. he smiled, but did not open his eyes. "it took you a long time to strike that trail," he observed. "what brought you out to the stable?" "i thought you were andrews, and that you were drunk and would break things." "oh!" "and i am glad to see you, jack." he opened his eyes then. "thank you, little girl. that is a good thing for a man to hear, and i believe you. come here. it was a good thing for me to get that word from kalitan, too. i reckon you know all that, though, or you wouldn't have sent it." she did not answer, but stooped to lift the pot of coffee back from the blaze. the action recalled him to the immediate practical things, and he said: "think i can stay all night here?" "i don't know of any reason to prevent it." "mowitza was used up, and i wanted a roof for her; but i didn't allow to come to the house myself." "where would you have slept?" "in my blanket, on the hay." "just as if we would let you do that on our place!" "no one would have known it if you had kept away from the stable, and in your bed, where you ought to be." "shall i go there at once, or pour your coffee first?" "a cup of coffee would be a treat; i'm dead tired." the coffee was drank, and the lunch for andrews was appropriated for genesee. "have you come back to the kootenai country for good?" she asked, after furnishing him with whatever she could find in the pantry without awakening the rest. "i don't know--it may be for bad," he replied doubtfully. "i've taken the trail north to sound any tribes that are hostile, and if troops are needed they are to follow me." "up into this country?" "i reckon so. are you afraid of fighting?" she did not answer. a new idea, a sudden remembrance, had superseded that of indian warfare. "how long since you left fort owens?" she asked. "fifteen days. why?" "a friend of macdougall's started in that direction about two weeks ago. davy sent a kind message by him; but you must have passed it on the way." "likely; i've been in the flathead country, and that's wide of the trail to owens. who was the man?" "his name is stuart." he set the empty cup down, and looked in the fire for a moment with a steadiness that made the girl doubt if he had either heard or noticed; but after a little he spoke. "what was that you said?" "that the man's name was stuart." "young or old?" "younger than you." "and he has gone to fort owens?" "started for there, i said." "oh! then you haven't much faith in a tenderfoot getting through the hostiles or snow-banks?" "how do you know he is a tenderfoot?" he glanced up; she was looking at him with as much of a question in her eyes as her words. "well, i reckon i don't," he answered, picking up his hat as if to end the conversation. "i knew a man called stuart once, but i don't know this one. now, have you any pressing reason for loafing down here any longer? if not, i'll take my blanket and that lounge and get some sleep. i've been thirty-six hours in the saddle." in vain she tried to prevail on him to go upstairs and go to bed "right." "this is right enough for me," he answered, laying his hat and gloves on a table and unfastening his spurs. "no, i won't go up to the men's room. good-night." "but, jack--look here--" "i can't--too sleepy to look anywhere, or see if i did look;" and his revolvers and belt were laid beside the growing collection on the table. "but hen will scold me for not giving you better lodging." "then he and another man will have a shooting-match before breakfast to-morrow. are you going?" he was beginning to deliberately unfasten his neck-gear of scarlet and bronze. she hesitated, as if to make a final protest, but failed and fled; and as the door closed behind her, she heard another half-laughing "klahowya!" early in the morning she was down-stairs, to find aunty luce half wild with terror at the presence of a stranger who had taken possession of the sitting-room during the night. "cain't see his face for the blanket, honey," she whispered shrilly, "but he's powerful big; an'--an' just peep through the door at the guns and things--it's wah times right ovah again, shueh as i'm tellen' yo', chile." "be quiet, aunty, and get breakfast; it's a friend of ours." "hi-yi! i know all 'bout them kind o' friends, honey; same kind as comes south in wah times, a trampen' into houses o' quality folks an sleepen' whah they liked, an' callen' theyselves friends. he's a moven' now!--less call the folks!" the attempted yell was silenced by rachel clapping her hand over the full lips and holding her tightly. "don't be a fool!" she admonished the old woman impatiently. "i let the man in last night; it's all right. go and get him a good breakfast." aunty luce eyed the girl as if she thought her a conspirator against the safety of the house, and despite precautions, managed to slip upstairs to tillie with a much-garbled account of thieves in the night, and wartimes, and tramps, and miss rache. much mystified, the little woman dressed quickly, and came down the stairs to find her husband shaking hands quite heartily with genesee. instantly she forgot the multitudinous reasons there were for banning him from the bosom of one's family, and found herself telling him he was very welcome. "i reckon in your country a man would wait to hear someone say that before stowing his horse in their stables, or himself in their beds," he observed. his manner was rather quiet, but one could see that the heartiness of their greeting was a great pleasure, and, it may be, a relief. "do you call that a bed?" asked tillie, with contemptuous warmth. "i do think, mr. genesee, you might have wakened some of us, and given us a chance to treat a guest to something better." "i suppose, then, i am not counted in with the family," observed rachel, meekly, from the background. "i was on hand to do the honors, but wasn't allowed to do them. i even went to the stable to receive the late-comer, and was told to skip into the house, and given a general understanding that i interfered with his making himself comfortable in the hay-mow." "did she go out there at night, and alone, after we were all in bed?" and tillie's tone indicated volumes of severity. "yes," answered genesee; for rachel, with a martyr-like manner, said nothing, and awaited her lecture; "she thought it was your man andrews." "yes, and she would have gone just as quickly if it had been indians--or--or--anybody. she keeps me nervous half the time with her erratic ways." "i rather think she's finding fault with me for giving you that coffee and letting you sleep on the lounge," said rachel; and through tillie's quick disclaimer her own short-comings were forgotten, at least for the time. the little matron's caution, that always lagged woefully behind her impulse, obtruded itself on her memory several times before the breakfast was over; and thinking of the reasons why a man of such character should not be received as a friend by ladies, especially girls, she was rather glad when she heard him say he was to push on into the hills as soon as possible. "i only stopped last night because i had to; mowitza and i were both used up. i was trying to make macdougall's, but when i crossed the trail to your place, i reckoned we would fasten to it--working through the snow was telling on her; but she is all right this morning." rachel told him of her visit to the old man, and his care of the cabin on the tamahnous ground; of rumors picked up from the kootenai tribe as to the chance of trouble with the blackfeet, and many notes that were of interest to this hunter of feeling on the indian question. he commented on her chinook, of which she had gained considerable knowledge in the past year, and looked rather pleased when told it had been gained from kalitan. "you may see him again if i have to send for troops up here, and it looks that way now," he remarked, much to the terror and satisfaction of aunty luce, who was a house divided against itself in her terror of indian trouble and her desire to prove herself a prophetess. jim was all anticipation. after a circus or a variety show, nothing had for him the charm that was exerted by the prospect of a fight; but his hopes in that direction were cooled by the scout's statement that the troops were not coming with the expectation of war, but simply to show the northern tribes its futility, and that the government was strengthening its guard for protection all along the line. "then yer only ringin' in a bluff on the hostiles!" ventured the sanguinary hopeful disgustedly. "i counted on business if the 'yaller' turned out," meaning by the "yaller" the cavalry, upon whose accoutrements the yellow glints show. "never mind, sonny," said genesee; "if we make a bluff, it won't be on an empty hand. but i must take the trail again, and make up for time lost in sleep here." "when may we look for you back?" it was hardy who spoke, but something had taken the free-heartiness out of his tones; he looked just a trifle uncomfortable. evidently tillie had been giving him a hint of second thoughts, and while trying to adopt them they fitted his nature too clumsily not to be apparent. his guest, however, had self-possession enough for both. "don't look for me," he advised, taking in the group with a comprehensive glance; "that is, don't hurt the sight of your eyes in the business; the times are uncertain, and i reckon i'm more uncertain than the times. i'm obliged to you for the sleep last night, and the cover for mowitza. if i can ever do you as good a turn, just sing out." hardy held out his hand impulsively. "you did a heap more for us a year ago, for which we never had a chance to make return," he said in his natural, hearty manner. "oh, yes, you have had," contradicted rachel's cool tones from the porch; "you have the chance now." genesee darted one quick glance at her face. something in it was evidently a compensation, and blotted out the bitterness that had crept into his last speech, for with a freer manner he took the proffered hand. "that's all right," he said easily. "i was right glad of the trip myself, so it wasn't any work; but at the present speaking the days are not picnic days, and i must 'git.' good-bye, mrs. hardy, good-bye; boys." then he turned in his saddle and looked at rachel. "klahowya--tillikum," he said, lifting his hat in a final farewell to all. but in the glance toward her she felt he had said "thank you" as plainly as he had in the indian language called her "friend." "oh, dear!" said tillie, turning into the house as he rode away. "i wish the man had staid away, or else that we had known more about him when we first met him. it is very awkward to change one's manner to him, and--and yet it seems the only thing to do." "certainly," agreed rachel, with an altogether unnecessary degree of contempt, "it is the only thing for you to do." tillie sat down miserably under this stroke, the emphasis denoting very plainly the temper of the speaker. "oh, don't be ugly, rache," she begged. "i really feel wretched about it. i thought at first all the freedom of social laws out here was so nice but it isn't. it has a terrible side to it, when the greatest scamp is of as much account as the finest gentleman, and expects to be received on the same footing. he--he had no right to come imposing on us at the first;" and with this addition to her defense, tillie tried to ensconce herself behind the barricade of injured faith, but feeling that her protests were only weakening her argument. "to the best of my recollection," said the girl, with a good deal of the supercilious in her manner, "he neither came near us nor advanced any desire for friendship on his own account. we hunted him up, and insisted on talking natural history and singing songs with him, and pressing on him many invitations to visit us, invitations which he avoided accepting. he was treated, not as an equal of the other gentlemen, but as a superior; and i believe it is the only time we ever did him justice." "yes, he did seem very nice in those days; but you see it was all false pretense. think of the life that he had come from, and that he went back to! it's no use talking, rachel--there is only a right way and a wrong way in this world. he has shown his choice, and self-respecting people can only keep rid of him as much as possible. i don't like to hurt his feelings, but it makes it very awkward for us that we have accepted any favors from him." "the obligation rests rather lightly on your shoulders to cause you much fretting," said the girl bitterly; "and he thought so much of you, too--so much." her voice, that began so calmly, ended a little uncertainly, and she walked out of the door. hardy, coming in a moment later, found tillie divided between penitence and pettishness, and fighting her way to comfort through tears. "i know i'm right, hen, about the whole question," she whimpered, when safely perched on the stronghold of his knee, "and that is what makes it so aggravating." "to know you're right?" "no; but to have rachel, who knows she is in the wrong, take that high-handed way about the affair, and end up by making me feel ashamed. yes, she did, hen--just that. i felt so ashamed i cried, and yet i knew i was right all the time--now what are you laughing at?" chapter vi. neighbors of the north park. reveille! boots and saddles! taps! about the hardy ranch the changes were rung on all those notes of camp, from early morn till dewy eve, by the melodious imitations of jim. stories of grizzlies and black bear had grown passé; even the more rare accounts of wild horses spotted in some secluded valley failed to stir his old-time interest. all else had drifted into nothingness to him, for the "yaller" had come. it had been stationed in the north park for ten days--days of wild commotion at the ranch, for north park was only two miles away, following the little branch of missoula creek that flowed north to the kootenai river. the necessary errands to and fro between the two points of residence were multitudinous, for jim could never remember but one thing at a time of late; and the retraced steps he took would have tired out anyone less curious. he was disappointed, at first, to find that only one company had been sent up to guard the gate into the kootenai country. it did not look as if they feared any outbreak or active service, and if it had not been in the most miserable of seasons, they would have had much the appearance of a pleasure party; but the rains were in the valleys and the snows were on the hills, and camp life under those circumstances is a breeder of rayless monotony. "and your ranch up here has proved the oasis in our desert," declared fred dreyer in a burst of gratitude to rachel, just as if the locating of the sheep farm in that particular part of the world was due to the sagacity and far-sightedness of miss hardy; "and when mr. stuart told us at the fort that we should have so charming a neighbor, i wanted to throw up my plate and give three cheers. we were at mess--at dinner, i mean. but i restrained my enthusiasm, because my leave to come along was only provisional at that time, and depended on my good behavior; but once here, my first impulse was to give you a big hug instead of the conventional hand-shake, for there are no girls at the fort, and i was hungry for the sight of one." it was not, as one may suppose, one of the uniformed warriors of the camp who expressed himself with this enthusiasm, though several looked as if they would like to, but it was the most petite little creature in petticoats--to her own disgust; and to mitigate the femininity of them as much as possible, they were of regular army blue, their only trimming belt and bands of the "yaller," an adornment jim openly envied her, and considered senseless when wasted on a girl. she was miss frederick dreyer, the daughter of major dreyer, of the fort, and the sweetheart of most of the men in it, from the veterans down. "they all think they own me," she confided plaintively to rachel, "just because i'm little. it's only a year and a half since they quit calling me 'baby fred'--think of that! when you're owned by a whole regiment, it's so hard to gather up any dignity, or keep it if you do get hold of it; don't you think so?" "i have had no experience in that line," answered rachel. "you see i have never been owned by a regiment, nor by anybody else." "how delightfully independent you are!" and miss fred, encircled by comrades, seemed really to envy the other her loneness in the world. "no orderly forever on duty at your heels, and--" "and no lieutenant," put in rachel; and then they both laughed, and the younger told the elder she was ridiculous, for the lieutenants were not a bit worse than the rest. "worse? not at all. i could even imagine circumstances under which they might be preferable, and i'm not gifted with much imagination, either." "i know someone who thinks you are, and an enviable imagination at that," laughed miss fred. rachel opened her eyes a little in questioning, but did not speak. "why, it was mr. stuart. he talked about you a good deal at the fort. you know there are several officers who have their wives with them, and he was asking them lots of questions about typical western girls, but they didn't seem to know any, for at a military fort girls don't remain girls long--unless they're half boys, like me. someone always snaps them up and tacks 'mrs.' to their name, and that settles them." "poor girls!" "oh, bless you! they would say that same thing of anyone who visited a fort and did not become married, or engaged--well, i should think so!" "do you come in for your share of commiseration?" asked tillie, who was listening with interest to this gossip of military life that seemed strange for a woman to share. "me? not a bit of it. i am not worth their notice in that respect. they haven't begun to treat me as if i was grown up, yet; that's the disadvantage of being little--you never can impress people with a belief in your own importance. yesterday, lieutenant murray had the impudence to tell me that, when all was said and done, i was only a 'camp follower' hanging onto the coat-tails of the army, and likely to be mustered out of the regiment at the discretion of the superior officers--my lords and masters! what do you think of that?" "that you must have made things rather warm for the poor lieutenant to provoke a speech so unnatural to his usual courtesy," answered rachel. "whatever mr. stuart may credit me with, i have not imagination enough to conceive that speech being unprovoked." "well, if you're going to champion his high-mightiness, i'll tell you nothing more. mr. stuart said you were so sympathetic, too." "i should say it was the stuart who was imaginative," laughed rachel; "ask tillie." "but, he did say that--seriously," insisted miss fred, turning to tillie. "when mrs. captain sneath was curious about you, he said you had a delicate imagination that would find beauty in things that to many natures would be commonplace, and topped off a long list of virtues by saying you were the most loyal of friends." tillie sat looking at rachel in astonishment. "what have you been doing with the man?" she asked; "giving him some potion brewed by an indian witch? a sure 'hoodoo' it must be, to warp a man's judgment like that! and you were not so very nice to him, either." "wasn't she?" asked fred in amazement. "well i think it would be hard to be anything else to so charming and so clever a man. do you know he is very rich?" "no," answered tillie. "we only knew that he was a physician out here for a change of air. he is splendid company." "well, i should think so! we were all in love with him at the fort. mrs. sneath says he has given up medicine, and--i believe it's something of a secret, but it doesn't matter in this far-out corner of the world--he is something of a writer--a writer of fiction. the way i heard it was through the captain, who used to know him at college. he says that the stuart, as you call him, is most likely out here studying up material for some work--a novel, may be. wouldn't you love to read it?" "i can't say unless i have some idea of the class of work. what has he done?" it was rachel who was the questioner, and who, in the light of a reasonable cause for his presence in the kootenai, felt herself all in a moment a bit of a fool for some of her old fancies. "i don't know--wish i did," said miss fred promptly. "he writes under an assumed name. mrs. sneath wouldn't tell me, for fear i'd bother him about it, i suppose; but if he comes up here to camp, i'll find out before he leaves--see if i don't." "he is not likely to pay a visit up here in this season of the year," remarked rachel. "i thought he was going east from owens." "he did talk like that when he first went down there, and that's what made captain sneath decide he was studying up the country; for all at once he said he might stay out west all winter, and seemed to take quite an interest in the indian question--made friends with all the scouts down there, and talked probabilities with even the few 'good' indians about the place. he told me he might see me again, if i was coming up with the company. so he is studying up something out here--sure." nobody answering this speculation, she was silent a bit, looking at rachel, who had picked up a book off the table; and then she began to laugh. "well--" and rachel glanced over at her, noting that she looked both amused and hesitating--"well, what is it?" "i was only thinking how--how funny it would be if you happened to be that 'something.'" but rachel's answering laugh, as she pushed the book away, signified that it was the least probable of all fancies. "it is you who should write romances, instead of the stuart," she replied--"you and tillie here. she has a good deal of the same material in her--that of a match-maker. she has spied out life-partners for me in all sorts of characters out here, from davy macdougall down to jim. they are wonderfully anxious to get rid of me." just outside the gate, the blue of military garb showed the coming of the usual afternoon callers from camp kootenai, among them the major, commander of the company, the only occasional rebel being his petite non-commissioned officer in petticoats. a tall young fellow in lieutenant's uniform halted on his way out to exchange greeting; and if the daughter complained of the young soldier's lack of deference, the father had no reason to, for in his eyes, as he saluted, shone something nearer affection than mere duty--a feeling that he shared with every man in the command, for major dreyer was a universal favorite. "no later news of that scout, genesee?" asked the younger as they separated. "no; but we can expect him soon now for that red shadow of his, kalitan, just loped into camp. and, by the way," added the older officer, "he mentioned that he passed our friend stuart back at the settlement. he is coming up this way again." "tell miss fred that, major. when i saw her, an hour ago, she needed something to put her in a good humor." "ah! good-evening, lieutenant." "good-evening, major." the minute the subordinate's back was turned, miss fred, with a running jump that would have done jim credit, landed almost on the major's shoulder. he gave her a ferocious hug, and dropped her plump on her feet with a stern-- "attention!" quick as light the little hand was raised in salute, and the little figure gathered together its scattered dignity to make a soldierly appearance. "private dreyer, i have been met on the outposts with a message telling me of a disorganized temper that should belong to your command. what have you to say for yourself?" instantly the role of the soldier was dropped, and that of the girl with a temper took its place. "oh, he told you, did he?" she asked, with a wrathful glance at the figure retreating toward camp. "well, just wait until i go riding with him again! he's called me a camp follower, and--and everything else that was uncivil." "ah! and what did you do?" "i? why nothing, of course." "nothing?" "well, i did threaten to go over and turn them out of the cabin that was built for me, but--" "but that was a mere trifle in this tropical climate. i've no doubt it would do them good to sleep under the stars instead of a roof; and then it would give you an opportunity to do some wholesale nursing, if they caught colds all around." "just as if i would!" "just as if you would not! and lieutenant murray would come in for the worse medicine and the biggest doses." "if his constitution is equal to his impudence, it would take stupendous doses to have any effect. i wish he could be sent back to the fort." "won't sending him up among the indians do just as well?" "y-yes. are you going to, papa?" "ah! now you grow inquisitive." "i do think," said tillie, "you all plague her a great deal." "they just treat me as if i was a joke instead of a girl," complained fred. "they began it before i was born by giving me a boy's name, and it's been kept up ever-since." "never mind, baby," he said soothingly; "if i had not made a boy of you i could not have had you with me, so the cause was vital." they both laughed, but it was easy to see that the cause was vital to them, and their companionship very much of a necessity. its interruptions since her babyhood had been few and short, and her education, picked up on the frontier, had taught her that in the world there was just one place for her--in the saddle, and beside her father, just as her mother had ridden beside him before fred was born. chapter vii. "a woman who was lost--long ago!" the next morning, bright and early, kalitan called at the ranch; and miss fred, accustomed as she was to the red men, grew rather enthusiastic over this haughty, graceful specimen, who gave her one glance at the door and walked past her into the house--as she afterward described it, "just as if she had been one of the wooden door-posts." "rashell hardy?" was all he said; and without more ado miss fred betook herself up the stairs to do his implied bidding and hunt miss hardy. "i rather think it's the grand mogul of all the kootenais," she said, in announcing him. "no, he didn't give any card; but his personality is too striking to be mistaken, if one has ever seen him or heard him speak. he looked right over my head, and made me feel as if i was about two feet high." "young indian?" "yes, but he looks like a young faun. that one never came from a scrub race." "i'll ask him to stay to dinner," laughed rachel; "if anything will cure one of a tendency to idealize an indian, it is to see him satisfying the inner man. come down and talk to him. it is kalitan." "oh, it is kalitan, is it? and pray what it is that--a chief rich in lineage and blooded stock? his assurance speaks of wealth and power, i should say, and his manner shows one a fenimore cooper spirit come to life. how am i as a guesser?" "one of the worst in the world. kalitan is really a handsome humbug in some ways. that superb manner of his is the only stock in trade he possesses beyond his swift feet; but the idea of importance he manages to convey speaks wonders for his strength of will. come along!" "klahowya, rashell hardy?" he said; and stepping solemnly forward, shook her hand in a grave, ceremonious fashion. rachel told him the other lady was her friend, by way of introduction, and he widened his mouth ever so little in a smile, but that was the only sign of acknowledgement he gave; and when rachel spoke to him in english he would not answer, but sat stolidly looking into the fire until she saw what was wrong and addressed him in chinook. "rashell hardy need not so soon forget," he reminded her briefly; and then went on with his speech to her of where he had been; the wonders he had done in the way of a runner, and all else of self-glorification that had occurred in the past months. many times the name of his chief was uttered in a way that impressed on a listener the idea that among the troops along the frontier there were two men who were really worthy of praise--a scout and a runner. "kalitan tired now--pretty much," he wound up, as a finale; "come up kootenai country to rest, may be, while spring comes. genesee he rest, too, may be--may be not." "where, kalitan?" "s'pose camp--s'pose may be tamahnous cabin; not here yet." "coming back?" kalitan nodded, and arose. "come see you, may be, sometime, often," he said as if conferring a special honor by promised visits; and then he stalked out as he had stalked in, only checking his gait at sight of aunty luce coming in from the kitchen with a dish of cold meat. she nearly dropped it in her fright, and closed her eyes in silent prayer and terror; when she opened them the enemy had left the porch. "good lawd, miss rache!" she gasped. "he's skeered me before bad enough, but this the fust time he evah stopped stock an' glare at me! i's gwine to complain to the milantary--i is, shuah." "you are a great old goose!" said rachel brusquely. "he wasn't looking at you, but at that cold meat." there seemed a general gathering of the clans along the kootenai valley that winter. with the coming north of genesee had come the troops, then kalitan, then their mercurial friend of the autumn--the stuart; and down from scot's mountain came davy macdougall, one fair day, to join the circle that was a sort of reunion. and among the troops were found many good fellows who were so glad of an evening spent at the ranch that never a night went by without a party gathered there. "the heft o' them does everything but sleep here," complained aunty luce; "an' all the other ones look jealous 'cause mr. stuart does that." for hardy and his wife had insisted on his stopping with them, as before, though much of his time was spent at the camp. there was something about him that made him a companion much desired by men; rachel had more opportunity to observe this now than when their circle was so much smaller. that gay good-humor, with its touches of serious feeling, and the delicate sympathy that was always alive to earnest emotion--she found that those traits were keys to the hearts of men as well as women; and a smile here, a kind word there, or a clasp of the hand, were the only arts needed to insure him the unsought friendship of almost every man in the company. "it's the gift that goes wi' the name," said macdougall one day when someone spoke of the natural charm of the man's manner. "it's just that--no less. no, o' course he does na strive for it; it's but a bit o' nature. a blessin', say you, miss? well, mayhaps; but to the old stock it proved but a curse." "it seems a rather fair life to connect the idea of a curse with," remarked the major; "but i rather think he has seen trouble, too. captain sneath said something to that effect, i believe--some sudden death of wife and children in an epidemic down in mexico." "married! that settles the romance," said fred; "but he is interesting, anyway, and i am going immediately to find out what he has written and save up my money to buy copies." "i may save you that expense in one instance," and rachel handed her the book stuart had sent her. tillie looked at her in astonishment, and fred seized it eagerly. "oh, but you are sly!" she said, with an accusing pout; "you've heard me puzzling about his work for days and never gave me a hint." "i only guessed it was his, he never told me; but this morning i charged him with it, and he did not deny. i do not think there is any secret about it, only down at the fort there were several ladies, i believe, and--and some of them curious--" "you're right," laughed the major; "they would have hounded him to death. camp life is monotonous to most women, and a novelist, especially a young, handsome fellow, would have been a bonanza to them. as it was, they tried to spoil him; and look here!" he said suddenly, "see that you say nothing of his marriage to him, babe. as he does not mention it himself, it may be that the trouble, or--well, just remember not to broach the subject." "just as if i would!" said his daughter after he had left. "papa never realizes that i have at all neared the age of discretion. but doesn't it seem strange to think of mr. stuart being married? he doesn't look a bit like it." "does that state of existence impress itself so indelibly on one's physical self?" laughed rachel. "it does--mostly," affirmed fred. "they get settled down and prosy, or else--well, dissipated." "good gracious! is that the effect we are supposed to have on the character of our lords and masters?" asked mrs. hardy unbelievingly. "fred's experience is confined to barrack life and its attendant evils. i don't think she makes allowance for the semi-artistic temper of the stuart. he strikes me as having just enough of it to keep his heart always young, and his affections too--on tap, as it were." "what queer ideas you have about that man!" said fred suddenly. "don't you like him?" "i would not dare say no with so many opposing me." "oh, you don't know rachel. she is always attributing the highest of virtues or the worst of vices to the most unexpected people," said tillie. "i don't believe she has any feeling in the question at all, except to get on the opposite side of the question from everyone else. if she would own up, i'll wager she likes him as well as the rest of us." "do you, rachel?" but her only answer was a laugh. "if you do, i can't see why you disparage him." "i did not." "well, you said his affections were always on tap." "that was because i envy him the exhaustless youth such a temperament gives one. such people defy time and circumstances in a way we prosaic folks can never do. it is a gift imparted to an artist, to supply the lack of practical ingredients that are the prime ones to the rest of creation." "how you talk! why, mr. stuart is not an artist!" "isn't he? there are people who are artists though they never draw a line or mix a color; but don't you think we are devoting a great deal of time to this pill-peddler of literary leanings?" "you are prejudiced," decided fred. "leanings indeed! he has done more than lean in that direction--witness that book." "i like to hear him tell a story, if he is in the humor," remarked tillie, with a memory of the cozy autumn evenings. "we used to enjoy that so much before we ever guessed he was a story-teller by profession." "well, you must have had a nice sort of a time up here," concluded fred; "a sort of tom moore episode. he would do all right for the poet-prince--or was it a king? but you--well, rachel, you are not just one's idea of a lalla." "you slangy little mortal! go and read your book." which she did obediently and thoroughly, to the author's discomfiture, as he was besieged with questions that taxed his memory and ingenuity pretty thoroughly at times. he found himself on a much better footing with rachel than during his first visit. it may have been that her old fancy regarding his mission up there was disappearing; the fancy itself had always been a rather intangible affair--a fabrication wrought by the shuttle of a woman's instinct. or, having warned genesee--she had felt it was a warning--there might have fallen from her shoulders some of the responsibility she had so gratuitously assumed. whatever it was, she was meeting him on freer ground, and found the association one of pleasure. "i think miss fred or your enlarged social circle has had a most excellent influence on your temper," he said to her one day after a ride from camp together, and a long, pleasant chat. "you are now more like the girl i used to think you might be--the girl you debarred me from knowing." "but think what an amount of time you had for work in those days that are forfeited now to dancing attendance on us women folk!" "i do not dance." "well, you ride, and you walk, and you sing, and tell stories, and manage at least to waste lots of time when you should be working." "you have a great deal of impatience with anyone who is not a worker, haven't you?" "yes," she said, looking up at him. "i grow very impatient myself often from the same cause." "you always seem to me to be very busy," he answered half-vexedly; "too busy. you take on yourself responsibilities in all directions that do not belong to you; and you have such a way of doing as you please that no one about the place seems to realize how much of a general manager you are here, or how likely you are to overburden yourself." "nonsense!" she spoke brusquely, but could not but feel the kindness in the penetration that had given her appreciation where the others, through habit, had grown to take her accomplishments as a matter of course. in the beginning they had taken them as a joke. "pardon me," he said finally. "i do not mean to be rude, but do you mind telling me if work is a necessity to you?" "certainly not. i have none of that sort of pride to contend with, i hope, and i have a little money--not much, but enough to live on; so, you see, i am provided for in a way." "then why do you always seem to be skirmishing around for work?" he asked, in a sort of impatience. "women should be home-makers, not--" "not prospectors or adventurers," she finished up amiably. "but as i have excellent health, average strength and understanding, i feel they should be put to use in some direction. i have not found the direction yet, and am a prospector meanwhile; but a contented, empty life is a contemptible thing to me. i think there is some work intended for us all in the world; and," she added, with one of those quick changes that kept folks from taking rachel's most serious meanings seriously--"and i think it's playing it pretty low down on providence to bluff him on an empty hand." he laughed. "do you expect, then, to live your life out here helping to manage other people's ranches and accumulating that sort of western logic in extenuation?" she did not answer for a little; then she said: "i might do worse." she said it so deliberately that he could not but feel some special thing was meant, and asked quickly: "what?" "well, i might be given talents of benefit to people, and fritter them away for the people's pastime. the people would never know they had lost anything, or come so near a great gain; but i, the cheat, would know it. after the lights were turned out and the curtain down on the farce, i would realize that it was too late to begin anew, but that the same lights and the same theater would have served as well for the truths of christ as the pranks of pantaloon--the choice lay only in the will of the worker." her eyes were turned away from him, as if she was seeking for metaphors in the white stretch of the snow-fall. he reached over and laid his hand on hers. "rachel!" it was the only time he had called her that, and the caress of the name gave voice to the touch of his fingers. "rachel! what is it you are talking about? look around here! i want to see you! do you mean that you think of--of me like that--tell me?" if miss fred could have seen them at that moment it would have done her heart good, for they really looked rather lover-like; each was unconscious of it, though their faces did not lack feeling. she drew her hand slowly away, and said, in that halting yet persistent way in which she spoke when very earnest yet not very sure of herself: "you think me egotistical, i suppose, to criticise work that is beyond my own capabilities, but--it was you i meant." "well?" his fingers closed over the arm of the chair instead of her hand. all his face was alight with feeling. perhaps it was as well that her stubbornness kept her eyes from his; to most women they would not have been an aid to cool judgment. "well, there isn't anything more to say, is there?" she asked, smiling a little out at the snow. "it was the book that did it--made me feel like that about you; that your work is--well, surface work--skimmed over for pastime. but here and there are touches that show how much deeper and stronger the work you might produce if you were not either lazy or careless." "you give one heroic treatment, and can be merciless. the story was written some time ago, and written under circumstances that--well, you see i do not sign my name to it, so i can't be very proud of it." "ah! that is it? your judgment, i believe, is too good to be satisfied with it; i shouldn't waste breath speaking, if i was not sure of that. but you have the right to do work you can be proud of; and that is what you must do." rachel's way was such a decided way, that people generally accepted her "musts" as a matter of course. stuart did the same, though evidently unused to the term; and her cool practicalities that were so surely noting his work, not himself, had the effect of checking that first impulse of his to touch her--to make her look at him. he felt more than ever that the girl was strange and changeable--not only in herself, but in her influence. he arose and walked across the floor a couple of times, but came back and stood beside her. "you think i am not ambitious enough; and you are right, i suppose. i have never yet made up my mind whether it was worth my while to write, or whether it might not be more wise to spare the public." "but you have the desire--you must feel confidence at times." "how do you know or imagine so much of what i feel?" "i read it in that book," and she nodded toward the table. "in it you seem so often just on the point of saying or doing, through the people, things that would lift that piece of work into a strong moral lesson; but just when you reach that point you drop it undeveloped." "you have read and measured it, haven't you?" and he sat down again beside her. "i never thought of--of what you mention in it. a high moral lesson," he repeated; "but to preach those a man should feel himself fit; i am not." "i don't believe you!" "what do you know about it?" he demanded so sharply that she smiled; it was so unlike him. but the sharpness was evidently not irritation, for his face had in it more of sadness than any other feeling; she saw it, and did not speak. after a little he turned to her with that rare impetuosity that was so expressive. "you are very helpful to me in what you have said; i think you are that to everyone--it seems so. perhaps you are without work of your own in the world, that you may have thought for others who need help; that is the highest of duties, and it needs strong, good hearts. but do you understand that it is as hard sometimes to be thought too highly of as to be accused wrong-fully? it makes one feel such a cheat--such a cursed liar!" "i rather think we are all cheats, more or less, in that respect," she answered. "i am quite sure the inner workings of my most sacred thought could not be advertised without causing my exile from the bosom of my family; yet i refuse to think myself more wicked than the rest of humanity." "don't jest!" "really, i am not jesting," she answered. "and i believe you are over-sensitive as to your own short-comings, whatever they happen to be. because i have faith in your ability to do strong work, don't think i am going to skirmish around for a pedestal, or think i've found a piece of perfection in human nature, because they're not to be found, my friend." "how old are you?" he asked her suddenly. she laughed, feeling so clearly the tenor of his thought. "twenty-two by my birthdays, but old enough to know that the strongest workers in the world have not been always the most immaculate. what matter the sort of person one has been, or the life one has lived if he come out of it with knowledge and the wish to use it well? you have a certain power that is yours, to use for good or bad, and from a fancy that you should not teach or preach, you let it go to waste. don't magnify peccadillos!" "you seem to take for granted the fact that all my acts have been trifling--that only the promises are worthy," he said impatiently. "i do believe," she answered smiling brightly, "that you would rather i thought you an altogether wicked person than an average trifler. but i will not--i do not believe it possible for you deliberately to do any wicked thing; you have too tender a heart, and--" "you don't know anything about it!" he repeated vehemently. "what difference whether an act is deliberate or careless, so long as the effect is evil? i tell you the greater part of the suffering in the world is caused not by wicked intents and hard hearts, but by the careless desire to shirk unpleasant facts, and the soft-heartedness that will assuage momentary pain at the price of making a life-long cripple, either mentally, morally, or physically. nine times out of ten the man whom we call soft-hearted is only a moral coward. ah, don't help me to think of that; i think of it enough--enough!" he brought his clenched hand down on the arm of the chair with an emphasis that was heightened by the knitted brow and compressed lips. he did not look at her. the latter part of the rapid speech seemed more to himself than to her. at least it admitted of no answer; the manner as much as the words kept her silent. "come! come!" he added, after a little, as if to arouse himself as well as her. "you began by giving me some good words of advice and suggestion; i must not repay you by dropping into the blues. for a long time i've been a piece of drift-wood, with nothing to anchor ambition to; but a change is coming, i think, and--and if it brings me fair weather, i may have something then to work for; then i may be worth your belief in me--i am not now. my intentions to be so are all right, but they are not always to be trusted. i said, before, that you had the faculty of making people speak the truth to you, if they spoke at all, and i rather think i am proving my words." he arose and stood looking down at her. since he had found so many words, she had seemed to lose hers; anyway, she was silent. "it can't be very pleasant for you," he said at last, "to be bored by the affairs of every renegade to whom you are kind, because of some fancied good you may see in him; but you are turning out just the sort of woman i used to fancy you might be--and--i am grateful to you." "that's all right," she answered in the old brusque way. to tell the truth, a part of his speech was scarcely heard. something in the whole affair--the confidence and personal interest, and all--had taken her memory back to the days of that cultus corrie, when another man had shared with her scenes somewhat similar to this. was there a sort of fate that had set her apart for this sort of thing? she smiled a little grimly at the fancy, and scarcely heard him. he saw the ghost of a smile, and it made him check himself in something he was about to say, and walk toward the door. she neither spoke nor moved; her face was still toward the window. turning to look at her, his indecision disappeared, and in three steps he was beside her. "rachel, i want to speak to you of something else," he said rapidly, almost eagerly, as if anxious to have it said and done with; "i--i want to tell you what that anchor is i've been looking for, and without which i never will be able to do the higher class of work, and--and--" "yes?" he had stopped, making a rather awkward pause after his eager beginning. with the one encouraging word, she looked up at him and waited. "it is a woman." "not an unusual anchor for mankind," she remarked with a little laugh. but there was no answering smile in his eyes; they were very serious. "i never will be much good to myself, or the rest of the world, until i find her again," he said, "though no one's words are likely to help me more than yours. you would make one ambitious if he dared be and--" "never mind about that," she said kindly. "i am glad if it has happened so. and this girl--it is someone you--love?" "i can't talk to anyone of her--yet," he answered, avoiding her eyes; "only i wanted you to understand--it is at least a little step toward that level where you fancy i may belong. don't speak of it again; i can hardly say what impelled me to tell you now. yes, it is a woman i cared for, and who was--lost--whom i lost--long ago." a moment later she was alone, and could hear his step in the outer room, then on the porch. fred called after him, but he made no halt--did not even answer, much to the surprise of that young lady and miss margaret. the other girl sat watching him until he disappeared in the stables, and a little later saw him emerge and ride at no slow gait out over the trail toward camp. "it only needed that finale," she soliloquized, "to complete the picture. woman! woman! what a disturbing element you are in the universe--man's universe!" after this bit of trite philosophy, the smile developed into a noiseless laugh that had something of irony in it. "i rather think talapa's entrance was more dramatic," was one of the reflections that kept her company; "anyway, she was more picturesque, if less elegant, than mrs. stuart is likely to be. mrs. stuart! by the way, i wonder if it is mrs. stuart? yes, i suppose so--yet, 'a woman whom i cared for, and who was lost--long ago!'--lost? lost?" chapter viii. "i'll kill him this time!" rumors were beginning to drift into camp of hostile intents of the blackfeet; and a general feeling of uneasiness became apparent as no word came from the chief of their scouts, who had not shown up since locating the troops. the major's interest was decidedly alive in regard to him, since not a messenger entered camp from any direction who was not questioned on the subject. but from none of them came any word of genesee. other scouts were there--good men, too, and in the southern country of much value; but the kootenai corner of the state was almost an unknown region to them. they were all right to work under orders; but in those hills, where everything was in favor of the native, a man was needed who knew every gully and every point of vantage, as well as the probable hostile. while major dreyer fretted and fumed over the absentee, there was more than one of the men in camp to remember that their chief scout was said to be a squaw man; and as most of them shared his own expressed idea of that class, conjectures were set afloat as to the probability of his not coming back at all, or if it came to a question of fighting with the northern indians, whether he might not be found on the other side. "you can't bet any money on a squaw man," was the decision of one of the scouts from over in idaho--one who did not happen to be a squaw man himself, because the wife of his nearest neighbor at home objected. "no, gentlemen, they're a risky lot. this one is a good man; i allow that--a damned good man, i may say, and a fighter from away back; but the thing we have to consider is that up this way he's with his own people, as you may say, having taken a squaw wife and been adopted into the tribe; an' i tell you, sirs, it's jest as reasonable that he will go with them as against them--i'm a tellin' you!" few of these rumors were heard at the ranch. it was an understood thing among the men that the young ladies at hardy's were to hear nothing of camp affairs that was likely to beget alarm; but stuart heard them, as did the rest of the men; and like them, he tried to question the only one in camp who shared suspicion--kalitan. but kalitan was unapproachable in english, and even in chinook would condescend no information. he doubtless had none to give, but the impression of suppressed knowledge that he managed to convey made him an object of close attention, and any attempt to leave camp would have been hailed as proof positive of many intangible suspicions. he made no such attempt. on the contrary, after his arrival there from the gros ventres, he seemed blissfully content to live all winter on government rations and do nothing. but he was not blind by any means and understanding english, though he would not speak it, the chances were that he knew more of the thought of the camp than it guessed of his; and his stubborn resentment showed itself when three kootenai braves slouched into camp one day, and kalitan was not allowed to speak to them save in the presence of an interpreter, and when one offered in the person of a white scout, kalitan looked at him with unutterable disdain, and turning his back, said not a word. the major was not at camp. he had just left to pay his daily visit to hardy's; for, despite all persuasions, he refused to live anywhere but with his men, and if fred did not come to see him in the morning, he was in duty bound to ride over to her quarters in the afternoon. the officer in command during his absence was a captain holt, a man who had no use for an indian in any capacity, and whose only idea of settling the vexed question of their rights was by total extermination and grave-room--an opinion that is expressed by many a white man who has had to deal with them. but he was divided between his impulse to send the trio on a double-quick about their business and the doubt as to what effect it would have on the tribe if they were sent back to it in the sulks. ordinarily he would not have given their state of mind a moment's consideration; but the situation was not exactly ordinary, and he hesitated. after stowing away enough provender in their stomachs to last an ordinary individual two days, and stowing the remainder in convenient receptacles about their draperies, intercourse was resumed with their white hosts by the suggestive kalitan. just then stuart and rachel rode into camp. they had taken to riding together into camp, and out of camp, and in a good many directions of late; and in the coffee-colored trio she at once recognized the brave of the bear-claws whom she had spoken with during that "olallie" season in the western hills, and who she had learned since was a great friend of genesee's. she spoke to him at once--a great deal more intelligibly than her first attempt--and upon questioning, learned that she was well remembered. she heard herself called "the squaw who rides" by him, probably from the fact that she was the only white woman met by their hunters in the hills, though she had not imagined herself so well known by them as his words implied. he of the bear-claws--their spokesman--mentioned kalitan, giving her for the first time an idea of what had occurred. she turned at once to captain holt--not protesting, but interested--and learned all she wanted to. "kalitan does not like your southern scouts, for some reason," she said, "and i rather think it was his dignity rather than his loyalty that would suffer from having one of them a listener. let them speak in my presence; i can understand them, and not arouse kalitan's pride, either." the captain, nothing loath, accepted her guidance out of the dilemma, though it was only by a good deal of flattery on her part that kalitan could at all forget his anger enough to speak to anyone. the conversation was, after all, commonplace enough, as it was mostly a recital of his--kalitan's--glories; for in the eyes of these provincials he posed as a warrior of travel and accumulated knowledge. the impassive faces of his listeners gave no sign as to whether they took him at his own valuation or not. rachel now and then added a word, to keep from having too entirely the appearance of a listener, and she asked about genesee. the answer gave her to understand that weeks ago--five weeks--genesee had been in their village; asked for a runner to go south to the fort with talking-paper. had bought pack-horse and provisions, and started alone to the northeast--may be blackfoot agency, they could not say; had seen him no more. kalitan made some rapid estimate of probabilities that found voice in-- "blackfoot--one hundred and twenty miles; go slow--mowitza tired; long wau-wau (talk); come slow--snows high; come soon now, may be." that was really the only bit of information in the entire "wau-wau" that was of interest to the camp--information that kalitan would have disdained to satisfy them with willingly; and even to rachel, whom he knew was genesee's friend, and his, he did not hint the distrust that had grown among the troops through that suspicious absence. he would talk long and boastfully of his own affairs, but it was a habit that contrasted strangely with the stubborn silence by which he guarded the affairs of others. "what is the matter back there?" asked rachel, as she and stuart started back to the ranch. "ill-feeling?" "oh, i guess not much," he answered; "only they are growing careful of the indians of late--afraid of them imposing on good nature, i suppose." "a little good nature in captain holt would do him no harm with the indians," she rejoined; "and he should know better than to treat kalitan in that suspicious way. major dreyer would not do it, i feel sure, and genesee won't like it." "will that matter much to the company or the command?" he spoke thus only to arouse that combative spirit of hers; but she did not retort as usual--only said quietly: "yes, i think it would--they will find no man like him." they never again referred to that conversation that had been in a way a confession on his part--the question of the woman at least was never renewed, though he told her much of vague plans that he hoped to develop, "when the time comes." three days after the visit of bear-claws and his brethren, stuart and rachel were again at the camp; this time accompanying miss fred, who thought it was a good-enough day to go and see the "boys." surely it was a good-enough day for any use--clear and fresh overhead, white and sparkling underfoot, and just cold enough to make them think with desire of the cheery wood fires in the camp they were making for. from above, a certain exhilaration was borne to them on the air, sifted through the cedars of the guardian hills; even the horses seemed enthused with the spirit of it, and joyously entered into a sort of a go-as-you-please race that brought them all laughing and breathless down the length of "the avenue," a strip of beaten path about twenty feet wide, along which the tents were pitched in two rows facing each other--and not very imposing looking rows, either. there were greetings and calls right and left, as they went helter-skelter down the line; but there was no check of speed until they stopped, short, at the major's domicile, that was only a little more distinguished on the outside than the rest, by having the colors whipping themselves into shreds from the flagstaff at the door. it was too cold for ceremony; and throwing the bridles to an orderly, they made a dash for the door--miss fred leading. "engaged, is he?" she said good-humoredly to the man who stepped in her path. "i don't care if he is married. i don't intend to freeze on the place where his door-step ought to be. you tell him so." the man on duty touched his cap and disappeared, and from the sound of the major's laughter within, must have repeated the message verbatim, and a moment later returned. "major dreyer says you may enter;" and then, laughing and shivering, the major's daughter seized rachel with one hand, stuart with the other, and making a quick charge, darted into the ruling presence. "oh, you bear!" she said, breaking from her comrades and into the bear's embrace; "to keep us out there--and it so cold! and i came over specially for--" and then she stopped. the glitter of the sun on the sun had made a glimmer of everything under a roof, and on her entrance she had not noticed a figure opposite her father, until a man rose to his feet and took a step forward as if to go. "let me know when you want me, major," he said; and the voice startled those two muffled figures in the background, for both, by a common impulse, started forward--rachel throwing back the hood of her jacket and holding out her hand. "i am glad you have come," she said heartily, and he gripped the offered member with a sort of fierceness as he replied: "thank you, miss." but his eyes were not on her. the man who had come with her--who still held her gloves in his hand--was the person who seemed to draw all his attention. "you two are old neighbors, are you not?" remarked the major. "fred, my dear, you have met mr. genesee, our scout? no? mr. genesee, this is my daughter; and this, a friend of ours--mr. stuart." an ugly devil seemed alive in genesee's eyes, as the younger man came closer, and with an intense, expressive gesture, put out his hand. then, with a bow that might have been an acknowledgment of the introduction, and might have been only one of adieu to the rest of the group, the scout walked to the door without a word, and stuart's hand dropped to his side. "come back in an hour, genesee," said the major; "i will think over the trip to the fort in the meantime." "i hear. good-morning, ladies;" and then the door closed behind him, and the quartette could not but feel the situation awkward. "come closer to the fire--sit down," said the major hospitably, intent on effacing the rudeness of his scout. "take off your coat, stuart; you'll appreciate it more when outside. and i'm going to tell you right now, that, pleased as i am to have you all come this morning, i intend to turn you out in twenty minutes--that's all the time i can give to pleasure this morning." "well, you are very uncivil, i must say," remarked fred. "but we will find some of the other boys not so unapproachable. i guess," she added, "that we have to thank mr. man-with-the-voice for being sent to the right-about in such short order." "you did not hear him use it much," rejoined her father, and then turned to the others, neither of whom had spoken. "he is quite a character, and of great value to us in the indian troubles, but i believe is averse to meeting strangers; anyway, the men down at the fort did not take to him much--not enough to make him a social success." "i don't think he would care," said fred. "he impressed me very much as kalitan did when i first met him. does living in the woods make people feel like monarchs of all they survey? does your neighbor ever have any better manners, rachel?" "i have seen him with better--and with worse." "worse? what possibilities there must be in that man! what do you think, mr. stuart?" "perhaps he lacks none of the metal of a soldier because he does not happen to possess that of a courtier," hazarded stuart, showing no sign that the scout's rudeness had aroused the slightest feeling of resentment; and rachel scored an opinion in his favor for that generosity, for she, more than either of the others, had noted the meeting, and genesee's entire disregard of the stuart's feelings. major dreyer quickly seconded stuart's statement. "you are right, sir. he may be as sulky as satan--and i hear he is at times--but his work makes amends for it when he gets where work is needed. he got in here last night, dead-beat, from a trip that i don't believe any other man but an indian could have made and get back alive. he has his good points--and they happen to be points that are in decided demand up here." "i don't care about his good points, if we have to be turned out for him," said fred. "send him word he can sleep the rest of the day, if he is tired out; may be he would wake up more agreeable." "and you would not be ousted from my attention," added her father, pinching her ear. "are you jealous of squaw-man-with-a-voice?" "is he that?" asked the girl, with a great deal of contempt in her tone. "well, that is enough to hear of him. i should think he would avoid white people. the specimens we have seen of that class would make you ashamed you were human," she said, turning to rachel and stuart. "i know papa says there are exceptions, but papa is imaginative. this one looks rather prosperous, and several degrees cleaner than i've seen them, but--" "don't say anything against him until you know you have reason, fred," suggested rachel. "he did me a favor once, and i can't allow people to talk about him on hearsay. i think he is worse than few and better than many, and i have known him over a year." "mum is the word," said fred promptly, proceeding to gag herself with two little fists; but the experiment was a failure. "if she takes him under her wing, papa, his social success is an assured fact, even if he refuses to open his mouth. may i expect to be presented to his interesting family to-morrow, rachel?" rachel only laughed, and asked the major some questions about the reports from the northeast; the attitude of the blackfeet, and the snow-fall in the mountains. "the blackfeet are all right now," he replied, "and the snows in the hills to the east are very heavy--that was what caused our scout's delay. but south of us i hear they are not nearly so bad, for a wonder, and am glad to hear it, as i myself may need to make a trip down to fort owens." "why, papa," broke in his commanding officer, "you are not going to turn scout or runner, are you, and leave me behind? i won't stay!" "you will obey orders, as a soldier should," answered her father. "if i go instead of sending, it will be because it is necessary, and you will have to bow to necessity, and wait until i can get back." "and we've got to thank mr. squaw-man for that, too!" burst out fred wrathfully. "you never thought of going until he came; oh, i know it--i hate him!" "he would be heart-broken if he knew it," observed her father dryly. "by the way, miss rachel, do you know if there is room in the ranch stables for another horse?" "they can make room, if it is necessary. why?" "genesee's mare is used up even worse than her master by the long, hard journey he has made. our stock that is in good condition can stand our accommodations all right, but that fellow seemed miserable to think the poor beast had not quarters equal to his own. he is such a queer fellow about asking a favor that i thought--" "and the thought does you credit," said the girl with a suspicious moisture in her eyes. "poor, brave mowitza! i could not sleep very soundly myself if i knew she was not cared for, and i know just how he feels. don't say anything about it to him, but i will have my cousin come over and get her, before evening." "you are a trump, miss rachel!" said the major emphatically; "and if you can arrange it, i know you will lift a load off genesee's mind. i'll wager he is out there in the shed with her at this moment, instead of beside a comfortable fire; and this camp owes him too much, if it only knew it, to keep from him any comforts for either himself or that plucky bit of horse-flesh." then the trio, under guard of the lieutenant, paid some other calls along the avenue--were offered more dinners, if they would remain, than they could have eaten in a week; but in all their visits they saw nothing more of the scout. rachel spoke of his return to one of the men, and received the answer that they reckoned he was putting in most of his time out in the shed tying the blankets off his bunk around that mare of his. "poor mowitza! she was so beautiful," said the girl, with a memory of the silken coat and wise eyes. "i should not like to see her looking badly." "do you know," said stuart to her, "that when i heard you speak of mowitza and her beauty and bravery, i never imagined you meant a four-footed animal?" "what, then?" "well, i am afraid it was a nymph of the dusky tribe--a woman." "naturally!" was the one ironical and impatient word he received as answer, and scarcely noted. he was talking with the others on multitudinous subjects, laughing, and trying to appear interested in jests that he scarcely heard, and all the while the hand he had offered to genesee clenched and opened nervously in his seal glove. rachel watched him closely, for her instincts had anticipated something unusual from that meeting; the actual had altered all her preconceived fancies. more strong than ever was her conviction that those two were not strangers; but from stuart's face or manner she could learn nothing. he was a much better actor than genesee. they did not see any more of him, yet he saw them; for from the shed, off several rods from the avenue, the trail to hardy's ranch was in plain sight half its length. and the party, augmented by lieutenant murray, galloped past in all ignorance of moody eyes watching them from the side of a blanketed horse. out a half-mile, two of the riders halted a moment, while the others dashed on. the horses of those two moved close--close together. the arms of the man reached over to the woman, who leaned toward him. at that distance it looked like an embrace, though he was really but tying a loose scarf, and then they moved apart and went on over the snow after their comrades. a brutal oath burst from the lips of the man she had said was worse than few. "if it is--i'll kill him this time! by god!--i'll kill him!" chapter ix. after ten years. major dreyer left the next day, with a scout and small detachment, with the idea of making the journey to fort owens and back in two weeks, as matters were to be discussed requiring prompt action and personal influence. jack genessee was left behind--an independent, unenlisted adjunct to the camp, and holding a more anomalous position there than major dreyer dreamed of; for none of the suspicious current of the scout ever penetrated to his tent--the only one in the company who was ignorant of them. "captain holt commands, genesee," he had said before taking leave; "but on you i depend chiefly in negotiations with the reds, should there be any before i get back, for i believe you would rather save lives on both sides than win a victory through extermination of the hostiles. we need more men with those opinions; so, remember, i trust you." the words had been uttered in the presence of others, and strengthened the suspicions of the camp that genesee had been playing some crooked game. none knew the reason for that hastily decided trip of the major's, though they all agreed that that "damned skunk of a squaw man" was posted. prophecies were rife to the effect that more than likely he was playing into the hands of the hostiles by sending away the major and as many men as possible on some wild-goose chase; and the decision arrived at was that observation of his movements was a matter of policy, and readiness to meet an attack from the hills a probable necessity. he saw it--had seen it from the day of his arrival--and he kept pretty much out of the way of all except kalitan; for in watching genesee they found they would have to include his runner, who was never willingly far away. during the first few days their watching was an easy matter, for the suspected individual appeared well content to hug the camp, only making daily visits to hardy's stable, generally in the evening; but to enter the house was something he avoided. "no," he said, in answer to hardy's invitation; "i reckon i'm more at home with the horses than with your new company. i'll drop in sometime after the kootenai valley is clear of uniforms." "my wife told me to ask you," said hardy; "and when you feel like coming, you'll find the door open." "thank you, hardy; but i reckon not--not for awhile yet." "i'd like you to get acquainted with stuart," added the unsuspicious ranchman. "he is a splendid fellow, and has become interested in this part of the country." "oh, he has?" "yes," and hardy settled himself, mexican fashion, to a seat on his heels. "you see he's a writer, a novelist, and i guess he's going to write up this territory. anyway, this is the second trip he has made. you could give him more points than any man i know." "yes--i might." "rachel has given him all the knowledge she has about the country--the indians, and all that--but she owns that all she learned she got from you; so, if you had a mind to be more sociable, genesee--" the other arose to his feet. "obliged to you, hardy," he said; and only the addition of the name saved it from curtness. "some day, perhaps, when things are slack; i have no time now." "well, he doesn't seem to me to be rushed to death with work," soliloquized hardy, who was abruptly left alone. "he used to seem like such an all-round good fellow, but he's getting surlier than the devil. may be tillie was right to hope he wouldn't accept the invitation. hello, stuart! where are you bound for?" "nowhere in particular. i thought that indian, kalitan, was over here." "no; jack genesee came over himself this morning. that mare of his is coming up in great shape, and you'd better believe he's proud over it. i reckon he saw you coming that he took himself away in such a hurry. he's a queer one." "i should judge so. then kalitan won't be over?" "well, he's likely to be before night. want him?" "yes. if you see him, will you send him to the house?" hardy promised; and kalitan presented himself, with the usual interrogation: "rashell hardy?" but she, the head of the house in his eyes, was in the dark about his visit, and was not enlightened much when stuart entered, stating that it was he who had wanted kalitan. that personage was at once deaf and dumb. only by rachel saying, "he is my friend; will you not listen?" did he unbend at all; and the girl left them on the porch alone, and a little later stuart went upstairs, where she heard him walking up and down the room. she had heard a good deal of that since that day the three had called upon the major, and a change had come over the spirit of their social world; for where stuart had been the gayest, they could never depend on him now. even rachel found their old pleasant companionship ended suddenly, and she felt, despite his silence he was unhappy. "well, when he finds his tongue he will tell me what's the matter," she decided, and so dismissed that question. she rode to camp alone if it was needful, and sometimes caught a glimpse of genesee if he did not happen to see her first; but he no longer came forward to speak, as the rest did--only, perhaps, a touch of his hat and a step aside into some tent, and she knew she was avoided. a conventional young lady of orthodox tendencies would have held her head a little higher next time they met, and not have seen him at all; but this one was woefully deficient in those self-respecting bulwarks; so, the next time she happened to be at the end of the avenue, she turned her steed directly across his path, and called a halt. "good-morning, miss rachel." "klahowya, tillikum," she answered, bringing him back to a remembrance of his chinook. "jack genesee, do you intend ever to come to see us--i mean to walk in like your old self, instead of looking through the window at night?" "looking--" "don't lie," she said coolly, "for i saw you, though no one else did. now tell me what's wrong. why won't you come in the house?" "society is more select in the kootenai hills than it was a year ago;" he answered with a sort of defiance. "do you reckon there is any woman in the house who would speak to me if she could get out of it--anyone except you?" "oh, i don't count." "i had an 'invite' this morning," he added grimly--"not because they wanted me, but because your new friend over there wanted someone to give him points about the country; so i've got him to thank for being wanted at all. now don't look like that--or think i'm kicking. it's a square enough deal so far as i'm concerned, and it stands to reason a man of my stamp hasn't many people pining for him in a respectable house. for the matter of that, it won't do you any good to be seen talking to me this long. i'm going." "all right; so am i. you can go along." "with you?" "certainly." "i reckon not." "don't be so stubborn. if you didn't feel like coming, you would not have been at that window last night." his face flushed at this thrust which he could not parry. "well, i reckon i won't go there again." "no; come inside next time. come, ride half way to the ranch, and tell me about that trip of yours to the blackfeet. major dreyer gave you great praise for your work there." "he should have praised you;" and her own color deepened at the significance of his words. "i met kalitan on his way to the ranch, as i came," she said in the most irrelevant way. he looked at her very sharply, but didn't speak. "well, are you going to escort me home, or must i go alone?" "it is daylight; you know every foot of the way, and you don't need me," he said, summing up the case briefly. "when you do, let me know." "and you won't come?" she added good-naturedly. "all right. klahowya!" she moved out of his way, touched betty with the whip, and started homeward. she rather expected to meet kalitan again, but there was no sign of him on the road; arriving at the house, she found that youth ensconced among the pillows of the largest settee with the air of a king on a throne, and watching with long, unblinking stares miss fred, who was stumbling over the stitches of some crochet-work for the adornment of miss margaret. "i'm so glad you've come!" she breathed gratefully. "he has me so nervous i can't count six; and mrs. hardy is taking a nap, and aunty luce has locked herself upstairs, and i never was stared so out of countenance in my life." "i rather think that's a phase of indian courtship," rachel comforted her by saying; "so you have won a new admirer. what is it kalitan?" he signified that his business was with the "man-who-laughs," the term by which he designated stuart. "mr. stuart left the house just after you did," said fred; "i thought, perhaps, to catch you." "no, he didn't go my way. well, you look comfortable, kalitan; and if you had the addition of another crazy-patch cushion for your left elbow, you might stand a little longer wait--think so?" kalitan thought he could; and there he remained until stuart arrived, flushed and rather breathless from his ride from somewhere. "i was out on the road, but did not see you," said rachel, on his entrance. "this is likely enough," he answered. "i didn't want you to--or anyone else. i'm not good company of late. i was trying to ride away from myself." then he saw kalitan, propped among the cushions. "well," he said sharply; "what have you brought me?" kalitan answered by no word, but thrust his hand inside his hunting-shirt and brought forth an envelope, which he gave into the eager hands reaching for it. stuart gave it one quick glance, turning it in his hand to examine both sides, and then dropped it in his pocket and sat down by the window. rachel could see it was a thick, well-filled envelope, and that the shape was the same used by stuart himself, very large and perfectly square--a style difficult to duplicate in the kootenai hills. "you can go now, if you choose, kalitan," she said, fearing his ease would induce him to stay all night, and filled with a late alarm at the idea of tillie getting her eyes on the peaceful "hostile" and her gorgeous cushions; and without any further notice of stuart, kalitan took his leave. when rachel re-entered the room, a moment later, a letter was crisping into black curls in the fire-place, and the man sat watching it moodily. all that evening there was scarcely question or answer to be had from stuart. he sat by the fire, with miss margaret in his arms--her usual place of an evening; and through the story-telling and jollity he sat silent, looking, jim said, as if he was "workin' hard at thinkin'." "to-morrow night you must tell us a story," said miss fred, turning to him. "you have escaped now for--oh, ever so many nights." "i am afraid my stock is about exhausted." "out of the question! the flimsiest of excuses," she decided. "just imagine a new one, and tell it us instead of writing it; or tell us the one you are writing at now." "well, we will see when to-morrow comes;" and with that vague proposal miss fred had to be content. when the morrow came stuart looked as if there had been no night for him--at least no sleep; and rachel, or even macdougall himself, would not think of calling him prince charlie, as of old. she was no longer so curious about him and that other man who was antagonistic to him. she had been fearful, but whatever knowledge they had of each other she had decided would not mean harm; the quiet days that had passed were a sort of guarantee of that. yet they seemed to have nerved stuart up to some purpose, for the morning after the burning of the letter he appeared suddenly at the door of genesee's shack, or the one major dreyer had turned over to him during his own absence. from the inside kalitan appeared, as if by enchantment, at the sound of a hand on the latch. stuart, with a gesture, motioned him aside, and evidently to kalitan's own surprise, he found himself stepping out while the stranger stepped in. for perhaps a minute the indian stood still, listening, and then, no sounds of hostilities coming to his ears, an expressive gutteral testified to his final acquiescence, and he moved away. his hesitation showed that rachel had not been the only one to note the bearing of those two toward each other. had he listened a minute longer, he might have heard the peace within broken by the voices that, at first suppressed and intense, rose with growing earnestness. the serious tones of stuart sounded through the thin board walls in expostulation, and again as if urging some point that was granted little patience; for above it the voice of genesee broke in, all the mellowness gone from it, killed by the brutal harshness, the contemptuous derision, with which he answered some plea or proposition. "oh, you come to me now, do you?" he said, walking back and forth across the room like some animal fighting to keep back rage with motion, if one can imagine an animal trying to put restraint on itself; and at every turn his smoldering, sullen gaze flashed over the still figure inside the door, and its manner, with a certain calm steadfastness of purpose, not to be upset by anger, seemed to irritate him all the more. "so you come this time to lay out proposals to me, eh? and think, after all these years, that i'm to be talked over to what you want by a few soft words? well, i'll see you damned first; so you can strike the back trail as soon as you've a mind to." "i shan't go back," said stuart deliberately, "until i get what i came for." the other answered with a short, mirthless laugh. "then you're located till doomsday," he retorted, "and doomsday in the afternoon; though i reckon that won't be much punishment, considering the attractions you manage to find up here, and the advantages you carry with you--a handsome face, a gentleman's manners and an honest name. why, you are begging on a full hand, mister; and what are you begging to? a man that's been about as good as dead for years--a man without any claim to a name, or to recognition by decent people--an outlaw from civilization." "not so bad as that, jack," broke in stuart, who was watching in a sort of misery the harsh self-condemnation in the restless face and eyes of genesee. "don't be so bitter as that on yourself. you are unjust--don't i know?" "the hell you say!" was the withering response to this appeal, as if with the aid of profanity to destroy the implied compliment to himself. "your opinion may go for a big pile among your fine friends, but it doesn't amount to much right here. and you'd better beat a retreat, sir. the reputation of the highly respected charles stuart, the talented writer, the honorable gentleman, might get some dirty marks across it if folks knew he paid strictly private visits to genesee jack, a renegade squaw man; and more still if they guessed that he came for a favor--that's what you called it when you struck the shack, i believe. a favor! it has taken you a good while to find that name for it." "no, it has not, jack," and the younger man's earnestness of purpose seemed to rise superior to the taunts and sarcasm of the other. "it was so from the first, when i realized--after i knew--i didn't seem to have thoughts for anything else. it was a sort of justice, i suppose, that made me want them when i had put it out of my power to reach them. you don't seem to know what it means, jack, but i--i am homesick for them; i have been for years, and now that things have changed so for me, i--jack, for god's sake, have some feeling! and realize that other men can have!" jack turned on him like a flash. "you--you say that to me!" he muttered fiercely. "you, who took no count of anybody's feelings but your own, and thought god almighty had put the best things on this earth for you to use and destroy! killing lives as sure as if they'd never drawn another breath, and forgetting all about it with the next pretty face you saw! if that is what having a stock of feeling leads a man to, i reckon we're as well off without any such extras." stuart had sat down on a camp-stool, his face buried in his hands, and there was a long silence after genesee's bitter words, as he stood looking at the bent head with an inexplicable look in his stormy eyes. then his visitor arose. "jack," he said with the same patience--not a word of retort had come from him--"jack, i've been punished every day since. i have tried to forget it--to kill all memory by every indulgence and distraction in my reach--pursued forgetfulness so eagerly that people have thought me still chasing pleasure. i turned to work, and worked hard, but the practice brought to my knowledge so many lives made wretched as--as--well, i could not stand it. the heart-sickness it brought me almost drove me melancholy mad. the only bright thing in life was--the children--" an oath broke from genesee's lips. "and then," continued stuart, without any notice save a quick closing of the eyes as if from a blow, "and then they died--both of them. that was justice, too, no doubt, for they stayed just long enough to make themselves a necessity to me--a solace--and to make me want what i have lost. i am telling you this because i want you to know that i have had things to try me since i saw you last, and that i've come through them with the conviction that there is to be no content in life to me until i make what amends i can for the folly of the boy you knew. the thought has become a monomania with me. i hunted for months for you, and never found a trace. then i wrote--there." "you did!" "yes, i did--say what you please, do what you please. it was my only hope, and i took it. i told her i was hunting for you--and my purpose. in return i got only this," and he handed toward genesee a sheet of paper with one line written across it. "you see--your address, nothing more. but, jack, can't you see it would not have been sent if she had not wished--" "that's enough!" broke in the other. "i reckon i've given you all the time i have to spare this morning, mister. you're likely to strike better luck in some different direction than talking sentiment and the state of your feelings to me. i've been acquainted with them before--pretty much--and don't recollect that the effect was healthy." "jack, you will do what i ask?" "not this morning, sonny," answered the other, still with that altogether aggressive taunt in his tone. "i would go back to the ranch if i was you, and by this time to-morrow some of them may make you forget the favor you want this morning. so long!" and with this suggestion to his guest to vacate, he turned his back, sat down by the fire, and began filling a pipe. "all right; i'll go, and in spite of your stubbornness, with a lighter heart than i carried here, for i've made you understand that i want to make amends, and that i have not been all a liar; that i want to win back the old faith you all had in me; and, jack, if my head has gone wrong, something in my heart forbade me to have content, and that has been my only hope for myself. for i have a hope, and a determination, jack, and as for anyone helping me to forget--well, you are wrong there; one woman might do it--for a while--i acknowledge that, but i am safe in knowing she would rather help me to remember." genesee wheeled about quickly. "have you dared--" "no, i have not told her, if that is what you mean; why--why should i?" his denial weakened a little as he remembered how closely his impulse had led him to it, and how strong, though reasonless, that impulse had been. the stem of the pipe snapped in genesee's fingers as he arose, pushing the camp-stool aside with his foot, as if clearing space for action. "since you own up that there's someone about here that you--you've taken a fancy to--damn you!--i'm going to tell you right now that you've got to stop that! you're no more fit than i am to speak to her, or ask for a kind word from her, and i give you a pointer that if you try playing fast and loose with her, there'll be a committee of one to straighten out the case, and do it more completely than that man did who was a fool ten years ago. now, hearken to that--will you?" and then, without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the shack, slamming the door after him, and leaving his visitor in possession. "i've got to show him, by staying right in these hills, that i am in earnest," stuart decided, taking the seat his host had kicked aside, and stretching his feet out to the fire. "no use in arguing or pleading with him--there never was. but give him his own lead, and he will come around to the right point of view, though he may curse me up hill and down dale while he is doing it; a queer, queer fellow--god bless him! and how furious he was about that girl! those two are a sort of david and jonathan in their defense of each other, and yet never exchange words if they can help it--that's queer, too--it would be hard telling which of them is the more so. little need to warn any man away from her, however; she is capable of taking very good care of herself." there was certainly more than one woman at the ranch; but to hear the speech of those two men, one would have doubted it; for neither had thought it necessary even to mention her name. chapter x. the telling of a story. "but you promised! yes, you did, mr. stuart--didn't he, mrs. hardy? there, that settles it; so you see this is your evening to tell a story." the protracted twilight, with its cool grays and purples, had finally faded away over the snow, long after the stars took up their watch for the night. the air was so still and so chill that the bugle-call at sunset had sounded clearly along the little valley from camp, and fred thought the nearness of sound made a house seem so much more home-like. after the bugle notes and the long northern twilight, had come the grouping of the young folks about the fire, and fred's reminder that this was to be a "story" night. "but," declared stuart, "i can think of none, except a very wonderful one of an old lady who lived in a shoe, and another of a house marvelously constructed by a gentleman called jack--" here a clamor arose from the rebels in the audience, and from fred the proposal that he should read or tell them of what he was working on at present, and gaining at last his consent. "but i must bring down some notes in manuscript," he added, "as part of it is only mapped out, and my memory is treacherous." "i will go and get them," offered fred. "no, don't you go! i'm afraid to let you out of the room, lest you may remember some late business at camp and take french leave. is the manuscript on the table in your room? i'll bring it." and scarcely waiting either assent or remonstrance, she ran up the stairs, returning immediately with hands full of loose sheets and two rolls of manuscript. "i confiscated all there was in reach," she laughed. "here they are; you pay no money, and you take your choice." she was such a petite, pretty little creature, her witchy face alight with the confidence of pleasure to come; and looking down at her, he remarked: "you look so much a spirit of inspiration, miss fred, that you had better not make such a sweeping offer, lest i might be tempted to choose you." "and have a civil war on your hands," warned rachel, "with the whole camp in rebellion." "not much; they don't value me so highly," confessed fred. "they would all be willing to give me away." "a willingness only seconded by your own." this from the gallant lieutenant on the settee. "my child, this is not leap-year, and in the absence of your parent i--" "yes, i know. but as captain holt commands in papa's absence, i don't see what extra responsibility rests on your shoulders. now, mr. stuart, all quiet along the kootenai; go ahead." "not an easy thing to do," he answered ruefully, trying to sort the jumbled lot of papers she had brought him, and beginning by laying the rolls of manuscript on the table back of him, as if disposing of them. "you have seized on several things that we could not possibly wade through in one evening, but here is the sketch i spoke of. it is of camp-life, by the way, and so open to criticism from you two veterans. it was suggested by a story i heard told at the fort." just then a wild screech of terror sounded from the yard, and then an equally wild scramble across the porch. everyone jumped to their feet, but rachel reached the door first, just as aunty luce, almost gray from terror, floundered in. "they's come!" she panted, in a sort of paralysis of fright and triumph of prophecy. "i done tole all you chillen! injuns! right here--i seed 'em!" hardy reached for his gun, the others doing the same; but the girl at the door had darted out into the darkness. "rachel!" screamed tillie, but no rachel answered. even hardy's call was not heeded; and he followed her with something like an oath on his lips, and stuart at his elbow. outside, it seemed very dark after the brightness within, and they stopped on the porch an instant to guide themselves by sound, if there was any movement. there was--the least ominous of sounds--a laugh. the warlike attitude of all relaxed somewhat, for it was so high and clear that it reached even those within doors; and then, outlined against the background of snow, stuart and hardy could see two forms near the gate--a tall and a short one, and the shorter one was holding to the sleeve of the other and laughing. "you and aunty luce are a fine pair of soldiers," she was saying; "both beat a retreat at the first glimpse of each other. and you can't leave after upsetting everyone like this; you must come in the house and reassure them. come on!" some remonstrance was heard, and at the sound of the voice hardy stepped out. "hello, genesee!" he said, with a good deal of relief in his manner; "were you the scarecrow? come in to the light, till we make sure we're not to be scalped." after a few words with the girl that the others could not hear, he walked beside her to the porch. "i'm mighty sorry, hardy," he said as they met. "i was a little shaky about mowitza to-day, and reckoned i'd better make an extra trip over; but i didn't count on kicking up a racket like this--didn't even spot the woman till she screeched and run." "that's all right," said hardy reassuringly. "i'm glad you came, whether intentionally or by accident. you know i told you the other day--" "yes--i know." rachel and stuart had entered the house ahead of them, and all had dropped back into their chosen points of vantage for the evening when assurance was given that the indians belonged to aunty's imagination; but for those short seconds of indecision tillie had realized, as never before, that they were really within the lines of the indian country. aunty luce settled herself sulkily in the corner, a grotesque figure, with an injured air, eyeing genesee with a suspicion not a whit allayed when she recognized the man who had brought the first customs of war to them--taking nocturnal possession of the best room. "no need tell me he's a friend o' you all!" she grunted. "nice sort o' friend you's comin' to, i say--lives with injuns; reckon i heard--umph!" this was an aside to tillie, who was trying to keep her quiet, and not succeeding very well, much to the amusement of the others within hearing, especially fred. genesee had stopped in the outer room, speaking with hardy; and, standing together on the hearth, in the light of the fire, it occurred to the group in the other room what a fine pair they made--each a piece of physical perfection in his way. "a pair of typical frontiersmen," said murray, and miss fred was pleased to agree, and add some praise on her own account. "why, that man genesee is really handsome," she whispered; "he isn't scowling like sin, as he was when i saw him before. ask him in here, mrs. tillie; i like to look at him." mrs. tillie had already made a movement toward him. perhaps the steady, questioning gaze of rachel had impelled her to follow what was really her desire, only--why need the man be so flagrantly improper? tillie had a great deal of charity for black sheep, but she believed in their having a corral to themselves, and not allowing them the chance of smutching the spotless flocks that have had good luck and escaped the mire. she was a good little woman, a warm-hearted one; and despite her cool condemnation of his wickedness when he was absent, she always found herself, in his presence, forgetting all but their comradeship of that autumn, and greeting him with the cordiality that belonged to it. "i shall pinch myself for this in the morning," she prophesied, even while she held out her hand and reminded him that he had been a long time deciding about making them a visit. her greeting was much warmer than her farewell had been the morning he left--possibly because of the relief in finding it was not a "hostile" at their gate. and he seemed more at ease, less as if he need to put himself on the defensive--an attitude that had grown habitual to him, as it does to many who live against the rulings of the world. she walked ahead of him into the other room, thus giving him no chance to object had he wanted to; and after a moment's hesitation he followed her, and noticed, without seeming to look at any of them, that rachel stood back of stuart's chair, and that stuart was looking at him intently, as if for recognition. on the other side, he saw the lieutenant quietly lay his hand on miss fred's wrist that was in shadow, just as she arose impulsively to offer her hand to the man whom she found was handsome when he had the aid of a razor. a beard of several weeks' growth had covered his face at their first meeting; now there was only a heavy mustache left. but she heeded that silent pressure of the wrist more than she would a spoken word, and instead of the proffered hand there was a little constrained smile of recognition, and a hope given that aunty luce had not upset his nerves with her war-cries. he saw it all the moment he was inside the door--the refined face of stuart, with the graciousness of manner so evidently acceptable to all, the sheets of manuscript still in his fingers, looking as he stood there like the ruling spirit of the cheery circle; and just outside that circle, though inside the door, he--genesee--stood alone, the fact sharply accented by miss fred's significant movement; and with the remembrance of the fact came the quick, ever-ready spirit of bravado, and his head was held a trifle higher as he smiled down at her in apparent unconcern. "if it is going to make aunty luce feel more comfortable to have company, i'm ready to own up that my hair raised the hat off my head at first sight of her--isn't quite settled into place yet;" and he ran his fingers through the mass of thick, dark hair. "how's that, aunty?" "umph!" she grunted, crouching closer to the wall, and watching him distrustfully from the extreme corner of her eye. "have you ever been scared so badly you couldn't yell, aunty?" he asked, with a bland disregard of the fact that she was just then in danger of roasting herself on the hearth for the purpose of evading him. "no? that's the way you fixed me a little while back, sure enough. i was scared too badly to run, or they never would have caught me." the only intelligible answer heard from her was: "go 'long, you!" he did not "go 'long." on the contrary, he wheeled about in tillie's chair, and settled himself as if that corner was especially attractive, and he intended spending the evening in it--a suggestion that was a decided surprise to all, even to rachel, remembering his late conservatism. stuart was the only one who realized that it was perhaps a method of proving by practical demonstration the truth of his statement that he was a pariah among the class who received the more refined character with every welcome. it was a queer thing for a man to court slights, but once inside the door, his total unconcern of that which had been a galling mortification to him was a pretty fair proof of stuart's theory. he talked indian wars to hardy, and indian love-songs to hardy's wife. he coolly turned his attention to lieutenant murray, with whom his acquaintance was the slightest, and from the lieutenant to miss fred, who was amused and interested in what was, to her, a new phase of a "squaw man;" and her delight was none the less keen because of the ineffectual attempts in any way to suppress this very irregular specimen, whose easy familiarity was as silencing as his gruff curtness had been the day they met him first. beyond an occasional remark, his notice was in no way directed to rachel--in fact, he seemed to avoid looking at her. he was much more interested in the other two ladies, who by degrees dropped into a cordiality on a par with that of aunty luce; and he promptly took advantage of it by inviting miss fred to go riding with him in the morning. the man's impudence and really handsome face gave fred a wicked desire to accept, and horrify the lieutenant and tillie; but one glance at that little matron told her it would not do. "i have an engagement to ride to-morrow," she said rather hurriedly, "else--" "else i should be your cavalier," he laughed. "ah, well, there are more days coming. i can wait." a dead silence followed, in which rachel caught the glance genesee turned on stuart--a smile so mirthless and with so much of bitter irony in it that it told her plainly as words that the farce they had sat through was understood by those two men, if no others; and, puzzled and eager to break the awkward silence, she tried to end it by stepping into the breach. "you have totally forgotten the story you were to tell us," she said, pointing to the sheets of manuscript in stuart's hand; "if we are to have it to-night, why not begin?" "certainly; the story, by all means," echoed fred. "we had it scared out of our heads, i guess, but our nerves are equal to it now. are you fond of stories, mr.--mr. genesee?" "uncommonly." "well, mr. stuart was about to read us one just as you came in: one he wrote since he came up in these wilds--at the fort, didn't you say, mr. stuart? you know," she added, turning again to genesee--"you know mr. stuart is a writer--a romancer." "yes," he answered slowly, looking at the subject of their discourse as if examining something rare and curious; "i should reckon--he--might be." the contempt in the tone sent the hot blood to stuart's face, his eyes glittering as ominously as genesee's own would in anger. an instant their gaze met in challenge and retort, and then the sheets of paper were laid deliberately aside. "i believe, after all, i will read you something else," he said, reaching for one of the rolls of manuscript on the table; "that is, with your permission. it is not a finished story, only the prologue. i wrote it in the south, and thought i might find material for the completion of it up here; perhaps i may." "let us have that, by all means," urged tillie. "what do you call it?" "i had not thought of a title, as the story was scarcely written with the idea of publication. the theme, however, which is pretty fairly expressed in the quotation at the beginning, may suggest a title. i will leave that to my audience." "and we will all put on our thinking-caps and study up a title while you tell the story, and when it is ended, see which has the best one to offer. it will be a new sort of game with which to test our imaginations. go on. what is the quotation, to begin with?" to the surprise of the listeners, he read that old command from deuteronomy, written of brother to brother: "thou shalt not see thy brother's ox or his sheep go astray; thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy brother. "and with all lost things of thy brother's, which he hath lost and thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise. "in any case thou shalt deliver him the pledge again when the sun goeth down." stuart ceased after those lines, and looked for comment. he saw enough in the man's face opposite him. "oh, go on," said rachel. "never mind about the suggestions in that heading--it is full of them; give us the story." "it is only the prologue to a story," he reminded her; and with no further comment began the manuscript. its opening was that saddest of all things to the living--a death-bed--and that most binding of all vows--a promise given to the dying. there was drawn the picture of a fragile, fair little lady, holding in her chilling fingers the destiny of the lives she was about to leave behind--young lives--one a sobbing, wondering girl of ten, and two boys; the older perhaps eighteen, an uncouth, strong-faced youth, who clasped hands with another boy several years younger, but so fair that few would think them brothers, and only the more youthful would ever have been credited as the child of the little woman who looked so like a white lily. the other was the elder son--an esau, however, who was favorite with neither father nor mother; with no one, in fact, who had ever known the sunny face and nature of the more youthful--an impulsive, loving disposition that only shone the brighter by contrast with the darker-faced, undemonstrative one whom even his mother never understood. and the shadow of that misunderstanding was with them even at the death-bed, where the jacob sobbed out his grief in passionate protests against the power that would rob him, and the esau stood like a statue to receive her commands. back of them was the father, smothering his own grief and consoling his favorite, when he could, and the one witness to the seal that was set on the three young lives. her words were not many--she was so weak--but she motioned to the girl beside the bed. "i leave her to you," she said, looking at them both, but the eyes, true to the feeling back of them, wandered to the fairer face and rested there. "the old place will belong to you two ere many years--your father will perhaps come after me;" and she glanced lovingly toward the man whom all the world but herself had found cold and hard in nature. "i promised long ago--when her mother died--that she should always have a home, and now i have to leave the trust to you, my sons." "we will keep it," said the steady voice of esau, as he sat like an automaton watching her slowly drifting from them; while jacob, on his knees, with his arms about her, was murmuring tenderly, as to a child, that all should be as she wished--her trust was to be theirs always. "and if either of you should fail or forget, the other must take the care on his own shoulders. promise me that too, because--" the words died away in a whisper, but her eyes turned toward the esau. he knew too bitterly what it meant. though only a boy, he was a wild one--people said a bad one. his father had pronounced him the only one of their name who was not a gentleman. he gambled and he drank; his home seemed the stables, his companions, fast horses and their fast masters; and in the eyes of his mother he read, as never before, the effect that life had produced. his own mother did not dare trust the black sheep of the family, even though he promised at her death-bed. a wild, half-murderous hate arose in him at the knowledge--a hate against his elegant, correctly mannered father, whose cold condemnation had long ago barred him out from his mother's sympathy, until even at her death-bed he felt himself a stranger--his little mother--and he had worshiped her as the faithful do their saints, and like them, afar off. but even the hate for his father was driven back at the sight of the wistful face, and the look that comes to eyes but once. "we promise--i promise that, so help me god!" he said earnestly, and then bent forward for the first time, his voice breaking as he spoke. "mother! mother! say just once that you trust--that you believe in me!" her gaze was still on his face; it was growing difficult to move the eyes at will, and the very intensity of his own feelings may have held her there. her eyes widened ever so little, as if at some revelation born to her by that magnetism, and then--"my boy, i trust--" the words again died in a whisper; and raising his head with a long breath of relief, he saw his father drop on his knees by the younger son. their arms were about each other and about her. a few broken, disjointed whispers; a last smile upward, beyond them, a soft, sighing little breath, after which there was no other, and then the voice of the boy, irrepressible in his grief, as his love, broke forth in passionate despair, and was soothed by his father, who led him sobbing and rebellious from the bedside--both in their sorrow forgetting that third member of the family who sat so stoically through it all, until the little girl, their joint trust, half-blind with her own tears, saw him there so still and as pathetically alone as the chilling clay beside him. trying to say some comforting words, she spoke to him, but received no answer. she had always been rather afraid of this black sheep--he was so morose about the house, and made no one love him except the horses; but the scene just past drew her to him for once without dread. "brother," she whispered, calling him by the name his mother had left her; "dear brother, don't you sit there like that;" and a vague terror came to her as he made no sign. "you--you frighten me." she slipped her hand about his neck with a child's caressing sympathy, and then a wild scream brought the people hurrying into the room. "he is dead!" she cried, as she dropped beside him; "sitting there cold as stone, and we thought he didn't care! and he is dead--dead!" but he was not dead--the physician soon assured them of that. it was only a cataleptic fit. the emotion that had melted the one brother to tears had frozen the other into the closest semblance to stone that life can reach, and still be life. the silence was thrilling as stuart's voice ceased, and he stooped for the other pages laid by his chair. a feeling that the story on paper could never convey was brought to every listener by the something in his voice that was not tears, but suggested the emotion back of tears. they had always acknowledged the magnetism of the man, but felt that he was excelling himself in this instance. tillie and fred were silently crying. rachel was staring very steadily ahead of her, too steadily to notice that the hand laid on genesee's revolver at the commencement of the story had gradually relaxed and dropped listless beside him. all the strength in his body seemed to creep into his eyes as he watched stuart, trusting as much to his eyes as his ears for the complete comprehension of the object in or back of that story. in the short pause the author, with one sweeping glance, read his advantage--that he was holding in the bonds of sympathy this man whom he could never conquer through an impersonal influence. the knowledge was a ten-fold inspiration--the point to be gained was so great to him; and with his voice thrilling them all with its intensity, he read on and on. the story? its finish was the beginning of this one; but it was told with a spirit that can not be transmitted by ink and paper, for the teller depended little on his written copy. he knew it by heart--knew all the tenderness of a love-story in it that was careless of the future as the butterflies that coquette on a summer's day, passing and repassing with a mere touch of wings, a challenge to a kiss, and then darting hither and yon in the chase that grows laughing and eager, until each flash of white wings in the sun bears them high above the heads of their comrades, as the divine passion raises all its votaries above the commonplace. close and closer they are drawn by the spirit that lifts them into a new life; high and higher, until against the blue sky there is a final flash of white wings. it is the wedding by a kiss, and the coquettings are over--the sky closes in. they are a world of their own. such a love story of summer was told by him in the allegory of the butterflies; but the young heart throbbing through it was that of the woman-child who had wept while the two brothers had clasped hands and accepted her as the trust of the dying; and her joyous teacher of love had been the fair-haired, fine-faced boy whose grief had been so great and whose promises so fervent. it is a very old story, but an ever-pathetic one--that tragedy of life; and likewise this one, without thought of sin, with only a fatal fondness on her part, a fatal desire for being loved on his, and a season's farewell to be uttered, of which they could speak no word--the emotions that have led to more than one tragedy of soul. and one of the butterflies in this one flitted for many days through the flowers of her garden, shy, yet happy, whispering over and over, "his wife, his wife!" while traveling southward, the other felt a passion of remorse in his heart, and resolved on multitudinous plans for the following of a perfection of life in the future. all this he told--too delicately to give offense, yet too unsparingly not to show that the evil wrought in a moment of idle pastime, of joyous carelessness, is as fatal in its results as the most deliberate act of preconceived wickedness. and back of the lives and loves of those two, with their emotional impulses and joyous union of untutored hearts, there arose, unloved and seemingly unloving, the quiet, watchful figure of the esau. looking at his life from a distance, and perhaps through eyes of remorse, the writer had idealized that one character, while he had only photographed the others; had studied out the deeds back of every decided action, and discovered, or thought he had, that it was the lack of sympathy in his home-life had made a sort of human porcupine of him, and none had guessed that, back of the keen darts, there beat a pulse hungry for words such as he begged from his mother at the last--and receiving, was ready to sacrifice every hope of his, present or future, that he might prove himself worthy of the trust she had granted him, though so late. something in the final ignoring of self and the taking on his own shoulders the responsibilities of those two whom his mother had loved--something in all that, made him appear a character of heroic proportions, viewed from stuart's point of view. he walked through those pages as a live thing, the feeling in the author's voice testifying to his own earnestness in the portrayal--an earnestness that seemed to gain strength as he went along, and held his listeners with convincing power until the abrupt close of the scene between those two men in the old new orleans house. everyone felt vaguely surprised and disturbed when he finished--it was all so totally unlike stuart's stories with which he had entertained them before. they were unprepared for the emotions provoked; and there was in it, and in the reading, a suggestion of something beyond all that was told. the silence was so long that stuart himself was the first to lift his eyes to those opposite, and tried to say carelessly: "well?" his face was pale, but not more so than that of genesee, who, surprised in that intent gaze, tried to meet his eyes steadily, but failed, faltered, wavered, and finally turned to rachel, as if seeking in some way his former assurance. and what he saw there was the reaching out of her hand until it touched stuart's shoulder with a gesture of approving comradeship. "good!" she said tersely; "don't ever again talk of writing for pastime--the character of that one man is enough to be proud of." "but there are two men," said fred, finding her voice again, with a sense of relief; "which one do you mean?" "no," contradicted rachel, with sharp decision; "i can see only one--the esau." stuart shrank a little under her hand, not even thanking her for the words of praise; and, to her surprise, it was genesee who answered her, his eyes steady enough, except when looking at the author of the story. "don't be too quick about playing judge," he suggested; and the words took her back like a flash to that other time when he had given her the same curt advice. "may be that boy had some good points that are not put down there. maybe he might have had plans about doing the square thing, and something upset them; or--or he might have got tangled up in a lariat he wasn't looking for. it's just natural bad luck some men have of getting tangled up like that; and may be he--this fellow--" fred broke out laughing at his reasoning for the defense. "why, mr. genesee," she said gleefully, "an audience of you would be an inspiration to an author or actor; you are talking about the man as if he was a flesh and blood specimen, instead of belonging to mr. stuart's imagination." "yes, i reckon you're right, miss," he said, rising to his feet, with a queer, half-apologetic smile; "you see, i'm not used to hearing folks read--romances." but the insolent sarcasm with which he had spoken of the word at first was gone. the others had all regained their tongues, or the use of them, and comment and praise were given the author--not much notice taken of genesee's opinion and protest. his theories of the character might be natural ones; but his own likelihood for entanglements, to judge by his reputation, was apt to prejudice him, rendering him unduly charitable toward any other fellow who was unlucky. "my only objection to it," said tillie, "is that there is not enough of it. it seems unfinished." "well, he warned us in the beginning that it was only a prologue," reminded her husband; "but there is a good deal in it, too, for only a prologue--a good deal." "for my part," remarked the lieutenant, "i don't think i should want anything added to it. just as it stands, it proves the characters of the two men. if it was carried further, it might gain nothing, and leave nothing for one's imagination." "i had not thought of that," said stuart; "in fact, it was only written to help myself in analyzing two characters i had in my head, and could not get rid of until i put them on paper. authors are haunted by such ghosts sometimes. it is miss fred's fault that i resurrected this one to-night--she thrust on me the accidental remembrance." "there are mighty few accidents in the world," was genesee's concise statement, as he pulled on his heavy buckskin gloves. "i'm about to cut for camp. going?" this to the lieutenant. after that laconic remark on accidents, no further word or notice was exchanged between stuart and genesee; but it was easily seen that the story read had smoothed out several wrinkles of threatened discord and discontent. it had at least tamed the spirit of the scout, and left him more the man rachel knew in him. her impatience at his manner early in the evening disappeared as he showed improvement; and just before they left, she crossed over to him, asking something of the snows on the scot mountain trail, his eyes warming at the directness of her speech and movement, showing to any who cared to notice that she spoke to him as to a friend; but his glance turned instinctively from her to stuart. he remembered watching them that day as they rode from camp. "but what of davy?" she repeated; "have you heard any word of him?" "no, and i'm ashamed to say it," he acknowledged; "i haven't been to see him at all since i got back. i've had a lot of things in my head to keep track of, and didn't even send. i'll do it, though, in a day or so--or else go myself." "i'm afraid he may be sick. if the snow is not bad, it's a wonder he has not been down. i believe i will go." "i don't like you to go over those trails alone," he said in a lower tone; "not just now, at any rate." "why not now?" "well, you know these indian troubles may bring queer cattle into the country. the kootenai tribe would rather take care of you than do you harm; but--well, i reckon you had better keep to the ranch." "and you don't reckon you can trust me to tell me why?" she said in a challenging way. "it mightn't do any good. i don't know, you see, that it is really dangerous, only i'd rather you'd keep on the safe side; and--and--don't say i can't trust you. i'd trust you with my life--yes, more than that, if i had it!" his voice was not heard by the others, who were laughing and chatting, it was so low; but its intensity made her step back, looking up at him. "don't look as if i frighten you," he said quickly; "i didn't come in here for that. you shouldn't have made me come, anyway--i belong to the outside; coming in only helps me remember it." "so that was what put you in such a humor. i thought it was stuart." "you did?" "yes; i know you don't like him--but, i think you are prejudiced." "oh, you do?" and she saw the same inscrutable smile on his face that she had noticed when he looked at stuart. "there--there," she laughed, throwing up her hand as if to check him, "don't tell me again that i am too anxious to judge people; but he is a good fellow." "and you are a good girl," he said warmly, looking down at her with so much feeling in his face that stuart, glancing toward them, was startled into strange conjectures at the revelation in it. it was the first time he had ever seen them talking together. "and you're a plucky girl, too," added genesee, "else you wouldn't stand here talking to me before everyone. i'll remember it always of you. tillikum, good-night." part fourth one squaw man chapter i. lamonti. the next morning awoke with the balmy air of spring following the sunrise over the snow--a fair, soft day, with treachery back of its smiles; for along in the afternoon the sky gathered in gray drifts, and the weather-wise prophesied a big snow-fall. all the morning genesee wrote. one page after another was torn up, and it was the middle of the afternoon before he finally finished the work to his satisfaction, did it up in a flat, square package, and having sealed it securely, called kalitan. "you take this to the express office at the station," he said; "get a paper for it--receipt; then go to holland's--to the bank store; give them this," and he handed a slip of written paper. "if they give you letter, keep it carefully--so," and he took from his shirt-pocket a rubber case the size of an ordinary envelope. evidently kalitan had carried it before, for he opened a rather intricate clasp and slipped the bit of paper into it. "all good--not get wet," he said, picking up the larger package. "the arrow fly down; come back how soon?" "send this," pointing to the package, "the first thing in the morning; then wait until night for the stage from pacific that brings the mail--may be if road is bad it will not come till next morning." "kalitan wait?" "yes, wait till the stage comes, then ask for letter, and keep your eyes open; watch for bad whites. klahowya!" watching kalitan start off with that package, he drew a long breath of relief, like a man who had laid down some burden; and leaving the avenue and the camp behind, he struck out over the trail toward hardy's, not even stopping to saddle a horse. he was going to have a "wau-wau" with mowitza. he had barely entered the stable door when tillie came across the yard, with a shawl thrown over her head and looking disturbed. "oh, is it you, mr. genesee?" she said, with a little sigh of disappointment; "i thought it was hen or one of the others come back. did you meet them?" "yes; going up the west valley after stock." "the west valley! then they won't get back before dark, and i--i don't know what to do!" and the worried look reached utter despair as she spoke. "what's up? i can ride after them if you say so." "i don't know what to say. i should have told hen at noon; but i knew it would put him out of patience with rachel, and i trusted to her getting back all right; but now, if the snow sets in quickly, and it threatens to, she may get lost, and i--" "where is she?" "gone to scot's mountain." an energetic expletive broke from his lips, unchecked even by the presence of the little woman who had seemed a sort of madonna to him in the days a year old. the madonna did not look much shocked. she had an idea that the occasion was a warrant for condemnation, and she felt rather guilty herself. "one of the kootenai tribe came here this morning, and after jabbering chinook with him, she told me davy macdougall was sick, and she was going to ride up there. hen was out, and she wouldn't listen to miss fred and me--just told us to keep quiet and not tell him where she was, and that she would get back for supper; so we haven't said a word; and now the snow is coming, she may get lost." tillie was almost in tears; it was easy to see she was terribly frightened, and very remorseful for keeping rachel's command to say nothing to hardy. "did that indian go with her?" "no; and she started him back first, up over that hill, to be sure he would not go over to the camp. i can't see what her idea was for that." genesee could--it was to prevent him from knowing she was going up into the hills despite his caution. "there is not a man left on the place, except jim," continued tillie, "or i would send them after her. but jim does not know the short-cut trail that i've heard rachel speak of, and he might miss her in the hills; and--oh, dear! oh, dear!" genesee reached to the wooden peg where his saddle hung, and threw it across mowitza's back. in a moment tillie understood what it meant, and felt that, capable as he might be, he was not the person she should send as guardian for a young girl. to be sure, he had once before filled that position, and brought her in safety; but that was before his real character was known. tillie thought of what the rest would say, of what stuart would think for she had already bracketed rachel and stuart in her match-making calendar. she was between several fires of anxiety and indecision, as she noted the quick buckling of straps and the appropriation of two blankets from the hanging shelf above them. "are you--can you get someone to go for me--from the camp?" she asked hurriedly. he turned and looked at her with a smile in his eyes. "i reckon so," he answered briefly; and then, seeing her face flushed and embarrassed, the smile died out as he felt what her thoughts were. "who do you want?" he added, leading mowitza out and standing beside her, ready to mount. she did not even look up. she felt exactly as she had when she told hen that she knew she was right, and yet felt ashamed of herself. "i thought if you could spare kalitan--" she hesitated. "she knows him, and he has been with her so often up there, no one else would know so well where to look for her--that is, if you could spare him," she added helplessly. "the chances are that i can," he said in a business-like way; "and if i was you i'd just keep quiet about the trip, or else tell them she has an indian guide--and she will have. can you give me a bottle of brandy and some biscuits?" she ran into the house, and came back with them at once. he was mounted and a-waiting her. "kalitan has left the camp--gone over that hill;" and he motioned rather vaguely toward the ridge across the valley. "i'll just ride over and start him from there, so he won't need to go back to camp for rations. don't you worry; just keep quiet, and she'll come back all right with kalitan." he turned without further words, and rode away through the soft flakes of snow that were already beginning to fall. he did not even say a good-bye; and tillie, hedged in by her convictions and her anxiety, let him go without even a word of thanks. "i simply did not dare to say 'thank you' to him," she thought, as he disappeared. and then she went into the house and eased fred's heart and her own conscience with the statement that kalitan, the best guide rachel could have, had gone to meet her. she made no mention of the objectionable character who had sent kalitan. by the time of sunset, scot's mountain was smothered in the white cloud that had closed over it so suddenly, and the snow was still falling straight down, and so steadily that one could not retrace steps and find tracks ten minutes after they were made. through the banked-up masses a white-coated unrecognizable individual plowed his way to macdougall's door, and without ceremony opened it and floundered in, carrying with him what looked enough snow to smother a man; but his eyes were clear of it, and a glance told him the cabin had but one occupant. "when did she leave?" was the salutation macdougall received, after a separation of six weeks. "why, jack, my lad!" "yes, that's who it is, and little time to talk. has she been here?" "the lass--rachel? she has that--a sight for sore eyes--and set all things neat and tidy for me in no time;" and he waved his hand toward the clean-swept hearth, and the table with clean dishes, and a basket with a loaf of new bread showing through. "but she did na stay long wi' me. the clouds were comin' up heavy, she said, and she must get home before the snow fell; an' it snows now?" "well, rather. can't you see out?" "i doubt na i've had a nap since she left;" and the old man raised himself stiffly from the bunk. "i got none the night, for the sore pain o' my back, but the lass helped me. she's a rare helpful one." "which trail did she take?" asked genesee impatiently. he saw the old man was not able to help him look for her, and did not want to alarm him; but to stand listening to comments when every minute was deepening the snow, and the darkness--well, it was a test to the man waiting. "i canna say for sure, but she spoke o' the trail through the maples being the quickest way home; likely she took it." genesee turned to the door with a gesture of despair. he had come that way and seen no sign of her; but the trail wound above gulches where a misstep was fatal, and where a horse and rider could be buried in the depths that day and leave no trace. at the door he stopped and glanced at davy macdougall, and then about the cabin. "are you fixed all right here in case of being snowed in?" he asked. "i am that--for four weeks, if need be; but does it look like that out?" "pretty much. good-bye, davy;" and he walked back and held out his hand to the old man, who looked at him wonderingly. though their friendship was earnest, they were never demonstrative, and genesee usually left with a careless klahowya! "why, lad--" "i'm going to look for her, davy. if i find her, you'll hear of it; if i don't, tell the cursed fools at the ranch that i--that i sent a guide who would give his life for her. good-bye, old fellow--good-bye." down over the mountain he went, leading mowitza, and breaking the path ahead of her--slow, slow work. at that rate of travel, it would be morning before he could reach the ranch; and he must find her first. he found he could have made more speed with snow-shoes and without mowitza--the snow was banking up so terribly. the valley was almost reached when a queer sound came to him through the thick veil of white that had turned gray with coming night. mowitza heard it, too, for she threw up her head and answered it with a long whinny, even before her master had decided what the noise was; but it came again, and then he had no doubt it was the call of a horse, and it was somewhere on the hill above him. he fastened mowitza to a tree, and started up over the way he had come, stopping now and then to call, but hearing no answer--not even from the horse, that suggested some phantom-like steed that had passed in the white storm. suddenly, close to him, he heard a sound much more human--a whistle; and in a moment he plunged in that direction, and almost stumbled over a form huddled against a fallen tree. he could not see her face. he did not need to. she was in his arms, and she was alive. that was enough. but she lay strangely still for a live woman, and he felt in his pocket for that whisky-flask; a little of the fiery liquor strangled her, but aroused her entirely. "jack?" "yes." "i knew if i called long enough you would come; but i can only whisper now. you came just in time." "how long have you been here?" "oh, hours, i think. i started for the gulch trail, and couldn't make it with snow on the ground. then i tried for the other trail, but got lost in the snow--couldn't even find the cabin. help me up, will you? i guess i'm all right now." she was not, quite, for she staggered woefully; and he caught her quickly to him and held her with one arm, while he fumbled for some matches with the other. "you're a healthy-looking specimen," was the rather depreciating verdict he gave at sight of the white, tired face. she smiled from the pillow of his shoulder, but did not open her eyes; then the match flickered and went out, and he could see her no more. "why didn't you stay at home, as i told you to?" "didn't want to." "don't you know i'm likely to catch my death of cold tramping here after you?" "no," with an intonation that sounded rather heartless; "you never catch cold." the fact that she had not lost her old spirit, if she had her voice, was a great point in her favor, and he had a full appreciation of it. she was tired out, and hoarse, but still had pluck enough to attempt the trip to the ranch. "we've got to make it," she decided, when the subject was broached; "we can make it to-night as well as to-morrow, if you know the trail. did you say you had some biscuits? well, i'm hungry." "you generally are," he remarked, with a dryness in no way related to the delight with which he got the biscuits for her and insisted on her swallowing some more of the whisky. "are you cold?" "no--not a bit; and that seems funny, too. if it hadn't been such a soft, warm snow, i should have been frozen." he left her and went to find the mare, which he did without much trouble; and in leading her back over the little plateau he was struck with a sense of being on familiar ground. it was such a tiny little shelf jutting out from the mountain. swathed in snow as it was, and with the darkness above it, he felt so confident that he walked straight out to where the edge should be if he was right. yes, there was the sudden shelving that left the little plot inaccessible from one side. "do you know where we are, my girl?" he asked as he rejoined her. "somewhere on scot's mountain," she hazarded; the possessive term used by him had a way of depriving her of decided opinions. "you're just about the same place where you watched the sun come up once--may be you remember?" "yes." he had helped her up. they stood there silent what seemed a long time; then he spoke: "i've come here often since that time. it's been a sort of a church--one that no one likely ever set foot in but you and me." he paused as if in hesitation; then continued: "i've wished often i could see you here again in the same place, just because i got so fond of it; and i don't know what you think of it, but this little bit of the mountain has something witched in it for me. i felt in the dark when my feet touched it, and i have a fancy, after it's all over, to be brought up here and laid where we stood that morning." "jack," and her other hand was reached impulsively to his, "what's the matter--what makes you speak like that now?" "i don't know. the idea came strong to me back there, and i felt as if you--you--were the only one i could tell it to, for you know nearly all now--all the bad in me, too; yet you've never been the girl to draw away or keep back your hand if you felt i needed it. ah, my girl, you are one in a thousand!" he was speaking in the calmest, most dispassionate way, as if it was quite a usual thing to indulge in dissertations of this sort, with the snow slowly covering them. perhaps he was right in thinking the place witched. "you've been a good friend to me," he continued, "whether i was near or far--macdougall told me things that proved it; and if my time should come quick, as many a man's has in the indian country, i believe you would see i was brought here, where i want to be." "you may be sure of it," she said earnestly; "but i don't like to hear you talk like that--it isn't like you. you give me a queer, uncanny feeling. i can't see you, and i am not sure it is jack--nika tillikum--i am talking to at all. if you keep it up, you will have me nervous." he held her hand and drew it up to his throat, pressing his chin against the fingers with a movement that was as caressive as a kiss. "don't you be afraid," he said gently; "you are afraid of nothing else, and you must never be of me. come, come, my girl, if we're to go, we'd better be getting a move on." the prosaic suggestion seemed an interruption of his own tendencies, which were not prosaic. the girl slipped her fingers gently but decidedly from their resting-place so near his lips, and laid her one hand on his arm. "yes, we must be going, or"--and he knew she was smiling, though the darkness hid her--"or it will look as if there are two witched folks in our chapel--our white chapel--to-night. i'm glad we happened here, since the thought is any comfort to you; but i hope it will be many a day before you are brought here, instead of bringing yourself." he took her hand, and through the white masses turned their faces down the mountain. the mare followed meekly after. the stimulant of bread and whisky--and more, the coming of this man, of whom she was so stubbornly confident--had acted as a tonic to rachel, and she struggled through bravely, accepting little of help, and had not once asked how he came to be there instead of the ranchmen. perhaps it was because of their past association, and that one night together when he had carried her in his arms; but whatever he was to the other people, he had always seemed to her a sort of guardian of the hills and all lost things. she did not think of his presence there nearly so much as she did of those ideas of his that seemed "uncanny." he, such a bulwark of physical strength, to speak like that of a grave-site! it added one more to the contradictions she had seen in him. several things were in her mind to say to him, and not all of them pleasant. she had heard a little of the ideas current as to his indian sympathies, and the doubt with which he was regarded in camp; and, while she defended him, she many times felt vexed that he cared so little about defending himself. and with the memory of the night before, and feminine comments at the ranch after he had gone, she made an attempt to storm his stubbornness during a short breathing-spell when they rested against the great bole of a tree. "genesee, why don't you let the other folks at the ranch, or the camp, know you as i do?" was the first break, at which he laughed shortly. "they may know me the best of the two." "but they don't; i know they don't; you know they don't." "speak for yourself," he suggested; "i'm not sure either way, and when a man can't bet on himself, it isn't fair to expect his friends to. you've been the only one of them all to pin faith to me, with not a thing to prove that you had reason for it; it's just out-and-out faith, nothing else. what they think doesn't count, nor what i've been; but if ever i get where i can talk to you, you'll know, may be, how much a woman's faith can help a man when he's down. but don't you bother your head over what they think. if i'm any good, they'll know it sometime; if i'm not, you'll know that, too. that's enough said, isn't it? and we'd better break away from here; we're about the foot of the mountain, i reckon." then he took possession of her hand again, and led her on in the night; and she felt that her attempt had been a failure, except that it showed how closely he held her regard, and she was too human not to be moved by the knowledge. yes, he was very improper, as much so as most men, only it had happened to be in a way that was shocking to tenderfeet lucky enough to have families and homes as safeguards against evil. he was very disreputable, and, socially, a great gulf would be marked between them by their friends. but in the hills, where the universe dwindled to earth, sky, and two souls, they were but man and woman; and all the puzzling things about him that were blameful things melted away, as the snow that fell on their faces. she felt his strong presence as a guard about her, and without doubt or hesitation she kept pace beside him. once in the valley, she mounted betty, and letting mowitza follow, he walked ahead himself, to break the trail--a slow, slavish task, and the journey seemed endless. hour after hour went by in that slow march--scarcely a word spoken, save when rest was necessary; and the snow never ceased falling--a widely different journey from that other time when he had hunted and found her. "you have your own time finding the trail for me when i get lost," she said once, as he lifted her to the saddle after a short rest. "you did the same thing for me one day, a good while ago," he answered simply. the night had reached its greatest darkness, in the hours that presage the dawn, when they crossed the last ridge, and knew that rest was at last within comparatively easy reach. then for the first time, genesee spoke of his self-imposed search. "i reckon you know i'm an indian?" he said by way of preface. "i don't know anything of the sort." "but i am--a regular adopted son in the kootenai tribe, four years old; so if they ask you if an indian guide brought you home, you can tell them yes. do you see?" "yes, i see, but not the necessity. why should i not tell them you brought me?" "may be you know, and may be you don't, that i'm not supposed to range far from camp. kalitan was to go for you. kalitan had some other work, and sent a kootenai friend of his. the friend's name is lamonti. can you mind that? it means 'the mountain.' i come by it honest--it's a present grey eagle made me. if they ask questions about your guide, just put them off some way--tell them you don't know where he's gone to; and you won't. now, can you do that?" "i can, of course; but i don't like to have you leave like this. you must be half-dead, and i--jack, jack, what would i have done without you!" he was so close, in the darkness, that in throwing out her hand it touched his face, one of the trivial accidents that turn lives sometimes. he caught it, pressing it to his lips, his eyes, his cheek. "don't speak like that, unless you want to make a crazy man of me," he muttered. "i can't stand everything. god! girl, you'll never know, and i--can't tell you! for christ sake, don't act as if you were afraid--the only one who has ever had faith in me! i think that would wake up all the devil you helped put asleep once. here! give me your hand again, just once--just to show you trust me. i'll be worth it--i swear i will! i'll never come near you again!" the bonds under which he had held himself so long had broken at the touch of her hand and the impulsive tenderness of her appeal. through the half sob in his wild words had burst all the repressed emotions of desolate days and lonely nights, and the force of them thrilled the girl, half-stunned her, for she could not speak. a sort of terror of his broken, passionate speech had drawn her quickly back from him, and she seemed to live hours in that second of indecision. all her audacity and self-possession vanished as a bulwark of straws before a flood. her hands trembled, and a great compassion filled her for this alien by whose side she would have to stand against the world. that certainty it must have been that decided her, as it has decided many another woman, and ennobled many a love that otherwise would have been commonplace. and though her hands trembled, they trembled out toward him, and fell softly as a benediction on his upturned face. "i think you will come to me again," she said tremulously, as she leaned low from the saddle and felt tears as well as kisses on her hands, "and you are worth it now, i believe; worth more than i can give you." a half-hour later rachel entered the door of the ranch, and found several of its occupants sleepless and awaiting some tidings of her. in the soft snow they had not heard her arrival until she stepped on the porch. "i've been all night getting here," she said, glancing at the clock that told an hour near dawn, "and i'm too tired to talk; so don't bother me. see how hoarse i am. no; kalitan did not bring me. it was a kootenai called lamonti. i don't know where he has gone--wouldn't come in. just keep quiet and let me get to bed, will you?" chapter ii. a philosophical horse-thief. an hour before dawn the wind came, hurtling down through the mountains and moaning along the valleys; before it drove the flying snow in great chilly sheets, as it was lifted from the high places and spread in every nook that would warrant its safe-keeping. through its fitful gusts genesee walked into camp, his tracks filled by the eager flakes as he left them. there seemed a strange alertness about the place, for so early an hour--even through the commotion, blissful and despairing, in his own breast, he noticed it as the guard hailed him, and when he replied, he heard from that individual an excited exclamation of astonishment. "by jolly, if it ain't genesee!" "i reckon it is," he answered, and passed on, too tired, yet elated by his night's work, to care whether or not his absence had been commented on. the door of the shack had barely closed on him when one of the several lanterns that he had noticed floating like stars along the snow stopped at his door, then a knock, and the entrance of a very wide-awake looking corporal. "you are to report to captain holt at once," was the message he brought. "what's up?" and the boot that was half-way off was yanked on again. "that's all the message i was given." "the hell you say! well, trot along." his own frowning perplexity was no more decided than that of captain holt, as he looked up to notice the entrance of the scout--and there was little of friendliness in the look. "you sent a man to say you wanted me." "yes, i sent a man about two hours ago to say i wanted you," was the ironical reply. "you were not to be found. have you any report to make?" "not that i know of," he said curtly. a sort of quiet antagonism had always been felt between the chief of scouts and the new commander, but this was the first time any expression had been given it, and genesee's intolerance quickly responded to the manner of the officer that had in it both dislike and distrust. "then you refuse to tell me where you spent the night?" the light in genesee's eyes flashed sudden defiance. "yes; if it comes to that, and that's the way you put it, i do." "you had better think twice before you give that answer," advised captain holt, his face paling with anger at the insubordination; "and another question to be put to you is, where is the half-breed, your runner?" "i don't know as that concerns you, either," answered genesee coolly. "he is my indian, and neither of us belonging to the united states army, we can leave camp when it suits us. but i don't mind telling you i sent him to holland's yesterday." "for what purpose?" "my own business." "the same thing that took you from camp at three yesterday and kept you out all night?" "just so." "then, since you refuse to answer a very necessary question, you may--until i have an opportunity of investigating an absence that is, to say the least, suspicious--you may consider yourself under arrest." "what in--" "for horse-stealing," finished the captain calmly. genesee's hand dropped to his belt in a suggestive manner, and from the door two guards stepped forward. he turned to look at them, and the ridiculous idea of his arrest quelled the quick rage that had flashed up in his face. "you needn't have troubled yourself with these protectors," he remarked, "for i reckon there isn't much i'd want to do that they would stop me from; and as for you--this is a piece of dirty work for some end. i'm ready to be put under arrest, just to see some fun when your commander gets back. and now may be you'll just tell me whose horse i stole?" "it is not one horse, but one-half the stock belonging to the company, that was run off by your kootenai friends last night," replied captain holt grimly; "and as your disappearance was likely helpful to them, and a matter of mystery to the command, you will be debarred from visiting them again until the matter is investigated. even the explanation is more than your insolence deserves. you can go back to your quarters." "it's an infernal lie!" burst out genesee wrathfully. "no kootenai touched your stock. it's been some thieving blackfeet and their white friends; and if you interfere with the kootenais, and try to put it on their shoulders, you'll get yourself in trouble--big trouble." "when i want your advice, i will ask for it," was the natural reply to the contradiction and half threat. genesee walked to the door with the guards, and turning, came back. "captain holt," with more of appeal in manner than one would look for in him, "i'm ready to take my chances in this business, and i'm not trying to give advice, but i'm going to ask you, on the reputation you know i have in indian matters, to be mighty careful what you do or what you let the men do toward the kootenai people. they're only waiting the major's return to send word to camp that their arms and fighting braves are willing to help the troops against the blackfeet if they're needed. i know it. their messenger is likely to come any day; and it will be a bad thing for our cause if their friendliness is broken by this suspicion." "your cause?" "no, i haven't got any," he retorted. "i'm not talking for myself--i'm out of it; but i mean the cause of lives here in the valley--the lives on both sides--that would be lost in a useless fight. it's all useless." "and you acknowledge, then, that you don't consider the cause of the whites as your own cause?" asked the captain quietly. "yes!" he burst out emphatically, "i'll own up to you or anyone else; so make me a horse-thief on that, if you can! i'd work for the reds quicker than for you, if there was anything to be gained by fighting for them; but there isn't. they'd only kill, and be killed off in the end. if i've worked on your side, it's been to save lives, not to take them; and if i've got any sympathies in the matter, it's with the reds. they've been dogged to death by your damned 'cause.' now you've got my ideas in a nut-shell." "yes," agreed the captain sarcastically, "very plainly expressed. to establish entirely your sympathy with your red friends, it only remains for you to be equally frank and report your movements of last night." "go to hell and find out;" and with this climax of insubordination, the scout left the presence of the commanding officer and marched back to his shack, where he took possession of the bunk and was sound asleep in five minutes, and altogether undisturbed by the fact that a guard was stationed at the door of the impromptu prison with orders to shoot him if an attempt to escape was made. captain holt's leniency with the scout, who simply ignored military rule and obedience in a place where it was the only law, was, for him, phenomenal. the one thing in genesee's favor was his voluntary return to camp; and until he learned what scheme was back of that, the captain was obliged, with the thought of his superior officer in mind and the scout's importance, to grant him some amenities, ignore his insolence, and content himself with keeping him under guard. the guard outside was not nearly so strong in its control of genesee as the bonds of sleep that held him through the morning and well-nigh high noon. he had quickly summed up the case after his interview with holt, and decided that in two days, at most, the major would be back, and that the present commander would defer any decided movement toward the kootenais until then. as for the horses, that was a bad business; but if they chose to put him under arrest, they plainly took from him the responsibility of hunting for stock. so he decided, and in the freedom from any further care, dropped asleep. once a guard came in with some breakfast, which he ate drowsily, and turned again to his pillow. "when that fool, the commanding officer, concludes to let up on this arrest, there's likely to be some work to do--i'll fortify myself while i have the chance;" and that determination, added to his exhaustion, served to make his rest a very deliberate affair, not to be disturbed by trifles. several things occurred during that winter's morning that were far from trifling; yet no sound of them came to him, not even when a shot on the ridge echoed across the valley, and ten minutes later was followed by several more, accompanied by yells, heard faintly, but clearly enough to tell that a skirmishing party was having a shooting-match with someone across the hills. in three minutes every horse left in camp was mounted and scurrying fast as their feet could carry them through the drifts, while the horseless ones, whose stock had been run off in the muffled silence of the snow-storm, remained unwillingly behind. at the end of the avenue lieutenant murray caught sight of stuart and hardy, riding toward camp. there was a hallooed invitation to join, another of acceptance, and the civilians joined the irregular cavalcade and swept with them over the hill, where the sounds of shots were growing fainter--evidently a retreat and a chase--toward which they rode blindly. through all of it their chief of scouts slept unconcernedly; a solid ten hours of rest was taken possession of before he aroused himself to care whether it was daylight or darkness. "major come yet?" was the first query. "no." "am i still under arrest?" "yes." "then bring me something to eat. past chuck?" on being informed that the midday meal had been ended two hours before, his next query was whether anyone from the ranch had been to camp; but the guard thought not--a reply most grateful to the prisoner. "suppose you tell me something about the horses being run off," he suggested. "oh, yes, i reckon i'm supposed to know all about it," he added; "but, just to pass the time, suppose you tell me your side of it." there was not much to tell. hardy's men had been riding around after stray stock until late; had passed camp after ten o'clock. about one in the morning the snow was falling thick; a little racket was heard in the long shed where the horses were tied, and the sentry, thinking some of hardy's stray stock had wandered in there, tramped around with a light to see what was wrong. he had barely reached the end of the corral when someone from behind struck him over the head. in falling, his gun was discharged; and when investigations were made, it was found that nearly half the horses, about forty head, had been quietly run off through the snow, and the exploded gun was all that saved the rest. the trail was hot, and pursuit began, but the thieves evidently knew the country, while the troops did not; and every moment lost in consultation and conjecture was gained by the people ahead, until the wind rose and the trail was buried in the snow. the followers had only returned to camp a few minutes before genesee was reported back; but the man surmised that if the troops did not get the horses, they were taking their pay out of the hides of the red-skins. "how's that?" demanded genesee, with the quick, perplexed frown that was as much anxiety as displeasure. "well, a young cub of a siwash came a-riding along to camp about noon, as large as life and independent as a hog on ice, and denny claflin--you know him, his horse was roped in by them last night--well, he called the buck to halt, as he'd a perfect right to do, and got no more notice than if the wind had whistled. denny hates an injun as the devil does holy water, and being naturally riled over last night, he called to halt, or he'd fire. well, mr. siwash never turned his head, and denny let him have it." "killed him?" "dead as a door-nail. right over the ridge north. our boys were just coming in, after skirmishing for signs from last night. they heard the shot, and rode up; and then, almost before they saw them, some ambushed injuns burst out on them like all-possessed. they'd come with the young one, who was sent ahead, you see. well, there was a go-as-you-please fight, i guess, till our men got out from camp, and chased them so far they haven't showed up since. some of us went out afoot to the ridge, and found the dead buck. we buried him up there, and have been keeping an eye open for the boys ever since." "did captain holt go?" "you bet! and every other man that had a horse to go on; even that mr. stuart and hardy from the ranch went." "and they haven't showed up?" "naw." no more questions were asked, and the guard betook himself to his pipe and enjoyment of the warm room, for intense cold had followed in the wake of the snow. and the prisoner? the man on watch eyed dubiously the dark face as it lounged on the bunk. aroused and refreshed by rest, he drifted away from the remembrance of his prison by living over with tender eyes the victory of the night before. once he had seen it was possible for her to care for him--that once of a year ago, before she knew what he was; but lately--well, he thought her a plucky, cool-headed girl, who wouldn't go back on a friend, and her stanchness had shown that; but the very frank and outspoken showing had taken from him any hope of the warmer feeling that had existed in the old days, when she had likened him to a launcelot in buckskin. the hope? his teeth set viciously as he thought of it as a hope. what right had he for such a wish? what right had he to let go of himself as he had done, and show her how his life was bound up in hers? what a hopeless tangle it was; and if she cared for him, it meant plainly enough that he was to repay her by communicating its hopelessness to her. if she cared! in the prosaic light of day he even attempted to tell himself that the victory of the night might have been in part a delusion; that she had pitied him and the passion she had raised, and so had stooped from the saddle. might it not have been only that? his reason told him--perhaps; and then all the wild unreason in the man turned rebel, and the force of a tumultuous instinct arose and took possession of him--of her, for it gave her again into his arms, and the laws of people were as nothing. she was his by her own gift; the rest of the world was blotted out. chapter iii. "the squaw who rides." at the ranch a strange cloak of silence hung around the household in regard to the horse-stealing. the men, hearing of the night raid, had endeavored to keep it from the women for fear of giving them uneasiness, but had not altogether succeeded. jim had frustrated that attempt by forgetting, and blurting out at the dinner table something about genesee's arrest. "it isn't true; it can't be true!" and rachel turned with such an appeal in her tired eyes that andrews dropped his own. "it's true, miss; he's accused of knowin' all about it, even if he didn't help. it's supposed to be his kootenai friends that did it, and they say he's mighty close-mouthed over it; that tells against him. i hope to god it ain't true, for he seemed a mighty good man; but he's under guard at the camp; won't allow folks to see him, i hear--leastwise, no injuns." rachel glanced at the others, but found in their faces no strong partisanship for genesee. tillie and fred were regretful, but not hopeful. "it seems a shame that such a fine-looking fellow should be a squaw man," said the major's daughter; "but since he is one, there is not much to be hoped of him, though papa did have a wonderful lot of faith in this one." rachel's eyes lightened at the words. "what day do they look for your father back?" she asked quickly. "to-day or to-morrow, though this snow may hinder them some." "well, he can't get here any too soon," chipped in the loquacious jim. "i reckon they--" then his discourse was cut short by the toe of andrews' boot under the table. although the horse-stealing was known at the ranch, and now the suspicion of genesee, yet there was one thing that andrews and ivans had maneuvered to keep quiet, and that was the absence of hardy and stuart, and the fact that hostile indians had descended from the hills. apocryphal stories had been told tillie of an early supper her husband and guest had eaten at camp, and a ride they had taken after stock overlooked the night before; and the hours dragged on, the night came, and the two conspirators were gaining themselves the serious anxiety they had endeavored to shield the women from, and jim, once outside the door, was threatened with instant annihilation if he let his tongue run so far ahead of his wit again. the ladies had decided not to tell rachel about genesee--tillie had so clear a remembrance of her stubborn friendliness for that outlaw; but jim had settled the question of silence, and all the weariness dropped from her at thought of what that accusation meant to him--death. once she got up with the strong light of hope in her eyes, and running across the snow in the dark, opened the door of the stable where jim was bedding the horses. "jim!" she called sharply; "when was it the stock was run off from camp--what time?" "early this mornin'," answered that youth sulkily. he had just received the emphatic warning against "tattling." "this morning? what time this morning?" "oh, early; afore daylight." before daylight! she had gained a wild hope that it was during the time they were together; but from jim's vague suggestion they had returned just about the time it had occurred--in time for it. she turned hopelessly toward the house, then hesitated and came back. "jim." "well?" "is mowitza here?" "yes, can't you see?" but she could not see very clearly. something in her eyes blinded her as she thought of mowitza and the glad days when they knew each other first; and of mowitza's master, and his voice as she had heard it last--and the words! oh, the despairing, exultant, compelling words! and then, after he had gone from her, could it be so? "take good care of the mare, jim, until--until he needs her." when the girl re-entered the house, tillie turned with a lecture to deliver on the idiocy of going out without a wrap; it was not spoken, for a glance into rachel's eyes told she had been crying--something so unusual as to awe the little woman into silence, and perplex her mightily. headstrong as the girl had been in her championship of genesee, tillie had always been very sure that the cause was mainly rachel's contrariness; and to associate him with the tears never entered her mind. the evening wore on, and about the fire there were conjectures about the protracted stay of hardy and stuart, and wonderment from fred that not a man had called from the camp all day and evening. rachel sat silent, thinking--thinking, and finding a glimmer of hope in the thought that major dreyer would soon be back; there, she felt, would be no prejudiced mind come to judgment. at last they were startled by the sound of a step on the porch, and all looked around, glad of the return of the two wanderers, when the door opened, and there entered kalitan--a very tired-looking arrow, and with something in his face that was more than fatigue--anxiety. "rashell hardy?" he said, and deliberately walked into the other room, intimating that she was to follow and the interview to be private--an interview conducted in low tones and in chinook, after which rachel asked aunty luce to give him some supper; for he was very tired, and would not go on to camp until morning. the night before had been one of wakefulness, because of rachel's absence, and all were sleepy enough to hunt beds early; and leaving a lunch on the table for the absent ones, the hearth was soon deserted--ivans and andrews, however, agreeing to sleep with one eye open. both must have closed unawares, or else the moccasined feet that stole out in the darkness must have been very, very light, and the other figure beside him very stealthy; for no alarm was given, no ear took note. it was late, past eleven o'clock, when the sentry challenged a horse and rider coming as briskly and nonchalantly into camp as if it had been eleven in the morning, and occasioning as much astonishment as had genesee, when it was seen to be miss hardy. "rather late to be out alone, miss, ain't it?" asked the sentry, as she stopped to chat with him of the continued absence of the men. "is it?" she laughed. "i don't know what you call late over here; but i suppose we of the ranch would be considered night-owls. i rode over with some mail that came late, and thought i'd hear if there was any news before we went to bed. who's in command?" "lieutenant kennedy; but he turned in an hour ago." "good gracious! do you folks go to bed with the sun? i have a magazine for him, but he can wait for it, then, until to-morrow. tell him i will expect him over." "yes, miss." just then from along the avenue sauntered a soldierly figure, who drew near at the sound of voices. "there comes sergeant kelp," remarked the sentry. "he's on night duty in kennedy's place." instantly the girl turned to the officer in charge. "well, i'm glad to find someone up and awake," she said, leaning over to shake hands with him. "it helps to keep me from seeming altogether a night-prowler. i came over to get the returns, if there were any. the folks are getting anxious at the ranch." "naturally," answered the young fellow. "i would have called this evening, but am on duty. don't let the ladies worry if you can help it. we are likely to hear from the men before morning. every scout we had went with them, and without horses we can't do much but just stay here and wait; all the boys find it mighty hard work, too." "you remind me of half my mission, sergeant, when you speak of your scouts. i brought over some mail, and everyone i wanted to see is either away or asleep. how about your chief of scouts--is he asleep, too?" it seemed to her that her heart ceased beating, the wind ceased blowing, and the stars ceased twinkling above the snow, as she waited for his disgusted reply. "no; not by a good deal. i never saw such a crank as that fellow! when everything was smooth sailing, that man would skulk around camp without a word to speak to anyone, the surliest white man i want to see; but now that he's jailed for horse-stealing, tied up and watched in the shack, i'm blest if he doesn't put in the time singing. yes, he does; been at it ever since taps. i threatened to have him gagged if he disturbed the boys; but they say he don't. roberts is the only one who has to listen to it; says he never heard so many indian songs in his life. but it's a mighty queer streak of luck for a man to be musical over." rachel laughed, and agreed. "i have a letter for him, too," she added. "look, here; i'd like to take it to him myself, and get to hear some of those songs. can i? i know it's rather late, but if he is awake, it doesn't matter, i suppose; or is no one allowed to see him?" "indians only are tabooed, but none of them have shown up, not even his runner, and i guess you can speak to him if you want to; it isn't a thing most ladies would like to do, though," he added. "i suppose not," she said good-humoredly, "but then, i've known the man for something over a year, and am not at all afraid--in fact, i'd rather like to do it and have something to horrify the ladies at the ranch with. think of it! an interview with a horse-thief--perhaps a duet with him all alone in the middle of the night. oh, yes, that's too good to miss. but i must hurry up, or they will be sending someone after me." at the door of the shack, however, she paused a moment in what might be trepidation, her hand laid hesitatingly on the saddle, as if in doubt whether to remount or enter the shanty, from which she could hear the low refrain of a song of their cultus corrie--"tsolo, tsolo!" "the guard will not leave the door?" she whispered; and sergeant kelp concluded that, after all, she was pretending to greater nerve than she possessed. "never fear," he returned; "i will call him out to hold your horse, and he won't stir from the door. by the way, i'll have someone to see you home when you're ready to go. good-night." then the guard was called out, and a moment later the visitor slipped in, the prisoner never turning his head or noticing the exchange until she spoke. "jack!" he turned quickly enough. "god a'mighty, girl! what are you doing here?" she thought of the ears, possibly listening ears, on the other side of the door, and her tone was guarded and careless, as it had been with the sergeant, as she laughed and answered in chinook: "to pay a visit; what else?" she noticed with exultation that it was only rope he was tied with--his hands and his feet, as he sat on the bunk--a plaited rope of rawhide; strong enough when strengthened by a guard opposite and a loaded gun; but without the guard and with a keen knife! she checked him in the midst of a passionate protest against her coming. "i am here, so that fact is settled," she said quietly. "i didn't come for fun, and we haven't any time to lose. i brought you a letter; it is in this," she said. "you have seen kalitan?" he took from her the rubber case and extracted the letter from it, but scarcely noticed it, his eyes were turned so anxiously to her face. "yes; and you had better read it," she advised, walking back to the door. "rachel--" "read it; let them see you!" and she opened the door wide and stepped out as if to make sure of the guard's presence. "it's all right, miss, i'm here," he whispered, looking past her to the prisoner opening the letter and throwing the envelope in the fire. "i'll not stir from here with the beast. don't be uneasy;" and then she turned back and closed the door. she had seen he was not close enough to listen. "jack," she said, coming back to him, "you must get out of this. mowitza is at the door; i have brought the things you will need. can you make a dash for it and get away?" he looked at her in utter amazement. "i didn't know it until to-night," she continued; "this is your chance, before the others get back--if they ever do get back! god help them!" "what do you mean? where are they?" and his hand, tied as it was, caught her own quickly. "they are in a death-trap, in that gully back of the tamahnous ground. you know where--right over the peak from the old mine. they've been there since dark, hedged in by the kootenais, who are only waiting for daylight to come. heaven help our men when it does come!" "the kootenais? it can't be them. they are not hostile." "not yesterday," she agreed bitterly, "but they are to-day. they sent a messenger of good-will to camp this morning, the grandson of grey eagle. he was shot down, almost in sight of camp, by one of the soldiers, and the braves he had brought, the best in the tribe, attempted a rescue. our cavalry pursued them, and were led into that ravine. the indians knew the ground, and our men didn't. at the end of the narrow pass, the reds rolled boulders down the mountain and closed it up, and then cut off retreat; and there they are, waiting for daylight or starvation--god knows what!" "who told you this?" "kalitan; he met an indian trapper who had passed the gulch but a little while before. he came directly to me. the whites here blame you for helping the trouble--the beginning it, the--" "you mean the horse stealing?" he said, looking at her curiously. "yes." her eyes were on the floor; she did not see that scrutiny. "and you must get out of here before word comes of those men penned up there. there would be no waiting for trial then; they would shoot you." "and that is what you came for?" "yes;" and she drew a sharp knife--an indian knife--from her belt under the shawl. "with a quick stroke, the severed the knotted cords and they fell from his wrists; then she dropped on her knees, a flash, once, twice, of the blade in the light, and he stooped and raised her. "you are doing this for me," he said, drawing her to him, "without knowing whether i deserve shooting or not?" "don't speak of that part of it!" she burst out. "when i let myself think, i feel as if i am going crazy!"--then she stopped short. "and a crazy woman just now would handicap you some. no, jack, we need all of our wits for to-night--here," and unfastening the belt from under her shawl, she buckled it about him. it contained two loaded revolvers. "it's the first time i've armed you as i've seen sweethearts or wives do," she said, looking up at him. "it may be the last. i only ask one thing--you will not, unless it is the last means of saving your own life, turn one of these against my friends?" even then, the weakness of the man in him came uppermost. "but if it is to save my own life?" her hands went quickly over her eyes, as if to shut out sight or thought. "don't ask me--only go--and--take care of yourself!" he caught the hands from her eyes, kissing her fiercely--exultantly. "then i am first to you--nearer than all the rest! my girl, you've proved it to-night, and i'll show you! if you know how to pray, pray for me to-night--for me and the men in that death-trap. do you hear? i am going now. here is this letter; it will tell you all. if i never come back, tell prince charlie he is right at last--that i believe him. he will understand. my girl--mine--it is not an eternal good-bye. i will come back if i live, and i will have to live long enough for that! here, just once, kiss me, my girl--my girl!" the next instant she was flung from that embrace and fell with a faint scream to the floor. the guard dashed in, and was dextrously tripped by an unlooked-for figure close to the wall, his gun wrenched from him, and a staggering blow dealt that sent him to his knees. clouds had swept over the cold stars, and the sentry could see but dimly the equestrian figure that came clattering down the avenue. "hadn't you better wait for company, miss?" he called, but no answer was given; and in much wonder, he was about to call again, when pistol-shots from the shack aroused the camp. he called a halt; that was heeded no more than his question, and he sent a random shot after the flying figure--not for the purpose of hitting the girl, but to impress on her the duty of a sentry and some idea of military rule. before the last dull thud of hoofs in the snow had ceased to be heard, roberts had staggered to the door, firing wildly, and calling to stop the prisoner--to stop the horse-thief. there was nothing in the camp to do it with. he was gone--everyone was blaming everybody else for it; but no one thought of blaming the girl who lay in a dead faint on the floor, where he had flung her, that none might think she had let him go willingly. and miss rachel was cared for very tenderly, and a man was sent to the ranch to assure mrs. hardy of her safe-keeping, waking mrs. hardy out of a delicious sleep, and mystifying her completely by the information. the only one about the house who might have helped elucidate happened to be remarkably sound asleep at the time the messenger arrived--an arrow encased in the quiver of rest. chapter iv. through the lost mine. an hour before day in the kootenais! not the musical dawn of that early autumn, when all the woods were a-quiver with the fullness of color and sound; when the birds called to each other of the coming sun, and the little rills of the shady places moistened the sweet fern and spread its fragrance around and about, until one could find no couch so seductive as one on the amber grasses with the rare, all-pervading scents of the virgin soil. not any of those seductions solaced or made more bitter the watch of the men who stood hopeless in the snow of that treacherous ravine. not even a fire dared be lit all the night long, because of those suddenly murderous natives, who, through knowing the secrets of the cleft earth, held their fates at the mercy of eager bronze hands. "and one man who knew the country could have prevented this!" groaned hardy, with a thought of the little wife and miss margaret. how would they listen to this story? "if we had genesee with us, we should not have been penned up in any such fashion as this," decided murray, stamping back and forward, as many others were doing, to keep their blood in circulation--for what? "hard to tell," chimed in the scout from idaho. "don't know as it's any better to be tricked by one's own gang than the hostiles. genesee, more'n likely, was gettin' ready for this when he run off the stock." just then something struck him. the snow made a soft bed, but the assailant had not stopped to consider that, and quick as light his knee was on the fallen man's chest. "take it back!" he commanded, with the icy muzzle of a revolver persuading his meaning into the brain of the surprised scout. "that man is no horse-thief. take it back, or i'll save the indians the trouble of wasting lead on you." "well," reasoned the philosopher in the snow, "this ain't the damnedest best place i've ever been in for arguin' a point, an' as you have fightin' ideas on the question, an' i haven't any ideas, an' don't care a hell of a sight, i'll eat my words for the time bein', and we'll settle the question o' that knock on the head, if the chance is ever given us to settle anything, out o' this gully." "what's this?" and though only outlines of figures could be distinguished, the voice was the authoritative one of captain holt. "mr. stuart, i am surprised to find you in this sort of thing, and about that squaw man back in camp. find something better to waste your strength for. there is no doubt in my mind now of the man's complicity--" "stop it!" broke in stuart curtly; "you can hold what opinion you please of him, but you can't tell me he's a horse-thief. a squaw man and adopted indian he may be and altogether an outlaw in your eyes; but i doubt much your fitness to judge him, and advise you not to call him a thief until you are able to prove your words, or willing to back them with all we've got left here." all they had left was their lives, and stuart's unexpected recklessness and sharp words told them his was ready as a pledge to his speech. none cared, at that stage of the game, to question why. it was no time for quarrels among themselves when each felt that with the daylight might come death. afterward, when the tale was told, no man could remember which of them first discovered a form in their midst that had not been with them on their entrance--a breathless, panting figure, that leaned against one of their horses. "who is it?" someone asked. "what is it?" no one answered--only pressed closer, with fingers on triggers, fearing treachery. and then the panting figure raised itself from its rest on the horse's neck, rose to a stature not easily mistaken, even in that light, and a familiar, surly voice spoke: "i don't reckon any of you need be puzzled much to find out; hasn't been such a long time since you saw me." "by god, it's genesee!" and despite the wholesale condemnation of the man, there was not a heart that did not grow lighter with the knowledge. they knew, or believed, that here was the one man who had the power to save them, if he cared to use it; but would he? "jack!" someone, at sound of his voice, pushed through the crowd with outstretched hand. it was not refused this time. "i've come for you," was all genesee said; then he turned to the others. "are you willing to follow me?" he asked, raising his voice a little. "the horses can't go through where i've got to take you; you'll have to leave them." a voice close to his elbow put in a word of expostulation against the desertion of the horses. genesee turned on the speaker with an oath. "you may command in a quiet camp, but we're outside of it now, and i put just a little less value on your opinion than on any man's in the gulch. this is a question for every man to answer for himself. you've lost their lives for them if they're kept here till daylight. i'll take them out if they're ready to come." there was no dissenting voice. compared with the inglorious death awaiting them in the gulch, the deliverance was a god-send. they did not just see how it was to be effected; but the strange certainty of hope with which they turned to the man they had left behind as a horse-thief was a thing surprising to them all, when they had time to think of it--in the dusk of the morning, they had not. he appeared among them as if a deliverer had materialized from the snow-laden branches of cedar, or from the close-creeping clouds of the mountain. they had felt themselves touched by a superstitious thrill when he was found in their midst; but they knew that, come as he might, be what he would, they had in him one to whom the mountains were as an open book, as the indians knew when they tendered him the significant name of lamonti. captain holt was the only rebel on the horse question; to add those to the spoils of the indians was a bitter thing for him to do. "it looks as if we were not content with them taking half our stock, but rode up here to leave them the rest," he said, aggressively, to nobody in particular. "i've a notion to leave only the carcasses." "not this morning," broke in the scout. "we've no time to wait for work of that sort. serves you right to lose them, too, for your damned blunders. come along if you want to get out of this--single file, and keep quiet." it was no time for argument or military measures for insubordination; and bitter as the statement of inefficiency was, captain holt knew there were some grounds for it, and knew that, in the eyes of the men, he was judged from the same standpoint. the blind raid with green scouts did seem, looking back at it, like a headlong piece of folly. how much of folly the whole attack was, they did not as yet realize. it was not far that genesee led them through the stunted, gnarled growth up the steep sides of the gulch. half-way to the top there were, in the summer-time, green grass and low brush in which the small game could hide; but above that rose a sheer wall of rock clear up to where the soil had gathered and the pines taken root. in the dusk they could see no way of surmounting it; yet there was no word of demur, not even a question. he was simply their hope, and they followed him. and their guide felt it. he knew few of them liked him personally, and it made his victory the greater; but even above that was the thought that his freedom was due to the girl who never guessed how he should use it. he felt, some way, as if he must account to her for every act she had given him the power to perform, as if his life itself belonged to her, and the sweetness of the thought was with him in every step of the night ride, in every plan for the delivery of the men. at the very foot of the rock wall he stopped and turned to the man next him. it was hardy. "it's a case of 'crawl' here for a few lengths; pass the word along, and look out for your heads." the next instant he had vanished under the rock wall--hardy following him; then a flicker of light shone like a star as a guide for the others, and in five minutes every man of them had wriggled through what seemed but a slit in the solid front. "a regular cave, by hooky!" said the moral guide from idaho, as he stood upright at last. his voice echoed strangely. "hooky! hooky! hooky!" sounded from different points where the shadows deepened, suggesting endless additions to the room where they stood. genesee had halted and was splitting up some pine for a torch, using the knife rachel had cut his bonds with, and showing that the handle was stained with blood, as were the sticks of pine he was handling. "look for some more sticks around here, and lend a hand," he said. "we need more than one torch. i burnt up what i had in working through that hole. i've been at it for three hours, i reckon, without knowing, till i got the last stone away, whether i'd be in time or find daylight on the other side." "and is that what cut your hands?" asked lieutenant murray. "why, they're a sight! for heaven's sake, what have you been doing?" "i found a 'cave-in' of rock and gravel right at the end of that tunnel," answered genesee, nodding the way they had just come, and drawing their notice to fresh earth and broken stone thrown to the side. "i had no tools here, nothing but that," and he motioned toward a mallet-like thing of stone. "my tools were moved from the mine over to scot's mountain awhile back, and as that truck had to be hoisted away, and i hadn't time to invite help, it had to be done with these;" and he held out his hands that were bleeding--a telling witness of his endeavors to reach there in time. and every man of them felt it. there was an impulsive move forward, and hardy was the first to hold out his hand. but genesee stepped back, and leaned against the wall. "that's all right, hardy," he said, with something of his old careless smile. "i'm glad you're the first, for the sake of old times; but i reckon it would be playing it pretty low down on a friend to let him take me in on false pretenses. you see i haven't been acquitted of horse-stealing yet--about the most low-lived trade a man can turn to, unless it is sheep-stealing." "oh, hell!" broke in one of the men, "this clears the horse business so far as i'm concerned, and i can bet on the other boys, too!" "can you?" asked genesee, with a sort of elated, yet conservative, air; "but this isn't your game or the boys' game. i'm playing a lone hand, and not begging either. that torch ready?" the rebuff kept the others from any advance, if they had thought of making it. lieutenant murray had picked up the stone mallet and was examining it by the flickering light; one side was flattened a little, like a tomahawk. "that's a queer affair," he remarked. "what did you have it made for?" "have it made! the chances are that thing was made before columbus ever managed a sail-boat," returned genesee. "i found a lot of them in here; wedges, too, and such." "in here?" and the men looked with a new interest at the rocky walls. "what is it?" "an extension i tumbled into, over a year back, when i was tunneling at a drift the other side of the hill. one day i found that hole there, and minded it this morning, so it came in handy. i reckon this is the original tamahnous mine of the old tribe. it's been lost over a hundred years. the kootenais only have a tradition of it." "a mine--gold?" "well, i was digging for a silver show when i struck it," answered genesee; "and, so far as i see, that's what was here, but it's worked out. didn't do much prospecting in it, as i left the kootenai hills less than a week after. i just filled up the entry, and allowed it would keep till i got back." "does it belong to you?" asked one man, with speculation in his voice. genesee laughed. "i reckon so. tamahnous peak is mine, and a few feet of grazing land on the east. nobody grudges it to me up this way. indians think it's haunted, 'cause all the rocks around it give echoes; and i--" he ceased speaking abruptly, his eyes on the pile of debris in the corner. then he lit a fresh torch from the dying one, and gave the word to strike for the outside, following single file, as the hill was pretty well honey-combed, and it was wise to be cautious. "because," said their leader, "if any should stray off, we might not have time this day of our lord to come back and hunt him up." before leaving what seemed like the back entrance, he walked over to the corner and picked up the thing that had arrested his attention a minute before, and slipping it in his pocket, walked to the head of the long line of men, several of whom were wounded, but only one less than the number who had left camp. and the one lacking was the man who had fired the first shot and killed the messenger from grey eagle--he himself dying from a wound, after the ride into the gulch. as the scout passed the men, a hand and a pair of gloves were thrust out to him from a group; and turning his torch so that the light would show the giver, he saw it was stuart. "thank you, sir," he said, with more graciousness than most of the men had ever seen in him; "i'll take them from you, as my own are damaged some." they were torn to shreds, and the fingers under them worn to the quick. the echoing steps of the forty men were as if forty hundred were making their way through the mine of the tamahnous; for no living tribe ever claimed it, even by descent. the hill that contained it had for generations been given by tradition to the witches of evil, who spoke through the rock--a clever scheme of those vanished workers to guard their wealth, or the wealth they hoped to find; but for what use? neither silver in coin nor vessel can be traced as ever belonging to tribes of the northern indians. yet that honey-combed peak, with its wide galleries, its many entries, and well-planned rooms, bespoke trained skill in underground quarrying. from some unseen source fresh air sifted through the darkness to them, and the tinkle of dripping water in pools came to their ears, though the pools were shrouded in the darkness that, just beyond the range of the few torches, was intense; and after the long tramp through echoing winds and turns, the misty dawn that was still early seemed dazzling to the eyes, red and haggard from the vigil of the night. "you will have to get away from here on a double-quick," said genesee sharply, after a glance at the sky and up the sides of the hill from which they had come. "once down there in the valley, the fog may hide you till sun-up, and then, again, it mightn't. just mind that they have horses." "we are not likely to forget it," was captain holt's answer; and then hesitated a moment, looking at genesee. "are you not coming with us?" asked lieutenant murray, giving voice to the question in his commander's mind as well as the others. "yes, part of the way," said the scout quietly, but with a challenge to detention in the slight pause with which he glanced at the group; "but i have a beast to carry me back, and i'm just tired enough to use it." and disappearing for a minute in the brush, he led out mowitza, and, mounting her, turned her head toward the terraces of the lower valley. they passed the isolated cabin that brought back to stuart a remembrance of where they were; then down the steps of the tamahnous and along the little lake, all swathed alike in the snow and the mist leaving null all character in the landscape. the cabin was commented on by the men, to whom it was a surprise, looming up so close to them through the cloud curtain. "that's mine," their guide remarked, and one of them, puzzled, stated it as his belief that genesee claimed the whole kootenai territory. the scout gave up his saddle to a man with a leg-wound, but he did not let go the bridle of mowitza; and so they went on with their guide stalking grimly ahead, ready, they all knew, to turn as fiercely against them at a sign of restraint as he had worked for them, if a movement was made to interfere with his further liberty. the sun rolled up over the purple horizon--a great body of blushes suffusing the mountains; but its chaste entrance had brazened into a very steady stare before it could pierce the veil of the valleys, and pick out the dots of moving blue against the snow on the home trail. it had been a wonderfully quiet tramp. most of the thoughts of the party were of the man walking ahead of them, and his nearness made the discussion of his actions awkward. they did not know what to expect of him, and a general curiosity prevailed as to what he would do next. they learned, when at last the ridge above camp was reached, about the middle of the forenoon. he had been talking some to the man on mowitza, and when they reached that point he stopped. "whereabouts?" he asked; and the man pointed to a place where the snow was colored by soil. "over there! i guess the boys buried him." "well, you can get down from that saddle now. i reckon you can walk down to camp; if not, they can carry you." then he turned to the rest. "there's a body under that snow that i want," he said sententiously. "i'm not in condition for any more digging," and he glanced at his hands. "are there any men among you that will get it out for me?" "you bet!" was the unhesitating reply; and without question, hands and knives were turned to the task, the man on horseback watching them attentively. "may i ask what that is for?" asked captain holt; at last, as amiably as he could, in the face of being ignored and affronted at every chance that was given genesee. he had saved the commander's life; that was an easy thing to do compared with the possibility of hiding his contempt. he was openly and even unreasonably aggressive--one of the spots in his nature that to a careless eye would appear the natural color of his whole character. he did not answer at once, and captain holt spoke again: "what is the object of digging up that indian?" then genesee turned in the saddle. "just to give you all a little proof of how big a fool a man can be without being a 'permanent' in a lunatic asylum." and then he turned his attention again to the men digging up the loose earth. they had not far to go; small care had been taken to make the grave deep. "take care there with your knives," said genesee as one shoulder was bared to sight. "lift him out. here--give him to me." "what in----" "give him to me!" he repeated. "i've given your damned fool lives back to forty of you, and all i'm asking for it is that kootenai's dead body." stuart stooped and lifted the chill, dark thing, and other hands were quick to help. the frozen soil was brushed like dust from the frozen face, and then, heavy--heavy, it was laid in the arms of the man waiting for it. he scanned from the young face to the moccasined feet swiftly, and then turned his eyes to the others. "where's his blanket?" he demanded; and a man who wore it pushed forward and threw it over the figure. "denny took it," he said in extenuation, "and when denny went under, i took it." "yes!" and again his eyes swept the crowd. "now i want his rifle, his knife, a snake-skin belt, and a necklace of bear's teeth--who's got them?" "well, i'll be damned!" "how's that for second sight?" "beats the devil out of hell!" were some of the sotto-voce remarks exchanged at the enumeration of the things wanted. "i've no time to waste in waiting," he added. "if they're in this crowd and ain't given up, i'll straighten the account some day, if i have to hunt five years for the trail to them. i'm a-waiting." his hand was laid on the breast of the dead indian as he spoke, and something in the touch brought a change to his face. the hand was slipped quickly inside the fringed shirt, and withdrawn, clasping a roll of parchment cured in indian fashion. a bitter oath broke from him as he untied the white sinews of the deer, and glanced at the contents. "what is it? what is it?" was the question from all sides. genesee, in a sort of fury, seemed to hear most clearly that of the, for the hour, displaced commander. "i'll tell you what it is!" he burst out wrathfully. "it's a message of peace from the kootenai tribe--an offer of their help against the blackfeet any time the troops of the united states need them. it is sent by grey eagle, the oldest of their war chiefs, and the messenger sent was grey eagle's grandson, snowcap--the future chief of their people. and you have had him shot down like a dog while carrying that message. by god! i wouldn't have blamed them if they had scalped every mother's son of you." to say that the revelation was impressive, would express the emotions of the men but mildly. captain holt was not the only one of them who turned white at the realization of what a provoked uprising of those joint tribes would mean, in the crippled condition of the camp. it would mean a sweeping annihilation of all white blood in their path; the troops would have enough to do to defend themselves, without being able to help the settlers. "in god's name, genesee, is this true?" and forgetting all animosity in the overwhelming news, holt pressed forward, laying his hand on the shoulder of the dead messenger. "take it off!" yelled genesee, looking at the unconscious hand that involuntarily had moved toward him. "take it off, or, by heaven, i'll cut it off!" and his fingers closing nervously on the hunting-knife emphasized his meaning, and showed how stubborn and sleepless were the man's prejudices. the hand dropped, and genesee reached out the document to one of the crestfallen scouts. "just read that out loud for the benefit of anyone that can't understand my way of talking," he suggested with ironical bitterness; "and while you are about it, the fellows that stripped this boy will be good enough to ante up with everything they've got of his--and no time to waste about it either." and captain holt, with a new idea of the seriousness of the demand, seconded it, receiving with his own hands the arms and decorations that had been seized by the victorious denny, and afterward divided among his comrades. genesee noted that rendering up of trifling spoils with sullen eyes, in which the fury had not abated a particle. "a healthy crew you are!" he remarked contemptuously; "a nice, clean-handed lot, without grit enough to steal a horse, but plenty of it for robbing a dead boy. i reckon no one of you ever had a boy that age of your own." several of them--looking in the dark, dead face--felt uneasy, and forgot for the moment that they were lectured by a horse-thief; forgot even how light a thing the life of an indian was anyway. "don't blame the whole squad," said the man who took the articles from the captain and handed them up to genesee. "denny captured them when he made the shot, just as anyone would do, and it's no use cussin' about denny; he's buried up in that gulch--the kootenais finished him." "and saved me the trouble," added the scout significantly. he was wrapping as well as he could the gay blanket over the rigid form. the necklace was clasped about the throat, but the belt was more awkward to manage, and was thrust into the bosom of genesee's buckskin shirt, the knife in his belt, the rifle swung at his back. there was something impressively ghastly in those two figures--the live one with the stubborness of fate, and the stolidity, sitting there, with across his thighs the blanketed, shapeless thing that had held a life; and even the husk seemed a little more horrible with its face hidden than when revealed more frankly; there was something so weirdly suggestive in the motionless outlines. "no, i don't want that," he said, as the man who read the message was about to hand it back to him; "it belongs to the command, and i may get a dose of cold lead before i could deliver it." then he glanced about, signaling stuart by a motion of his head. "there's a lady across in the valley there that i treated pretty badly last night," he said, in a tone so natural that all near could hear him, and more than one head was raised in angry question. "she was just good enough to ride over from the ranch to bring a letter to me--hearing i was locked up for a horse-thief, and couldn't go after it. well, as i tell you, i was just mean enough to treat her pretty bad--flung her on the floor when she tried to stop me, and then nabbed the beast she rode to camp on--happened to be my own; but may be she won't feel so bad if you just tell her what the nag was used for; and may be that will show her i didn't take the trail for fun." "that" was one of the gloves he had worn from his hands with his night's work, and there were stains on it darker than those made with earth. "i'll tell her;" and then an impulsive honesty of feeling made him add: "you need never fear her judgment of you, jack." the two looked a moment in each other's eyes, and the older man spoke. "i've been hard on you," he said deliberately, "damned hard; all at once i've seen it, and all the time you've been thinking a heap better of me than i deserved. i know it now, but it's about over. i won't stand in your way much longer; wait till i come back--" "you are coming back? and where are you going?" the questions, a tone louder than they had used, were heard by the others around. genesee noted the listening look on the faces, and his words were answers to them as much as to the questioner. "i'm going to take the trail for the kootenai village; if any white man is let reach it, or patch up the infernal blunder that's been made, i can do it with him," and his hand lay on the breast of the shrouded thing before him. "if i get out of it alive, i'll be back to meet the major; if i don't"--and this time his significant glance was turned unmistakably to the blue coats and their leader--"and if i don't, you'd better pack your carcasses out of this kootenai valley, and hell go with you." so, with a curse for them on his lips, and the dogged determination to save them in his heart, he nodded to hardy, clasped the hand of stuart, and turning mowitza's head, started with that horrible burden back over the trail that would take a day and a night to cover. the men were grateful for the bravery that had saved their lives, but burned under the brutal taunts that had spared nothing of their feelings. his execrable temper had belittled his own generosity. he was a squaw man, but they had listened in silence and ashamed, when he had presumed to censure them. he was a horse-thief, yet the men who believed it watched, with few words, the figure disappear slowly along the trail, with no thought of checking him. chapter v. his wife's letter. in the bosom of rachel's family strange thoughts had been aroused by that story of genesee's escape. they were wonderfully sparing of their comments in her presence; for, when the story came to her of what he had done when he left her, she laughed. "yet he is a horse-thief," she said, in that tone of depreciation that expresses praise, "and he sent me his glove? well, i am glad he had the grace to be sorry for scattering me over the floor like that. and we owe it to him that we see you here alive again? we can appreciate his bravery, even say prayers for him, if the man would only keep out of sight, but we couldn't ask him to a dinner party, supposing we gave dinner parties, could we, tillie?" and tillie, who had impulsively said "god bless him!" from the shelter of her husband's arms, collapsed, conscience-stricken and tearful. "you have a horrid way, rachel, of making people feel badly," she said, in the midst of her thankfulness and remorse; "but wait until i see him again--i will let him know how much we can appreciate such courage as that. just wait until he comes back!" "yes," said the girl, with all the irony gone from her voice, only the dreariness remaining, "i'm waiting." the words started tillie to crying afresh; for, in the recesses of her own bosom, another secret of genesee's generosity was hidden for prudential motives--the fact that it was he who had sent the guide for rachel that terrible night of the snow. and tillie was not a good keeper of secrets--even this thoroughly wise one was hard to retain, in her gladness at having her husband back! "the man seems a sort of shepherd of everything that gets astray in these hills," said lieutenant murray, who was kindly disposed toward all creation because of an emotional, unsoldier-like welcome that had been given him by the little non-commissioned officer in petticoats. "he first led us out of that corral in the hills and brought us back where we belonged, and then dug up that dead indian and started to take him where he belonged. i tell you there was a sort of--of sublimity in the man as he sat there with that horrible load he was to carry, that is, there would have been if he hadn't 'cussed' so much." "does he swear?" queried fred. "does he? my child, you would have a finely-trained imagination if you could conceive the variety of expressions by which he can consign a citizen to the winter resort from which all good citizens keep free. his profanity, they say, is only equaled by his immorality. but, ah--what a soldier he would make! he is the sort of a man that men would walk right up to cannon with--even if they detested him personally." "and a man needs no fine attributes or high morality to wield that sort of influence, does he?" asked rachel, and walked deliberately away before any reply could be made. but she was no more confident than they of his unimpeachable worth. there was the horse-thieving still unexplained; he had not even denied it to her. and she came to the conclusion that she herself was sadly lacking in the material for orthodox womanhood, since the more proof she had of his faults, the more solidly she took her position for his defense. it had in it something of the same blind stubbornness that governed his likes and dislikes, and that very similarity might have accounted for the sort of understanding that had so long existed between them. and she had more than the horse-stealing to puzzle over. she had that letter he had thrust in her hand and told her to read; such a pleading letter, filled with the heart-sickness of a lonely woman. she took it out and re-read it that time when she walked away from their comments; and reading over the lines, and trying to read between them, she was sorely puzzled: "dear jack: i wrote you of my illness weeks ago, but the letter must have been lost, or else your answer, for i have not heard a word from you, and i have wanted it more than i can tell you. i am better, and our little jack has taken such good care of me. he is so helpful, so gentle; and do you know, dear, he grows to look more like you every day. does that seem strange? he does not resemble me in the least. you will think me very exacting, i suppose, when i tell you that such a child, and such a home as you have given me, does not suffice for my content. i know you will think me ungrateful, but i must speak of it to you. i wrote you before, but no answer has come. if i get none to this, i will go to find you--if i am strong enough. if i am not, i shall send jack. he is so manly and strong, i know he could go. i will know then, at least, if you are living. i feel as if i am confessing a fault to you when i tell you i have heard from him at last--and more, that i was so glad to hear! "jack--dear jack--he has never forgotten. he is free now; would marry me yet if it were possible. write to me--tell me if it can ever be. i know how weak you will think me. perhaps my late ill-health has made me more so; but i am hungry for the sound of the dear voice, and i am so alone since your father died. you will never come back; and you know, jack, how loneliness always was so dreadful to me--even our boy is not enough. he does not understand. come back, or write to me. let my boy know his father, or else show me how to be patient; this silence is so terrible to your wife. "jack, what a mockery that word looks--yet i am grateful." this was the letter he had told her to read and give to stuart, if he never returned; but she gave it to no one. she mentioned it to no one, only waited to see if he ever came back, and with each reading of that other woman's longings, there grew stronger in her the determination that his life belonged to the writer of that letter and her child--her boy, who looked like him. surely there was a home and an affection that should cure him of this wild, semi-civilized life he was leading. she was slipping away that almighty need he had shown of herself. she grimly determined that all remembrance of it must be put aside; it was such an unheard-of, reasonless sort of an attraction anyway, and if she really had any influence over him, it should be used to make him answer that letter as it should be answered, and straighten out the strange puzzles in it. all this she determined she would tell him--when he got back. chapter vi. on the heights. while they commented, and wondered, and praised, and found fault with him, the day drifted into darkness, the darkness into a dreary dawn; and through all changes of the hours the outlaw stalked, with sometimes his ghastly companion bound to the saddle, and then again he would remount, holding snowcap in his arms--but seldom halting, never wavering; and mowitza, who seemed more than ever a familiar spirit, forged ahead as if ignoring the fact of hunger and scanty herbage to be found, her sturdy persistence suggesting a realization of her own importance. a broad trail was left for them, one showing that the detachment of braves and the horses of the troops had returned under forced march to bear the news to their village--and such news! the man's dark face hardened and more than one of those expressive maledictions broke from him as he thought over it. all his sympathies were with them. for five years they had been as brethren to him; never had any act of treachery touched him through them. to their people he was not genesee the outcast, the immoral, the suspected. he was lamonti--of the mountains--like their own blood. he was held wise in their councils, and his advice had weight. he could have ruled their chief, and so their nation, had he been ambitious for such control. he was their adopted son, and had never presumed on their liking, though he knew there was little in their slender power that would not have been his had he desired it. now he knew he would be held their enemy. his influence had encouraged the sending of that message and the offered braves to the commander of the troops. would they grant him a hearing now? or would they shoot him down, as the soldier had shot snowcap, with his message undelivered? those questions, and the retrospection back of them, were with him as he went upward into the mountains to the north. another night was falling slowly, and the jewels of the far skies one by one slipped from their ether casket, and shone with impressive serenity on the crusted snow. along the last ridge mowitza bore for the last time her double burden. there was but a slope to descend, a sheltered cove to reach, and snowcap would be given back to his kindred. the glittering surface of the white carpet warmed into reflected lights as the moon, a soft-footed, immature virgin, stole after the stars and let her gleams be wooed and enmeshed in the receptive arms of the whispering pine. not a sound broke through the peace of the heights. in their sublime isolation, they lift souls as well as bodies above the commonplace, and the rider, the stubborn keeper of so many of their secrets, threw back his head with a strange smile in his eyes as the last summit was reached--and reached in the light of peace. was it an omen of good? he thought of that girl back in the valley who was willing to share this life of the hills with him. all things beautiful made him think of her, and the moon-kissed night was grand, up there above where men lived. he thought of her superb faith, not in what he was, but in what her woman's instinct told her it was possible for him to be. what a universe of loves in human hearts revolves about those unseen, unproven substances! he thought of the time when she had lain in his arms as snowcap was lying, and he had carried her over the hills in the moonlight. he was bitterly cold, but through the icy air there came the thrill and flush of that long-past temptation. he wondered what she would say when they told her how he had used his freedom. the conviction of her approval again gave that strange smile of elation to his eyes; and the cold and hunger were ignored, and his fatigue fell from him. and with the tenderness that one gives to a sleeping child, he adjusted with his wounded hands the blanket that slipped from the dead boy, raising one of the rigid arms the better to shroud it in the gay colors. then the peace of the heights was broken by a sharp report; the whiteness of the moonlight was crossed by the quick, red flash of death and mowitza stopped still in her tracks, while her master, with that dead thing clasped close in his arms, lunged forward on her neck. chapter vii. a rebel. within the confines of camp kootenai there was a ripple of rejoicing. at last, after four days lost because of the snow, major dreyer had arrived, pushing on with all possible haste after meeting the runner--and, to the bewilderment of all, he rode into camp on one of the horses stolen almost a week ago. "no mystery about it--only a little luck," he said in explanation. "i found him at holland's as i came up. a white man belonging to the blackfeet rode him in there several nights ago. the white man got drunk, picked a row, and got his pay for it. they gave him grave-room down there, and in the morning discovered that the beast had our brand, so gave him up to us as we came through." needless to say that this account was listened to with unusual interest. a man belonging to the blackfeet! that proved genesee's theory of which he had spoken to captain holt--the theory that was so thoroughly discredited. when word was brought that the major's party had been sighted from the south, fred and rachel could hardly wait for the saddles to be thrown on the horses. tillie caught the fever of impatience, and rode down beside hardy. stuart was not about. the days since genesee's departure he had put in almost entirely with the scouts stationed to note any approach from the north; he was waiting for that coming back. kalitan, for the first time since genesee's flight, came into camp. the man who had seemed the friend of his friend was again in command; and he showed his appreciation of the difference by presenting himself in person beside rachel, to whom he had allied himself in a way that was curious to the rest, and was so devotionally serious to himself. "then, perhaps it was not that genesee who stole the horses, after all," broke in fred, as her father told the story. "genesee!--nonsense!" said the major brusquely. "we must look into that affair at once," and he glanced at the captain; "but if that man's a horse-thief, i've made a big mistake--and i won't believe it until i have proof." as yet there had been no attempt at any investigation of affairs, only an informal welcoming group, and fred, anxious to tell a story that she thought astonishing, recounted breathlessly the saving of the men by way of the mine, and of the gloves and the hands worn in that night's work, and last, of the digging up of that body and carrying it away to the mountains. her father, at first inclined to check her voluble recital that would come to him in a more official form, refrained, as the practical array of facts showing through her admiration summed themselves up in a mass that echoed his convictions. "and that is the man suspected of stealing a few horses? good god! what proof have you that will weigh against courage like that?" "major, he scarcely denied it," said the captain, in extenuation of their suspicions. "he swore the kootenais did not do it, and that's all he would say. he was absent all the afternoon and all the night of the thievery, and refused to give any account whatever of his absence, even when i tried to impress him with the seriousness of the situation. the man's reputation, added to his suspicious absence, left me but one thing to do--i put him under guard." "that does look strange," agreed the major, with, a troubled face; "refused--" he was interrupted by a sound from rachel, who had not spoken after the conversation turned to genesee. she came forward with a low cry, trembling and passionate, doubt and hope blending in her face. "did you say the night the horses were stolen?" she demanded. all looked at her wonderingly, and kalitan instinctively slid a little nearer. "yes, it was in the night," answered the captain, "about two o'clock; but you surely knew about it?" "i? i knew nothing," she burst out furiously; "they lied to me--all of you. you told me it was in the morning. how dared you--how dared you do it?" the major laid a restraining hand on her arm; he could feel that she was trembling violently. she had kept so contemptuously cool through all those days of doubt, but she was cool no longer; her face was white, but it looked a white fury. "what matter about the hour, miss rachel?" asked the commander; and she shook off his hand and stepped back beside kalitan, as if putting herself where genesee had put himself--with the indians. "because i could have told where jack genesee was that night, if they had not deceived me. he was with me." tillie gave a little cry of wonder and contrition. she saw it all now. "but--but you said it was a kootenai who brought you home," she protested feebly; "you told us lamonti." "he is a kootenai by adoption, and he is called lamonti," said the girl defiantly; "and the night those horses were run off, he was with me from an hour after sundown until four o'clock in the morning." that bold statement had a damaging ring to it--unnecessarily so; and the group about her, and the officers and men back of them, looked at her curiously. "then, since you can tell this much in his favor, can you tell why he himself refused to answer so simple a question?" asked major dreyer kindly. that staggered her for a moment, as she put her hand up in a helpless way over her eyes, thinking--thinking fast. she realized now what it meant, the silence that was for her sake--the silence that was not broken even to her. and a mighty remorse arose for her doubt--the doubt she had let him see; yet he had not spoken! she raised her eyes and met the curious glances of the men, and that decided her. they were the men who had from the first condemned him--been jealous of the commander's trust. "yes, i think i can tell you that, too," she said frankly. "the man is my friend. i was lost in the snow that night; he found me, and it took us all night to get home. he knows how these people think of him;" and her eyes spared none. "they have made him feel that he is an outcast among them. they have made him feel that a friendship or companionship with him is a discredit to any woman--oh, i know! they think so now, in spite of what he has done for them. he knows that. he is very generous, and wanted, i suppose, to spare me; and i--i was vile enough to doubt him," she burst out. "even when i brought him his horse, i half believed the lies about him, and he knew it, and never said a word--not one word." "when you brought him his horse?" asked the major, looking at her keenly, though not unkindly. her remorse found a new vent in the bravado with which she looked at them all and laughed. "yes," she said defiantly, as if there was a certain comfort in braving their displeasure, and proving her rebellion to their laws; "yes, i brought him his horse--not by accident either! i brought him brandy and provisions; i brought him revolvers and ammunition. i helped him to escape, and i cut the bonds your guards had fastened him with. now, what are you going to do about it?" tillie gasped with horror. she did not quite know whether they would shoot her as a traitor, or only imprison her; but she knew military law could be a very dreadful thing, and her fears were extravagant. as for miss fred, her eyes were sparkling. with the quick deductions of her kind, she reasoned that, without the escape that night, the men would have died in that trap in the hills, and a certain delicious meeting and its consequences--of which she was waiting to tell the major,--would never have been hers. her feelings were very frankly expressed, as she stepped across to the self-isolated rebel and kissed her. "you're a darling--and a plucky girl," she said warmly; "and you never looked so pretty in your life." the defiant face did not relax, even at that intelligence. her eyes were on the commander, her judge. and he was looking with decided interest at her. "yours is a very grave offense, miss rachel," he said, with deliberation that struck added terrors to tillie's heart. "the penalty of contriving the escape of prisoners is one i do not like to mention to you; but since the man in this case was innocent, and i take your evidence in proof--well, that might be some extenuation of the act." "i didn't know he was innocent when i helped him," she broke in; "i thought the horses were stolen after he left me." "that makes it more serious, certainly;" but his eyes were not at all serious. "and since you seem determined to allow nothing in extenuation of your own actions, i can only say that--that i value very highly the forty men whose lives were saved to us by that escape; and when i see mr. genesee, i will thank him in the warmest way at my command;" and he held out his hand to the very erect, very defiant rebel. she could scarcely believe it when she heard the words of praise about her; when one man after another of that rescued crowd came forward to shake hands with her--and hardy almost lifted her off her feet to kiss her. "by george! i'm proud of you, rachel," he said impulsively. "you are plucky enough to--to be genesee himself." the praise seemed a very little thing to her. her bravado was over; she felt as if she must cry if they did not leave her alone. of what use were words, if he should never come back--never know that he was cleared of suspicion? if they had so many kind words now, why had they not found some for him when he needed them? she did not know the uncompromising surliness that made him so difficult of approach to many people, especially any who showed their own feeling of superiority, as most of them did, to a squaw man. she heard that term from the major, a moment after he had shaken hands with her. he had asked what were the other suspicions mentioned against genesee; she could not hear the answer--they had moved a little apart from her--but she could hear the impatience with which he broke in on their speech. "a squaw man!--well, what if he is?" he asked, with a serene indifference to the social side of the question. "what difference does it make whether the man's wife has been red, or white, or black, so long as she suited him? there are two classes of squaw men, as there are of other men on the frontier--the renegades and the usual percentage of honest and dishonest citizens. you've all apparently been willing to understand only the renegades. i've been along the border for thirty years, and some of the bravest white men i've ever seen had indian wives. some of the men whose assistance in indian wars has been invaluable to us are ranchmen whose children are half-breeds, and who have taught their squaws housework and english at the same time, and made them a credit to any nation. there's a heap of uncalled-for prejudice against a certain class of those men; and, so far as i've noticed, the sneak who abandons his wife and children back in the states, or borrows the wife of someone else to make the trip out here with, is the specimen that is first to curl his lip at the squaw man. that girl over there strikes me as showing more common sense than the whole community; she gave him the valuation of a man." the major's blood was up. it was seldom that he made so long a speech; but the question was one against which he had clashed often, and to find the old prejudice was so strong a factor in the disorganizing of an outpost was enraging. "and do you realize what that man did when he took that trail north?" he demanded impressively. "he knew that he carried his life in his hand as surely as he carried that body. and he went up there to play it against big odds for the sake of a lot of people who had a contemptible contempt for him." "and cursed us soundly while he did it," added one of the men, in an aside; but the major overheard it. "yes, that's like him, too," he agreed. "but, if any of you can show me so great a courage and conscientiousness in a more refined citizen, i'm waiting to see it." then there was the quick fall of hoofs outside the shack, hurried questions and brief answers. one of the scouts from the north ridge rushed in and reported to major dreyer. "a gang o' hostiles are in sight--not many; they've got our horses. think they carry a flag o' truce, but couldn't spot it for sure. they're not a fighten' gang, any way, fur they're comen' slow and carryen' somethen'." "a flag of truce? that means peace. thank god!" said tillie, fervently. "and genesee," added the major. as for rachel, her heart seemed in her throat. she tried to speak, to rush out and learn their message, but she could not move. an awful presentiment bound her. "carrying something!" chapter viii. "when the sun goeth down." "opitsah!--klahowya." they brought him--his dark, sad-faced brothers--bearing him on a bed of elastic poles and the skins of beasts; and walking through the lines of blue-coats as if not seeing them, they laid him on the floor of the shack, and grouped themselves clannishly in one corner, near his head. stuart knelt with trembling hands to examine the cruel wound in the throat, and turned away, shaking his head. he could not speak. there was a slow, inward hemorrhage. he was bleeding to death. "determination has kept him alive," decided the major, when the spokesman of the kootenais told of the shot on the mountain, and how they had to carry him, with snowcap in his arms, to the wigwam of grey eagle; of the council through which he kept up, and then told them he would live until he reached camp--he was so sure of it! for the body of snowcap he had asked the horses left in the gulch, and was given them--and much more, because of the sorrow of their nation. he did not try to speak at first, only looked about, drinking in the strange kindness in all the faces; then he reached out his hand toward rachel. "opitsah!" he whispered, with that smile of triumph in his eyes. "i told you i'd live--till i got back to you;" and then his eyes turned to the major. "i got a stand-off on the hostilities--till your return--inside my coat--i wrote it." he ceased, gasping, while they drew out the "talking-paper" with the mark of grey eagle at the foot, and on it also were their murderous stains. "you--treat with them now," he continued, "but--be careful. don't shirk promises. they're easy managed now--like a lot of children, just because they shot me--when i was carrying snowcap home. but they'll get over--that, and then--be careful. they were ready for the war-path--when i got there." he saw captain holt not far from him, and through the pallor of his face a faint flush crept. "well, i've come back for my trial," he scowled, with something of his old defiance; and the major knelt down and took his hand. "that's all over, genesee," he said gently. "it was a big mistake. there is not a soul here with anything but gratitude and admiration for you. it was your own fault you were suspected; miss rachel has explained. why did you not?" he did not answer--only looked at her, and seemed gathering his strength for some final effort. "i want someone--to write." he was still holding rachel's hand. she had not said a word; only her eyes seemed to tell him enough. stuart came forward. "will i do, jack?" jack nodded, and more than one was astonished at the signs of grief in stuart's face. rachel was past speculation. "this lady, here," said genesee, motioning to her, "has done a heap for me--more than she knows--i reckon--and i want--to square things." rachel attempted to speak; but he raised his hand. "don't," he whispered. "let me say it--tillikum." then he turned to stuart. "there's a bit of ground up in the hills; it's mine, and i want her to have it--it's tamahnous hill--and the old mine--write it." she thought of that other woman, and tried to protest. again he saw it, and pressed her hand for silence. "i want her to have it--for she likes these hills, and--she's been mighty good to me. no one will interfere--with her claim--i reckon." "no one shall interfere," said stuart, toward whom he looked. genesee smiled. "that's right--that's all right. she won't be afraid of the--witches. and she'll tell you where i want to go--she knows." his voice was growing fainter; they could see he was almost done with the kootenai valley. "in my pocket is something--from the mine," he said, looking at rachel; "it will show you--and there's another will in the bank--at holland's--it is--for annie." stuart guided his hand for the signature to the paper. stuart wrote his own, and hardy followed, his eyes opening in wonder at something written there. a slight rustle in the group at the door drew the major's attention, and a young face coming forward made him turn to stuart. "i had altogether forgotten that i brought someone from holland's for you--a boy sent there to find j. s. stuart. i knew it must be c. s. stuart, though, and brought him along." a dark-faced little fellow, with a sturdy, bright look, walked forward at the commander's motion; but his wondering gaze was on the man lying there with such an eager look in his eyes. "this is mr. stuart," said the major, and then turned to genesee. the stuart's face was white as the wounded man's as the boy looked up at him, frankly. "i'm--i'm jack," he said; "and mamma sent a letter." the letter was held out, and the boy's plucky mouth trembled a little at the lack of welcome; not even a hand-shake, and he was such a little fellow--about ten. but stuart looked like a man who sees a ghost. he took the letter, after a pause that seemed very long to the people who watched his strange manner. then he looked at the envelope, took the boy by the arm, and thrusting the major blindly aside, he knelt by genesee. "this is for you, jack," he said, motioning the others back by a gesture--all but rachel--that hand-clasp was so strong! "and your namesake has brought it." "read it," and he motioned rachel to take it; "read me annie's letter." she read it in a low tone--a repetition of that other plea that jack had left with her, and its finale the same longing request that her boy should at last be let know his father. stuart was in tears when she finished. "jack," he said, "ten years is a long time; i've suffered every hour of them. give me the boy; let me know you are agreed at last. give annie back to me!" jack raised his hand to the bewildered boy, who took it reverently. "you are annie's boy?" he whispered; "kiss me for her--tell her--" and then his eyes sought stuart's--"i held them in pawn for you. i reckon you're earnest enough now--to redeem them. what was that verse about--giving back the pledge when--the sun goes down? you read it. mother used to read it--little mother! she will be glad, i reckon--she--" stuart was sobbing outright, with his arms about the boy. rachel, with the letter in her hand, was as puzzled as those who had drawn out of hearing. only the indians stood close and impassive. jack, meeting her eyes, smiled. "you know now--all about--them--and annie. that was why i tried--to keep away from you--you know now." but she did not know. "you took his wife from him?" she said, in a maze of conflicting revelations; and jack looked at stuart, as she added, "and who were you?" "he is my brother!" said stuart, in answer to that look of jack's. "he would not let me say it before--not for years. but he is my brother!" the words were loud enough for all to hear, and there was a low chorus of surprise among the group. all concealment was about over for genesee--even the concealment of death. then stuart looked across at rachel. he heard that speech, "you took his wife from him;" and he asked no leave of jack to speak now. "don't think that of him," he said, steadily. "you have been the only one who has, blindfolded, judged him aright. don't fail him now. he is worth all the belief you had in him. the story i read you that night was true. his was the manhood you admired in it; mine, the one you condemned. as i look back on our lives now, his seems to me one immense sacrifice--and no compensations--one terrible isolation; and now--now everything comes to him too late!" "he is--sorry," whispered genesee, "and talks wild--but--you know now?" "yes," and the girl's face had something of the solemn elation of his own. "yes, i know now." "and you--will live in the hills--may be?--not so very far away from--me. in my pocket--is something--from the mine--davy will tell you. be good to--my kootenais; they think--a heap of you. kalitan!" the arrow came forward, and shook reverently the hand of the man who had been master to him. the eyes roved about the room, as if in search of others unseen. rachel guessed what was wanted, and motioned to the indians. "come; your brother wants you," she said. and as they grouped about him and her, they barred out the soldiers and civilians--the white brother and child--barred out all from him save his friends of the mountains and the wild places--the haunts of exiles. and the girl, as one by one they touched her hand at his request, and circled her with their dark forms, seemed to belong to them too. "when the--snow melts--the flowers are on that ledge," he whispered with his eyes closed, "and the birds--not echoes--the echoes are in the mine--don't be--afraid. i'll go long--and mowitza." he was silent for so long that she stooped and whispered to him of prayer. he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "give me--your good wishes--and kiss me, and i'll--risk hell," was the characteristic answer given so low that she had to watch closely the lips she kissed. "and you've kissed me--again! who said--no compensation?--they--don't know; we know--and the moonlight, and--yes--mother knows; she thought, at last--i was not--all bad; not all--little mother! and now--don't be afraid; i won't go--far--klahowya, my girl--my girl!" then one indian from the circle unslung his rifle from his shoulder and shattered it with one blow of an axe that lay by the fire. the useless thing was laid beside what had been genesee. and the owner, shrouding his head in his blanket, sat apart from the rest. it was he of the bear claws; the sworn friend of lamonti, and the man who had shot him. * * * * * at sunset he was laid to rest in the little plateau on scot's mountain that faces the west. he was borne there by the indians, who buried in his grave the tomahawk they had resurrected for the whites of camp kootenai. mowitza, rebelliously impatient, was led riderless by kalitan. all military honors were paid him who had received no honors in life, the rites ending by that volley of sound that seals the grave of a soldier. then the pale-faces turned again to the south, the dark-faces took the trail to the north, and the sun with a last flickering blaze flooded the snow with crimson, and died behind the western peaks they had watched light up one morning. chapter ix. "rashell of lamonti." the echoes are no longer silent in tamahnous peak. the witchcraft of silver has killed the old superstition. the "something" in genesee's pocket had been a specimen that warranted investigation. the lost tribe had left enough ore there through the darkness of generations to make mining a thing profitable. above those terraces of unknown origin there is a dwelling-house now, built of that same bewitched stone in which the echoes sleep; and often there is gathered under its roof a strange household. the words of genesee, "be good to my kootenais!" have so far been remembered by the girl who during the last year of his life filled his thoughts so greatly. his friends are her friends, and medley as the lot would appear to others, they are welcome to her. they have helped her solve the problem of what use she could make of her life. her relatives have given up in despair trying to alter her unheard-of manner of living. the idea is prevalent among them that rachel's mind, on some subjects, is really queer--she was always so erratic! they speak to her of the loneliness of those heights, and she laughs at them. she is never lonely. she had his word that he would not go far. with her lives old davy macdougall, who helps her much in the mining matters, and kalitan is never far off. he is her shadow now, as he once was genesee's. indian women do the work of her home. a school is there for any who care to learn, and in the lodges of the kootenais she is never forgotten. it seemed strange that he who had so few friends in his life should win her so many by his death. the indians speak of him now with a sort of awe, as their white brother whose counsels were so wise, whose courage was so great; he who forced from the spirits the secret of the lost mine. he has drifted into tradition as some wonderful creature who was among them for a while, disappearing at times, but always coming back at a time of their need. to rachel they turn as to something which they must guard--for he said so. she is to them always "rashell of lamonti"--of the mountains. from the east and south come friends sometimes--letters and faces of people who knew him; miss fred, and her husband, and the major, who is a stanch friend and admirer of the eccentric girl who was once a rebel in his camp; and in reminiscences the roughness of his kootenai chief of scouts is swathed in the gray veil of the past--only the lightning-flashes of courage are photographed in the veteran's memory. the stuart and his wife and boy come there sometimes in the summer; and the girl and little jack, who are very fond of each other, ride over the places where the other jack stuart rode--nameless for so long. as for prince charlie, his natural affection for children amounts to adoration of the boy. rachel wonders sometimes if the ideal his remorse had fostered for so long was filled at last by the girl whom he had left a delicately tinted apple-blossom and found a delicate type of the invalid, whose ill-health never exceeds fashionable indisposition. if not, no word or sign from him shows it. the pretty, ideal phases of domestic love and life that he used to write of, are not so ready to his pen as they once were through his dreams and remorse. much changed for him are those northern hills, but they still have a fascination for him and he writes of them a good deal. "it is the witchcraft of the place, or else it is you, rachel," he said, once. "both help me. when life grows old and stale in civilization, i come up here and straightway am young again. i can understand now how you helped jack." his wife--a pretty little woman with a gently appealing air--never really understands rachel, though she and tillie are great friends; but, despite tillie's praise, annie never can discover what there is in the girl for "charlie and all the other men to like so much--and even poor, dear jack, who must have been in love with her to leave her a silver mine." to annie she seems rather clever, but with so little affection! and not even sympathetic, as most girls are. she heard of rachel's pluck and bravery; but that is so near to boldness!--as heroes are to adventurers; and annie is a very prim little woman herself. she quotes "my husband" a good deal, and rates his work with the first writers of the age. the work has grown earnest; the lessons of rachel's prophecy have crept into it. he has in so many ways justified them--achieved more than he hoped; but he never will write anything more fascinating than the changeless youth in his own eyes, or the serious tenderness of his own mouth when he smiles. "prince charlie is a rare, fine lad," old davy remarked at the end of an autumn, as he and rachel watched their visitors out of sight down the valley; "a man fine enough to be brother to genesee, an' i ne'er was wearied o' him till i hearkened to that timorous fine lady o' his lilting him into the chorus o' every song she sung. by her tellin' she's the first o' the wives that's ever had a husband." "but she is not a fine lady at all," contradicted rachel; "and she's a very affectionate, very good little woman. you are set against her because of that story of long ago--and that is hardly fair, davy macdougall." "well, then, i am not, lass. it's little call i have to judge children, but i own i'm ower cranky when i think o' the waste o' a man's life for a bit pigeon like that--an' a man like my lad was! the prize was no' worth the candle that give light to it. a man's life is a big thing to throw away, lass, an' i see nothing in that bit o' daintiness to warrant it. to me it's a woeful waste." the girl walked on beside him through the fresh, sweet air of the morning that was filled with crisp kisses--the kisses that warn the wild things of the frost-king's coming. she was separated so slightly from the wild things herself that she was growing to understand them in a new spirit--through a sympathy touched less by curiosity than of old. she thought of that man, who slept across on scot's mountian, in sight of tamahnous peak; how he had understood them!--not through the head, but the heart. through some reflected light of feeling she had lived those last days of his life at a height above her former level. she had seen in the social outlaw who loved her a soul that, woman-like, she placed above where she knelt. perhaps it had been the uncivilized heroism, perhaps the unselfish, deliberate sacrifice, appealing to a hero-worshiper. something finer in nature than she had ever been touched by in a more civilized life had come to her through him in those last days--not through the man as men knew him, and not through the love he had borne her--but through the spirit she thought she saw there. it may have been in part an illusion--women have so many--but it was strong in her. it raised up her life to touch the thing she had placed on the heights, and something of the elation that had come to him through that last sacrifice filled her, and forbade her return into the narrowed valleys of existence. his wasted life! it had been given at last to the wild places he loved. it had left its mark on the humanity of them, and the mark had not been a mean one. the girl, thinking of what it had done for her, wondered often if the other lives of the valley that winter could live on without carrying indelible coloring from grateful, remorseful emotions born there. she did not realize how transient emotions are in some people; and then she had grown to idealize him so greatly. she fancied herself surely one of many, while really she was one alone. "yes, lass--a woeful waste," repeated the old man; and her thoughts wandered back to their starting-place. "no!" she answered with the sturdy certainty of faith. "the prodigality there was not wastefulness, and was not without a method--not a method of his own, but that something beyond us we call god or fate. the lives he lived or died for may seem of mighty little consequence individually, but what is, is more than likely to be right, davy macdougall, even if we can't see it from our point of view." then, after a little, she added, "he is not the first lion that has died to feed dogs--there was that man of nazareth." davy macdougall stopped, looking at her with fond, aged eyes that shone perplexedly from under his shaggy brows. "you're a rare, strange lass, rachel hardy," he said at last, "an' long as i've known ye, i'm not ower certain that i know ye at all. the lad used to be a bit like that at times, but when i see ye last at the night, i'm ne'er right certain what i'll find ye in the mornin'." "you'll never find me far from that, at any rate," and she motioned up the "hill of the witches," and on a sunny level a little above them mowitza and kalitan were waiting. "then, lass, ye'll ne'er tak' leave o' the kootenai hills?" "i think not. i should smother now in the life those people are going to," and she nodded after the departing guests who were going back to the world. then her eyes turned from the mists of the valleys to the whispering peace of cedars that guard scot's mountain. "no, davy, i'll never leave the hills." kloshe kah-kwa. john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains the trail of the lonesome pine. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the foot-prints of a girl. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." the little shepherd of kingdom come illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. a knight of the cumberland. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners' fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. novels of frontier life by william macleod raine mavericks. a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. a texas ranger. how a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. wyoming. in this vivid story of the outdoor west the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. ridgway of montana. the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. the political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. bucky o'connor. every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. crooked trails and straight. a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. the heroine is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free west. brand blotters. a story of the cattle range. this story brings out the turbid life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love interest running through its pages. jack london's novels john barleycorn. illustrated by h. t. dunn. this remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. this big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against john barleycorn. it is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgettable idea and makes a typical jack london book. the valley of the moon. frontispiece by george harper. the story opens in the city slums where billy roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and saxon brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. they tramp from one end of california to the other, and in the valley of the moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. burning daylight. four illustrations. the story of an adventurer who went to alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. bringing his fortunes to the states he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. he then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. about this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story! a son of the sun. illustrated by a. o. fischer and c. w. ashley. david grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from england to the south seas in search of adventure. tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. the life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. the call of the wild. illustrations by philip r. goodwin and charles livingston bull. decorations by charles e. hooper. a book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. the sea wolf. illustrated by w. j. aylward. told by a man whom fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. a novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight. white fang. illustrated by charles livingston bull. "white fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. thereafter he is man's loving slave. zane grey's novels the light of western stars colored frontispiece by w. herbert dunton. most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent mexican border of the present day. a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal cowboys defend her property from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she is captured by them. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. desert gold illustrated by douglas duer. another fascinating story of the mexican border. two men, lost in the desert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go no farther. the rest of the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. riders of the purple sage illustrated by douglas duer. a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. in the persecution of jane withersteen, a rich ranch owner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisible hand of the mormon church to break her will. the last of the plainsmen illustrated with photograph reproductions. this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canons and giant pines." it is a fascinating story. the heritage of the desert jacket in color. frontispiece. this big human drama is played in the painted desert. a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons-- well, that's the problem of this sensational, big selling story. betty zane illustrated by louis f. grant. this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. life along the frontier, attacks by indians, betty's heroic defense of the beleaguered garrison at wheeling, the burning of the fort, and betty's final race for life, make up this never-to-be-forgotten story. the novels of winston churchill the inside of the cup. illustrated by howard giles. the reverend john hodder is called to a fashionable church in a middle-western city. he knows little of modern problems and in his theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could desire. but the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening follows and in the end he works out a solution. a far country. illustrated by herman pfeifer. this novel is concerned with big problems of the day. as the inside of the cup gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so a far country deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with other vital issues confronting the twentieth century. a modern chronicle. illustrated by j. h. gardner soper. this, mr. churchill's first great presentation of the eternal feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young american woman. it is frankly a modern love story. mr. crewe's career. illustrated by a. i. keller and kinneys. a new england state is under the political domination of a railway and mr. crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own interest in a political way. the daughter of the railway president plays no small part in the situation. the crossing. illustrated by s. adamson and l. baylis. describing the battle of fort moultrie, the blazing of the kentucky wilderness, the expedition of clark and his handful of followers in illinois, the beginning of civilization along the ohio and mississippi, and the treasonable schemes against washington. coniston. illustrated by florence scovel shinn. a deft blending of love and politics. a new englander is the hero, a crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then surrendered all for the love of a woman. the celebrity. an episode. an inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. it is the purest, keenest fun--and is american to the core. the crisis. illustrated with scenes from the photo-play. a book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are inspiring. richard carvel. illustrated by malcolm frazer. an historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of colonial times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and interesting throughout. stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter laddie. illustrated by herman pfeifer. this is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in indiana. the story is told by little sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. chief among them is that of laddie, the older brother whom little sister adores, and the princess, an english girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. there is a wedding midway in the book and a double wedding at the close. the harvester. illustrated by w. l. jacobs. "the harvester," david langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of mother nature herself. if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," and the harvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life which has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. freckles. decorations by e. stetson crawford. freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment. a girl of the limberlost. illustrated by wladyslaw t. brenda. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. at the foot of the rainbow. illustrations in colors by oliver kemp. the scene of this charming love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. a new subspecies of microtus montanus from montana and comments on microtus canicaudus miller by e. raymond hall and keith r. kelson university of kansas publications museum of natural history volume , no. , pp. - october , university of kansas lawrence university of kansas publications, museum of natural history editors: e. raymond hall, chairman, a. byron leonard, edward h. taylor, robert w. wilson volume , no. , pp. - october , university of kansas lawrence, kansas printed by ferd voiland, jr., state printer topeka, kansas - a new subspecies of microtus montanus from montana and comments on microtus canicaudus miller by e. raymond hall and keith r. kelson in , for the museum of natural history of the university of kansas, mr. john a. white collected two specimens of the species _microtus montanus_ in the bitterroot valley of montana, that did not fit the description of any named subspecies. these were laid aside until we could examine the additional specimens from montana in the biological surveys collection in the united states national museum, some of which previously had been reported by bailey (n. amer. fauna, : , june , ) under the name _microtus nanus canescens_ bailey [=_microtus montanus canescens_]. our examination reveals that the animals from the bitterroot and flathead valleys belong to an heretofore unrecognized subspecies which is named and described below. microtus montanus pratincolus new subspecies _type._--female, adult, skull and skin, no. , univ. kansas, mus. nat. hist.; from mi. e hamilton, ft., ravalli county, montana; obtained on august , , by john a. white; original number . _geographic distribution._--flathead and bitterroot valleys of western montana. _diagnosis._--size small for the species (see measurements). color: essentially as in _microtus montanus nanus_. skull: small, slender, and comparatively smooth; rostrum moderately depressed distally; nasals moderately inflated distally and extending posteriorly not quite to tips of premaxillary tongues; nasals usually truncate posteriorly, but rounded in some individuals; premaxillary tongues terminating posteriorly in a short medial spine; zygomatic arches lightly constructed and usually more widely spreading posteriorly than anteriorly; interparietal comparatively long and terminating in a small, but distinct, medial spine, otherwise approximately rectangular in shape; exposed parts of upper incisors short and, for the species, only slightly procumbent; molar dentition weak and, in most specimens, especially so posteriorly; tympanic bullae large and well inflated, especially ventrolaterally; basioccipital narrow owing to the encroachment of the tympanic bullae. _comparison._--among named forms, _microtus montanus pratincolus_ most closely resembles _microtus montanus nanus_. the geographic range of _m. m. nanus_ adjoins that of _m. m. pratincolus_ on three sides; there is no conspecific subspecies adjoining the range of _m. m. pratincolus_ on the north. from _m. m. nanus_, _m. m. pratincolus_ differs as follows (measurements are all of males, those of _m. m. nanus_ being of nine topotypes and near topotypes from central idaho): size smaller ( mm. as opposed to ), tail shorter ( as opposed to ), hind foot shorter ( as opposed to ), upper molar series shorter (expressed as a percentage of basilar length, . as opposed to . ), mastoidal region broader (expressed as a percentage of basilar length, . as opposed to . ), braincase slightly more vaulted (depth of braincase expressed as a percentage of basilar length, . as opposed to . ) and more inflated laterally; tympanic bullae more inflated, this inflation being the most conspicuous difference between the two subspecies. the tympanic bullae of _m. m. pratincolus_ have approximately a fourth more volume than those of _m. m. nanus_. _remarks._--northwardly in the bitterroot valley, specimens of _m. m. pratincolus_ morphologically approach _m. m. nanus_, especially in the reduced degree of inflation of the tympanic portion of the bullae. on geographic grounds we think that the geographic range of _m. m. pratincolus_ extends southward to the southern end of the bitterroot valley; we have not seen specimens from that area. although we have not examined the specimen reported upon by davis (murrelet, : , september , ) from canyon creek, "a few miles west of hamilton", montana, we think that it will be found to belong to _m. m. pratincolus_. our examination of specimens from localities in montana east of the range here ascribed to _m. m. pratincolus_ indicates that, among named kinds of _microtus_, those specimens are best referred to _m. m. nanus_. these specimens are listed below under comparative materials. it should be mentioned here that although bailey (_loc. cit._) applied the name _microtus nanus canescens_ to montanan specimens from flathead lake and hot springs creek, the subspecies _m. montanus canescens_ now is thought to be restricted to washington and the adjoining part of british columbia; _m. m. canescens_ does not occur so far east as montana. grateful acknowledgment is made to those persons in charge of the biological surveys collection for permission to study the specimens in that collection, and to the kansas endowment association for support of the field work which yielded the specimens from six miles east of hamilton, montana. the study here reported upon was aided also by a contract between the office of naval research, department of the navy, and the university of kansas (nr - ). _measurements._--the following measurements in millimeters are those of the holotype and the average, maximum, and minimum, respectively, of eleven adult males from various places in the range of the subspecies. except as noted below, we are unable to detect significant morphological differences in the populations sampled and believe that pooling of the measurements is justifiable in this case. measurements are: total length, , ( - ); length of tail-vertebrae, , ( - ); length of hind foot, , ( - ) (all preceding measurements are those of the collectors); basilar length, . , . ( . - . ); greatest length of nasals, . , . ( . - . ); zygomatic breadth, . , . ( . - . ); mastoidal breadth, . , . ( . - . ); alveolar length of upper molar series, . , . ( . - . ); depth of braincase (shortest distance from ventral surface of basioccipito-basisphenoidal suture to the dorsal surface of the cranium, and not perpendicular to the long axis of the skull), . , . ( . - . ); width of rostrum, . , . ( . - . ); interorbital breadth, . , . ( . - . ). measurements of females, other than those of the holotype, are not given owing to the lack of sufficient material. females, however, do not appear to differ appreciably in measurements from males. _specimens examined_ (in u.s. nat. mus., biol. surv. coll., except as otherwise indicated).--total, , all from montana, as follows: _sanders co._: hot-springs cr., . _lake co._: end of w arm flathead lake, ; ravalli, . _ravalli co._: florence, ; mi. ne stevensville, ft., ; corvallis, ; mi. e hamilton, ft., (k.u.). _comparative materials_ (in u.s. nat. mus., biol. surv. coll.).--_microtus montanus nanus_: total, , as follows: idaho: _lewis co._: nez perce, . _idaho co._: seven devils mts., ft., . _custer co._: challis, ; pahsimeroi mts. ( ft., ; ft., ), . _butte co._: lost river mts., . _canyon co._: nampa, ; bowmont, . _ada co._: boise, . _blaine co._: sawtooth lake, ; alturas lake, . _owyhee co._: three cr., . _minidoka co._: heyburn, . _bannock co._: pocatello, . _bear lake co._: montpelier cr., . montana: _fergus co._: big snowy mts., . _gallatin co._: west fork of west fork, gallatin river, . _park co._: lamar river, ft., ; gardiner, . _sweetgrass co._: "near" head big timber cr., crazy mts., ; big timber cr., ft., crazy mts., ; mi. s big timber, ; west boulder cr., mi. se livingston, ; mcleod, . _carbon co._: beartooth mts., ; beartooth lake, . wyoming: _park co._: n end lake, yellowstone nat'l park, . microtus montanus canicaudus miller . _microtus canicaudus_ miller, proc. biol. soc. washington, : , april , type from mccoy, willamette valley, polk county, oregon. in when one of us (hall, proc. biol. soc. washington, : - , august , ) arranged several nominal species of _microtus_ as subspecies of the species _microtus montanus_, _microtus canicaudus_ was not included because that writer had not examined representative specimens. in the u.s. biological surveys collection in the u.s. national museum we have examined specimens of _m. m. canicaudus_, all from oregon, as follows: hood river (catalogue nos. - ); canby ( , ); wapinitia ( - ); sheridan ( , ); mccoy ( - , ); salem ( ); albany ( ); and corvallis ( ). the four specimens from wapinitia seem to be those that bailey (n. amer. fauna, : , june , ) listed as _microtus montanus_. the diagnostic characters mentioned by miller in the original description (proc. biol. soc. washington, : , april , ) included the following: size approximately the same as in _microtus [montanus] nanus_; upper parts yellowish; tail usually nearly uniform grayish above and below; auditory bullae much inflated; lateral pits at posterior edge of bony palate unusually shallow. because the tails of the original series were understuffed and variously rotated, they seemed to be less sharply bicolored than is the case, as shown by subsequently collected specimens. otherwise we find that the characters mentioned above differentiate _canicaudus_ from its nearest relatives, _microtus montanus canescens_ to the northward, _m. m. nanus_ to the eastward, and _m. m. montanus_ to the southward. in _canicaudus_ we have noted one additional differential character; the interpterygoid space is acuminate anteriorly. in this feature and in each of the other features mentioned above, intergradation with _microtus montanus nanus_ is seen in the specimens from hood river and wapinitia. in the specimens from hood river the auditory bullae are only slightly less inflated than in those topotypes of _canicaudus_ having the smallest bullae; there is appreciable variation in size of the bullae in the topotypes. even so, the minimum size of bullae among the topotypes is larger than the maximum size in the specimens from wapinitia. the four specimens from wapinitia have the yellowish color of _canicaudus_ to a considerable degree, and show intergradation between _canicaudus_ and _nanus_ in depth of the palatal pits and shape of interpterygoid space. the slightly larger size of these specimens from wapinitia suggests intergradation with _m. m. montanus_. the tympanic bullae in the specimens from wapinitia seem to be smaller than in specimens of _canicaudus_, _nanus_, or _montanus_. because of the intergradation described above between _microtus montanus nanus_ and _m. canicaudus_, the latter should stand as _microtus montanus canicaudus_. * * * * * bailey (n. amer. fauna, : , august , ) recorded _canicaudus_ from warm springs in the deschutes valley of oregon and from the state of washington. other authors also have recorded _canicaudus_ from the state of washington. our examination of specimens leads us to conclude, as did dalquest (univ. kansas publ., mus. nat. hist., : , , april , ), that _canicaudus_ does not occur in washington. the reported occurrence of _m. canicaudus_ at warm springs, deschutes valley, oregon, seems to be the result of an error in identification. the specimens concerned seem to be two _microtus longicaudus mordax_ (nos. and u.s.n.m.). they are labeled as collected at "warm springs (mill cr.-- mi. w of)". bailey's (_op. cit._, fig. , p. ) map showing the distribution in oregon of _microtus mordax mordax_ [=_microtus longicaudus mordax_] has a locality-dot at warm springs itself. bailey seems to have erred; he should have placed this dot miles farther west, we think. when preparing his map (_op. cit._, fig. , p. ) showing the geographic distribution of _microtus canicaudus_, bailey seems to have misidentified these same two specimens as _m. canicaudus_, and for them placed a locality-dot on his map miles east (instead of west) of warm springs. in brief, bailey probably did not see any specimens of _canicaudus_ or specimens of any other subspecies of _microtus montanus_ from warm springs. _transmitted february , ._ - al haines. the curlytops at uncle frank's ranch or _little folks on ponyback_ by howard r. garis contents chapter i trouble's tumble ii nicknack and trouble iii off for the west iv the collision v at ring rosy ranch vi cowboy fun vii bad news viii a queer noise ix the sick pony x a surprised doctor xi trouble makes a lasso xii the bucking bronco xiii missing cattle xiv looking for indians xv trouble "helps" xvi on the trail xvii the curlytops alone xviii lost xix the hidden valley xx back to ring rosy the curlytops at uncle frank's ranch chapter i trouble's tumble "say, jan, this isn't any fun!" "what do you want to play then, ted?" janet martin looked at her brother, who was dressed in one of his father's coats and hats while across his nose was a pair of spectacles much too large for him. janet, wearing one of her mother's skirts, was sitting in a chair holding a doll. "well, i'm tired of playing doctor, jan, and giving your make-believe sick doll bread pills. i want to do something else," and teddy began taking off the coat, which was so long for him that it dragged on the ground. "oh, i know what we can do that'll be lots of fun!" cried janet, getting up from the chair so quickly that she forgot about her doll, which fell to the floor with a crash that might have broken her head. "oh, my _dear!_" cried janet, as she had often heard her mother call when baby william tumbled and hurt himself. "oh, are you hurt?" and janet clasped the doll in her arms, and hugged it as though it were a real child. "is she busted?" ted demanded, but he did not ask as a real doctor might inquire. in fact, he had stopped playing doctor. "no, she isn't hurt, i guess," jan answered, feeling of her doll's head. "i forgot all about her being in my lap. oh, aren't you going to play any more, ted?" she asked as she saw her brother toss the big coat on a chair and take off the spectacles. "no. i want to do something else. this is no fun!" "well, let's make-believe you're sick and i can be a red cross nurse, like some of those we saw in the drugstore window down the street, making bandages for the soldiers. you could be a soldier, ted, and i could be the nurse, and i'd make some sugar pills for you, if you don't like the rolled-up bread ones you gave my doll." teddy martin thought this over for a few seconds. he seemed to like it. and then he shook his head. "no," he answered his sister, "i couldn't be a soldier." "why not?" "'cause i haven't got a gun and there isn't any tent." "we could make a tent with a sheet off the bed like we do lots of times. put it over a chair, you know." "but i haven't a gun," teddy went on. he knew that he and janet could make a tent, for they had often done it before. "couldn't you take a broom for a gun?" janet asked. "i'll get it from the kitchen." "pooh! what good is a broom for a gun? i want one that shoots! anyhow i haven't a uniform, and a soldier can't go to war without a uniform or a sword or a gun. i'm not going to play that!" janet did not know what to say for a few seconds. truly a soldier would not be much of one without a gun or a uniform, even if he was in a tent. but the little girl had not given up yet. the day was a rainy one. there was no school, for it was saturday, and staying in the house was no great fun. janet wanted her brother to stay and play with her and she knew she must do something to make him. for a while he had been content to play that he was dr. thompson, come to give medicine to jan's sick doll. but teddy had become tired of this after paying half a dozen visits and leaving pills made by rolling bread crumbs together. teddy laid aside his father's old hat and scratched his head. that is he tried to, but his head was so covered with tightly twisted curls that the little boy's fingers were fairly entangled in them. "say!" he exclaimed, "i wish my hair didn't curl so much! it's too long. i'm going to ask mother if i can't have it cut." "i wish i could have mine cut," sighed janet. "mine's worse to comb than yours is, ted." "yes, i know. and it always curls more on a rainy day." both children had the same curly hair. it was really beautiful, but they did not quite appreciate it, even though many of their friends, and some persons who saw them for the first time, called them "curlytops." indeed the tops of their heads were very curly. "oh, i know how we can do it!" suddenly cried janet, just happening to think of something. "do what?" asked her brother. "play the soldier game. you can pretend you were caught by the enemy and your gun and uniform were taken away. then you can be hurt and i'll be the red cross nurse and take care of you in the tent. i'll get some real sugar for pills, too! nora'll give me some. she's in the kitchen now making a cake." "maybe she'd give you a piece of cake, too," suggested teddy. "maybe," agreed janet. "i'll go and ask her." "ask her for some chocolate," added ted. "i guess, if i've got to be sick, i'd like chocolate pills 'stead of sugar." "all right," said janet, as she hurried downstairs from the playroom to the kitchen. in a little while she came back with a plate on which were two slices of chocolate cake, while on one edge of it were some crumbs of chocolate icing. "i'll make pills of that after we eat the cake," janet said. "you can pretend the cake made you sick if you want to, ted." "pooh! who ever heard of a soldier getting sick on cake? anyhow they don't have cake in the army--lessen they capture it from the enemy." "well, you can pretend you did that," said janet. "now i'll put my doll away," she went on, as she finished her piece of cake, "and well play the soldier game. i'll get some red cloth to make the cross." janet looked "sweet," as her mother said afterward, when she had wound a white cloth around her head, a red cross, rather ragged and crooked, being pinned on in front. the tent was made by draping a sheet from the bed across two chairs, and under this shelter teddy crawled. he stretched out on a blanket which janet had spread on the floor to be the hospital cot. "now you must groan, ted," she said, as she looked in a glass to see if her headpiece and cross were on straight. "groan? what for?" "'cause you've been hurt in the war, or else you're sick from the cake." "pooh! a little bit of cake like _that_ wouldn't make _me_ sick. you've got to give me a _lot_ more if you want me to be real sick." "oh, teddy martin! i'm not going to play if you make fun like that all the while. you've got to groan and pretend you've been shot. never mind about the cake." "all right. i'll be shot then. but you've got to give me a lot of chocolate pills to make me get better." "i'm not going to give 'em to you all at once, ted martin!" "well, maybe in two doses then. how many are there?" "oh, there's a lot. i'm going to take some myself." "you are not!" and teddy sat up so quickly that he hit the top of the sheet-tent with his head and made it slide from the chair. "there! look what you did!" cried janet. "now you've gone and spoiled everything!" "oh, well, i'll fix it," said ted, rather sorry for what he had done. "but you can't eat my chocolate pills." "i can so!" "you cannot! who ever heard of a nurse taking the medicine from a sick soldier?" "well, anyhow--well, wouldn't you give me some chocolate candy if you had some, and i hadn't?" asked janet. "course i would, jan. i'm not stingy!" "well, these pills are just like chocolate candy, and if i give 'em all to you--" "oh, well, then i'll let you eat _some_," agreed ted. "but you wanted me to play this game of bein' a sick soldier, and if i'm sick i've got to have the medicine." "yes, i'll give you the most," janet agreed. "now you lie down and groan and i'll hear you out on the battlefield and come and save your life." so, after janet had fixed the sheet over him again, teddy lay back on the blanket and groaned his very best. "oh, it sounds as real as anything!" exclaimed the little girl in delight. "do it some more, ted!" thereupon her brother groaned more loudly until janet stopped him by dropping two or three chocolate pills into his opened mouth. "oh! gurr-r-r-r! ugh! say, you 'most choked me!" spluttered ted, as he sat up and chewed the chocolate. "oh, i didn't mean to," said janet as she ate a pill or two herself. "now you lie down and go to sleep, 'cause i've got a lot more sick soldiers to go to see." "don't give 'em any of my chocolate pills," cautioned ted. "i need 'em all to make me get better." "i'll only make-believe give them some," promised janet. she and her brother played this game for a while, and teddy liked it--as long as the chocolate pills were given him. but when janet had only a few left and teddy was about to say he was tired of lying down, someone came into the playroom and a voice asked: "what you doin'?" "playing soldier," answered janet. "you mustn't drop your 'g' letters, trouble. mother doesn't like it." "i want some chocolate," announced the little boy, whose real name was william martin, but who was more often called trouble--because he got in so much of it, you know. "there's only one pill left. can i give it to him, ted?" asked janet. "yes, janet. i've had enough. anyhow, i know something else to play now. it's lots of fun!" "what?" asked janet eagerly. it was still raining hard and she wanted her brother to stay in the house with her. "we'll play horse," went on ted. "i'll be a bucking bronco like those uncle frank told us about on his ranch. we'll make a place with chairs where they keep the cow ponies and the broncos. i forget what uncle frank called it." "i know," said janet. "it's cor--corral." "corral!" exclaimed ted. "that's it! we'll make a corral of some chairs and i'll be a bucking bronco. that's a horse that won't let anybody ride on its back," the little boy explained. "i wants a wide!" said baby william. "well, maybe i'll give you a ride after i get tired of bucking," said teddy, thinking about it. they made a ring of chairs on the playroom floor, and in this corral teddy crept around on his hands and knees, pretending to be a wild western pony. janet tried to catch him and the children had much fun, trouble screaming and laughing in delight. at last teddy allowed himself to be caught, for it was hard work crawling around as he did, and rearing up in the air every now and then. "give me a wide!" pleaded trouble. "yes, i'll ride him on my back," offered teddy, and his baby brother was put up there by janet. "now don't go too fast with him, pony," she said. "yes, i wants to wide fast, like we does with nicknack," declared baby william. nicknack was the curlytops' pet goat. "all right, i'll give you a fast ride," promised teddy. he began crawling about the room with trouble on his back. the baby pretended to drive his "horse" by a string which ted held in his mouth like reins. "go out in de hall--i wants a big wide," directed trouble. "all right," assented teddy. out into the hall he went and then forgetting, perhaps, that he had his baby brother on his back, teddy began to buck--that is flop up and down. "oh--oh! 'top!" begged trouble. "i can't! i'm a wild-west pony," explained ted, bucking harder than ever. he hunched himself forward on his hands and knees, and before he knew it he was at the head of the stairs. then, just how no one could say, trouble gave a yell, toppled off teddy's back and the next instant went rolling down the flight, bump, bump, bumping at every step. chapter ii nicknack and trouble "oh, teddy!" screamed janet. "oh, trouble!" teddy did not answer at once. indeed he had hard work not to tumble down the stairs himself after his little brother. ted clung to the banister, though, and managed to save himself. "oh, he'll be hurt--terrible!" cried janet, and she tried to get past her older brother to run downstairs after trouble. but mrs. martin, who was in the dining-room talking to nora jones, the maid, heard the noise and ran out into the hall. "oh, children!" she cried. "teddy--janet--what's all that noise?" "it's trouble, mother!" announced teddy. "i was playing bucking bronco and--" "trouble fell downstairs!" screamed janet. while everyone was thus calling out at once, baby william came flopping head over heels, and partly sidewise, down the padded steps, landing right at his mother's feet, sitting up as straight as though in his high-chair. "oh, darling!" cried mrs. martin, catching the little fellow up in her arms, "are you hurt?" trouble was too much frightened to scream or cry. he had his mouth open but no sound came from it. he was just like the picture of a sobbing baby. "oh, nora!" cried mrs. martin, as she hurried into the dining-room with her little boy in her arms. "trouble fell downstairs! get ready to telephone for his father and the doctor in case he's badly hurt," and then she and the maid began looking over baby william to find out just what was the matter with him, while ted and janet, much frightened and very quiet, stood around waiting. and while mrs. martin is looking over trouble it will be a good chance for me to tell those of you who meet the curlytops for the first time in this book something about them, and what has happened to them in the other volumes of this series. the first book is named "the curlytops at cherry farm," and in that i had the pleasure of telling you about ted and janet and trouble martin and their father and mother, when they went to grandpa martin's place, called cherry farm, which was near the village of elmburg, not far from clover lake. there the children found a goat, which they named nicknack, and they kept him as a pet. when hitched to a wagon he gave them many nice rides. there were many cherry trees on grandpa martin's farm, and when some of the other crops failed the cherries were a great help, especially when the lollypop man turned them into "chewing cherry candy." after a good time on the farm the children had more fun when, as told in the second book, named "the curlytops on star island," they went camping with grandpa. on star island in clover lake they saw a strange blue light which greatly puzzled them, and it was some time before they knew what caused it. the summer and fall passed and ted and janet went home to cresco, where they lived, to spend the winter. what happened then is told in the third volume, called "the curlytops snowed in." the big storm was so severe that no one could get out and even nicknack was lost wandering about in the big drifts. the curlytops had a good time, even if they were snowed in. now spring had come again, and the children were ready for something else. but i must tell you a little bit about the family, as well as about what happened. you have already met ted, jan and trouble. ted's real name was theodore, but his mother seldom called him that unless she was quite serious about something he had done that was wrong. so he was more often spoken to as ted or teddy, and his sister janet was called jan. though oftener still they were called the "curlytops," or, if one was speaking to one or the other he would say "curlytop." that was because both teddy and janet had such very, very curly hair. ted's and jan's birthdays came on the same day, but they had been born a year apart, teddy being about seven years old and his sister a year younger. trouble was aged about three years. i have spoken of the curly hair of teddy and janet. unless you had seen it you would never have believed hair could be so curly! it was no wonder that even strangers called the children "curlytops." sometimes, when mother martin was combing the hair of the children, the comb would get tangled and she would have to pull a little to get it loose. that is one reason ted never liked to have his hair combed. janet's was a little longer than his, but just as curly. trouble's real name, as i have mentioned, was william. his father sometimes called him "a bunch of trouble," and his mother spoke of him as "dear trouble," while jan and ted called him just "trouble." mr. martin, whose name was richard, shortened to dick by his wife (whose name was ruth) owned a store in cresco, which is in one of our eastern states. nora jones, a cheerful, helpful maid-of-all-work had been in the martin family a long while, and dearly loved the children, who were very fond of her. the martins had many relatives besides the children's grandfather and grandmother, but i will only mention two now. they were aunt josephine miller, called aunt jo, who lived at clayton and who had a summer bungalow at mt. hope, near ruby lake. she was a sister of mrs. martin's. uncle frank barton owned a large ranch near rockville, montana. he was mr. martin's uncle, but ted and janet also called him their uncle. now that you have met the chief members of the family, and know a little of what has happened to them in the past you may be interested to go back to see what the matter is with trouble. his mother turned him over and over in her arms, feeling of him here and there. trouble had closed his mouth by this time, having changed his mind about crying. instead he was very still and quiet. "trouble, does it hurt you anywhere?" his mother asked him anxiously. "no," he said. "not hurt any place. i wants to wide on teddy's back some more." "the little tyke!" exclaimed mrs. martin with a sigh of relief. "i don't believe he is hurt a bit." "the stairs are real soft since we put the new carpet on them," remarked nora. "they are well padded," agreed mrs. martin. "i guess that's what kept him from getting hurt. it was like rolling down a feather bed. but he might have got his arm or leg twisted under him and have broken a bone. how did he happen to fall?" "we were playing red cross nurse," began janet, "and ted was a soldier in a tent and--" "but how could william fall downstairs if you were playing that sort of game?" asked her mother. "oh, we weren't playing it then," put in ted. "we'd changed to another game. i was a wild western bronco, like those on uncle frank's ranch, and i was giving trouble a ride on my back. i gave a jump when i was near the stairs, and i guess he must have slipped off." "there isn't any guessing about it--he _did_ slip off," said mrs. martin with a smile, as she put trouble in a chair, having made sure he was not hurt, and that there was no need of telephoning for his father or the doctor. "you must be more careful, teddy. you might have hurt your little brother." "yes'm," teddy answered. "i won't do it again." "but we want to play something," put in janet. "it's no fun being in the house all day." "i know it isn't. but i think the rain is going to stop pretty soon. if you get your rain-coats and rubbers you may go out for a little while." "me go too?" begged trouble. "yes, you may go too," agreed his mother. "you'll all sleep better if you get some fresh air; and it's warm, even if it has been raining." "maybe we can take nicknack and have a ride!" exclaimed teddy. "if it stops raining," said his mother. ted, jan and trouble ran up and down in front of the house while the rain fell softly and the big drops dripped from the trees. then the clouds broke away, the sun came out, the rain stopped and with shouts and laughter the children ran to the barn next to which, in a little stable of his own, nicknack, the goat, was kept. "come on out, nicknack!" cried janet. "you're going to give us a ride!" and nicknack did, being hitched to the goat-cart in which there was room and to spare for janet, ted and trouble. up and down the street in front of their home the martin children drove their pet goat. "whee, this is fun!" cried ted, as he made nicknack run downhill with the wagon. "oh, teddy martin, don't go so fast!" begged janet. "i like to go fast!" answered her brother. "i'm going to play wild west. this is the stage coach and pretty soon the indians will shoot at us!" "teddy martin! if you're going to do that i'm not going to play!" stormed janet. "you'll make trouble fall out and get hurt. come on, trouble! let us get out!" she cried. nicknack was going quite fast down the hill. "wait till we get to the bottom," shouted ted. "g'lang there, pony!" he cried to the goat. "let me out!" screamed janet, "i want to get out." at the foot of the hill teddy stopped the goat and janet, taking trouble with her, got out and walked back to the house. "what's the matter now?" asked mrs. martin from the porch where she had come out to get a little fresh air. "ted's playing wild west in the goat-wagon," explained janet. "oh, ted! don't be so rough!" begged his mother of her little son, who drove up just then. "oh, i'm only playing indians and stage coach," he said. "you've got to go fast when the indians are after you!" and away he rode. "he's awful mean!" declared janet. "i don't know what's come over ted of late," said mrs. martin to her husband, who came up the side street just then from his store. "what's he been doing?" asked mr. martin. "oh, he's been pretending he was a bucking bronco, like those uncle frank has on his ranch, and he tossed trouble downstairs. but the baby didn't get hurt, fortunately. now ted's playing wild west stagecoach with nicknack and janet got frightened and wouldn't ride." "hum, i see," said ted's father slowly. "our boy is getting older, i guess. he needs rougher play. well, i think i've just the very thing to suit him, and perhaps janet and all of us." "what is it?" asked mrs. martin, as her husband drew a letter from his pocket. "this is an invitation from uncle frank for all of us to come out to his ranch in montana for the summer," was the answer. "we have been talking of going, you know, and now is a good chance. i can leave the store for a while, and i think it would do us all good--the children especially--to go west. so if you'd like it, well pack up and go." "go where?" asked ted, driving around near the veranda in time to hear his father's last words. "out to uncle frank's ranch," said mr. martin. "how would you like that?" added his mother. "could we have ponies to ride?" asked ted. "yes, i think so." "oh, what fun!" cried janet. "i love a pony!" "you'd be afraid of them!" exclaimed ted. "i would not! if they didn't jump up and down the way you did with trouble on your back i wouldn't be afraid." "pooh! that's the way bucking broncos always do, don't they, daddy? i'm going to have a bronco!" "well, well see when we get there," said daddy martin. "but since you all seem to like it, we'll go out west." "can we take nicknack?" asked teddy. "you won't need him if you have a pony," his father suggested. "no, that's so. hurray! what fun we'll have!" "are there any indians out there?" asked janet. "well, a few, i guess," her father answered. "but they're docile indians--not wild. they won't hurt you. now let's go in and talk about it." the curlytops asked all sorts of questions of their father about uncle frank's ranch, but though he could tell them, in a general way, what it looked like, mr. martin did not really know much about the place, as he had never been there. "but you'll find lots of horses, ponies and cattle there," he said. "and can we take nicknack with us, to ride around the ranch?" asked jan, in her turn. "oh, you won't want to do that," her father said. "you'll have ponies to ride, i think." "what'll we do with nicknack then?" asked ted. "we'll have to leave him with some neighbor until we come back," answered his father. "i was thinking of asking mr. newton to take care of him. bob newton is a kind boy and he wouldn't harm your goat." "yes, bob is a good boy," agreed teddy. "i'd like him to have nicknack." "then, if it is all right with mr. newton, well take the goat over a few days before we leave for the west," said mr. martin. "bob will have a chance to get used to nicknack, and nicknack to him, before we go away." "nicknack not come wif us?" asked trouble, not quite understanding what the talk was about. "no, we'll leave nicknack here," said his father, as he cuddled the little fellow up in his lap. trouble said nothing more just then but, afterward, ted remembered that baby william seemed to be thinking pretty hard about something. a few days later, when some of the trunks had been partly packed, ready for the trip west, mr. martin came home early from the store and said to jan and ted: "i think you'd better get your goat ready now and take him over to bob's house. i spoke to mr. newton about it, and he said there was plenty of room in his stable for a goat bob is delighted to have him." "but hell give him back to us when we come home, won't he?" asked janet. "oh, yes, of course! you won't lose your goat," said her father with a laugh. but when they went out to the stable to harness nicknack to the wagon, ted and janet rubbed their eyes and looked again. "why, nicknack is gone!" exclaimed ted. "he is," agreed his sister. "maybe bob came and got him." "no, he wouldn't do that without telling us," went on ted. "i wonder where that goat is?" he looked around the stable yard and in the barn. no nicknack was in sight. when the curlytops were searching they heard their mother calling to them from the house, where their father was waiting for them to come up with nicknack. he was going over to mr. newton's with them. "ho, ted! janet! where are you?" called mrs. martin. "out here, mother!" teddy answered. "is trouble there with you?" "trouble? no, he isn't here!" "he isn't!" exclaimed his mother. "where in the world can he be? nora says she saw him going out to the barn a little while ago. please find him!" "huh!" exclaimed ted. "trouble is gone and so is nicknack! i s'pose they've gone together!" "well have to look," said janet. chapter iii off for the west the curlytops hurried toward the house, leaving open the empty little stable in which nicknack was usually kept. they found their father and their mother looking around in the yard, mrs. martin had a worried air. "couldn't you find him?" asked daddy martin. "we didn't look--very much," answered teddy. "nicknack is gone, and--" "nicknack gone!" cried mrs. martin. "i wonder if that little tyke of ours has gotten into trouble with him." "nicknack wouldn't make any trouble," declared jan. "he's such a nice goat--" "yes, i know!" said mrs. martin quickly. "but it looks very much as though trouble and nicknack had gone off together. is the goat's harness in the stable?" "we didn't look," answered teddy. "the wagon's gone," janet said. "i looked under the shed for that and it wasn't there." "then i can just about guess what has happened," said daddy martin. "trouble heard as talking about taking nicknack over to mr. newton's house, where he would be kept while we are at uncle frank's ranch, and the little fellow has just about taken the goat over himself." "nonsense!" exclaimed mrs. martin. "trouble couldn't hitch the goat to the wagon and drive off with him." "oh, yes he could, mother!" said teddy. "he's seen me and janet hitch nicknack up lots of times, and he's helped, too. at first he got the straps all crooked, but i showed him how to do it, and i guess he could 'most hitch the goat up himself now all alone." "then that's what he's done," said mr. martin. "come on, curlytops, we'll go over to mr. newton's and get trouble." "i hope you find him all right," said mrs. martin, with a sigh. "oh, we'll find him all right--don't worry," her husband answered. laughing among themselves at the trick trouble had played, janet, teddy and mr. martin started for the home of mr. newton, which was three or four long streets away, toward the edge of the town. on the way they looked here and there, in the yards of houses where the children often went to play. "for," said mr. martin, "it might be possible that when trouble found he could drive nicknack, which he could do, as the goat is very gentle, he might have stopped on the way to play." "yes, he might," said jan. "he's so cute!" but there was no sign of the little boy, nor the goat, either. finally mr. newton's house was reached. into the yard rushed janet and teddy, followed by their father. bob newton was making a kite on the side porch. "hello, curlytop!" he called to ted. "want to help me fly this? it's going to be a dandy!" "yes, i'll help you," agreed ted. "but is he here?" "who here?" asked bob, in some surprise. "nicknack, our goat," answered teddy. "what! is he lost?" exclaimed bob in some dismay, for he was counting on having much fun with the goat when the curlytops went west. "nicknack--" began ted. "have you seen trouble?" broke in janet. "is he lost, too?" bob inquired. "say, i guess--" "our goat and little boy seem to have gone off together," explained mr. martin to mrs. newton who came out on the porch just then. "we'd been talking before trouble about bringing nicknack over here, and now that both are missing we thought maybe baby william had brought the goat over himself." "why, no, he isn't here," said mrs. newton slowly. "you didn't see anything of trouble and the goat, did you?" she asked her son. "no. i've been here making the kite all morning, and i'd have seen nicknack all right, and trouble, too, if they had come here." "well, that's funny!" exclaimed mr. martin. "i wonder where he can have gone?" "maybe nicknack ran away with him," suggested bob. "oh, don't say such things!" exclaimed his mother. "i don't think that can have happened," returned mr. martin, "nicknack is a very gentle goat, and trouble is used to playing with him all alone. he never yet has been hurt. of course we are not sure that the two went away together. trouble disappeared from the house, and he was last seen going toward the stable. "when ted and jan went out to get nicknack he was gone, too, and so was the wagon and harness. so we just thought trouble might have driven his pet over here." "yes, i think it likely that the two went away together," said mrs. newton; "but they're not here. bob, put away that kite of yours and help mr. martin and the curlytops look for trouble. he may have gone to mrs. simpson's," she went on. "he's often there you know." "yes, but we looked in their yard coming over," put in ted. "trouble wasn't there." "that's strange," murmured bob's mother. "well, he can't be far, that's sure, and he can't get lost. everybody in town knows him and the goat, and he's sure to be seen sooner or later." "i guess so," agreed mr. martin. "his mother was a little worried, though." "yes, i should think she would be. it's horrible to have anything happen to your children--or fear it may. i'll take off my apron and help you look." "oh, don't bother," said mr. martin. "we'll find him all right." but mrs. newton insisted on joining the search. there was a barn on the newton place--a barn in which bob was counting on keeping nicknack--and this place was first searched lest, perchance, trouble might have slipped in there with the goat without anyone having seen him, having come up through a back alley. but there was no goat inside; and bob, the curlytops, mr. martin and mrs. newton came out again, and looked up and down the street. "i'll tell you what we'd better do," said bob's mother. "ted, you come with bob and me. you know trouble's ways, and where he would be most likely to go. let janet go with her father, and we'll go up and down the street, inquiring in all the houses we come to. your little brother is sure to be near one of them." "that's a good idea," said mr. martin. "jan, you come with me. i expect your mother will be along any minute now. she won't wait at home long for us if we don't come back with trouble." so the two parties started on the search, one up and the other down the street. bob, teddy and mrs. newton inquired at a number of houses, but no one in them had seen trouble and nicknack that day. nor did janet and her father get any trace of the missing ones. "i wonder where he is," murmured teddy, and he was beginning to feel afraid that something had happened to trouble. "let's go down the back street," suggested bob. "you know there's quite a lot of wagons and automobiles go along this main street where we've been looking. maybe if trouble hitched up nicknack and went for a ride he'd turn down the back street 'cause it's quieter." "yes, he may have done that," agreed mrs. newton. so down the back street the three went. there were several vacant lots on this street and as the grass in them was high--tall enough to hide a small boy and a goat and wagon--bob said they had better look in these places. this they did. there was nothing in the first two vacant lots, but in the third--after they had stopped at one or two houses and had not found the missing ones--teddy suddenly cried out: "hark!" "what'd you hear?" asked bob. "i thought i heard a goat bleating," was the answer. "listen!" whispered mrs. newton. they kept quiet, and then through the air came the sound: "baa-a-a-a-a!" "that's nicknack!" cried teddy, rushing forward. "i hope your little brother is there, too," said mrs. newton. and trouble was. when they got to the lower end of the vacant lot there, in a tangle of weeds, was the goat-wagon, and nicknack was in a tangle of harness fast to it. "look at trouble!" cried teddy. there lay the little fellow, sound asleep in the goat-wagon, his head pillowed on his arm, while nicknack was bleating now and then between the bites of grass and weeds he was eating. "oh, trouble!" cried mrs. newton as she took him up in her arms. "yes--dis me--i's trouble," was the sleepy response. "oh, 'lo, teddy," he went on as he saw his brother. "'lo, bob. you come to find me?" "i should say we _did_!" cried bob. "what are you doing here?" "havin' wide," was the answer. "everybody go 'way--out west--i not have a goat den. i no want nicknack to go 'way." "oh, i see what he means!" exclaimed teddy, after thinking over what his little brother said. "he heard us talking about bringing nicknack over to your house, bob, to keep him for us. trouble likes the goat and i guess he didn't want to leave him behind. maybe he thought he could drive him away out to montana, to uncle frank's ranch." "maybe," agreed bob. "that'd be a long drive, though." "i should say so!" agreed mrs. newton. "but i guess you're right, teddy. your little brother started off to hide the goat and wagon so you couldn't leave it behind. he's a funny baby, all right!" "and look how he harnessed him!" exclaimed bob. nicknack really wasn't harnessed. the leather straps and the buckles were all tangled up on him, but trouble had managed to make enough of them stick on the goat's back, and had somehow got part of the harness fast to the wagon, so nicknack could pull it along. "i had a nice wide," said trouble, as bob and teddy straightened out the goat's harness. "den i got sleepy an' nicknack he got hungry, so we comed in here." "and we've been looking everywhere for you!" exclaimed mrs. newton. "well, i'm glad we've found you. come along, now. ted, you and bob hurry along and tell the others. your mother'll be worried." and indeed mrs. martin was worried, especially when she met mr. martin and janet, who had not found trouble. but teddy and bob soon met with the other searchers and told them that baby "william had been found. "oh, what will you do next?" cried mrs. martin, as she clasped the little fellow in her arms. "such a fright as you've given us!" "no want nicknack to go 'way!" said trouble. "i guess that's what he did it for--he thought he could hide the goat so we wouldn't leave him behind," said daddy martin. "but we'll have to, just the same. trouble won't miss him when we get out on the ranch." so the goat and wagon were left at bob's house, and though trouble cried when he realized what was happening, he soon got over it. the next few days were filled with busy preparations toward going west. daddy martin bought the tickets, the packing was completed, last visits to their playmates were paid by janet and teddy, whose boy and girl friends all said that they wished they too were going out west to a big ranch. "we're going to see cowboys and indians!" ted told everyone. then came the last day in cresco--that is the last day for some time for the curlytops. the house was closed, nora going to stay with friends. skyrocket, the dog, and turnover, the cat, were sent to kind neighbors, who promised to look after them. bob had already started to take care of nicknack. "all aboard!" called the conductor of the train the curlytops and the others took. "all aboard!" "all aboard for the west!" echoed daddy martin, and they were off. chapter iv the collision "won't we have fun, jan, when we get to the ranch?" "i guess so, teddy. but i don't like it about those indians." "oh, didn't you hear daddy say they were tame ones--like the kind in the circus and wild west show? they won't hurt you, jan." "well, i don't like 'em. they've got such funny painted faces." "not the tame ones, jan. anyhow i'll stay with you." the curlytops were talking as they sat together in the railroad car which was being pulled rapidly by the engine out toward the big west, where uncle frank's ranch was. in the seat behind them was mother martin, holding trouble, who was asleep, while daddy martin was also slumbering. it was quite a long ride from cresco to rockville, which was in montana. it would take the curlytops about four days to make the trip, perhaps longer if the trains were late. but they did not mind, for they had comfortable coaches in which to travel. when they were hungry there was the dining-car where they could get something to eat, and when they were sleepy there was the sleeping-car, in which the colored porter made such funny little beds out of the seats. jan and ted thought it quite wonderful. for, though they had traveled in a sleeping-car before, and had seen the porter pull out the seats, let down the shelf overhead and take out the blankets and pillows to make the bed, still they never tired of watching. there were many other things to interest the curlytops and trouble on this journey to uncle frank's ranch. of course there was always something to see when they looked out of the windows of the cars. at times the train would pass through cities, stopping at the stations to let passengers get off and on. but it was not the cities that interested the children most. they liked best to see the fields and woods through which they passed. in some of the fields were horses, cows or sheep, and while the children did not see any such animals in the woods, except perhaps where the wood was a clump of trees near a farm, they always hoped they might. very often, when the train would rattle along through big fields, and then suddenly plunge into a forest, jan would call: "maybe we'll see one now, ted!" "oh, maybe so!" he would exclaim. then the two curlytops would flatten their noses against the window and peer out. "what are you looking for?" asked mother martin, the first time she saw the children do this. "indians," answered teddy, never turning around, for the train was still in the wood and he did not want to miss any chance. "indians!" exclaimed his mother, "why, what in the world put into your head the idea that we should see indians?" "well, uncle frank said there were indians out west, even if they weren't wild ones," answered teddy, "and me and jan wants to see some." "oh, you won't find any indians around _here_," said daddy martin with a laugh, as he laid aside the paper he was reading. "it is true there are some out west, but we are not there yet, and, if we were, you would hardly find the indians so near a railroad." "can't we ever see any?" jan wanted to know. "i don't just like indians, 'cause they've always got a gun or a knife--i mean in pictures," she hastened to add. "course i never saw a real indian, 'ceptin' maybe in a circus." "you'll see some real ones after a while," her mother told her, and then the children stopped pressing their noses flat against the car windows, for the train had come out of the wood and was nearing a large city. there, jan and ted felt sure, no indians would be seen. "but we'll keep watch," said jan to her brother, "and maybe i'll see an indian first." "and maybe i will! we'll both watch!" he agreed. something else that gave the children enjoyment was the passage through the train, every now and then, of the boy who sold candy, books and magazines. he would pass along between the seats, dropping into them, or into the laps of the passengers, packages of candy, or perhaps a paper or book. this was to give the traveler time to look at it, and make up his or her mind whether or not to buy it. a little later the boy would come along to collect the things he had left, and get the money for those the people kept for themselves. ted and jan were very desirous, each time, that the boy should sell something, and once, when he had gone through the car and had taken in no money, he looked so disappointed that jan whispered to her father: "won't you please buy something from him?" "buy what?" asked mr. martin. "a book or some candy from the newsboy," repeated the little girl. "he looks awful sorry." "hum! well, it is too bad if he didn't sell anything," said mr. martin. "i guess i can buy something. what would you like, something to read or something to eat?" "some pictures to look at," suggested teddy. "then we can show 'em to trouble. mother just gave us some cookies." "then i guess you've had enough to eat," laughed mr. martin. "here, boy!" he called. "have you any picture books for these curlytops of mine?" "yes, i have some nice ones," answered the boy, and with a smile on his face he went into the baggage car, where he kept his papers, candy and other things, and soon came back with a gaily colored book, at the sight of which ted and jan uttered sighs of delight. "dat awful p'etty!" murmured trouble, and indeed the book did have nice pictures in it. mr. martin paid for it, and then ted and jan enjoyed very much looking at it, with trouble in the seat between them. he insisted on seeing each picture twice, the page being no sooner turned over than he wanted it turned back again. but at last even he was satisfied, and then ted and jan went back to their first game of looking out of the window for indians or other sights that might interest them. trouble slipped out of his seat between his brother and sister and went to a vacant window himself. for a time he had good fun playing with the window catch, and mrs. martin let him do this, having made sure, at first, that he could not open the sash. then they all forgot trouble for a while and he played by himself, all alone in one of the seats. a little later, when teddy and janet were tired of looking for the indians which they never saw, they were talking about the good times they had had with nicknack, and wondering if uncle frank would have a goat, or anything like it, when trouble came toddling up to their seat. "what you got?" asked teddy of his little brother, noticing that baby william was chewing something. "what you got, trouble?" "tandy," he said, meaning candy, of course. "oh, where'd you get it?" chimed in jan. "nice boy gived it to me," trouble answered. "here," and he held the package out to his brother and sister. "oh, wasn't that good of him!" exclaimed jan. "it's nice chocolate candy, too. i'll have another piece, trouble." they all had some and they were eating the sweet stuff and having a good time, when they saw their father looking at them. there was a funny smile on his face, and near him stood the newsboy, also smiling. "trouble, did you open a box of candy the boy left in your seat?" asked mr. martin. "yes, he's got some candy," answered jan. "he said the boy gave it to him." "i didn't mean for him to _open_ it," the boy said. "i left it in his seat and i thought he'd ask his father if he could have it. but when i came to get it, why, it was gone." "oh, what a funny little trouble!" laughed mother martin. "he thought the boy meant to give the candy to him, i guess. well, daddy, i think you'll have to pay for it." and so mr. martin did. the candy was not a gift after all, but trouble did not know that. however, it all came out right in the end. they had been traveling two days, and now, toward evening of the second day, the curlytops were talking together about what they would do when they got to uncle frank's ranch. "i hope they have lots to eat there," sighed ted, when he and jan had gotten off the subject of indians. "i'm hungry right now." "so'm i," added his sister. "but they'll call us to supper pretty soon." the children always eagerly waited for the colored waiter to come through the coaches rumbling out in his bass voice: "first call fo' supper in de dinin'-car!" or he might say "dinner" or "breakfast," or make it the "last call," just as it happened. now it was time for the first supper call, and in a little while the waiter came in. "eh? what's that? time for supper _again_?" cried daddy martin, awakening from a nap. trouble stretched and yawned in his mother's arms. "i's hungry!" he said. "so'm i!" cried ted and jan together. "shall we have good things to eat on uncle frank's ranch?" asked teddy, as they made ready to walk ahead to the dining-car. "of course!" his mother laughed. "why are you worrying about that?" "oh, i just wanted to know," teddy answered. "we had so many good things at cherry farm and when we were camping with grandpa that i want some out on the ranch." "well, i think we can trust to uncle frank," said mr. martin. "but if you get too hungry, teddy, you can go out and lasso a beefsteak or catch a bear or deer and have him for breakfast." "is there bears out there, too?" asked janet in a good deal of excitement. "bears and indians?" "well, there may be a few bears here and there," her father said with a smile, "but they won't hurt you if you don't hurt them. now we'll go and see what they have for supper here." to the dining-car they went, and as they passed through one of the coaches on their way teddy and janet heard a woman say to her little girl: "look at those curlytops, ethel. don't you wish you could have some of their curl put into your hair?" it was evening and the sun was setting. as the train sped along the curlytops could look through the windows off across the fields and woods through which they passed. "isn't it just wonderful," said mother martin, "to think of sitting down to a nice meal which is being cooked for us while the train goes so fast? imagine, children, how, years ago, the cowboys and hunters had to go on horses all the distance out west, and carry their food on their pony's back or in a wagon called a prairie schooner. how much easier and quicker and more comfortable it is to travel this way." "i'd like to ride on a pony," said teddy. "i wouldn't care how slow he went." "i imagine you wouldn't like it when night came," said his mother, as she moved a plate so the waiter could set glasses of milk in front of the children. "you wouldn't like to sleep on the ground with only a blanket for a bed, would you?" "'deed i would!" declared teddy. "i wish i had--" just then the train went around a curve, and, as it was traveling very fast, the milk which teddy was raising to his mouth slopped and spilled down in his lap. "oh, teddy!" cried his mother. "i--i couldn't help it!" he exclaimed, as he wiped up as much of the milk as he could on a napkin with which the waiter hastened to him. "no, we know it was the train," said daddy martin. "it wouldn't have happened if you had been traveling on pony-back, and had stopped to camp out for the night before you got your supper; would it, ted?" he asked with a smile. "no," said the little boy. "i wish we could camp out and hunt indians!" "oh my goodness!" exclaimed his mother. "don't get such foolish notions in your head. anyway there aren't any indians to hunt on uncle frank's ranch, are there, dick?" she asked her husband. "well, no, i guess not," he answered slowly. "there are some indians on their own ranch, or government reservation, not far from where uncle frank has his horses and cattle, but i guess the redmen never bother anyone." "can we go to see 'em?" asked teddy. "i guess so," said mr. martin. "me go, too! me like engines," murmured trouble, who had also spilled a little milk on himself. "he thinks we're talking about _engines_--the kind that pull this train!" laughed ted. "i don't believe he ever saw a real _indian."_ "no, indians do not walk the streets of cresco," said mrs. martin. "but finish your suppers, children. others are waiting to use the table and we must not keep them too long." there were many travelers going west--not all as far as the curlytops though--and as there was not room in the dining-car for all of them to sit down at once they had to take turns. that is why the waiter made one, two, and sometimes three calls for each meal, as he went through the different coaches. supper over, the martins went back to their place in the coach in which they had ridden all day. they would soon go into the beds, or berths, as they are called, to sleep all night. in the morning they would be several hundred miles nearer uncle frank's ranch. the electric lights were turned on, and then, for a while, jan, ted and the others sat and talked. they talked about the fun they had had when at cherry farm, of the good times camping with grandpa and how they were snowed in, when they wondered what had become of the strange lame boy who had called at mr. martin's store one day. "i wish hal chester could come out west with us" said teddy, as the porter came to tell them he would soon make up their beds. "he'd like to hunt indians with me." hal was a boy who had been cured of lameness at a home for crippled children, not far from cherry farm. "i suppose you'll _dream_ of indians," said teddy's mother to him. "you've _talked_ about them all day. but get ready for bed, now. traveling is tiresome for little folks." indeed after the first day ted and janet found it so. they wished, more than once, that they could get out and run about, but they could not except when the train stopped longer than usual in some big city. then their father would take them to the platform for a little run up and down. true they could walk up and down the aisle of the car, but this was not much fun, as the coach swayed so they were tossed against the sides of the seats and bruised. "i'll be glad when we get to uncle frank's ranch," said janet as she crawled into the berth above her mother, who slept with trouble. "so'll i," agreed teddy, who climbed up the funny little ladder to go to bed in the berth above his father. "i want a pony ride!" on through the night rumbled and roared the train, the whistle sounding mournfully in the darkness as the engineer blew it at the crossings. ted and janet were sleeping soundly, janet dreaming she had a new doll, dressed like an indian papoose, or baby, while ted dreamed he was on a wild pony that wanted to roll over and over instead of galloping straight on. suddenly there was a loud crash that sounded through the whole train. the engine whistled shrilly and then came a jar that shook up everyone. teddy found himself rolling out of his berth and he grabbed the curtains just in time to save himself. "oh, daddy!" he cried, "what's the matter?" "what is it?" called jan from her berth, while women in the coach were screaming and men ere calling to one another. "what is it, dick?" cried mrs. martin. "i think we've had a collision," answered her husband. "did our train bunk into another?" asked ted. "i'm afraid so," replied his father. chapter v at ring rosy ranch there was so much noise in the sleeping car where the curlytops and others had been peacefully traveling through the night, that, at first, it was hard to tell what had happened. all that anyone knew was that there had been a severe jolt--a "bunk" teddy called it--and that the train had come to a sudden stop. so quickly had it stopped, in fact, that a fat man, who was asleep in a berth just behind mr. martin, had tumbled out and now sat in the aisle of the car, gazing about him, a queer look on his sleepy face, for he was not yet fully awake. "i say!" cried the fat man. "who pushed me out of bed?" even though they were much frightened, mrs. martin and some of the other men and women could not help laughing at this. and the laughter did more to quiet them than anything else. "well, i guess no one here is much hurt--if at all," said daddy martin, as he put on a pair of soft slippers he had ready in the little hammock that held his clothes inside the berth. "i'll go and see if i can find out what the matter is." "an', daddy, bring me suffin t'eat!" exclaimed trouble, poking his head out between the curtains of the berth where he had been sleeping with his mother when the collision happened. "there's one boy that's got sense," said a tall thin man, who was helping the fat man to get to his feet "he isn't hurt, anyhow." "thank goodness, no," said mrs. martin, who, as had some of the other women, had on a dressing gown. mrs. martin was looking at trouble, whom she had taken up in her arms. "he hasn't a scratch on him," she said, "though i heard him slam right against the side of the car. he was next to the window." "it's a mercy we weren't all of us tossed out of the windows when the train stopped so suddenly, the way it did," said a little old woman. "it's a mercy, too," smiled another woman who had previously made friends with jan and teddy, "that the curlytops did not come hurtling down out of those upper berths." mr. martin, after making sure his family was all right, partly dressed and went out with some of the other men. the train had come to a standstill, and jan and ted, looking out of the windows of their berths, could see men moving about in the darkness outside with flaring torches. "maybe it's robbers," said teddy in a whisper. "robbers don't stop trains," objected janet "yes they do!" declared her brother positively, "train robbers do. don't they, mother?" "oh, don't talk about such things now, teddy boy. be thankful you are all right and hope that no one is hurt in the collision." "that's what i say!" exclaimed the fat man. "so it's a collision, is it? i dreamed we were in a storm and that i was blown out of bed." "well, you fell out, which is much the same thing," said the thin man. "our car doesn't seem to be hurt, anyhow." ted and janet came out into the aisle in their pajamas. they looked all about them but, aside from seeing a number of men and women who were greatly excited, nothing else appeared to be the matter. then in came their father with some of the other men. "it isn't a bad collision," said daddy martin. "our engine hit a freight car that was on a side track, but too close to our rails to be passed safely. it jarred up our engine and the front cars quite a bit, and our engine is off the track, but no one is hurt." "that's good!" exclaimed mrs. martin. "i mean that no one is hurt." "how are they going to get the engine back on the track?" teddy wanted to know. "can't i go out and watch 'em?" "i want to go, too!" exclaimed janet. "indeed you can't--in the dark!" exclaimed her father. "besides, the railroad men don't want you in the way. they asked us all to go to our coaches and wait. they'll soon have the engine back on the rails they said." everyone was awake now, and several children in the car, like trouble, were hungry. the porter who had been hurrying to and fro said he could get the children some hot milk from the dining-car, and this he did. some of the grown folks wanted coffee and sandwiches, and these having been brought in, there was quite a merry picnic in the coach, even if the train had been in a collision. then there was much puffing and whistling of the engine. the curlytops, looking out of the window again, saw more men hurrying here and there with flaring torches which flickered and smoked. these were the trainmen helping to get the engine back on the rails, which they did by using iron wedges or "jumpers," much as a trolley car in your city streets is put back on the rails once it slips off. at last there was another "bunk" to the train, as teddy called it. at this several women screamed. "it's all right," said daddy martin. "they've got the engine back on the rails and it has just backed up to couple on, or fasten itself, to the cars again. now we'll go forward again." and they did--in a little while. it did not take the curlytops or trouble long to fall asleep once more, but some of the older people were kept awake until morning, they said afterward. they were afraid of another collision. but none came, and though the train was a little late the accident really did not amount to much, though it might have been a bad one had the freight car been a little farther over on the track so the engine had run squarely into it. all the next day and night the curlytops traveled in the train, and though jan and ted liked to look out of the windows, they grew tired of this after a while and began to ask: "when shall we be at uncle frank's ranch?" "pretty soon now," said their father. i will not tell you all that happened on the journey to the west. truth to say there was not much except the collision. the curly-tops ate their meals, drank cupful after cupful of water, and trouble did the same, for children seem to get very thirsty when they travel--much more so than at home. then, finally, one afternoon, after a long stop when a new engine was attached to the train, daddy martin said: "well be at rockville in an hour now. so we'd better begin to get together our things." "shall we be at uncle frank's ranch in an hour?" asked teddy. "no, but well be at rockville. from there we go out over the prairies in a wagon." "a wagon with ponies?" asked janet. "yes, real western ponies," said her father. "then well be at the ranch." and it happened just that way. on puffed the train. then the porter came to help the martin family off at rockville. "rockville! rockville! all out for rockville!" joked daddy martin. "hurray!" cried teddy. "here we are!" "and i see uncle frank!" exclaimed janet, looking from the window toward the station as the train slowed up to stop. out piled the curlytops, and into the arms of uncle frank they rushed. he caught them up and kissed them one after the other--teddy, janet and trouble. "well, well!" he cried, "i'm glad to see you! haven't changed a bit since you were snowed in! now pile into the wagon and well get right out to circle o ranch." "where's that?" asked teddy. "why, that's the name of my ranch," said uncle frank. "see, there's the sign of it," and he pointed to the flank of one of the small horses, or ponies, hitched to his wagon. ted and janet saw a large circle in which was a smaller letter o. "we call it circle o," explained the ranchman. "each place in the west that raises cattle or horses has a certain sign with which the animals are branded, or marked, so their owners can tell them from others in case they get mixed up. my mark is a circle around an o." "it looks like a ring-around-the-rosy," said janet. "say! so it does!" laughed uncle frank. "i never thought of that. ring rosy ranch! that isn't a half bad name! guess i'll call mine that after this. come on to ring rosy ranch!" he invited as he laughed at the curlytops. and the name janet gave uncle frank's place in fun stuck to it, so that even the cowboys began calling their ranch "ring rosy," instead of "circle o." chapter vi cowboy fun into the big wagon piled the curlytops, mrs. martin and trouble, while daddy martin and uncle frank went to see about the baggage. jan and ted looked curiously about them. it was the first time they had had a chance to look quietly since they had started on the journey, for they had been traveling in the train nearly a week, it seemed. what they saw was a small railroad station, set in the midst of big rolling fields. there was a water tank near the station, and not far from the tank was a small building in which a pump could be heard chug-chugging away. "but where is the ranch?" asked janet of her brother. "i don't see any cows and horses." "dere's horses," stated trouble, pointing to the two sturdy ponies hitched to the wagon. "yes, i know" admitted janet. "but uncle frank said he had more'n a hundred horses and--" "and a thousand steers--that's cattle," interrupted ted. "i don't see any, either. maybe we got off at the wrong station, mother." "no, you're all right," laughed mrs. martin. "didn't uncle frank meet us and didn't daddy tell us we'd have to drive to the ranch?" "what's the matter now, curlytops?" asked their father's uncle, as the two men came back from having seen about the baggage, which had arrived safely. "what are you two youngsters worrying about, teddy and janet?" "they're afraid we're at the wrong place because they can't see the ranch," answered their mother. "oh, that's over among the hills," said uncle frank, waving his hand toward some low hills that were at the foot of some high mountains. "it wouldn't do," he went on, "to have a ranch too near a railroad station. the trains might scare the horses and cattle. you will soon be there, curlytops. we'll begin to travel in a minute." ted and janet settled themselves in the seat, where they were side by side, and looked about them. suddenly janet clasped her brother by the arm and exclaimed: "look, ted! look!" "where?" he asked. "right over there--by the station. it's an _indian_!" "a real one?" asked teddy, who, at first, did not see where his sister was pointing. "he _looks_ like a real one," janet answered. "he's _alive_, 'cause he's moving!" she snuggled closer to her brother. then teddy saw where janet pointed. a big man, whose face was the color of a copper cent, was walking along the station platform. he was wrapped in a dirty blanket, but enough of him could be seen to show that he was a redman. "is that a _real_ indian, uncle frank?" asked teddy in great excitement. "what? him? oh, yes, he's a real indian all right. there's a lot of 'em come down to the station to sell baskets and beadwork to the people who go through on the trains." "is he a _tame_ indian?" the little boy next wanted to know. "oh, he's 'tame' all right. hi there, running horse!" called uncle frank to the copper-faced man in the blanket, "sell many baskets to-day?" "um few. no good business," answered the indian in a sort of grunt. "oh, do you know him?" asked ted in surprise. "oh, yes. running horse often comes to the ranch when he's hungry. there's a reservation of the indians not far from our place. they won't hurt you, jan; don't be afraid," said uncle frank, as he saw that the little girl kept close to teddy. "was he wild once?" she asked timidly. "why, yes; i guess you might have called him a wild indian once," her uncle admitted. "he's pretty old and i shouldn't wonder but what he had been on the warpath against the white settlers." "oh!" exclaimed janet. "maybe he'll get wild again!" "oh, no he won't!" laughed uncle frank. "he's only too glad now to live on the reservation and sell the baskets the squaws make. the indian men don't like to work." running horse, which was the queer name the indian had chosen for himself, or which had been given him, walked along, wrapped in his blanket, though the day was a warm one. perhaps he thought the blanket kept the heat out in summer and the cold in winter. "get along now, ponies!" cried uncle frank, and the little horses began to trot along the road that wound over the prairies like a dusty ribbon amid the green grass. on the way to ring rosy ranch uncle frank had many questions to ask, some of the children and some of mr. and mrs. martin. together they laughed about the things that had happened when they were all snowed in. "tell uncle frank of trouble's trying to hide nicknack away so we wouldn't leave him behind," suggested mrs. martin. "ha! ha! that was pretty good!" exclaimed the ranchman when ted and janet, by turns, had told of trouble's being found asleep in the goat-wagon. "well, it's too bad you couldn't bring nicknack with you. he'd like it out on the ranch, i'm sure, but it would be too long a journey for him. you'll have rides enough--never fear!" "pony rides?" asked teddy. "pony rides in plenty!" laughed uncle frank. "we'll soon be there now, and you can see the ranch from the top of the next hill." the prairies were what are called "rolling" lard. that is there were many little hills and hollows, and the country seemed to be like the rolling waves of the ocean, if they had suddenly been made still. sometimes the wagon, drawn by the two little horses, would be down in a hollow, and again it would be on top of a mound-like hill from which a good view could be had. reaching the top of one hill, larger than the others, uncle frank pointed off in the distance and said: "there's circle o ranch, curlytops, or, as jan has named it, ring rosy ranch. we'll be there in a little while." the children looked. they saw, off on the prairie, a number of low, red buildings standing close together. beyond the buildings were big fields, in which were many small dots. "what are the dots?" asked janet. "those are my horses and cattle--steers we call the last," explained uncle frank. "they are eating grass to get fat you'll soon be closer to them." "are the indians near here?" teddy inquired. "no, not very near. it's a day's ride to their reservation. but don't worry about them. they won't bother you if you don't bother them," said uncle frank. teddy was not fully satisfied with this answer, for he hoped very much that the indians would "bother him"--at least, he thought that was what he wanted. when the curlytops drew closer to the ranch they could see that one of the buildings was a house, almost like their own in the east, only not so tall. it was all one story, as were the other buildings, some of which were stables for the horses and some sleeping places, or "bunk houses," for the cowboys, while from one building, as they approached closer, there came the good smell of something cooking. "that's the cook's place," said uncle frank, pointing with his whip. "all the cowboys love him, even if he is a chinaman." "have you a chinese cook?" asked mrs. martin. "yes, and he's a good one," answered uncle frank. "wait until you taste how he fries chicken." "i hope we taste some soon," said daddy martin. "this ride across the prairies has made me hungry." "i hungry, too!" exclaimed trouble. "i wants bread an' milk!" "and you shall have all you want!" laughed the ranchman. "we've plenty of milk." "oh, this is a dandy place!" exclaimed teddy, as the wagon drove up to the ranch house. "well have lots of fun here, janet!" "maybe we will, if--if the indians don't get us," she said. "pooh! i'm not afraid of them," boasted teddy, and then something happened. all at once there came a lot of wild yells, and sounds as if a fourth-of-july celebration of the old-fashioned sort were going on. there was a popping and a banging, and then around the corner of the house rode a lot of roughly-dressed men on ponies which kicked up a cloud of dust. "ki-yi! ki-yi! yippi-i-yip!" yelled the men. "bang! bang! bang!" exploded their revolvers. "oh, dear!" screamed janet. teddy turned a little pale, but he did not make a sound. "what is it?" asked mrs. martin, hugging trouble and his sister closer to her. "oh, what is it?" "don't be afraid!" laughed uncle frank. "those are the cowboys making you welcome to ring rosy ranch. that's their way of having fun!" chapter vii bad news on came the cowboys, yelling, shouting and shooting off their big revolvers which made noises like giant firecrackers. the men, some of whom wore big leather "pants," as teddy said afterward, and some of whom had on trousers that seemed to be made from the fleece of sheep, swung their hats in the air. some of them even stood up in their saddles, "just like circus riders!" as janet sent word to aunt jo, who was spending the summer at mt. hope. "are they shooting real bullets, uncle frank?" asked teddy, as soon as the noise died down a little and the cowboys were waving their hats to the curlytops and the other visitors to ring rosy ranch. "real bullets? bless your heart, no!" exclaimed mr. barton. "of course the cowboys sometimes have real bullets in their 'guns,' as they call their revolvers, but they don't shoot 'em for fun." "what makes them shoot?" asked janet. "well, sometimes it's to scare away bad men who might try to steal my cattle or horses, and again it's to scare the cattle themselves. you see," explained uncle frank, while the cowboys jumped from their horses and went to the bunk house to wash and get ready for supper, "a ranch is just like a big pasture that your grandfather martin has at cherry farm. only my ranch is ever so much bigger than his pastures, even all of them put together. and there are very few fences around any of my fields, so the cattle or horses might easily stray off, or be taken. "because of that i have to hire men--cowboys they are called--to watch my cattle and horses, to see that they do not run away and that no white men or indians come and run away with them. "but sometimes the cattle take it into their heads to run away themselves. they get frightened--'stampeded' we call it--and they don't care which way they run. sometimes a prairie fire will make them run and again it may be bad men--thieves. the cowboys have to stop the cattle from running away, and they do it by firing revolvers in front of them. so it wouldn't do to have real bullets in their guns when the cowboys are firing that way. they use blank cartridges, just as they did now to salute you when they came in." "is that what they did?" asked teddy. "saluted us?" "that's it. they just thought they'd have a little fun with you--see if they could scare you, maybe, because you're what they call a 'tenderfoot,' teddy." "pooh, i wasn't afraid!" declared teddy, perhaps forgetting a little. "i liked it. it was like the fourth of july!" "i didn't like it," said janet, with a shake of her curly head. "and what's a soft-foot, uncle frank?" "a soft-foot? oh, ho! i see!" he laughed. "you mean a tenderfoot! well, that's what the western cowboys call anybody from the east--where you came from. it means, i guess, that their feet are tender because they walk so much and don't ride a horse the way cowboys do. you see out here we folks hardly ever walk. if we've only got what you might call a block to go we hop on a horse and ride. so we get out of the way of walking. "now you eastern folk walk a good bit--that is when you aren't riding in street cars and in your automobiles, and i suppose that's why the cowboys call you tender-feet. you don't mind, though, do you, teddy?" "nope," he said. "i like it. but i'm going to learn to ride a pony." "so'm i!" exclaimed janet. "i wants a wide, too!" cried trouble. "can't i wide, uncle frank? we hasn't got nicknack, but maybe you got a goat," and he looked up at his father's uncle. "no, i haven't a goat," laughed uncle frank, "though there might be some sheep on some of the ranches here. but i guess ponies will suit you children better. when you curlytops learn to ride you can take trouble up on the saddle with you and give him a ride. he's too small to ride by himself yet." "i should say he was, uncle frank!" cried mrs. martin. "don't let _him_ get on a horse!" "i won't," promised mr. barton with a laugh. but trouble said: "i likes a pony! i wants a wide, muz-zer!" "you may ride with me when i learn," promised janet. "dat nice," responded william. uncle frank's wife, whom everyone called aunt millie, came out of the ranch house and welcomed the curlytops and the others. she had not seen them for a number of years. "my, how big the children are!" she cried as she looked at janet and teddy. "and here's one i've never seen," she went on, as she caught trouble up in her arms and kissed him. "now come right in. hop sing has supper ready for you." "hop sing!" laughed mother martin. "that sounds like a new record on the phonograph." "it's the name of our chinese cook," explained aunt millie, "and a very good one he is, too!" "are the cowboys coming in to eat with us?" asked teddy, as they all went into the house, where the baggage had been carried by uncle frank and daddy martin. "oh, no. they eat by themselves in their own building. not that we wouldn't have them, for they're nice boys, all of them, but they'd rather be by themselves." "do any indians come in?" asked janet, looking toward the door. "bless your heart, no!" exclaimed aunt millie. "we wouldn't want them, for they're dirty and not at all nice, though some of them do look like pictures when they wrap themselves around in a red blanket and stick feathers in their hair. we don't want any indians. now tell me about your trip." "we were in a collision!" cried janet. "in the middle of the night," added teddy. "an' i mos' fell out of my bed!" put in trouble. then, amid laughter, the story of the trip from the east was told. meanwhile hop sing, the chinese cook, cried out in his funny, squeaky voice that supper was getting cold. "well, well eat first and talk afterward," said uncle frank, as he led the way to the table. "come on, folks. i expect you all have good appetites. that's what we're noted for at ring rosy ranch." "what's that?" asked aunt millie. "have you given circle o a new name?" "one of the curlytops did," chuckled uncle frank. "they said my branding sign looked just like a ring-round-the-rosy, so i'm going to call the ranch that after this." "it's a nice name," said aunt millie. "and now let me see you curlytops--and trouble, too--though his hair isn't frizzy like ted's and janet's--let me see you eat until you get as fat as a ring rosy yourselves. if you don't eat as much as you can of everything, hop sing will feel as though he was not a good cook." the curlytops were hungry enough to eat without having to be told to, and hop sing, looking into the dining-room now and then from where he was busy in the kitchen, smiled and nodded his head as he said to the maid. "lil' chillens eat velly good!" "indeed they do eat very good," said the maid, as she carried in more of the food which hop sing knew so well how to cook. after supper the curlytops and the others sat out on the broad porch of the ranch house. off to one side were the other buildings, some where the farming tools were kept, for uncle frank raised some grain as well as cattle, and some where the cowboys lived, as well as others where they stabled their horses. "i know what let's do," said jan, when she and her brother had sat on the porch for some time, listening to the talk of the older folks, and feeling very happy that they were at uncle frank's ranch, where, they felt sure, they could have such good times. "what can we do?" asked teddy. very often he let jan plan some fun, and i might say that she got into trouble doing this as many times as her brother did. jan was a regular boy, in some things. but then i suppose any girl is who has two nice brothers, even if one is little enough to be called "baby." "let's go and take a walk," suggested jan. "my legs feel funny yet from ridin' in the cars so much." "ri-_ding_!" yelled teddy gleefully. "that's the time you forgot your g, janet." "yes, i did," admitted the little girl. "but there's so much to look at here that it's easy to forget. my forgetter works easier than yours does, ted." "it does not!" "it does, too!" "it does not!" "i--say--it--does!" and janet was very positive. "now, now, children!" chided their mother. "that isn't nice. what are you disputing about now?" "jan says her forgetter's better'n mine!" cried ted. "and it is," insisted janet. "i can forget lots easier than ted." "well, forgetting isn't a very good thing to do," said mr. martin. "remembering is better." "oh, that's what i meant!" said jan. "i thought it was a forgetter. anyhow mine's better'n ted's!" "now don't start that again," warned mother martin, playfully shaking her finger at the two children. "be nice now. amuse yourselves in some quiet way. it will soon be time to go to bed. you must be tired. be nice now." "come on, let's go for a walk," proposed jan again, and ted, now that the forget-memory dispute was over, was willing to be friendly and kind and go with his sister. so while trouble climbed up into his mother's lap, and the older folks were talking among themselves, the two curlytops, not being noticed by the others, slipped off the porch and walked toward the ranch buildings, out near the corrals, or the fenced-in places, where the horses were kept. there were too many horses to keep them all penned in, or fenced around, just as there are too many cattle on a cattle ranch. but the cowboys who do not want their horses which they ride to get too far away put them in a corral. this is just as good as a barn, except in cold weather. "there's lots of things to see here," said teddy, as he and his sister walked along. "yes," she agreed. "it's lots of fun. i'm glad i came." "so'm i. oh, look at the lots of ponies!" she cried, as she and ted turned a corner of one of the ranch buildings and came in sight of a new corral. in it were a number of little horses, some of which hung their heads over the fence and watched the curlytops approaching. "i'd like to ride one," sighed teddy wistfully. "oh, you mustn't!" cried jan. "uncle frank wouldn't like it, nor mother or father, either. you have to ask first." "oh, i don't mean ride now," said ted. "anyhow, i haven't got a saddle." "can't you ride without a saddle?" asked janet. "well, not very good i guess," ted answered. "a horse's back has a bone in the middle of it, and that bumps you when you don't have a saddle." "how do you know?" asked janet. "i know, 'cause once the milkman let me sit on his horse and i felt the bone in his back. it didn't feel good." "maybe the milkman's horse was awful bony." "he was," admitted ted. "but anyhow you've got to have a saddle to ride a horse, lessen you're a indian and i'm not." "well, maybe after a while uncle frank'll give you a saddle," said janet. "maybe," agreed her brother, "oh, see how the ponies look at us!" "and one's following us all around," added his sister. for the little horses had indeed all come to the side of the corral fence nearest the curlytops, and were following along as the children walked. "what do you s'pose they want?" asked teddy. "maybe they're hungry," answered janet. "let's pull some grass for 'em," suggested teddy, and they did this, feeding it to the horses that stretched their necks over the top rail of the fence and chewed the green bunches as if they very much liked their fodder. but after a while jan and ted tired of even this. and no wonder--there were so many horses, and they all seemed to like the grass so much that the children never could have pulled enough for all of them. "look at that one always pushing the others out of the way," said janet, pointing to one pony, larger than the others, who was always first at the fence, and first to reach his nose toward the bunches of grass. "and there's a little one that can't get any," said her brother. "i'd like to give him some, jan." "so would i. but how can we? every time i hold out some grass to him the big horse takes it." teddy thought for a minute and then he said: "i know what we can do to keep the big horse from getting it all." "what?" asked janet. "we can both pull some grass. then you go to one end of the fence, and hold out your bunch. the big horse will come to get it and push the others away, like he always does." "but then the little pony won't get any," janet said. "oh, yes, he will!" cried teddy. "'cause when you're feeding the big horse i'll run up and give the _little_ horse my bunch. then he'll have some all by himself." and this the curlytops did. when the big horse was chewing the grass janet gave him, ted held out some to the little horse at the other end of the corral, and he ate it, but only just in time, for the big pony saw what was going on and trotted up to shove the small animal out of the way. but it was too late. then janet and teddy walked on a little further, until janet said it was growing late and they had better go back to the porch where the others were still talking. evening was coming on. the sun had set, but there was still a golden glow in the sky. far off in one of the big fields a number of horses and cattle could be seen, and riding out near them were some of the cowboys who, after their supper, had gone out to see that all was well for the night. "is all this your land, uncle frank!" asked teddy as he stood on the porch and looked over the fields. "yes, as far as you can see, and farther. if you curlytops get lost, which i hope you won't, you'll have to go a good way to get off my ranch. but let me tell you now, not to go too far away from the house, unless your father or some of us grown folks are with you." "why?" asked janet. "well, you _might_ get lost, you know, and then--oh, well, don't go off by yourselves, that's all," and uncle frank turned to answer a question daddy martin asked him. ted and janet wondered why they could not go off by themselves as they had done at cherry farm. "maybe it's because of the indians," suggested jan. "pooh, i'm not afraid of them," teddy announced. just then one of the cowboys--later the children learned he was jim mason, the foreman--came walking up to the porch. he walked in a funny way, being more used to going along on a horse than on his own feet. "good evening, folks!" he said, taking off his hat and waving it toward the curlytops and the others. "hello, jim!" was uncle frank's greeting. "everything all right?" "no, it isn't, i'm sorry to say," answered the foreman. "i've got bad news for you, mr. barton!" chapter viii a queer noise the curlytops looked at the ranch foreman as he said this. uncle frank looked at him, too. the foreman stood twirling his big hat around in his hand. teddy looked at the big revolver--"gun" the cowboys called it--which dangled from jim mason's belt. "bad news, is it?" asked uncle frank. "i'm sorry to hear that. i hope none of the boys is sick. nobody been shot, has there, during the celebration?" "oh, no, the boys are all right," answered the foreman. "but it's bad news about some of your ponies--a lot of them you had out on grass over there," and he pointed to the west--just where ted and janet could not see. "bad news about the ponies?" repeated uncle frank. "well, now, i'm sorry to hear that. some of 'em sick?" "not as i know of," replied jim. "but a lot of 'em have been taken away--stolen, i guess i'd better call it." "a lot of my ponies stolen?" cried uncle frank, jumping up from his chair. "that is bad news! when did it happen? why don't you get the cowboys together and chase after the men who took the ponies?" "well, i would have done that if i knew where to go," said the foreman. "but i didn't hear until a little while ago, when one of the cowboys i sent to see if the ponies were all right came in. he got there to find 'em all gone, so i came right over to tell you." "well, we'll have to see about this!" exclaimed uncle frank. "who's the cowboy you sent to see about the ponies?" "henry jensen. he just got in a little while ago, after a hard ride." "and who does he think took the horses?" "he said it looked as if the indians had done it!" and at these words from the foreman ted and janet looked at one another with widely opened eyes. "indians?" said uncle frank. "why, i didn't think any of them had come off their reservation." "some of 'em must have," the foreman went on. "they didn't have any ponies of their own, i guess, so they took yours and rode off on 'em." "well, this is too bad!" said uncle frank in a low voice. "i guess we'll have to get our boys together and chase after these indians," he went on. "yes, that's what i'll do. i've got to get back my ponies." "oh, can't i come?" cried teddy, not understanding all that was going on, but enough to know that his uncle was going somewhere with the cowboys, and teddy wanted to go, too. "oh, i'm afraid you couldn't come--curlytop," said the foreman, giving teddy the name almost everyone called him at first sight, and this was the first time jim mason had seen teddy. "no, you little folks must stay at home," added uncle frank. "are you really going after indians?" teddy wanted to know. "yes, to find out if they took any of my ponies. you see," went on uncle frank, speaking to daddy and mother martin as well as to the curlytops, "the indians are kept on what is called a 'reservation' that is, the government gives them certain land for their own and they are told they must stay there, though once in a while some of them come off to sell blankets and bark-work at the railroad stations. "and, sometimes, maybe once a year, a lot of the indians get tired of staying on the reservation and some of them will get together and run off. sometimes they ride away on their own horses, and again they may take some from the nearest ranch. i guess this time they took some of mine." "and how will you catch them?" asked mrs. martin. "oh, we'll try to find out which way they went and then we'll follow after them until we catch them and get back the ponies." "it's just like hide-and-go-seek, isn't it, uncle frank?" asked janet. "yes, something like that but it takes longer." "i wish i could go to hunt the indians!" murmured teddy. "why, the-o-dore mar-tin!" exclaimed his mother. "i'm _surprised_ at you!" "well, i would like to go," he said. "could i go if i knew how to ride a pony, uncle frank?" "well, i don't know. i'm afraid you're too little. but, speaking of riding a pony, to-morrow i'll have one of the cowboys start in to teach you and janet to ride. now i guess i'll have to go see this henry jensen and ask him about the indians and my stolen ponies." "i hope he gets them back," said teddy to his sister. "so do i," she agreed. "and i hope those indians don't come here." "pooh! they're tame indians!" exclaimed teddy. "they must be kind of wild when they steal ponies," janet said. a little later the curlytops and trouble went to bed, for they had been up early that day. they fell asleep almost at once, even though their bed was not moving along in a railroad train, as it had been the last three or four nights. "did uncle frank find his ponies?" asked teddy the next morning at the breakfast table. "no, curlytop," answered aunt millie. "he and some of the cowboys have gone over to the field where the ponies were kept to see if they can get any news of them." "can we learn to ride a pony to-day?" asked janet. "as soon as uncle frank comes back," answered her father. "you and ted and trouble play around the house now as much as you like. when uncle frank comes back he'll see about getting a pony for you to ride." "come on!" called ted to his sister after breakfast. "we'll have some fun." "i come, too!" called trouble. "i wants a wide! i wish we had nicknack." "it would be fun if we had our goat here, wouldn't it?" asked janet of her brother. "yes, but i'd rather have a pony. i'm going to be a cowboy, and you can't be a cowboy and ride a _goat_." "no, i s'pose not," said janet. "but a goat isn't so high up as a pony, ted, and if you fall off a goat's back you don't hurt yourself so much." "i'm not going to fall off," declared teddy. the children wandered about among the ranch buildings, looking in the bunk house where the cowboys slept. there was only one person in there, and he was an old man to be called a "boy," thought janet. but all men, whether young or old, who look after the cattle on a ranch, are called "cowboys" so age does not matter. "howdy," said this cowboy with a cheerful smile, as the curlytops looked in at him. he was mending a broken strap to his saddle. "where'd you get that curly hair?" he asked. "i lost some just like that. wonder if you got mine?" janet hardly knew what to make of this, but teddy said: "no, sir. this is _our_ hair. it's fast to our heads and we've had it a long time." "it was always curly this way," added janet. "oh, was it? well, then it can't be mine," said the cowboy with a laugh. "mine was curly only when i was a baby, and that was a good many years ago. are you going to live here?" "we're going to stay all summer," janet said. "do you live here?" "well, yes; as much as anywhere." "could you show us where the indians are that took uncle frank's ponies?" teddy demanded. "wish i could!" exclaimed the cowboy. "if i knew, i'd go after 'em myself and get the ponies back. i guess those indians are pretty far away from here by now." "do they hide?" asked teddy. "yes, they may hide away among the hills and wait for a chance to sell the ponies they stole from your uncle. but don't worry your curly heads about indians. have a good time here. it seems good to see little children around a place like this." "have you got a lasso?" asked teddy. "you mean my rope? course i got one--every cowboy has," was the answer. "i wish you'd lasso something," went on teddy, who had once been to see a wild west show. "all right, i'll do a little rope work for you," said the cowboy, with a good-natured smile. "just wait until i mend my saddle." in a little while he came riding into the yard in front of the bunk house on a lively little pony. he made the animal race up and down and, while doing this, the cowboy swung his coiled rope, or lasso, about his head, and sent it in curling rings toward posts and benches, hauling the latter after him by winding the rope around the horn of his saddle after he had lassoed them. "say! that's fine!" cried teddy with glistening eyes. "i'm going to learn how to lasso." "i'll show you after a while," the cowboy offered. "you can't learn too young. but i must go now." "could i just have a little ride on your pony's back?" asked teddy. "to be sure you could," cried the cowboy. "here you go!" he leaped from the saddle and lifted teddy up to it, while janet and trouble looked on in wonder. then holding ted to his seat by putting an arm around him, while he walked beside the pony and guided it, the cowboy gave the little fellow a ride, much to teddy's delight. "hurray!" he called to janet "i'm learning to be a cowboy!" "that's right--you are!" laughed daddy martin, coming out just then. "how do you like it?" "dandy!" teddy said. "come on. janet!" "yes, we ought to have let the ladies go first," said the cowboy. "but i didn't know whether the leetle gal cared for horses," he went on to mr. martin. "i like horses," admitted janet. "but maybe i'll fall off." "i won't let you," the cowboy answered, as he lifted her to the saddle. then he led the pony around with her on his back, and janet liked it very much. "i wants a wide, too!" cried trouble. "hi! that's so! mustn't forget you!" laughed the cowboy, and he held baby william in the saddle, much to the delight of that little fellow. "now you mustn't bother any more," said daddy martin. "you children have had fun enough. you'll have more pony-back rides later." "yes, i'll have to go now," the cowboy said, and, leaping into the saddle, he rode away in a cloud of dust. the curlytops and trouble wandered around among the ranch buildings. daddy martin, seeing that the children were all right, left them to themselves. "i'se hungry," said trouble, after a bit. "so'm i," added teddy. "do you s'pose that funny chinaman would give us a cookie, jan?" "chinamen don't know how to make cookies." "well, maybe they know how to make something just as good. let's go around to the cook house--that's what aunt millie calls it." the cook house was easy to find, for from it came a number of good smells, and, as they neared it, the curlytops saw the laughing face of the chinese cook peering out at them. "lil' gal hungly--li' boy hungly?" asked hop sing in his funny talk. "got any cookies?" inquired teddy. "no glot clooklies--glot him clake," the chinese answered. "what does he say?" asked janet of her brother. "i guess he means cake," whispered teddy, and that was just what hop sing did mean. he brought out some nice cake on a plate and trouble and the curlytops had as much as was good for them, if not quite all they wanted. "glood clake?" asked hop sing, when nothing but the crumbs were left--and not many of them. "i guess he means was it good cake," then whispered janet to her little brother. "yes, it was fine and good!" exclaimed teddy. "thank you." "you mluch welclome--clome some mo'!" laughed hop sing, as the children moved away. they spent the morning playing about the ranch near the house. they made a sea-saw from a board and a barrel, and played some of the games they had learned on cherry farm or while camping with grandpa martin. then dinner time came, but uncle frank and the cowboys did not come back to it. "won't they be hungry?" asked teddy. "oh, they took some bacon, coffee and other things with them," said aunt millie. "they often have to camp out for days at a time." "say, i wish i could do that!" cried teddy. "wait until you get to be a cowboy," advised his father. that afternoon trouble went to lie down with his mother to have a nap, and teddy and janet wandered off by themselves, promising not to go too far away from the house. but the day was so pleasant, and it was so nice to walk over the soft grass that, before they knew it, teddy and janet had wandered farther than they meant to. as the land was rolling--here hills and there hollows--they were soon out of sight of the ranch buildings, but they were not afraid, as they knew by going to a high part of the prairie they could see their way back home--or they thought they could. there were no woods around them, though there were trees and a little stream of water farther off. suddenly, as the curlytops were walking along together, they came to a place where there were a lot of rocks piled up in a sort of shelter. indeed one place looked as though it might be a cave. and as teddy and janet were looking at this they heard a strange noise, which came from among the rocks. both children stopped and stood perfectly still for a moment. "did you hear that?" asked jan, clasping her brother's arm. "yes--i did," he answered. "did--did it sound like some one groaning?" she went on. teddy nodded his head to show that it had sounded that way to him. just then the noise came again. "oh!" exclaimed janet, starting to run. "maybe it's an indian! oh, teddy, come on!" chapter ix the sick pony teddy martin did not run away as jan started to leave the pile of rocks from which the queer sound had come. instead he stood still and looked as hard as he could toward the hole among the stones--a hole that looked a little like the cave on star island, but not so large. "come on, teddy!" begged janet. "please come!" "i want to see what it is," he answered. "maybe it's something that--that'll bite you," suggested the little girl. "come on!" just then the noise sounded again. it certainly was a groan. "there!" exclaimed janet. "i _know_ it's an indian, ted! maybe it's one of the kind that took uncle frank's ponies. oh, please come!" she had run on a little way from the pile of rocks, but now she stood still, waiting for teddy to follow. "come on!" she begged. janet did not want to go alone. "it can't be an indian," said teddy, looking around but still not seeing anything to make that strange sound. "it could so be an indian!" declared janet. "well, maybe a sick indian," teddy admitted. "and if he's as sick as all that i'm not afraid of him! i'm going to see what it is." "oh, the-o-dore mar-tin!" cried janet, much as she sometimes heard her mother use her brother's name. "don't you dare!" "why not?" asked teddy, who tried to speak very bravely, though he really did not feel brave. but he was not going to show that before janet, who was a girl. "why can't i see what that is?" "'cause maybe--maybe it'll--bite you!" and as janet said this she looked first at the rocks and then over her shoulder, as though something might come up behind her when she least expected it. "pooh! i'm not afraid!" declared teddy. "anyhow, if it does bite me it's got to come out of the rocks first." "well, maybe it will come out." "if it does i can see it and run!" went on the little boy. "would you run and leave me all alone?" asked janet. "nope! course i wouldn't do _that_," teddy declared. "i'd run and i'd help you run. but i don't guess anything'll bite me. anyhow, indians don't bite." "how do you know?" asked janet. "some indians are wild. i heard uncle frank say so, and wild things bite!" "but not indians," insisted teddy. "a indian's mouth, even if he is wild, is just like ours, and it isn't big enough to bite. you've got to have an awful big mouth to bite." "henry watson bit you once, i heard mother say so," declared janet, as she and her brother still stood by the rocks and listened again for the funny sound to come from the stones. but there was silence. "well, henry watson's got an awful big mouth," remarked teddy. "maybe he's wild, and that's the reason." "he couldn't be an indian, could he?" janet went on. "course not!" declared her brother. "he's a boy, same as i am, only his mouth's bigger. that's why he bit me. i 'member it now." "did it hurt?" asked janet. "yep," answered her brother. "but i'm going in there and see what that noise was. it won't hurt me." teddy began to feel that janet was asking so many questions in order that he might forget all about what he intended to do. and he surely did want to see what was in among the rocks. once more he went closer to them, and then the noise sounded more loudly than before. it came so suddenly that teddy and janet jumped back, and there was no doubt but what they were both frightened. "oh, i'm not going to stay here another minute!" cried janet. "come on, ted, let's go home!" "no, wait just a little!" he begged. "i'll go in and come right out again--that is if it's anything that bites. if it isn't you can come in with me." "no, i'm not going to do that!" and janet shook her head very decidedly to say "no!" once more she looked over her shoulder. "well, you don't have to come in," teddy said. "i'll go alone. i'm not scared." just then janet looked across the fields, and she saw a man riding along on a pony. "oh, teddy!" she called to her brother. "here's a man! we can get him to go in and see what it is." teddy looked to where his sister pointed. surely enough, there was a man going along. he was quite a distance off, but the curlytops did not mind that. they were fond of walking. "holler at him!" advised janet. "he'll hear us and come to help us find out what's in here." teddy raised his voice in the best shout he knew how to give. he had strong lungs and was one of the loudest-shouting boys among his chums. "hey, mister! come over here!" cried teddy. but the man kept on as if he had not heard, as indeed he had not. for on the prairies the air is so clear that people and things look much nearer than they really are. so, though the man seemed to be only a little distance away, he was more than a mile off, and you know it is quite hard to call so as to be heard a mile away; especially if you are a little boy. still teddy called again, and when he had done this two or three times, and jan had helped him, the two calling in a sort of duet, teddy said: "he can't hear us." "maybe he's deaf, like aunt judy," said janet, speaking of an elderly woman in the town in which they lived. "well, if he is, he can't hear us," said teddy; "so he won't come to us. i'm going in anyhow." "no, don't," begged janet, who did not want her brother to go into danger. "if he can't hear us, teddy, we must go nearer. we can walk to meet him." teddy thought this over a minute. "yes," he agreed, "we can do that. but he's a good way off." "he's coming this way," janet said, and it did look as though the man had turned his horse toward the children, who stood near the pile of rocks from which the queer noises came. "come on!" decided ted, and, taking janet's hand, he and she walked toward the man on the horse. for some little time the two curlytops tramped over the green, grassy prairies. they kept their eyes on the man, now and then looking back toward the rocks, for they did not want to lose sight either of them or of the horseman. "i'm going to holler again," said teddy. "maybe he can hear me now. we're nearer." so he stopped, and putting his hands to his mouth, as he had seen uncle frank do when he wanted to call to a cowboy who was down at a distant corral, the little boy called: "hi there, mr. man! come here, please!" but the man on the horse gave no sign that he had heard. as a matter of fact, he had not, being too far away, and the wind was blowing from him toward teddy and jan. if the wind had been blowing the other way it might have carried the voices of the children toward the man. but it did not. then teddy made a discovery. he stopped, and, shading his eyes with his hands, said: "jan, that man's going away from us 'stid of coming toward us. he's getting littler all the while. and if he was coming to us he'd get bigger." "yes, i guess he would," admitted the little girl. "he is going away, teddy. oh, dear! now he can't help us!" without a word teddy started back toward the rocks, and his sister followed. he was close to them when janet spoke again. "what are you going to do?" she asked. "i'm going in there and see what that noise was," teddy replied. "oh, you mustn't!" she cried, hoping to turn him away. but teddy answered: "yes, i am, too! i'm going to see what it is!" "i'm not!" cried janet. "i'm going home. you'd better come with me!" but, though she turned away and went a short distance from the rocks in the direction she thought the ranch house of ring rosy ranch should be, she very soon stopped. she did not like going on alone. she looked back at ted. teddy had walked a little way toward the hole in the rocks. now he called to his sister. "the noise comes from in here," he said. "it's in this little cave." "are you going in?" asked janet, trying to pretend she was not afraid. "i want to see what made that noise," declared teddy. since he and his sister had gone camping with grandpa martin they were braver than they used to be. of course, ted, being a year older than his sister, was a little bolder than she was. janet, not feeling that she ought to run on home and leave teddy there and yet not feeling brave enough to go close to the cave among the rocks with him, hardly knew what to do. she walked back a little way and then, suddenly, the noise came, more loudly than at first. "oh, there it goes again!" cried janet, once more running back. "i heard it," teddy said. "it didn't war-whoop like an indian." "if he's sick he couldn't," explained janet. "and if he's sick he can't hurt us," went on teddy. "i'm going to holler at him and see what he wants." "you'd better come back and tell daddy or uncle frank," suggested janet. teddy rather thought so himself, but he did not like to give up once he had started anything. he felt it would be a fine thing if he, all alone, could find one of the indians. "and maybe it is one of those who took uncle frank's ponies," thought teddy to himself. again the groan sounded, this time not quite so loud, and after it had died away teddy called: "who's in there? what's the matter with you?" no answer came to this. then ted added: "if you don't come out i'm going to tell my uncle on you. he owns this ranch. come on out! who are you?" this time there came a different sound. it was one that the curlytops knew well, having heard it before. "that's a horse whinnying!" cried teddy. "or a pony," added janet. "yes, it did sound like that. oh, ted, maybe it's a poor horse in there and he can't get out!" she went on. again came the whinny of a horse or a pony. there was no mistake about it this time. "come on!" cried teddy. "we've got to get him out, janet. he's one of uncle frank's cow ponies and he's hurt in that cave. we've got to get him out!" "but how can you?" janet inquired. "it's an awful little cave, and i don't believe a pony could get in there." "a little pony could," said teddy. janet looked at the cave. she remembered that she had seen some quite small ponies, not only on ring rosy ranch but elsewhere. the cave would be large enough for one of them. "i'm going in," said teddy, as he stood at the mouth of the hole among the piled-up rocks. "he might kick you," warned janet. "if he's sick enough to groan that way he can't kick very hard," replied teddy. "anyhow, i'll keep out of the way of his feet. that's all you've got to do, uncle frank says, when you go around a strange horse. when he gets to know you he won't kick." "well, you'd better be careful," warned janet again. "don't you want to come in?" teddy asked his sister. "i--i guess not," she answered. "i'll watch you here. oh, maybe if it's a pony we can have him for ours, teddy!" she exclaimed. "maybe," he agreed. "i'm going to see what it is." slowly he walked to the dark place amid the rocks. the whinnyings and groanings sounded plainer to him than to janet, and teddy was sure they came from a horse or a pony. as yet, though, he could see nothing. then, as the little boy stepped out of the glaring sun into the shadow cast by the rocks, he began to see better. and in a little while his eyes became used to the gloom. then he could see, lying down on the dirt floor of the cave amid the rocks, the form of a pony. the animal raised its head as teddy came in and gave a sort of whinnying call, followed by a groan. "poor pony!" called ted. "are you hurt? i'm so sorry! i'll go get a doctor for you!" "who are you talking to?" asked janet. she had drawn nearer the cave. "there's a sick pony in here all right," teddy told his sister. "come on in and look." "i--i don't b'lieve i want to." "pooh! he can't hurt you! he's sick!" cried teddy. so, after waiting a half minute, janet went in. in a little while she, too, could see the pony lying down in the cave. "oh, the poor thing!" she cried. "teddy, we've got to help him!" "course we have," he said. "we've got to go for a doctor." "and get him a drink," added janet. "when anybody's sick--a pony or anybody--they want a drink. let's find some water, teddy. we can bring it to him in our hats!" then, leaving the sick pony in the cave, the curlytops ran out to look for water. chapter x a surprised doctor water is not very plentiful on the prairies. in fact, it is so scarce that often men and horses get very thirsty. but the curlytops were lucky in finding a spring among the rocks on ring rosy ranch. it was not a very large spring, and it was well hidden among the big stones, which, is, perhaps, why it was not visited by many of the ponies and cattle. they come in large numbers to every water-hole they can find. jan and ted, having come out of the dark cave-like hole, where the poor, sick pony lay, began their search for water, and, as i have said, they were lucky in finding some. it was jan who discovered it. as the curlytops were running about among the rocks the little girl stopped suddenly and called: "hark, teddy!" "what is it?" he asked. "i hear water dripping," she answered. "it's over this way." she went straight to the spring, following the sound of the dripping water, and found where it bubbled up in a split in the rock. the water fell into a little hollow, rocky basin and there was enough for ted and his sister to fill their hats. first they each took a drink themselves, though, for the day was warm. their hats were of felt, and would hold water quite well. and as the hats were old ones, which had been worn in the rain more than once, dipping them into the spring would not hurt them. "i guess the pony'll be awful glad to get a drink," said jan to her brother. "i guess he will," he answered, as he walked along looking carefully where he put down his feet, for he did not want to stumble and spill the water in his hat. "look out!" exclaimed janet, as her brother came too close to her. "if you bump against me and make my arm jiggle you'll spill my hatful." "i'll be careful," said teddy. they spilled some of the water, for their hats were not as good as pails in which to carry the pony's drink. but they managed to get to the cave with most of it. "you can give him the first drink," said teddy to his sister. "i found him, and he's my pony, but you can give him the first drink." janet felt that this was kind on teddy's part, but still she did not quite like what he said about the pony. "is he going to be _all_ yours?" she asked. "well, didn't i find him?'' "yes, but when i found a penny once and bought a lollypop, i gave you half of it." "yes, you did," admitted teddy, thinking of that time. "but i can't give you half the pony, can i?" "no, i guess not. but you could let me ride on him." "oh, i'll do that!" exclaimed teddy quickly. he was thinking it would be a hard matter to divide a live pony in half. "course i'll let you ride on him!" he went on. "we'll get uncle frank to let us have a saddle and some of the cowboys can teach us to ride. and i'll let you feed and water him as much as you like. i'm going to call him clipclap." "that's a funny name," remarked janet. "it's how his feet sound when he runs," explained teddy. "don't you know--clip-clap, clip-clap!" and he imitated the sound of a pony as best he could. "oh, yes!" exclaimed janet. "they do go that way." "i haven't heard this one run," added teddy, "'cause he's sick and he can't gallop. but i guess his feet would make that sound, so i'm going to call him clipclap." "it's a nice name," agreed janet. "but i guess we better give him a drink now. he must be awful thirsty." "he is," said teddy. "hear him groan?" the pony was again making a noise that did sound like a groan. he must be in pain the children thought. "go on--give him your drink, janet," urged teddy. "then i'll give him mine." janet was afraid no longer. she went into the cave ahead of her brother, and as the pony was lying down janet had to kneel in front of him with her hat full of water--no, it was not full, for some had spilled out, but there was still a little in it. the pony smelled the water when janet was yet a little way from him, and raised his head and part of his body by his forefeet. though clear, cold water has no smell to us, animals can smell it sometimes a long way off, and can find their way to it when their masters would not know where to go for a drink. "oh, see how glad he is to get it!" exclaimed janet, as the pony eagerly sucked up from her hat the water in it. the little animal drank very fast, as if he had been without water a long while. "now give him yours, teddy," janet called to her brother, and he kneeled down and let the pony drink from his hat. "i guess he wants more," janet said as the sick animal sucked up the last drops from teddy's hat. "it wasn't very much." "we'll get more!" teddy decided. "then we'll go for a doctor." "where'll we find one?" janet asked. "i know where to find him," teddy answered. once more the children went back to the spring and again they filled their soft hats. and once more the pony greedily drank up the last drops of water. as he finished that in ted's hat he dropped back again and stretched out as if very tired. "oh, i hope he doesn't die!" exclaimed janet. "so do i," added her brother. "i'd like to have a ride on him when he gets well. come on, we'll go find the doctor." shaking the water drops from their hats the curlytops put them on and went out of the cave into the sunlight. led by teddy, janet followed to the top of the pile of rocks. "do you see that white house over there?" asked teddy, pointing to one down the road that led past the buildings of ring rosy ranch. "yes, i see it," janet answered. "that's the place where the doctor lives," went on ted. "how do you know?" demanded janet. "'cause i heard uncle frank say so. mother asked where a doctor lived, and uncle frank showed her that white house. i was on the porch and i heard him. he said if ever we needed a doctor we only had to go there and doctor bond would come right away. he's the only doctor around here." "then we'd better get him for our pony clipclap!" exclaimed janet. "come on, teddy." "if we had our goat-wagon we could ride," said the little boy, as they walked along over the prairie together. "but i guess we've got to walk now." "is it very far?" asked janet. "no, not very far. i've never been there, but you can easy see it." truly enough the white house of doctor bond was in plain sight, but on the prairies the air is so clear that distant houses look nearer than they really are. so, though ted and janet thought they would be at the doctor's in about ten minutes, they were really half an hour in reaching the place. they saw the doctor's brass sign on his house. "i hope he's in," said teddy. as it happened doctor bond was in, and he came to the door himself when teddy rang the bell, mrs. bond being out in the chicken part of the yard. "well, children, what can i do for you?" asked doctor bond with a pleasant smile, as he saw the curlytops on his porch. "if you please," began teddy, "will you come and cure clipclap?" "will i come and cure him? well, i will do my best. i can't be sure i'll cure him, though, until i know what the matter is. what seems to be the trouble?" "he's awful sick," said janet, "and he groans awful." "hum! he must have some pain then." "we gave him some cold water," added teddy. "yes? well, maybe that was a good thing and maybe it wasn't. i can't tell until i see him. who did you say it was?" "clipclap," replied teddy. "your little brother?" "no, sir. he's a pony and he's in a cave!" exclaimed teddy. "what? a pony?" cried the surprised doctor. "in a cave?" "yes," went on janet. "we gave him water in our hats, and he's going to be ted's and mine 'cause ted found him. but will you please come and cure him so we can have a ride on him? don't let him die." "well," exclaimed doctor bond, smiling in a puzzled way at the children, "i don't believe i can come. i don't know anything about curing sick ponies. you need a horse doctor for that." ted and janet looked at one another, not knowing what to say. chapter xi trouble makes a lasso doctor bond must have seen how disappointed teddy and janet were, for he spoke very kindly as he asked: "who are you, and where are you from? tell me about this sick pony with the funny name." "he is clipclap," answered teddy, giving the name he had picked out for his new pet. "and we are the curlytops." "yes, i can see that all right," laughed the doctor with a look at the crisp hair of the little boy and girl. "but where do you live?" "at uncle frank's ranch," janet answered. "you mean mr. frank barton, of the circle o?" the doctor inquired. "yes, only we call it the ring rosy ranch now, and so does he," explained teddy. "the ring rosy ranch, is it? well, i don't know but what that is a good name for it. now tell me about yourselves and this pony." this teddy and janet did by turns, relating how they had come out west from cresco, and what good times they were having. they even told about having gone to cherry farm, about camping with grandpa martin and about being snowed in. "well, you have had some nice adventures!" exclaimed doctor bond. "now about this sick--" "is some one ill?" enquired mrs. bond, coming in from the chicken yard just then, in time to hear her husband's last words, "who is it?" on the western prairies when one neighbor hears of another's illness he or she wants to help in every way there is. so mrs. bond, hearing that some one was ill, wanted to do her share. "it's a pony," her husband said with a smile. "a pony!" she exclaimed. "yes, these curlytop children found one in the cave among the rocks. it's on circle o ranch--i should say ring rosy," and the doctor gave uncle frank's place the new name. "these are mr. barton's nephew's children," he went on, for ted and janet had told the doctor that it was their father's uncle, and not theirs, at whose home they were visiting. though, as a matter of fact, ted and janet thought uncle frank was as much theirs as he was their father's and, very likely, uncle frank thought so himself. "can't you come and cure the sick pony?" asked teddy. "he's groaning awful hard," went on janet. "well, my dear curlytops," said doctor bond with a smile, "i'd like to come, but, as i said, i don't know anything about curing sick horses or animals. i never studied that. it takes a doctor who knows about them to give them the right kind of medicine." "i thought all medicine was alike," said teddy. "what our doctor gives us is always bitter." "well, all medicine isn't bitter," laughed doctor bond, "though some very good kinds are. however, i wouldn't know whether to give this clipclap pony bitter or sweet medicine." "maybe you could ask one of the cowboys," said janet. "i heard mr. mason--jim, uncle frank calls him--telling how he cured a sick horse once." "oh, yes, your uncle's foreman, jim mason, knows a lot about horses," said doctor bond. "then why don't you go with the children and get jim to help you find out what the matter is with their pony?" suggested mrs. bond. "there isn't a regular veterinary around here, and they don't want to see their pet suffer. go along with them.'' "i believe i will," said doctor bond. "i could perhaps tell what's the matter with the pony, and if i've got any medicine that might cure it, jim would know how to give it--i wouldn't." "we just found the pony in the cave," explained teddy. "we were taking a walk and we heard him groan." "oh, i see," said mrs. bond. "well, i hope the doctor can make him well for you," she went on, as her husband hurried back into the house to get ready for the trip. he had a small automobile, and in this he and the children were soon hurrying along the road toward ring rosy ranch. it was decided to go there first instead of to the cave where the pony was. "we'll get jim mason and take him back with us," said the doctor. uncle frank and his cowboys had come back from looking after the lost ponies, but had not found them. he, as well as mr. and mrs. martin, were very much surprised when the curlytops came riding up to the ranch in doctor bond's automobile. "well, where in the world have you been?" cried mother martin. "we were just beginning to get worried about you children. where were you?" "we found a pony!" cried janet. "and he's sick!" added teddy. "and his name is clipclap!" exclaimed the little girl. "and he's mine but janet can have half of him, and we got him water in our hats," came from teddy. "and we got the doctor, too!" went on his sister. "well, i should say you'd put in quite a busy day," chuckled uncle frank. "now let's hear more about it." so the curlytops told, and doctor bond said, even if he was not a horse doctor, he'd go out and look at the pony in the cave, if the ranch foreman would come with him. "of course i'll come!" cried jim mason. "i wouldn't want to see any pony suffer. and i've doctored quite a few of 'em, even if i don't know much about medicine. come on, curlytops!" jim mason jumped on his own swift pony, saying he could make as good time over the rough prairie as doctor bond could in his automobile. the curlytops rode in the machine with the physician. uncle frank and daddy martin went along, for they, too, were interested in the sick pony. it did not take long to get to the cave amid the rocks. jim mason's horse reached there ahead of the automobile, and the foreman had gone into the cave and come out again by the time the curlytops were getting out of the machine. "well, he's a pretty sick pony all right," said the foreman of the cowboys of ring rosy ranch. "can you make him better?" asked teddy anxiously. "i don't know whether we can or not. it all depends on what sort of medicine the doctor has for curing poison." "has the pony been poisoned?" asked uncle frank. "looks that way," replied the foreman. "i guess he must have drunk some water that had a bit of poisoned meat in it. you see," he went on to the doctor, mr. martin and the children, "we have a lot of wolves and other pesky animals around here. they're too tricky to catch in traps or shoot, so we poison 'em by putting a white powder in some meat. sometimes the wolves will drag a piece of the poisoned meat to a spring of water, and they must have done it this time. then the pony drank the water and it made him sick." "will he die?" asked janet. "well, i'll do my best to save him," said doctor bond, opening the black case of medicines he carried. "but how can you give medicine to a horse, jim? you can't put it on his tongue, can you?" "no, but i've got a long-necked bottle on purpose for that, and it's easy to pour it out of that bottle down a pony's throat. you mix up the dose, doc, and i'll give it to the little animal." this was done, but the curlytops were not allowed in the cave when the men were working over the pony. but, in a little while, the foreman and doctor bond came out. "well, i guess your pony will get better," said the physician. "jim gave him the medicine that will get the poison out of him, and in a day or so he'll be able to walk. but you'll have to leave him in the cave until then." "can't we take him home?" teddy cried. "oh, no!" exclaimed the foreman. "but i'll send one of the men over with some straw to make him a soft bed, and we'll see that he has water to drink. he won't want anything to eat until he gets better. the doctor will come to see him to-morrow. won't you?" he went on to doctor bond. "indeed i will!" promised the doctor, for he had taken a great liking to the curlytops. "whose pony is it?" asked daddy martin. "it's mine!" exclaimed teddy quickly. "mine and jan's. we found him and his name's clipclap." "well, that's a good name for a pony," said his father. "but still i don't know that you can claim every pony you find. this one may belong to uncle frank." "no, it isn't one of my brand," said the owner of ring rosy ranch. "it's a strange pony that must have wandered into this cave after he found he was poisoned. i reckon the poor thing thought he'd die in there, and maybe he would if the children hadn't found him." "he couldn't have lived much longer without attention," said doctor bond. "then did we save his life?" asked teddy. "you did, by getting the doctor in time," answered his father. "then can't he be our pony?" asked the little boy. "yes, i guess he can," answered uncle frank. "if nobody comes to claim him you children may have him. and if anyone does come after him i'll give you another. i was going to give you each a pony, anyhow, as soon as you got used to the ranch, and i'll do it. if ted wants to keep clipclap, as he calls him, i'll give janet another." "oh, won't i just love him!" cried the little girl. "and i'll love clipclap!" said teddy. there was nothing more that could be done just then for the sick pony, so the curlytops and the others left him in the cave. the children were glad he did not groan any more. a little later jim mason sent one of the cowboys with some clean straw to make a bed for the little horse, and a pail of the cool, spring water was put where the animal could reach it. for two days the pony stayed in the cave, and then doctor bond said he was much better and could be led to the ranch. uncle frank took ted and janet out to the rocks to bring back their pet, but he had to walk very slowly, for he was still weak from the poison. "and hell have to stay in the stable for a week or so," said jim mason when clipclap was safely at the ranch. "after that he will be strong enough to ride. while you curlytops are waiting i'll give you a few riding lessons." "and will you show me how to lasso?" begged teddy. "yes, of course. you'll never be a cowboy, as you say you're going to be, unless you can use a rope. i'll show you." so the children's lessons began. uncle frank picked out a gentle pony for them on which to learn how to ride, and this pony was to be jan's. she named him star face, for he had a white mark, like a star, on his forehead. on this pony jan and ted took turns riding until they learned to sit in the saddle alone and let the pony trot along. of course he did not go very fast at first. "and i want to learn to lasso when i'm on his back," said teddy. "you'd first better learn to twirl the rope while you're on the ground," said jim mason, and then the foreman began giving the little boy some simple lessons in this, using a small rope, for teddy could not handle the big ones the cowboys used. in a few days teddy could fling the coils of his rope and make them settle over a post. of course he had to stand quite close, but even the cowboys, when they learned, had to do that the foreman said. "well, what are you going to do now?" teddy's father asked the little boy one day, as he started out from the house with a small coil of rope on one arm, as he had seen the cowboys carry their lariats. "what are you going to do, ted?" "oh, i'm going to lasso some more," was the answer. "why don't you try something else besides a post?" asked one of uncle frank's men, as he, too, noticed teddy. "throwing a rope over a post is all right to start, but if you want to be a real cowboy you'll have to learn to lasso something that's running on its four legs. that's what most of our lassoing is--roping ponies or steers, and they don't very often stand still for you, the way the post does." "yes," agreed ted, "i guess so. i'll learn to lasso something that runs." his father paid little more attention to the boy, except to notice that he went out into the yard, where he was seen, for a time, tossing the coils of rope over the post. then jan came along, and, as soon as he saw her, teddy asked: "jan, will you do something for me?" "what?" she inquired, not being too ready to make any promises. sometimes teddy got her to say she would do things, and then, when he had her promise, he would tell her something she did not at all want to do. so jan had learned to be careful. "what do you want to do, teddy?" she asked. "play cowboy," he answered. "girls can't be cowboys," janet said. "well, i don't want _you_ to be one," went on teddy. "i'll be the cowboy." "then what'll _i_ be?" asked jan. "that won't be any fun, for you to do that and me do nothing!" "oh, i've got something for you to do," said teddy, and he was quite serious over it. "you see, jan, i've got to learn to lasso something that moves. the post won't move, but you can run." "do you mean run and play tag?" jan asked. teddy shook his head. "you make believe you're a wild cow or a pony," he explained, "and you run along in front of me. then i'll throw my rope around your head, or around your legs, and i'll pull on it and you--" "yes, and i'll fall down and get all dirt!" finished jan. "ho! i don't call _that_ any fun for me!" "well, i won't lasso you very hard," promised ted; "and i've got to learn to throw my rope at something that moves, the cowboys say, else i can't ever be a real wild-wester. go on, jan! run along and let me lasso you!" jan did not want to, but teddy teased her so hard that she finally gave in and said she would play she was a pony for a little while. teddy wanted her to be a wild steer, but she said ponies could run faster than the cattle, and jan was a good runner. "and if i run fast it will be harder for you to lasso me," she said, "and that's good practice for you, same as it is good for me when i practice my music scales fast, only i don't do it very much." "well, you run along and i'll lasso you," said teddy. "only we'd better go around to the back of the house. maybe they wouldn't like to see me doing it." "who; the cowboys?" asked his sister. "no, father and mother," replied teddy. "i don't guess they'd want me to play this game, but i won't hurt you. come on." the little boy and girl--teddy carrying his small lasso--went out to a field not far from the house, and there they played cowboy. as they had planned, teddy was the cowboy and janet the wild pony, and she ran around until she was tired. teddy ran after her, now and then throwing the coil of rope at her. sometimes the lasso settled over her head, and then the little boy would pull it tight, but he was careful not to pull too hard for fear he might hurt jan. once the rope went around her legs, and that time teddy gave a sudden yank. "oh, i'm falling!" cried jan, and she went down in a heap. "that's fine!" cried teddy. "that's regular wild-wester cowboy! do it again, jan!" "no! it hurts!" objected the little girl. "you pulled me so hard i fell down." "i didn't mean to," said teddy. "but i can lasso good, can't i?" "yes; pretty good," his sister agreed. "but you can't lasso me any more. i don't want to play. i'm going to the house." "did i hurt you much?" teddy asked. "well, not such an awful lot," admitted jan. "i fell on some soft grass, though, or you would have. anyhow, i'm going in." teddy looked a little sad for a minute, and then he cried: "oh, i know what i can do! you stay and watch me, jan." "what are you going to do?" she asked. "you'll see," he answered "here, you hold my lasso a minute." teddy ran off across the field, and when he came back to where his sister was still holding the coil of rope the curlytop boy was leading by a rope a little calf, one of several that were kept in the stable and fed milk from a pail. "what are you going to do, teddy martin?" asked the little girl. "i'm going to play he's a wild steer," answered teddy. "oh, the-o-dore mar-tin!" cried janet, much as her mother might have done. "you're not going to lasso _him,_ are you?" "i am--if i can," and teddy spoke slowly. he was not quite sure he could. the calf came along easily enough, for teddy had petted it and fed it several times. "he's awful nice," said janet. "you won't hurt him, will you?" "course not!" cried teddy. "i'll only lasso him a little. now you come and hold him by the rope that's on his neck, jan. and when i tell you to let go, why, you let go. then he'll run and i can lasso him. i've got to lasso something that's running, else it isn't real wild-wester." jan was ready enough to play this game. she took hold of the calf's rope, and teddy got his lasso ready. but just as the little fellow was about to tell his sister to let the calf loose, along came uncle frank and he saw what was going on. "oh, my, teddy!" cried the ranchman. "you mustn't do that, curlytop! the little calf might fall and break a leg. wait until you get bigger before you try to lasso anything that's alive. come on, we'll have other fun than this. i'm going to drive into town and you curly tops can come with me." so the calf was put back in the stable, and teddy gave up lassoing for that day. he and jan had fun riding to town with uncle frank, who bought them some sticks of peppermint candy. baby william had his own fun on the ranch. his mother took care of him most of the time, leaving janet and teddy to do as they pleased. she wanted them to learn to ride, and she knew they could not do it and take care of their little brother. but trouble had his own ways of having fun. he often watched teddy throwing the lasso, and one afternoon, when ted had finished with his rope and left it lying on a bench near the house, trouble picked up the noose. "me lasso, too," he said to himself. just what he did no one knew, but not long after teddy had laid aside the lariat, as the lasso is sometimes called, loud squawks, crowings and cackles from the chicken yard were heard. "what in the world can be the matter with my hens?" cried aunt millie. ted and janet ran out to see. what they saw made them want to laugh, but they did not like to do it. trouble had lassoed the big rooster! chapter xii the bucking bronco with a small rope around the neck of the crowing rooster--which could not crow as loudly as it had before, because it was nearly choked--trouble was dragging the fowl along after him as he ran across the yard. "trouble! trouble!" cried aunt millie. "what are you doing?" "playin' cowboy!" was his answer. "i lasso rooster wif my rope, like teddy catches post." "oh, you mustn't do that!" cried aunt millie, as she ran after the small boy and the dragging rooster. "cock-a doodle-do!" crowed the rooster, or, rather, it tried to crow that way, but it would get only about half of it out and then trouble would pull the rope tight about the fowl's neck and the crow would be shut off suddenly. "gid-dap, pony!" cried baby william, trotting along on his short, fat legs, making-believe, as he often did, that he was riding horseback. "gid-dap! i lasso a rooster, i did!" "yes, and you'll kill the poor thing if you're not careful," panted aunt millie, as she raced after the little fellow and caught him. then she gently pulled the rooster to her by means of the rope, and took it off the fowl's neck. the rooster was bedraggled from having been dragged through the dust and the dirt, and it was so dizzy from having been whirled around by trouble that it could hardly stand up. aunt millie smoothed out its feathers and got it some water. the rooster drank a little and seemed to feel better. then it ran off to join the other roosters and the cackling hens that had been watching what trouble did, doubtless wondering what had gotten into the lassoed rooster to make it run around the way it did on the end of a rope. but it was baby william who made all the trouble. "you must never do that again," said mrs. martin when she came out of the ranch house and heard what her little boy had done. "that was very wrong, william, to lasso the poor rooster and drag it about with a rope around its neck." "i not do it any more," promised trouble. "but i want a lasso like teddy." "no, you're not big enough for that," his mother said. "you must wait until you are a little older. don't bother the chickens any more." "no, i only get de eggs," promised baby william. "and please don't lasso them, or you'll break them," put in aunt millie; but janet thought her "eyes laughed," as she later told teddy. "no more lasso?" asked trouble, looking at the rope his aunt had taken from the rooster's long neck. "no more lasso!" exclaimed mrs. barton, trying not to smile, for the sight of the rooster, caught the way he had been, made even the older folks want to laugh. ted and janet did laugh, but they did not let trouble see them. if he had he might have thought he had done something smart or cute, and he would try it over again the first chance he had. so they had to pretend to be sharp with him. the rooster was not hurt by being lassoed. afterward trouble told how he did it. with the slip-noose of the rope in one hand and holding the rope's end in the other, baby william walked quietly up behind the rooster and tossed the loop over its head. then he pulled it tight and started to run, as he had seen the cow ponies galloping to pull down a horse or steer that needed to be branded or marked with the sign of the ring rosy ranch. the rooster was very tame, often eating out of aunt millie's hand, so he was not afraid to let trouble come up quite close to him. one day, about a week after the curlytops had found clipclap in the cave, jim mason said he thought the pony was well enough to be ridden. clipclap was brought out in the yard and teddy and janet went up to him. the pony put his nose close to them and rubbed his head against their outstretched hands. "see, he knows us!" cried janet. "and i guess he's thanking us for bringing him water," added her brother. "and getting the doctor to cure him of poison," went on the little girl. "i'm glad he likes you, teddy." "and your pony likes you, too, janet," said the little boy. janet's pony, star face, certainly seemed to like her. for he came when she called him and took lumps of sugar from her hand. he liked teddy, too. in fact both ponies were very pretty and friendly and it would be hard to say which was the better. janet liked hers and teddy liked his, and that is the best thing i can say about them. no one came to claim clipclap. though uncle frank spoke to a number of other ranchmen about finding the sick pony, none of them had ever seen clipclap before as far as they knew. if he belonged to some other ranch it must have been far away. "so you may feel that it is all right for you to keep your pony, curlytop," said uncle frank to teddy. "if anyone should, later, say it belongs to him, and can prove it, we'll give it up, of course." "but i don't want to give clipclap up!" teddy cried. "well, maybe you won't have to," said his father. "but you must not keep what is not yours. anyhow, if you should have to give up clipclap uncle frank will give you another pony." "there couldn't be any as nice as clipclap--not even janet's star face," declared teddy. he felt bad at the thought of having to give up his pet, but there was no need to, for as the weeks went on no one came to claim clipclap, and teddy counted him as his own. by this time teddy and janet had learned to ride quite well for such little children. they knew how to sit in a saddle, up straight like an arrow, and not slouched down or all humped up "like a bag of meal," as uncle frank was wont to say. they knew how to guide their ponies by pulling on the reins to left or to right, according to which way they wanted to go. of course they could not ride very fast yet, and mother martin was just as glad they could not, for she was afraid, if they did, they might fall off and get hurt. but teddy and janet were careful, and they knew how to sit in the saddle with their feet in the stirrups. "they're getting to be good little riders," said jim mason to uncle frank one day. "i'll take 'em with me the next time i go for a short ride." "maybe we could find the bad indians that took your horses, uncle frank," said teddy. "well, i wish you could," said the owner of ring rosy ranch. the cowboys had not been able to get back the stolen horses nor find the indians who had run them off. other ranches, too, had been robbed and a number of head of horses and cattle had been driven away. "we've looked all over for those indians," said uncle frank, "but we can't find 'em. if you curlytops can, i'll give you each another pony." "i'd like clipclap best though," announced teddy. "what could we do with two?" asked janet. "oh, every cowboy or cowgirl, for that matter, has more than one horse when he can," said jim mason. "then if one gets lame he has another to ride. but don't you curlytops go off by yourselves looking for those bad indians!" he warned them. "we won't," promised teddy. "well only go with you or uncle frank." "we don't find them," said the ranch owner. "i guess the indians sold the horses and cattle and then they hid themselves. well, i hope they don't take any more of my animals." but there was more trouble ahead for uncle frank. the curlytops had a fine time on his ranch, though. when teddy and janet were not riding, they were watching the cowboys at work or play, for the men who looked after uncle frank's cattle had good times as well as hard work. they would often come riding and swooping in from the distant fields after their day's work, yelling and shouting as well as firing off their big revolvers. but neither the curlytops nor their mother were as frightened at this play of the cowboys as they had been at first. "i wish i had a gun that would go bang," said teddy one day. "oh, the-o-dore mar-tin!" cried his sister, after the fashion of her mother. "if you had i'd never go riding ponyback with you--never again! i'd be afraid of you! so there!" "well, so would the indians!" said ted. however he knew he was too small to have a firearm, so he did not tease for it. sometimes, when uncle frank or his foreman, jim mason, went on short rides around the ranch, teddy and janet went with them on their ponies. star pace and clipclap were two sturdy little animals, and were gentle with the children. "come on! let's have a race!" ted would call. "all right. but don't go too fast," janet would answer, and they would trot off, the ponies going as fast as was safe for the children. teddy generally won these races, for janet, who was very tender-hearted, did not like to make her pony go as fast as it could go. often, perhaps, if janet had urged star face on she would have beaten her brother, for clipclap still felt a little weak, now and then, from his illness. one day a cowboy came in, riding hard from a far-off part of the ranch. "i guess something is the matter, jan," said teddy, as they saw the horseman gallop past. "what?" she asked as they noticed him talking to the foreman. "maybe he's found the indians that took uncle frank's horses," her brother answered. the children drew near enough to hear what the cowboy and the foreman were talking about. "more horses gone!" exclaimed jim mason. "well, we'll surely have to get after those indians; that's all there is about it!" "more horses stolen?" asked daddy martin, coming out just then. "yes," answered jim mason. "a lot of good ones. i guess more indians must have run away from the reservation. we'll have to hunt them down!" "oh, i wish i could go!" sighed teddy. "i'd like to be an indian fighter." "you'll have to grow a lot bigger," said his uncle, with a laugh. uncle frank and some of the cowboys rode over the prairie, trying to find the stealing indians, but they could not. nor could they find the missing horses, either. "it's a good thing uncle frank has lots of cattle," said teddy that night when the cowboys came back to the ranch house, not having found the horse thieves. "if he didn't have he'd be poor when the indians take his animals." "he'll be poor if the indians keep on the way they have been doing," said aunt millie. "i hope he can catch the bad men!" ted and janet hoped so too, but they did not see how they could help, though teddy wanted to. however he was kept near the house. "come on and see the bucking bronco, curlytops!" called uncle frank to teddy and janet one day. "what is it?" asked the little girl. "a bucking bronco jumps up in the air with all four feet off the ground at once, and comes down as stiff as a board," explained uncle frank. "that isn't nice for the man that's in the saddle, though the cowboys know how to ride most bucking broncos, that are really sort of wild horses." "i'd like to see 'em!" cried teddy. "you may," promised his uncle. "the cowboys have a bucking bronco out in the corral and they're taking turns trying to ride him. come along if you want to see the fun." it was fun, but some hard work, too, for one after another the cowboys fell out of the saddle of the bucking bronco as they tried to ride him. now and then one would stay on the wild animal's back longer than had any of his friends, not falling when the bronco leaped up in the air and came down with his legs as stiff as those of an old fashioned piano. "ki-yi! yippi-i-yip!" yelled the cowboys, as they dashed about on the bucking bronco, swinging their hats or their quirts, which are short-handled whips, in the air over their heads. they did not mind being thrown, and each one tried to ride the wild bronco. none could stay in the saddle more than a few minutes at a time though. "well, i guess i'll have to ride that animal myself," said jim mason, when all the other cowboys had tried and had fallen or jumped from the saddle. the foreman was a fine rider. "yes, i guess i can ride that bronco," he said. "give the pony a chance to get his breath," suggested one of the cowboys. "i don't reckon you can ride him though, jim." "i'll try," was the answer. the bronco was led to a corner of the corral, or stable yard, and tied. then the foreman made ready to try to stay in the saddle longer than had any of his men, for when a bronco bucks it is like trying to hold on to a swing that is turning topsy-turvy. suddenly, as teddy and janet were looking at some of the funny tricks the cowboys were playing on one another, uncle frank gave a cry. "look at trouble!" he exclaimed. baby william had crawled through the fence and was close to the dangerous heels of the bucking bronco. chapter xiii missing cattle for a moment none of the cowboys made a move. they were too frightened at what might happen to trouble. if it had been one of their own friends who had gone into the corral where the dangerous bronco was standing, they would have known what to do. they would have called for him to "look out!" and the cowboy would have kept away from the animal. but it was different with trouble. to him one horse was like another. he liked them all, and he never thought any of them would kick or bite him. the bucking bronco was most dangerous of all. "oh, trouble!" exclaimed janet softly. "i--i'll get him!" whispered teddy. "i can crawl in there and run and get him before that bronco--" "you stay right where you are, curlytop!" exclaimed jim mason. "we don't want you both hurt, and if you go in there now you might start that crazy horse to kicking. stay where you are. i'll get trouble for you." "maybe if i called to him he'd come," said janet. she, too, spoke in a whisper. in fact no one had made a noise since trouble had been seen crawling under the corral fence, close to the bucking bronco. "no, don't call, janet," said the foreman. "you might make the bronco give a jump, and then he'd step on your little brother. that horse is a savage one, and he's so excited now, from so many of the cowboys having tried to ride him, that he might break loose and kick trouble. we've got to keep quiet." the cowboys seemed to know this, for none of them said a word. they kept very still and watched trouble. baby william thought he was going to have a good time. he had wandered out of the house when his mother was not looking. seeing ted, janet and the cowboys down by the corral, he made up his mind that was the place for him. "maybe i get a horse wide," he said to himself, for he was about as eager over horses as his sister or brother, and, so far, the only rides he had had were when he sat in the saddle in front with them or with his father, and went along very slowly indeed. for they dared not let the horse go fast when trouble was with them, and trouble wanted to go fast. "me go get wide myse'f," he murmured, and then, when no one was looking, he slipped under the corral fence. he was now toddling close to the heels of the bronco. "nice horsie," said trouble in his sweetest voice. "i get on your back an' have nice wide!" trouble always had hard work to sound the r in ride. "wide" he always called it. nearer and nearer he came to the bronco. the animal, without turning its head, knew that someone was coming up behind. many a time a cowboy had tried to fool the savage horse that way, and leap into the saddle without being seen. but imp, as the bronco was named, knew all those tricks. he turned back his ears, and when a horse does that it is not a good sign. almost always it means he is going to bite or kick. in this case imp would have to kick, as trouble was too far behind to be bitten. and imp did not seem to care that it was a little boy who was behind, and not a big cowboy. imp was going to do his worst. but jim mason was getting ready to save trouble. going around to the side, where he could not be seen so well, the foreman quickly leaped over the fence. and then he ran swiftly toward trouble, never saying a word. the bronco heard the sound of running feet. he turned his head around to see who else was coming to bother him and then, before imp could do anything and before trouble could reach and put his little hands on the dangerous heels, the foreman caught up baby william and jumped back with him, out of the way in case imp should kick. and kick imp did! his heels shot out as he laid his ears farther back on his head and he gave a shrill scream, as horses can when they are angry. "no you don't! not this time!" cried jim mason, as he ran back to the fence with trouble. "and you must never go into the corral or near horses again, trouble! do you hear?" and the foreman spoke to baby william as though very angry indeed. but he had to do this, for the little fellow must learn not to go into danger. "don't ever go in there again!" said the foreman, as he set trouble down on the ground in a safe place. "no, me not go," was the answer, and baby william's lips quivered as though he were going to cry. "well, that's all right, old man!" said the foreman in kind tones. for he loved children and did not even like to hurt their feelings. "i didn't mean to scare you." but he had scared trouble, or, rather the sudden catching up of the little fellow and the pony's scream had frightened him, and janet's baby brother began to cry, hiding his head in her dress. but, after all, that was the best thing to make trouble remember that he must not go in the corral, and he had soon forgotten his tears and was laughing at the funny tricks imp cut up as jim mason tried to ride him. the foreman, after he had carried trouble safely out of the way, went back in the corral and jumped on the bucking bronco's back. then imp did all he could to get the man out of the saddle. around and around the corral dashed the cow pony, and when he found that jim stuck on the horse began jumping up in the air--bucking as the cowboys call it. even that did not shake the foreman to the ground. then, suddenly, the horse fell down. but it was not an accident. he did it on purpose, and then he began to roll over, thinking this, surely, would get that man off his back. it did. but when imp tried to roll over on the foreman, to hurt him, jim mason just laughed and jumped out of the way. he knew imp would probably do this and he was ready for him. jim watched imp, and as soon as the bronco stopped rolling and stood up again the foreman jumped into the saddle. this was too much for imp. he made up his mind he could not get rid of such a good rider, so the horse settled down and galloped around the corral as he ought to do. "hurray! jim rides him after all!" cried some of the cowboys. "i told you i'd stick to him" said the foreman with a laugh. "i wish i could ride that way," said teddy, with a little sigh when jim came out of the corral and left imp to have a rest. "well, maybe you will some day," said the foreman. "you've got a good start, and there's no better place to learn to ride ponyback than at ring rosy ranch." one warm, pleasant afternoon, when they had played about the house for some time, amusing themselves at the games they were wont to pass the time with in the east, jan called to her brother: "let's go and take a ride on our ponies!" "all right," agreed teddy. "where'll we go?" "oh, not very far. mother told us we mustn't go very far when we're alone." "that was before we knew how to ride," declared the little boy. "i guess we ride good enough now to take long rides." "but not now," insisted jan. "we'll only go for a little way, or i'm not going to play." "all right," teddy agreed. "we won't go very far." so they went out to the stable where their ponies were kept, and there one of the cowboys kindly saddled clipclap and star face for the little curlytops. uncle frank had given orders to his men that they were to let the children have the ponies whenever it was safe to ride, and this was one of the nicest days of the summer. "don't let 'em run away with you!" laughed the cowboy, as he helped jan and ted into their saddles. "oh, clipclap and star pace won't run away!" declared the little girl. "they're too nice." "yes, they are nice ponies," agreed the cowboy. "well, good-bye and good luck." biding up to the house, to tell their mother they were going for a ride, but would keep within sight or calling distance, ted and jan were soon guiding their ponies across the prairie. the children had soon learned to sit well in the saddles, and knew how to guide their ponies. and the little animals were very safe. "somehow or other, i don't feel at all worried here when the children are out of my sight--i mean teddy and janet," said mrs. martin to her husband, when the curlytops had ridden away. "yes, uncle frank's ranch does seem a safe place for them," mr. martin answered. "lots of 'down east' people think the west is a dangerous place. well, maybe it is in spots, but it is very nice here." on over the prairies rode teddy and janet. now and then the little girl would stop her pony and look back. "what are you looking for?" teddy asked. "do you think trouble is following us?" "no, but we mustn't go too far from the house. we must stay in sight of it, mother said." "well, we will," promised ted. but, after a while, perhaps it was because it was so nice to ride along on the ponies' backs, or because the little animals went faster than ted or janet imagined--i don't know just how it did happen, but, all at once, jan looked back and gave a cry. "why, what's the matter, jan?" asked teddy. "we--we're lost!" gasped the little girl. "i can't see uncle frank's house anywhere!" it was true enough. none of the ranch buildings were in sight, and for a moment ted, too, was frightened. then as his pony moved on, a little ahead of jan's, the boy gave a cry of delight. "there it is! i can see the house!" he said. "we're not lost. we were just down in a hollow i guess." and so it was. the prairies, though they look level, are made up of little hills and valleys, or hollows. down in between two hills one might be very near a house and yet not see it. "now we're all right," went on teddy. "yes," agreed janet "we're not lost anymore." so they rode on a little farther, the ponies now and then stopping to crop a bit of the sweet grass, when, all of a sudden, teddy, who was still a little ahead of his sister, called: "look there, jan!" "where?" teddy pointed. his sister saw several men on horseback--at least that is what they looked like--coming toward them. something about the figures seemed a bit strange to the children. ted and jan looked at one another and then back toward the ranch houses, which, they made sure, were not out of sight this time. "are they cowboys?" asked jan of her brother. "they--they don't just look like 'em," he said. "i mean like uncle frank's cowboys." "that's what i thought," janet added. "they look like they had blankets on--some of 'em." she and teddy sat on their ponies' backs and kept looking at the other figures. they were coming nearer, that was sure, and as they came closer it was more and more certain to the curlytops that some of the strangers on the horses were wrapped in blankets. "oh, i know what they are!" suddenly cried janet. "what?" "in--indians!" faltered janet. "oh, teddy, if they should be _wild_ indians!" "pooh!" exclaimed teddy, trying to speak bravely. "uncle frank said there weren't any very wild indians near his ranch." "maybe these ones wasn't near the ranch before, but they're coming near now," said janet, so excited the words tumbled out all mixed-up like. "i'm going home!" "i--i guess i'll go with you," added teddy, as he turned his pony's head about. "we'd better tell uncle frank the indians are coming. maybe they want more of his horses." "oh, he won't let 'em have any!" cried janet. "but they _are_ indians sure enough!" she went on, as she took a look over her shoulder. and there was no doubt about it. as the group of riders came closer to the children, whose ponies did not go as fast as the larger horses, it was seen that they were indeed indians, many of them wrapped in blankets. there were men, women, boys and girls, and some of the smaller children were carried wrapped tightly to their mothers' backs. tip to the ranch rode teddy and jan as fast as their ponies would take them without tossing off the curlytops. "oh, uncle frank!" cried teddy. "they 're coming!" "a lot of 'em!" shouted janet. "what's that?" asked the ranchman. "who are coming?" "indians to take more of your ponies!" teddy gasped. for a time there was some little excitement on the ranch, until one of the cowboys, riding out to see the indians, came back and said they were not "wild" ones, but a band that went about selling baskets and other things they made. they did no harm, and for a time camped near the ranch, the children, even trouble, going over to see them. but for some time the curlytops did not forget the fright their first view of the indians gave them. in the days that followed teddy and janet had many rides on clipclap and star face, their two nice ponies. sometimes they were allowed to go a little way over the prairies by themselves. but when they went for a long ride uncle frank, jim mason, their father or some of the cowboys were with them. "after a while maybe i'll learn how to ride so i can go off with you and help get the indians that stole your horses. do you think i can, uncle frank?" asked teddy one day. "well, maybe, curlytop. we surely must find those indians, for i don't like to lose all those horses. as soon as i get some of my work done i'll have another look for them." and then, a few days later, more bad news came to uncle frank. with his cowboys he was getting some cattle ready to ship away to a distant city, from where they were to be sent still farther away in a train of cattle cars, when a cowboy, who seemed much excited, came riding up to the corral. he looked very tired and warm, for the weather was hot, and his horse was covered with flecks of foam, as though it had been ridden hard and far. "what's the matter, henry?" asked uncle frank. "indian thieves!" was the answer. "a band of the indians have run away with a lot of your best cattle!" "they have?" cried uncle frank. "how do you know?" "i saw 'em, and i chased 'em. but they got away from me. maybe if we start right out now we can catch 'em and get back the cattle." "then we'll go!" cried uncle frank. teddy and janet were very much excited when they saw the cowboys saddling their mustangs ready for the chase. chapter xiv looking for indians "can't we come along?" asked teddy, as he saw uncle frank lead his horse out of the corral. "and i want to come, too!" added janet. "oh, no! we couldn't think of letting you!" answered uncle frank. "come on, boys! get ready. we'll have to ride fast!'' "we can ride fast!" added teddy. "you said, the other day, uncle frank, i could ride real good!" "so you can, curlytop." "then why can't we come? jan--she's a good rider, too!" "why the idea of you children thinking you can go off on a hunt for indians!" exclaimed their mother. "we want to go--awful much!" teddy murmured. "not this time, curly boy," said the ranchman. "we may have to be out all night, and it looks like rain. you stay at home with janet, and i'll tell you all about it when i come back." "will you, truly?" "truly i will." "and if you get any indians will you bring 'em here?" teddy demanded. "no, don't!" cried janet quickly. "i don't want to see any indians." "but they're _tame_ ones," said her brother. "they can't be _awful_ tame, else they wouldn't run away with uncle frank's cows," declared the little girl. "that's right!" laughed uncle frank. "i guess we won't bring any indians here, curlytop, even if we catch 'em, which we may not do as they have a good start of us. anyhow we'll have to turn the redmen back to their reservation where they belong if we get any of them. we'll just take my cattle and horses away, if we can, and tell the indians to go home and be good." "will they do it?" asked daddy martin. "it's hard to say," answered uncle frank. "i'd like to make 'em stop taking my animals, though. well, i guess we'll start. we'll be back as soon as we can." so he rode off with his cowboys after the indians. the cowboy who had ridden in with the news went back with the others to show them where he had last seen the cattle thieves. he stopped at the ranch house long enough, though, to get something to eat, and then rode away again. but he found time to talk a while to the curlytops. "where did you see the indians?" teddy asked while the cowboy was eating and uncle frank and the others getting ready for the chase. "oh, i was giving my pony a drink at the spring in the rocks when i saw the indians across the prairie--field, i guess you'd call it back east." "well, the prairies are big fields," observed janet. "so they are, curly girl," laughed the cowboy. "well, it was while i was watering my horse that i saw the indians." "you mean at the spring in the rocks where jan and i found clipclap in the cave?" teddy asked. "that's the place, curlytop. i chased after them to see which way they were driving off your uncle frank's cattle, but i saw they were too many for me, so i came on back as fast as my horse would bring me." "was there a lot of indians?" teddy inquired. "quite a few," answered the cowboy. "well, now i've got to go and help chase them," and he hurried through his meal and rode off with uncle frank and the others. "say, i wish we _could_ go, don't you, janet?" asked teddy of his sister, when they were left by themselves near the corral. "no, i don't! i don't want to chase indians!" "well, i'd chase 'em and you could watch me." "you're not big enough," said the little girl. "indians are awful big. don't you remember the one we saw at the station?" "yes. but maybe the ones that took uncle frank's ponies are little indians." "i don't care," janet said. "i don't want to chase after any of 'em. i don't like 'em." "all right--then i won't go," decided teddy. "but let's go and take a ride on our ponies." "yes, i'll do that," agreed janet, and soon, having had one of the cowboys who had been left behind at ring rosy ranch saddle clipclap and star face, the curlytops started for their ride. "don't go too far!" called mrs. martin after the children. "no, we won't," they promised. "i wants to go wide too!" begged trouble. "i 'ikes a wide on a ponyback." "not now, my dear," his mother said. "we'll go in the shade and pick flowers," and she carried him away where he would not see teddy and janet go off, for that made trouble fretful. he wanted to be with them. over the prairie rode janet and ted. their ponies went slowly, for the children had been told not to ride fast when they were alone. but, after a while, ted got tired of this slow motion. "let's have a race, jan!" he called. "i can beat you from here to that hill," and he pointed to one not far away. "mother said we couldn't ride fast," objected the little girl. "well, we won't ride _very_ fast," agreed ted. "come on, just a little run." janet, too, wanted to go a bit faster, and so, when her pony was in a line with ted's, she called sharply: "gid-dap, star face!" "gid-dap, clipclap!" cried teddy. the two ponies started to run. "oh, i'm going to beat! i'm going to beat!" janet cried, for she saw that star face was getting ahead of clipclap. "no you're not!" shouted teddy, and he touched his heel to the pony's flank. clipclap gave a jump forward, and then something happened. teddy took a flying leap, and right over clipclap's head he sailed, coming down on his hands and knees some distance off. clipclap fell down and rolled over in the grass while janet kept on toward the hill that marked the end of the race. the little girl reached this place first, not being able to stop her pony when she saw what had happened to teddy. but as soon as she could turn around she rode back to him and asked anxiously: "are you hurt, ted?" "no--no. i--i guess not," he answered slowly. "is clipclap?" asked janet. the pony answered for himself by getting up, giving himself a shake and then beginning to eat some grass. "what happened?" janet questioned further. "why didn't you come on and race with me? i won!" "yes, i guess you did," admitted teddy, getting up and brushing the dust off his clothes. "but i'd 'a' beaten you, only my pony stumbled and he threw me over his head. i went right over his head; didn't i janet?" "yes, you did, teddy. and you looked awful funny! but i'm glad you're not hurt." "so'm i." "what made clipclap stumble?" asked the little girl. "i guess he stepped in a gopher's hole," answered her brother. "let's look," proposed janet. brother and sister went to the place where clipclap had stumbled. there they saw a little hole in the ground. it was the front, or maybe the back, door of the home of a little animal called a gopher, which burrows under the earth. a gopher is a sort of squirrel-like rat, and on the prairies they make many holes which are dangerous if a horse suddenly steps into them. prairie dogs are another species of animal that burrow on the western plains, making holes into which horses or ponies often step, breaking their legs and throwing their riders. this time nothing had happened except that teddy and the pony had been shaken up. the pony might have broken a leg but did not, nor was teddy even scratched. cowboys always dread gopher and prairie dog holes, especially at night when they can not be so easily seen. "oh, i know what let's do!" exclaimed janet, when she found that her brother was all right. "what?" asked teddy. "let's wait here until the gopher comes up!" "all right. then we'll catch him and take him home to trouble." chapter xv trouble "helps" janet and teddy sat beside the gopher hole, while their ponies, not far from them, ate the sweet grass of the prairie. clipclap and star face did not wander away, even if they were not tied to a hitching post. for western horses and cow ponies are trained to stand where their master leaves them, if he will but toss the reins over their heads and let them rest on the ground. when a pony sees that this has been done he will never run away, unless perhaps something frightens him very much. it may be that he thinks, when the reins are over his head and down on the ground, they are tied to something, so he could not run away if he wanted to. at any rate, clipclap and star face stayed where ted and janet left them, and the little curlytops watched the gopher hole. "i wonder when he'll come out," said janet after a bit. "shs-s-s-s!" whispered teddy. "don't talk!" "why not?" asked his sister. "'cause you might scare him. you mustn't talk any more than if you were fishing." "a gopher isn't a fish!" "i know it," said teddy. "but you've got to keep quiet." so he and janet remained very quiet, watching the hole. suddenly janet gave teddy a slight tap with her hand. he had looked off to see if the ponies were all right. "what's the matter?" asked teddy. "hush!" whispered janet. "there he is." she pointed to the gopher's hole. teddy saw a tiny black nose and a pair of sparkling eyes as a head was thrust a little way out of the burrow. "i'll get him!" cried the little boy. with outstretched hand he made a grab toward the hole. but his fingers only grasped a lot of dirt and stones. the gopher had dived down back into his hole as soon as he saw teddy's first move. "oh, he got away!" said janet sorrowfully. "ill get him next time," declared teddy. but he did not. three or four times more the little animal put his small head and bright eyes out of the top of the hole, and each time teddy made a grab for him; but the gopher was too quick. finally janet said: "i guess we better go home, teddy." "why?" "oh, it's getting late, and i'm getting hungry." "so'm i. i'll wait until he comes up once more and then well go." once more the gopher peeped up, as if wondering why in the world those two strange children did not go away and let him alone. ted made a grab for him, but missed and then the little boy said: "come on, jan. now we'll go home!" "and we haven't any nice little gopher to take to trouble," said janet sadly. "oh, well, maybe it would bite him if we did catch one," reflected her brother. "i'll take him some of these pretty stones," and he picked up some from the ground. "he'll like to play with these." teddy whistled for his pony and clipclap came slowly up to his little master. janet held out a bunch of grass to star face and her pony, just as he had been taught, came up to her. teddy helped his sister get up in the saddle. it was not hard for them, as the ponies were small, and jim mason had showed them how to put one foot in the stirrup, and then, with one hand on the saddle and the other grasping both the bridle and the pony's mane, give a jump that carried them up. but though janet could mount her pony alone teddy always helped her when he was with her by holding the stirrup. "let's have another race home," suggested teddy, when they had started. "no," answered his sister. "you might fall some more and get hurt. we'll ride slow." so they did, though teddy was anxious for a good, fast gallop. "well, did you have a nice time?" asked mother martin, as they came to the house after putting away their ponies. "we had lots of fun," answered janet "teddy fell off his pony--" "fell off his pony!" cried her mother. "he threw me!" explained ted, and then he told what had happened. "an' didn't you catch noffin for me?" asked trouble, who heard his brother telling the story of his adventure. "i brought you these nice stones," and teddy took them out of his pocket. "you can play with them, trouble." baby william laughed and sat down to play with the stones. "did the cowboys come back with the indians?" asked teddy of aunt millie when she was giving him and janet some bread and jam to eat. "no, not yet, curlytop. i expect uncle frank and the boys will be gone all night." "will they have a house to sleep in?" asked janet. "no, unless they happen to be near one when it gets dark. but they took their blankets with them, and it's so warm that they'll just wrap up in them and sleep out on the prairie," said aunt millie. "won't they be hungry?" teddy inquired, as he took a big bite of the bread and jam. "oh, no! don't you remember i told you they always take something to eat with them when they go out this way? they are used to camping on the prairies, and they know how to make a fire, broil the bacon and make their coffee," answered aunt millie. "you need never worry about uncle frank and his cowboys. they'll be all right." and so they were. it was not until the next afternoon that the party which had gone out to chase the indians came back. they were tired, because they had ridden a good many miles, but they said they had slept well and had had enough to eat. "did you catch the indians?" asked teddy eagerly. "no, curlytop," answered uncle frank. "i'm sorry to say we did not. they got away from us." "did you see them?" asked daddy martin. "yes, but they were a long way off. too far for us to get at them." "and did they have your cattle with them?" "yes, they had a lot of my best animals. i guess they must be hiding away somewhere among the hills and mountains. we came pretty close to them at one time, and they suddenly disappeared. it seems as if they must have gone into a big hole or cave. we couldn't find them." "are you going to look any more?" teddy questioned. "and if you do go, uncle frank, please can't i go too?" "well, most likely we will have another hunt for the indians," answered the ranchman, "but i'm afraid we couldn't take you along, curlytop." "why not, uncle frank?" "oh, you might get hurt." "well, can i see the indians after you catch 'em?" "oh, yes, i guess i can promise you _that_," and uncle frank smiled at daddy martin. "and can i ask them to make me a bow and arrows?" went on teddy. "yes, you can _ask_ them, but i don't believe they will," uncle frank replied. "these indians aren't very nice. they're quite bad, in fact, and we all wish they'd stay where they belong and not come off their reservation and steal our cattle and horses." "well, i'm going to ask one to make me a bow and some arrows when you catch 'em," decided teddy. that afternoon teddy saw his sister trying to do something with bits of string and sticks in a shady spot on the porch. "what are you making, jan," he asked. "a cat's cradle?" "pooh! you don't make a cat's cradle with sticks," said the little girl. "well, i thought maybe it was a new kind, or maybe a _kitten's_ cradle," laughed teddy. "nope; it isn't that either," went on janet, as she kept on twisting the strings around the sticks. "well, what _are_ you making?" "a bow and arrow." "ho! ho!" laughed jan's brother "you can't make a bow and arrow _that_ way. anyhow you don't need a string for an arrow." "i know _that_!" jan said. "but i'm making the bow first, and then i'm going to make the arrow. the arrow part is what you shoot, isn't it, ted?" "yes," he answered. "i'll help you, jan. i didn't mean to laugh at you," he went on, for he saw that janet was very much in earnest about what she was doing. "i know how to make a bow and arrows." "oh, please show me!" begged janet. "i want to know how to shoot like the indians." teddy, however, did not have much better luck making the bow than his sister had had. the trouble was that the sticks janet had picked up were not the right kind. they would not bend, and to make a bow that shoots arrows a piece of wood that springs, or bends, is needed. for it is the springy action of the wood that shoots the arrow on its way. after trying two or three times, each time finding something wrong, teddy said: "oh, i don't guess i can make a bow, either. let's play something else." "what'll we play?" asked janet. teddy thought for a few moments. playing out at uncle frank's ranch was different from playing at home. in some ways it was not so easy, for at home if the curly-tops could not think up any way to have fun by themselves, they could run down the street and find some other boys and girls. but here there were no streets, and no other boys or girls unless teddy and janet went a long way to look for them, and they could not do that. "i know what we can do," said teddy, after a while. "we can get some blankets and cookies and play cowboy." "how can you play cowboy with cookies and blankets?" "i'll show you," teddy answered, as he went into the house to get the things he wanted. he soon came out with some old quilts and the cookies, which were in a paper bag. "now," went on janet's brother, "we'll go off on the prairie and make believe it's night and we have to stay out like the cowboys when they went after uncle frank's horses." "oh, that'll be fun!" cried janet, and then she and ted rolled themselves up in the old quilts and pretended to go to sleep on the soft grass of the prairie, making believe it was night, though of course it was not, for the sun was shining. then they ate the cookies, pretending they were bacon, sandwiches, cake and other things that cowboys like. two or three days later uncle frank and the cowboys went out again to look for the indians, but they did not find them. from other ranches word came of cattle and horses that had been stolen; and more cowboys were hired to keep watch over the animals that had to be left out in the big fields to eat their fill of grass. no barn was large enough to hold them. meanwhile teddy and janet were learning how to ride better each day. they could go quite fast now, though they were not allowed to make their ponies gallop except on ground where uncle frank knew there were no holes in which the animals might stumble. sometimes daddy and mother martin went to ride with the children, and then they had good times together, taking their lunch and staying all day out on the prairie or in a shady grove of trees. one day ted and janet saw some cowboys driving a number of ponies to the corral near the ranch buildings. some of the animals were quite wild and went racing about as though they would like to run far off and not come back. but the cowboys knew how to take care of the ponies. they rode around them, keeping them together in a bunch, and if one started to get away the cowboys would fire their revolvers and yell, so the pony would become frightened and turn back. "did you take these ponies away from the indians?" asked teddy, as he saw the little animals turned into the corral and the gate shut on them. "no, these are some that have been running wild in a field away over at the far end of my ranch," explained uncle frank. "i had them brought in, as i'm going to ship some away to be sold." "come on, we'll go and look at the ponies," called ted to his sister. "are they very wild?" he asked jim mason, who had helped the cowboys bring them to the ranch corral. "yes, some of 'em are pretty wild," was the answer. "we had hard work making them come along. they want to get loose and do as they please." ted and janet climbed up on the corral fence to look at the ponies. a few were somewhat tame, and allowed the curlytops to pat them. but others were very wild, and ran about as though looking for a place to jump the fence or get out through a hole. but the fence was good and strong. it was high and had no holes in it. "lots of ponies!" murmured trouble, as he toddled after his brother and sister to the corral. "yes, lots of 'em," agreed janet. "you'll soon be a big boy and you can have a pony to ride like brother and sister." "trouble want pony now!" he exclaimed. "oh, no, not now," janet said as she helped him get up on the lowest board of the fence, part of which was wooden, so he could look in better. "what they run around like that for?" asked trouble, as he saw some of the ponies racing about the corral. "they want to get out," janet answered. "trouble go help," murmured the little fellow, but janet either did not hear what he said or she paid no attention, for just then two of the ponies had a race together around the corral and she and ted wanted to see which would win. trouble got down off the fence and went around to the gate. his brother and sister did not notice him until, all at once, janet, missing her little brother, cried: "where's trouble?" "i don't know," ted answered. "maybe he--oh, look, janet!" he suddenly cried. "the corral gate is open and all the ponies are running out!" "oh, that's right! they are!" janet then screamed. "but where is trouble?" "i don't know. i guess he--oh, there he is!" and teddy pointed to a spot near the gate. there stood trouble between the fence and the big gate which had swung back on its hinges. "oh, look at 'em run!" cried janet. "they're all running out!" added teddy excitedly. "i wonder who let 'em loose." "maybe it was trouble," suggested janet. "oh, it _was!"_ she went on. "trouble must have opened the gate and let the ponies loose!" chapter xvi on the trail trouble had done that very thing. the little fellow had not meant to do any harm, and certainly thought he was doing something to help, but really he made a great deal of work for uncle frank and the cowboys. the corral, or yard where the half-tamed horses were kept while they were being got ready to send away, was closed by a large gate, but one easy to open if you knew how. all one had to do was to pull on a little handle, which snapped a spring and the gate would swing open. horses and cattle could not open the gate, for they could not reach the handle, even if any of them had known enough to do anything like that. but trouble had watched uncle frank or some of the cowboys open the gate by pulling on the handle; and now he did it himself. then, of course, when the ponies saw the open gate they raced out. "get after 'em!" cried uncle frank who came galloping up on his horse to find out what was the matter. "get after the ponies, boys! round them up!" "round up," is what cowboys call riding around a lot of horses or cattle to keep the animals in one place or to drive them where they should go. uncle frank wanted his cowboys to ride after the runaway ponies and drive them back into the corral. as the wild little horses trotted out through the gate, behind which trouble stood, well out of danger, the cowboys rode after them, yelling and shouting and shooting their revolvers. "what a lot of noise!" cried janet, covering her ears with her hands as she got down off the fence. "i like it!" laughed teddy. "it's like a wild west show!" indeed it was, in a way, but it meant a lot of work for uncle frank and his men. for all the ponies ran out of the corral and were scattering over the prairie. "oh, trouble! did you let the horses out?" asked janet, as her little brother came out from behind the gate and toddled toward her and ted. the runaway horses were now well out of the way. "did you open the gate?" "yes. i did open gate," trouble answered, smiling. "what for?" asked teddy. "help little horses get out," said trouble. "them want to get out and trouble help them. trouble 'ike ponies!" "oh, but, my dear, you shouldn't have done it!" chided mother martin, who had come out of the house to find out what all the excitement was about. "that was very naughty of you. see all the work you have made for uncle frank and his men." "horses run out when trouble open gate," was the only reply baby william made. "yes, i know," went on his mother. "but it was wrong! you must never again open any gates on uncle frank's ranch. just think--the horses might have stepped on you or kicked you!" "we didn't see him near the gate or we'd have stopped him," put in teddy. "that's true," added janet. "the first we saw was the ponies going out, and then we saw trouble behind the gate." "he didn't mean to be bad," said his mother, as she carried him back to the house, "but he has made a lot of work. i'll have to punish him by not letting him out to play for an hour or so. then he'll remember not to open gates again, whether he thinks he is helping horses or not." and, though trouble cried very hard, he was kept in the house. for, as his mother had said, he must have something to make him remember not to do such a thing again. meanwhile uncle frank and the cowboys were busy rounding up the runaway ponies. the little horses, tired of being cooped up in the corral, raced about, kicking up their heels and glad to be out on the prairie again. but the cowboys knew how to handle them. around and around the drove of half-wild ponies rode the yelling and shouting men, firing off many blank cartridges to scare the little animals back into the corral. some of the ponies, frightened by the noise, did turn back. they ran up to the corral gate, which was still open, and sniffed at the fence. they may have said to themselves: "we don't like it, being shut up in there, but maybe well have to go back in, for we don't like being shouted at, and we don't like the bang-bang noises like thunder." but, even when some of the ponies had run back as far as the corral gate they did not go in. once again they turned around and would have galloped across the prairie again. but uncle frank shouted: "get after them, boys! drive those few in and the rest will follow after like sheep! get after them!" so the cowboys rode up on their own swift ponies, that seemed to be having a good time, and then the other ponies nearest the corral gate were turned in through it. then as the rest were driven up they did as the first ones had done and galloped back where they had been before trouble let them out. one after another the ponies ran back into the corral until every one was there. then uncle frank closed the gate, and this time he locked it so that no one could open it without the key. but no one would try, not even trouble, for, crying and sobbing to be allowed to go out and play, he had been given a lesson that he would not soon forget. "i'm sorry i had to punish him," said mother martin to the curlytops, when they came in after the ponies were once more in the corral, "but i just had to. work on a ranch is hard enough without little boys letting the horses run wild after they have once been caught." "oh, well, no great harm was done," said uncle frank with a good-natured laugh, "though it did make us ride pretty hard for a while. come on, trouble, i'll take you ponyback!" this was what trouble liked, and he soon dried his tears and sat on the saddle in front of uncle frank as happy as could be. janet and ted got out their ponies, and rode with uncle frank and trouble around the outside of the corral, looking at the little horses inside the fence. they were quieter now, and were eating some oats the cowboys had put out for them. two or three days after this, when the ponies had been driven away to the railroad station to be shipped to a far-off state, a cowboy came riding in with news that he had seen a band of two or three indians pass along the prairie near the rocks where teddy and janet had found clipclap. "if we ride after them," said the cowboy, "maybe we can find where the other indians are, and where they have hidden your horses and cattle, mr. barton." "that's it!" exclaimed uncle frank. "we'll get on the trail after these indians. i'm sure they must have some of my animals hidden away in the hills, for i would have heard of it if they had sold them around here. we'll get on the trail!" "what's the trail, daddy?" asked teddy of his father. "oh, it means the marks the indians' ponies may have left in the soft ground," said mr. martin. "uncle frank and his cowboys will try to trail, or follow, the marks of the horses' feet, and see where the indians have gone." "can't i come?" asked teddy. "i can ride good now!" "oh, no indeed you can't go!" cried mother martin. "are you going?" she asked her husband. "yes," he answered. "i think i'll go on the trail with uncle frank." chapter xvii the curlytops alone teddy and janet sat on a bench outside the cowboys' bunkhouse, as their father, uncle frank and a number of the ranchmen rode away over the prairies on the trail of the indians. the curlytops did not seem very happy. "don't you wish _we_ could go, jan?" asked teddy, after he and his sister had sat in silence for some time. "i just guess i _do_!" she exclaimed. "i can ride good, too. almost as good as you, ted, and i don't see why we couldn't go!" "yes, you ride nice, jan," said her brother. "but i thought you were afraid of indians." "i used to be, but i'm not any more. anyway, if you'd stay with me i wouldn't be. and, anyhow, uncle frank says the indians won't hurt us." "course they won't! i'm not afraid! i'd go on the trail after 'em if they'd let us." "so would i. we could throw stones at 'em if they tried to hurt us, teddy." "yes. or we could ride our ponies fast and get away. uncle frank told me the indians didn't have any good ponies, and that's why they took his." "but we can't go," said janet with a sigh. "no; we've got to stay at home." a little later a cowboy came limping out of the bunkhouse. his name was sim body, but all his friends called him "baldy" because he had so little hair on his head. "hello, curlytops!" cried baldy in a jolly voice, for he was always good-natured. even now he was jolly, though he had a lame foot where a horse had stepped on it. that is why he was not on the trail after the indians with the other cowboys. "hello," answered teddy, but he did not speak in a jolly voice. "why, what's the matter?" asked baldy with a laugh, as he limped to the bench and sat down near the two children. "you act as sad and gloomy as if there wasn't a christmas or a new year's any more, to say nothing of fourth of july and birthdays! what's the matter? seems to me, if i had all the nice, curly hair you two have, i'd be as happy as a horned toad and i'd go around singing all day long," and baldy rubbed his hand over his own smooth head and laughed. "i don't like my hair," grumbled teddy. "it's always getting snarled and the comb gets stuck in it." "and it does in mine, too," added janet. "and mother pulls when she tries to untangle it. mine's longer than ted's." "yes, and nicer, for that reason," went on baldy. "though i'd be glad if i had even half of yours, teddy. but never mind about that. i won't take your hair, though i'd like to know what makes you both so gloomy-like. can't you smile?" ted and janet could not help laughing at baldy, he seemed so funny. he was a good friend of theirs. "we can't go on the trail after indians," said janet. "we want to go, but we've got to stay here." "and we can ride our ponies good, too," went on teddy. "uncle frank said we could." "yes, you're getting to be pretty good riders," admitted baldy. "but that isn't saying you're big enough to go on a trail after indians. of course these indians may not be very bad, and maybe they aren't the ones that took our horses. but riding on a trail takes a long while, and maybe the boys will be out all night in the open. you wouldn't like that." "we went camping with our grandpa once," declared teddy. "and we slept in a tent," added his sister. "and we saw a funny blue light and we thought it was a ghost but it wasn't," continued teddy. "hum! a ghost, eh?" laughed baldy. "well, i've never been on a trail after one of them, but i've trailed indians--and helped catch 'em, too." "how do you do it?" asked teddy eagerly. "well, you just keep on riding--following the trail you know--until you catch up to those you're after. sometimes you can't see any marks on the ground and you have to guess at it." "and do the indians ride on ahead and try to get away?" asked janet. "indeed they do. when they know we're after 'em they ride as fast as they can. that is, if they've done wrong, like taking horses or cattle that aren't theirs. we just keep chasing 'em until we get close enough to arrest 'em." "it's like a game of tag, isn't it?" asked janet. "well, yes, you could call it sort of like that," admitted baldy, with another laugh. "but it's a kind of game of tag that little boys and girls can't very well play." "not even when they have ponies?" asked teddy. "well, of course, having a pony makes it easier to keep on the trail. you couldn't go very far walking over the prairies--at least none of us do. we all ride. but i'll tell you some stories about cowboys and indians and that will amuse you for a while. like to hear 'em?" "oh, yes!" cried teddy. "very much, thank you," added janet, a little more politely but still just as eagerly as her brother. so baldy, sitting on the bench in front of the bunkhouse and resting his lame foot on a saddle on the ground, told the curlytops stories of his cowboy life--of sleeping out on the prairies keeping watch over the cattle, of indians or other bad men who would come and try to steal them, and how he and his friends had to give chase to get the steers or ponies back. "did you ever get captured by the indians?" asked teddy. "well, yes, once i was," answered the cowboy. "oh, tell us about it!" begged the little curlytop chap. "i love to hear stories about indians! don't you, jan?" "i like stories--yes," said the little girl. "but if you're going to tell a story about indians, mr. baldy, maybe it'll be a scary one, and i don't like scary stories." "i do!" exclaimed ted. "the scarier they are the better i like 'em!" baldy laughed as he said: "well, i guess, seeing as how the little lady doesn't like scary stories, i'd better tell one that isn't. we must please the ladies, you know, teddy." "oh, yes, i know that," the little boy said. "but after you tell the not-scary story, mr. baldy, couldn't you tell me one that is scary--a real, terrible scary one. you can take me out behind the barn where jan can't hear it." "well, maybe i could do that," agreed the good-natured cowboy, laughing at the curlytops. "now then for the not-scary story." "and you don't have to take teddy out behind the barn to tell him the scary one," put in janet. "you could stay here, and i could cover up my ears with my hands when you came to the terrible parts, couldn't i? is there any parts in it that isn't scary? i'd like to hear _them_, mr. baldy." "well, i guess we can fix it that way," said the cowboy. "now the first story i'm going to tell you, is how i was captured by the indians," and the children sat closer to him and waited eagerly. "once upon a time," said baldy, "a lot of indians lived not far from the house where i lived." "weren't you afraid?" asked janet. "please don't ask questions till he tells the story," begged teddy. "all right," agreed his sister, and baldy went on: "no, i wasn't much afraid, or if i was i've forgotten it now, as it was quite a while ago. anyhow, one day i was out on the prairie, picking flowers, i think, for i know i used to like flowers, and, all of a sudden, along came a lot of indians on horses, and one of them picked me up and took me right away with him, on the horse in front of him. "the horse was a strong one, and could easily carry both of us, and though i wiggled around a good bit and yelled, the indian didn't let go of me. on and on he rode, carrying me off, and the other indians rode ahead of us, and on either side. i couldn't get away, no matter how i tried. "after a while the indians, who had been out hunting, came to where their tents were. this was their camp, and then i was lifted down off the horse and given to a squaw." teddy simply had to ask some questions now. "a squaw is a indian lady, isn't she?" "yes," answered baldy, "that's what she is." "well, i shouldn't think she'd want to take you," went on the little boy. "i thought the indian men always kept the prisoners, and you were a prisoner, weren't you?" "yes," answered baldy, and there was a queer smile on his face, "but i guess i forgot to tell you that the time i was captured by the indians i was a little boy, not as big as you, curlytop. and the reason they picked me up off the prairie was that i had wandered away from my home and was lost. so the nice squaw kept me until one of the indian men had time to take me home." "then didn't the indians hurt you?" asked janet. "not a bit. they were very good to me," the cowboy said. "some of them knew my father and mother. that's the only time i was ever captured by the indians, and i'm afraid it wasn't very much of a story." "oh, it was _very_ nice," said teddy politely. "and not a bit scary, except a little teeny bit at first," added janet. "can you tell us another, mr. baldy?" "well, i guess i can," said the good-natured cowboy. so he told other tales of what had happened to him on the prairies, for he had lived in the west all his life, and knew much about it. teddy and janet were very glad to hear these stories, but listening to them made ted, at least, wish all the more that he could have gone with his father and his uncle frank on the trail after the indians. then baldy was called away by another cowboy, who wanted to ask him something about a sick horse, and teddy and janet were called by their mother to take care of trouble for a while. it was still morning, the cowboys having ridden away before dinner. they had taken with them enough to eat, even if they had to stay out all night. "i wants a wide!" announced trouble, when his brother and sister came in to get him. "could we give him a little ride on our ponies?" asked teddy of his mother. "yes, i think so. but don't go far away from the stable. are any of the cowboys out there to help you saddle?" saddling, which meant buckling the leather seat tightly around the pony, was something teddy and janet could not yet do very well for themselves. it takes strong fingers to tighten the straps. "yes, baldy is out there," janet said. "how often have i told you not to call the men by their nicknames?" asked mother martin with a smile. "it isn't nice for children to do that." "but, please, mother, we don't know his other name very well," said teddy. "everybody calls him baldy." "yes, that's right," agreed aunt millie. "i do myself. i guess he doesn't mind." "very well, if he'll saddle your ponies for you, take trouble for a little ride," agreed mrs. martin. "but be careful." the curlytops said they would, and they were soon taking turns riding trouble on the saddles in front of them. clipclap and star face liked the children and were well-behaved ponies, so there was no danger in putting trouble on the back of either as long as ted or janet held him. "but don't go riding off with him on the trail after the indians," said baldy, playfully shaking his finger at the curlytops. "we won't!" they promised. up and down on the paths among the ranch buildings rode the children. trouble was allowed to hold the ends of the reins, and he thought he was guiding the ponies, but really teddy and janet did that. but finally even such fun as riding ponyback tired trouble. he wanted something else to do, and said: "le's go an' s'ide downhill on hay in de barn." teddy and janet knew what that meant. they had learned this kind of fun at grandpa martin's cherry farm. here, on ring rosy ranch, there was a large barn filled with hay, and there was plenty of room to slide down in the mow, or place where the hay was put away. "come on!" cried janet. "well give him a good slide, teddy." a little later the curlytops and baby william were laughing and shouting in the barn, rolling down and tumbling over one another, but not getting hurt, for the hay was too soft. pretty soon the dinner horn blew and, with good appetites from their morning's fun, the children hurried in to get something to eat. "this is a good dinner!" announced teddy as he passed his plate a second time. "yes," agreed mother martin. "i hope your father and the cowboys have as good." "oh, they'll have plenty--never fear!" laughed uncle frank's wife. "they never go hungry when they're on the trail." after dinner trouble went to sleep, as he generally did, and teddy and janet were left to themselves to find amusement. "let's go for another ride," suggested teddy. "all right," agreed janet. the saddles had not been taken off their ponies. their mother and aunt millie saw them go out and, supposing they were only going to ride around the barn and ranch buildings, as they had done before, said nothing to them. but ted was no sooner in the saddle than he turned to his sister and said: "jan, why can't we go riding the trail after the indians?" "what! we two alone?" "yes. we know the way over to the rocks where we found clipclap in the cave, and from there we can ride farther on, just like daddy and uncle frank. come on!" janet thought for a minute. she wanted to go as much as did teddy. it did not seem very wrong. "well, we'll ride a little way," she said. "but we've got to come back before dark." "all right," agreed teddy. "we will!" and the curlytops rode away over the prairie. chapter xviii lost clipclap and star face, the two sturdy little ponies, trotted bravely along, carrying teddy and janet on their backs. the ponies did not wonder where they were going--they hardly ever did that. they were satisfied to go wherever their master or mistress guided them, for they knew the children would be good to them. "do you s'pose we'll find any indians?" asked janet after a while. "maybe," answered teddy. "are you scared?" "no," replied his sister slowly. "i was just thinking maybe we could find 'em, and get back uncle frank's horses, even if the cowboys didn't." "maybe we could!" cried teddy. "that would be _great_! wouldn't daddy be surprised!" "and uncle frank, too!" added janet "yes, and the cowboys! then they'd think we could ride all right!" went on ted. "come on, let's hurry! gid-dap!" he called to clipclap. "where are we going first?" asked janet. "to the rocks, where we found my pony in the cave," answered her brother, as he patted the little animal on the neck. "the cowboy said he saw the indians near there." "maybe they're hiding in the cave," suggested janet. "no, they wouldn't do that," teddy decided, after thinking it over awhile. "they'd be afraid to stay so near uncle frank's ranch. anyhow the cave isn't big enough." "it was big enough for clipclap." "yes, but he's a little pony. anyhow, we'll look in the cave and then we'll ride on along the trail until we catch up to daddy and uncle frank." "what'll they say?" "i guess they'll be s'prised." "maybe they'll make us go back." "well, if they do we'll have some fun, anyhow," said teddy, laughing. "gid-dap, clipclap." "it's a good thing we've two ponies instead of one goat," remarked janet, after they had ridden on a little farther. "course it is," agreed ted. "we couldn't both ride nicknack, though he could pull us both in the wagon." "maybe he'd be afraid of indians," suggested janet. "no, i don't guess he would," answered teddy, after some reflection. "nicknack's a brave goat. i like him. but i like clipclap, too." "and i like star face," added janet "he's an awful nice pony." on and on the ponies trotted, carrying the curlytops farther and farther from the ring rosy ranch house. but the children were not afraid. the sun was shining brightly, and they had often before ridden this far alone. they could look back at the ranch buildings when they got on top of the little hills with which the prairie was dotted, and they were not lonesome. off on either side they could see groups of horses or cattle that belonged to uncle frank, and ted and janet thought there must be cowboys with the herds. "i'm going to get a drink when we get to the rocks," said janet, as they came within sight of the pile of big stones. "yes. and we'll give the ponies some, too," agreed her brother. "i guess they're thirsty." indeed the little animals were thirsty, and after they had rested a while--for uncle frank had told the children it was not wise to let a horse or pony drink when it was too warm--clipclap and star face had some of the cool water that bubbled up among the rocks. "it tastes awful good!" exclaimed janet, as she took some from the cup ted filled for her. after clipclap had been found at the spring, the time he was hidden in the cave, one of the cowboys had brought a tin cup to the spring, leaving it there, so if anyone passed the spring it would be easy to get a drink without having to use a hat or kneel down on the ground. for horses and cattle there was a little rocky basin into which the cool water flowed. "i wish we could take some of the water with us," said teddy, when, after a rest, they were ready to follow the trail again. "if we had a bottle, like some of the cowboys carry, we could," remarked janet. "maybe we'll get awful thirsty if we ride on a long way, ted." "maybe we will, but maybe we can find another spring. i heard uncle frank say there's more than one on the ranch. come on!" the children took another drink, and offered some to the ponies, each of which took a little. then, once more, the curlytops were on the trail after the indians, as they believed. "which way do we go now?" asked janet, as she watched teddy get up in his saddle after he had helped her mount star face. "we've got to follow the trail," teddy answered. "how do we do it?" his sister inquired. "well. i asked baldy and he said just look on the ground for tracks in the dirt. you know the kind of marks a horse's foot makes, don't you, jan?" "yes, and i see some down here," and she pointed to the ground. "that's them!" exclaimed teddy. "we've got to follow the marks! that's the trail!" "is this the indians' trail?" asked the little girl, and she looked over her shoulder, perhaps to make sure no one was following her and her brother. "i don't know if it's the indians' trail, or, maybe, the marks left by uncle frank and daddy," said teddy. "anyhow we've got to follow the trail. that's what baldy said." "he doesn't know we came off alone, does he?" asked janet "no. i guess he wouldn't have let us if he did. but we won't have to go very far, and then we'll catch up to the rest. then they'll have to take us with 'em." "yes," said janet, and she rode along beside her brother. neither of the curlytops stopped to think that their father, uncle frank and the cowboys had started off early that morning, and must have ridden on many miles ahead. the cowboys' horses, too, could go faster than the ponies star pace and clipclap, for the larger horses had longer legs. all teddy and janet thought of was hurrying along as fast as they could go, in order to catch up to the indian hunters. what would happen after that they did not know. all at once, as the curlytops were riding along, they heard what they thought was a whistle. "some one is calling us," said janet, turning to look back. "did you hear that, ted?" "yes, i heard a whistle. maybe it's uncle frank, or some of the cowboys." the children looked across the prairie but could see no one. they were about to go on again when the whistle sounded once more. "that is some one calling us," declared jan. "let's see if we can't find who it is, teddy." so the children looked around again, but no one was in sight, and, what was still stranger, the whistling sound kept up. "it's some one playing a joke on us, and hiding after they whistle," said janet. "maybe one of the cowboys from the ranch." "maybe an indian," said ted, and then he was sorry he had said that, for his sister looked frightened. "oh!" said janet, "if it's an indian--" "i don't guess it is," teddy hastened to say. "i guess indians don't whistle, anyhow." this made janet feel better and once more she and her brother looked around to see what made the queer whistling sound, that still kept up. it was just like a boy calling to another, and teddy was quite puzzled over it until he suddenly saw what was doing it. perched on a small mound of earth near a hole in the ground, was a little animal, about as big as a large rat, though, as janet said, he was "nicer looking." and as ted and his sister looked, they saw this little animal move, and then they knew he it was that was whistling. "oh, what is it?" cried janet. "i know," teddy answered. "that's a prairie dog. baldy told me about them, and how they whistled when they saw any danger." "is there any danger here?" asked janet, looking around. "i guess the prairie dog thinks we're the danger," said teddy. "but we wouldn't hurt him." "does he live down in that hole?" asked janet. "yes, just like a gopher," answered her brother, who had listened to the cowboys telling about the little prairie dogs. "and sometimes there are snakes or an owl in the same hole with the prairie dog." "then i'm not going any nearer," decided janet. "i don't mind an owl, but i don't like snakes! come on, ted, let's hurry." as they started off, the prairie dog, which really did make a whistling sound, suddenly darted down inside his burrow or hole. perhaps he thought teddy and janet were coming to carry him off, but they were not. the children saw many more of the little animals as they rode over the prairies. "but we must look for marks--tracks, baldy calls them," said teddy. "tracks will tell us which way the indians went," and so the children kept their eyes turned toward the sod as they rode along. for a while they could see many marks in the soft ground--the marks of horses' feet, some shod with iron shoes and others bare, for on the prairie grass there is not the same need of iron shoes on the hoofs of horses as in the city, with its hard, paved streets. then the marks were not so plain; and pretty soon, about a mile from the spring amid the rocks where the ground was quite hard, teddy and janet could see no marks at all. "which way do we go?" asked ted's sister, as he called to his pony to stop. "do you know the way?" "no, i don't guess i do," he answered. "but anyhow we can ride along and maybe well see 'em." "yes, we can do that," janet said. it was still early in the afternoon, and the sun was shining brightly. they knew they were still on uncle frank's ranch, and, though they could not see the buildings any more, they could see the place where they had had a drink at the spring. "all we've got to do, if we want to come back," observed teddy, "is ride to the rocks and then we know the way home from there." "yes, that's easy," janet said. so they rode on and on. of course the curlytops ought not to have done what they did, but they did not think, any more than trouble thought when he opened the corral gate and let out the ponies. but the sun did not stay high in the sky all the afternoon. presently the bright ball of fire began to go down in the west, and the shadows of teddy and janet grew long on the prairie. they knew what those long shadows meant--that it was getting late afternoon. after a while janet turned in her saddle and looked back. "oh, teddy!" she cried. "i can't see the spring rocks," for that is what the children had called the place where they had found clipclap. "they're back there just the same." "i know. but if we can't see 'em we won't know how to ride back to them," went on janet. "how are we going to find our way back home, ted?" "oh, i can get to the rocks when i want to," he said. "come on, we'll ride a little bit farther and then, if we can't find daddy and uncle frank, we'll go back." "well, don't go much farther," said janet, and teddy said he would not. there were many hills and hollows now, much higher and deeper ones than those near the ranch buildings. even from the top of one of the high hills up which the ponies slowly climbed, the curlytops could not see the spring rocks. "oh, ted!" exclaimed jan, "i'm afraid! i want to go back! it's going to be night pretty soon!" "it won't be night for a good while," he said, "but i guess maybe we'd better go back. i can't see daddy, uncle frank or the cowboys." he raised himself in the stirrups and looked across the prairies, shading his eyes with his hand the way he had seen some of the cowboys do. nothing was in sight. "come on, jan, we'll go back," he said. clipclap and star face were turned around. once more off trotted the little ponies with the curlytops on their backs. the shadows grew longer. it was not so bright and nice on the prairies now. janet kept close to teddy. at last she asked: "do you see the rocks?" "not yet," her brother answered. "but we'll soon be there." they did not reach them, however. on and on they rode. the sun went down behind a bank of clouds. "oh, dear!" sighed janet, "i don't like this," and her voice sounded as if she were going to cry. "we'll soon be back at the rocks, and then i know the way home," said teddy, as bravely as he could. but they did not reach the rocks. up the hollows and across the hills they rode, over the broad prairies, but no rocks did they see. at last the ponies began to go more slowly, for they were tired. it grew darker. ted looked anxiously about. janet spoke softly to him. "teddy," she asked, "are we--are we--lost?" for a moment teddy did not answer. then he replied slowly: "yes--i guess we are lost, janet!" chapter xix the hidden valley the curlytops were in trouble. it was not the first time they had been lost, no indeed! but it was the first time they could remember being lost so far away from home, and in such a big place as a western prairie. they did not know what to do. "don't you know the way home?" asked janet, still keeping close to her brother. it was getting dark, and, somehow, she felt safer near him, even if he was only a year older than she was. "i'd know the way home back to the ranch house if we could find the rocks with the cave where clipclap was," teddy replied. "let's look for them some more," suggested janet. "if we don't get home pretty soon we'll be all in the dark and--and we'll have to stay out here all alone." "are you afraid?" asked ted, looking at his sister. "yes. won't you be?" "pooh! no!" he exclaimed, and he talked loudly, perhaps just so he would not be afraid. you know a boy always whistles very loudly at night when he is walking along a dark place alone. and if there are two boys they both whistle. what girls do when they walk through a dark place alone i do not know. maybe they sing. anyhow teddy talked very loud, and when janet heard him say he was not afraid she felt better. "but will we have to stay out here all night?" she asked. "i guess so." teddy answered. "but it'll be just like camping out. daddy and uncle frank and the cowboys are going to stay out." "yes, but they've got something to eat," objected janet, "and we haven't anything. not even a cookie--lessen you've got one in your pocket, teddy." "no, jan," answered her brother, after a quick search, "i haven't. i forgot to bring any." "so did i," went on janet. "i don't think i like to stay out here alone all night if we haven't anything to eat." "no, it won't be much fun," agreed teddy. "i guess maybe i can find those rocks, janet, and then we'll know how to get home. come on." he turned his pony's head and the tired little animal walked slowly on and janet's star face followed. but the truth of the matter was, ted did not know in which direction to guide his little horse. he could not remember where the rocks lay. but janet was trusting to him, and he felt he must do his best. so he kept on until it grew a little darker, and his pony was walking so slowly that trouble would have found it easy to have walked almost as fast. "what's the matter?" asked janet, who was riding behind her brother, looking as hard as she could through the darkness for a sight of the rocks, which, once they were reached, almost meant home. "what's the matter, ted?" "matter with what, jan?" "what makes the ponies go so slow?" "'cause they're tired, i guess." "can't you find the rocks and let them rest and get a drink? i'm awful thirsty, teddy!" "so'm i, jan. we'll go on a little more and maybe we'll find the rocks. don't cry!" "pooh! who's goin' to cry?" demanded janet quickly. "i--i thought maybe you were," teddy answered. "i am not!" and janet was very positive about it. "but i'm tired and hungry, and i want a drink awful bad." "so do i," added teddy. "we'll go on a little more." so, wearily, the ponies walked on carrying the curlytops. ted kept looking ahead, and to the left and right, trying to find the rocks. but, had he only known it (which he did later) he was going away from them all the while instead of toward them. all at once clipclap stumbled and nearly fell. "whoa there! look out!" cried teddy, reining up the head of his animal as he had seen uncle frank do. "don't fall, clipclap!" "what's the matter?" asked janet. "did he step in a hole?" "i don't know. i guess he's just tired," and teddy's voice was sad. for he was very weary and much frightened, though he did not tell janet so. "well, let's stop and rest," said his sister. "do you think you can find those rocks, ted?" "no, i don't guess i can. i guess we're lost, janet." "oh, dear!" she answered. "now don't cry!" warned teddy. "i--i'm not!" exclaimed his sister. "i--i was just blowing my nose, so there, the-o-dore mar-tin!" teddy grinned in the darkness, tired as he was. he was glad janet was a little angry with him. that meant she would not cry, and if his sister started to weep ted did not know what he would do. he might even cry himself. he was not too big for that. "let's stop and give the ponies a rest," suggested janet. "all right," agreed teddy. "and maybe they can hunt around and find water. one of the cowboys told me his pony did that once when he didn't know where to get a drink himself." "i wish star face could find water," went on janet. "i'd drink some of it, too." "so would i--if it was clean," said teddy. wearily the two curlytops slipped from their saddles. the ponies seemed glad of this, and at once began to eat the grass that grew all about. teddy and janet looked at them awhile. it was not so dark but what they could see things close to them, and the stars were twinkling brightly overhead. "they don't seem very thirsty," said janet. "maybe they'll start to go after water when they've had their supper," suggested her brother, with a sigh, which, however, janet did not hear. "we've got to wait--that's all." the curlytops sat down on the ground and waited, while the ponies with the reins over their heads--which was a sign that they must not go far away--cropped the sweet grass. "i wish _we_ could eat grass," said janet, after a bit. "why?" "then we could eat it like the ponies do and not be hungry." "it would be a good thing," teddy agreed. "but we can't. i chewed some sour grass once, but i didn't swallow it." "i ate some watercress once at home," said janet. "but i didn't like it. anyhow i don't guess watercress grows around here." "no," agreed teddy. then they sat and watched the ponies eating in the darkness. clipclap was wandering farther off than teddy liked and he jumped up and hurried after his animal. as he caught him teddy saw something on the ground a little way off. it was something round and black, and, now that the moon had come up, he could see more plainly. "what's the matter, teddy?" janet called to him, as she saw him standing motionless, after he had taken hold of clipclap's bridle. "what are you looking at?" "i don't know what it is," teddy answered. "maybe it's a prairie dog, but he's keepin' awful still. come and look, janet." "oh, i don't want to!" she exclaimed. "oh, come on!" urged teddy. "it isn't moving. maybe you can tell what it is." janet, making sure that star face was all right, walked over to her brother. she, too, saw the dark object lying on a bare spot in the prairie. it did not move. the moonlight became stronger and janet, becoming brave all of a sudden, went closer. "it's nothing but a bundle, teddy martin!" she exclaimed. "somebody has dropped a bundle." "they have?" teddy cried. "then if somebody's been past here they can find us--or we can find them--and we aren't lost anymore!" "oh, i hope it comes true!" sighed janet. "here, you hold clipclap--he's starting to walk away"--went on teddy, "and i'll go see what that is." janet took the pony's reins, and her brother walked toward the bundle. he could see now that it was something wrapped in a blanket, and as he came closer he saw that the blanket was one of the kind the cowboys at uncle frank's ranch carried when they went out to spend the night on the prairie. "what is it?" asked janet, as her brother picked up the bundle and came back toward her. "i don't know, but it's heavy," he answered. "well open it." "maybe we'd better not," cautioned janet. "it isn't ours." "but we're lost," teddy said, "and we want to be found. maybe there's something in this bundle to help." the blanket was fastened with a strap on the outside, and teddy managed to unbuckle this after two or three trials, janet helping. then, as the moon shone down on what was in the blanket, the curlytops gave a cry of delight, which startled even the ponies. "it's something to eat!" cried teddy. "and to drink!" added janet, as she picked up the canvas-covered canteen, or water bottle, such as soldiers carry. by shaking it she knew it was full of water. "say, this is good luck!" cried teddy. stopping no longer to wonder who had dropped the bundle, the curlytops took a drink from the canteen. they had not been used to drinking out of a bottle since they were babies, and some of the water ran down their necks. but they did not mind this. and, even though the water was rather warm, they felt much better after having had a drink. "i wish we could give the ponies some," said janet. "but there isn't very much, and they would drink this all up and not know they'd had any." "anyhow i guess they're not thirsty, or they'd try to find water just as the cowboys said they would," added teddy. "they can chew the grass." he and janet looked into the bundle again, and found a number of sandwiches, together with some uncooked bacon, a little ground coffee, a small coffee-pot and a tin cup. "oh, goody! we can eat the sandwiches," janet said. "and in the morning, when we find a spring, we can make coffee," added teddy. "i know how, 'cause grandpa showed me when we were camping on star island. i haven't any matches to make a fire, but maybe i can find some." "will we have to stay here all night?" asked janet anxiously. "i spect so," her brother answered. "i don't know the way back to the ranch house. we can't even find the rocks. we'll stay here all night. it isn't cold, and now we have a blanket we can wrap up in it like the cowboys do. and we've something to eat and drink." "but mother and daddy will be awful worried," said janet. "well, they'll maybe come and find us," answered teddy. "look out!" he cried. "clipclap's going off again!" indeed the little pony seemed to want to walk away, and so did star face. "maybe they know where to go to find water," suggested janet. "maybe," agreed ted. "let's let 'em go, and we'll go with 'em. that water in the canteen won't be enough till morning." the children ate nearly all of the sandwiches, and put away the rest of the food in the blanket which teddy strapped around it. then they mounted their ponies, ted taking the bundle with him, and let the animals wander which way they would. "they'll go to water if they're thirsty enough," teddy said. "who do you s'pose dropped that bundle?" asked janet. "a cowboy," her brother answered. "one from ring rosy ranch?" "maybe." "oh, i hope he did, and that he's around here somewhere," went on janet. "i'm tired of being lost!" "we've only just begun," teddy said. but, truth to tell, he wished very much that they were both safe back at the ranch house with their mother. on and on over the moonlit prairies went star face and clipclap. they seemed to know where they were going and did not stop. ted and janet were too tired to guide them. they were both getting sleepy. pretty soon janet saw ahead of her something glistening in the stretch of the prairie. the moonlight seemed to sparkle on it. "oh, look, ted!" she cried, pointing. "it's water--a little river!" he exclaimed. "the ponies have led us to water!" and so the animals had. teddy and janet slipped from their ponies' backs at the edge of the stream and then star face and clipclap took long drinks. ted emptied the canteen, filled it with the cooler water, and he and janet drank again. then they felt much better. the ponies again began to crop the grass. the curlytops, very tired and sleepy, felt that it would be all right to make their bed in the blanket they had found, dropped by some passing cowboy. but first ted looked around. off to one side, and along the stream from which they had drunk, he saw something dark looming up. "look, janet," he said. "maybe that's a ranch house over there, and we could go in for the night." "maybe," she agreed. "let's go to it." once more they mounted their ponies. the animals did not seem so tired now, but trotted on over the prairie. they drew nearer to the dark blotch teddy had noticed. then, as the moon came out from behind some clouds, the curlytops saw that they were at the entrance to a hidden valley--a little valley tucked away among the hills, which they would never have seen had they not come to the stream to drink. the little river ran through the valley, and in the moonlight the children could see that a fence had been made at the end nearest them. it was a wooden fence, and not one of barbed wire, such as there were many of on ring rosy ranch. "this is a queer valley," said janet. "yes, and look!" exclaimed ted, pointing. "don't you see things moving around in it?" "yes," agreed jan, as she looked. "why, ted!" she cried. "they're horses--ponies--a lot of 'em!" "so they are!" exclaimed ted. "oh, we're near a ranch, janet! now we're all right!" "yes. but maybe we're a good way from the ranch house," answered janet. "we maybe can't find it in the dark. some of uncle frank's ponies are five miles away from the stable, you know. maybe we'd better not go on any more in the dark. i'm tired!" "well," agreed teddy. "i guess we could stay here till it's morning. we could sleep in the blanket. it's plenty big enough for us two." "and in the morning we can ride on and find the ranch, and the cowboys there will take us to ring rosy," added janet. "let's do it, teddy." they looked again at the strange valley in which the horses were moving about. clipclap whinnied and one of the other ponies answered. but they could not come out because of the fence, part of which was built in and across the little river. then, throwing the reins over the heads f their ponies, and knowing the animals would not stray far, ted and janet, taking another drink from the canteen, rolled up in the blanket and went to sleep on the prairie just outside the hidden valley that held a secret of which they did not even dream. chapter xx back to ring rosy "i hope the curlytops won't ride too far," said mrs. martin, coming out into the kitchen to help with the work. she had just got trouble to sleep after teddy and janet had brought him in from the haymow before riding off on their ponies. "oh, i guess they won't," aunt millie answered. but, could mrs. martin and aunt millie have seen them, they would have been much surprised to know where the curlytops then were. as you know, they were riding along the trail after the indians. the hours went on until it was late afternoon. and then, when the children did not come back, mrs. martin began to be alarmed. she went to the top of a low hill not far away from the ranch house and looked across the prairie. "i can't see them," she said, when she came back. "oh, don't worry," returned aunt millie. "they'll be along pretty soon. and, anyhow, there is no danger." "but--the indians?" questioned mrs. martin. "oh, they are far enough off by this time," said the ranch owner's wife. "they won't bother the curly tops." but mother martin did worry, and when supper time came near and janet and teddy were not yet back, aunt millie, too, began to think it strange. "what do you suppose could happen?" asked mrs. martin. "i wish dick were here." "oh, lots of little things might happen," said aunt millie. "the children may have ridden farther than they meant to. it's such a nice day for riding you couldn't blame them for going. or one of their ponies may have gone lame and have to walk slowly. that would make them get here late." "suppose they should be hurt?" asked mother martin, anxiously. "oh, i don't suppose anything of the sort!" and aunt millie laughed. but mother martin did not feel like laughing. at last, however, when it began to get dark and the children had not come, even the cowboys left at the ranch--those who had not ridden on the trail after the indians--said it was time something was done. "we'll go out and find 'em," said baldy. "the little tykes have got lost; that's about all. we'll find 'em and bring 'em home!" "oh, i hope you can!" exclaimed mrs. martin. "sure we will!" cried baldy. "won't we, boys?" "that's what we will!" cried the cowboys. the men started out over the prairie right after supper, carrying lanterns, not so much that they needed the lights as that they might be seen by the lost children. "hello, curlytops! where are you?" called the cowboys. but no one answered them. teddy and janet were far away. the cowboys rode as far as the pile of rocks where the spring bubbled up. there baldy, swinging his lantern to and fro, said he thought he could see the marks of the feet of star face and clipclap among those of other ponies, but he was not sure. "we'll have to come back here and start out early in the morning when we can see better," he said. "and what are we going to do all night?" asked another cowboy. "well, we'll keep on hunting, of course. but i don't believe well find the lost curlytops." one of the men rode back to the ranch to tell mrs. martin that so far, no trace of the missing children had been found. she could not keep back her tears, but she tried to be brave. "oh, where can they be?" she asked. "they'll be all right," the cowboy said. "it's a nice warm night, and they're brave children. even if they had to sleep out it would not hurt 'em. they could take the blankets that are under the ponies' saddles and wrap up in them. they'll be all right." though they were lost, the curlytops were, at that moment, much better off than the cowboy thought. for they had found the big blanket and the bundle of food, and they were sleeping soundly on the prairie. at first they had been a little afraid to lie down all alone out in the night, but their ponies were with them, and janet said it felt as though clipclap and star face were like good watch dogs. then, being very tired and having had something to eat and drink, they fell asleep. all night long, though, the cowboys rode over the prairie looking for the lost ones. they shouted and called, but the curlytops were too far away to hear or to answer, even if they had been awake. "well, now we can make a better hunt," said baldy, when he saw the sun beginning to rise. "well get something to eat and start out from the spring in the rocks. i'm almost sure the curlytops were there." mrs. martin had not slept all night, and when the cowboys came back to breakfast she said she was going to ride with them to search for her children. "yes, i think it would do you good," said aunt millie. mrs. martin had learned how to ride when a girl, and she had practised some since coming to ring rosy ranch. so she did not feel strange in the saddle. with baldy and the other cowboys she set off. they went to the spring amid the rocks and there began the search. over the prairie the riders spread out like a big fan, looking everywhere for the lost ones. and when they were not found in about an hour baldy said: "well, there's just a chance that their ponies took them to silver creek." "where's that?" asked mrs. martin. "it's a stream of water quite a way off," baldy answered. "it isn't on our ranch, and we don't very often go there. but if the curlytops' ponies were thirsty in the night they might go to silver creek, even if jan and ted didn't want them to. i think the ponies went the nearest way to water." "then let us go that way!" cried mrs. martin. meanwhile teddy and janet had awakened. they could look right into the strange valley through which flowed silver creek, though they did not then know its name. "and look what a lot of horses!" cried janet. "and cows!" added her brother. "i wonder whose they are?" "oh, i guess they live on some ranch," janet said. "now if we can find the ranch house we'll be all right." "we'll look for it," suggested teddy. "but first we've got to have breakfast. if i had a match i could make a fire and boil some coffee." "let's not bother with breakfast," suggested janet. "i'm not very hungry. and if we find the ranch house we can get something to eat there. come on, teddy." they got a drink at the stream, and then, rolling up what food was left in the blanket, they got on their ponies and rode away, going around the valley instead of into it, for teddy saw that hills closed it at the far end. "there's no ranch house in that valley," he said. the curlytops had not ridden far before janet, who had gone a little ahead of teddy, cried: "oh, look! here come some cowboys!" "i guess they belong to this ranch--the one where we saw the ponies and cows," replied teddy, as he saw a number of horsemen riding toward them. the horsemen began to whoop and shout, and their horses ran very fast toward the curlytops. "there's a lady with 'em," remarked janet. "they seem awful glad to meet us," went on teddy. "look, they're wavin' their hats." and so the cowboys were. when the riders came a little nearer teddy and janet rubbed their eyes in surprise. "why--why!" teddy exclaimed. "there's our own baldy!" "and there's mother!" fairly shouted janet. "oh, mother! mother!" she cried. "oh, how glad i am!" and she made star face run toward the lady on horseback. "oh, my dear children! where have you been?" asked mrs. martin, a little later, as she hugged first janet and then teddy. "we--we got lost," teddy answered. "yes, but you ran away, and that was not right," his mother told him. "where did you go?" "we--we went on the trail after the indians," teddy answered. "did you find them?" asked baldy with a smile. "no, but we found a lot of horses and cows back there in a little valley with a fence," said janet. "and we were going to ride to the ranch house when we saw you." "ranch house!" cried baldy. "there isn't a ranch house within fifteen miles except the one at ring rosy. did you say you saw some cows and horses!" "yes. in a valley," explained teddy. "show us where it was!" eagerly cried the cowboy, and when the curlytops had ridden to it, with baldy and the others following, the lame cowboy, whose foot was a little better, exclaimed: "well, if the curlytops haven't gone and done it!" "done what?" asked their mother. "they've found the lost cattle and horses!" "you mean uncle frank's!" asked teddy. "that's just what i mean! these are the horses and cattle the indians drove away. the redmen put the animals in this valley and made a fence at this end so they couldn't get out. they knew the horses and cattle would have water to drink and grass to eat, and they'd stay here a long while--until the indians would have a chance to drive 'em farther away and sell 'em. "yes, that's just what they did. i never thought of this valley, though i saw it quite a few years ago. i've never been here since. the indians knew it would be a good place to hide the horses they stole, and we might never have found 'em if it hadn't been for you curlytops." "i'm glad!" said teddy. "so'm i," said janet, "and i'm hungry, too!" "well, well soon have you back at ring rosy ranch, where there's a good breakfast!" laughed baldy. "well! well! to think of you curlytops finding what we cowboys were looking all over for!" "and are daddy and uncle frank looking for these horses and cattle?" asked teddy. "yes. and for the indians that took 'em. but i guess they won't find either," baldy answered. and baldy was right. some hours after the curlytops were back at ring rosy ranch, in rode uncle frank and the others. they had not found what they had gone after, and you can imagine how surprised they all were when told that ted and janet had, by accident, found the lost cattle and horses in the hidden valley. "you're regular cowboys!" cried uncle frank. "i knew they'd turn out all right when they learned to ride ponyback!" said daddy martin. "though you mustn't ride on the trail alone after indians again!" he said. teddy and janet told all that had happened to them, from getting lost, to finding the blanket and going to sleep in it on the open prairie. one of the cowboys with uncle frank had lost the blanket, and he said he was glad he dropped it, since it gave teddy and janet something to eat and something to wrap up in. that afternoon the stolen horses and cattle were driven in from the hidden valley; so the indians did not get them after all. and a little later some soldiers came to keep guard over the redmen so they could not again go off their reservation to make trouble. all of uncle frank's animals, except a few that the indians had sold, were found, and the curlytops were the pride of ring rosy ranch as long as they remained there. "well, i wonder if we'll have any more adventures," said janet to her brother one day, about a week after they were lost and had been found. "oh, i guess so," he answered. "anyhow, we've got two nice ponies, and we can have lots of rides. come on, i'll race you." the bright summer days brought more fun to teddy and janet at uncle frank's ranch. they rode many miles on star face and clipclap, sometimes taking trouble with them. "i want to dwive," said the little fellow one day, as he sat on the saddle in front of his brother. "all right, you may drive a little while," teddy answered, and he let baby william hold the reins. "now i a cowboy!" exclaimed the little fellow. "gid-dap, clipclap! i go lasso a injun!" ted and janet laughed at this. and so, leaving the curlytops to their fun, we will say good-bye. the end produced from images generously made available by the internet archive and the gooogle print project.) the church on the changing frontier [illustration] [illustration: big hole river, montana] committee on social and religious surveys town and country department edmund des. brunner, director the church on the changing frontier a study of the homesteader and his church by helen o. belknap with illustrations maps and charts new york george h. doran company copyright, , by george h. doran company printed in the united states of america preface the committee on social and religious surveys was organized in january, . its aim is to combine the scientific method with the religious motive. the committee conducts and publishes studies and surveys, and promotes conferences for their consideration. it coöperates with other social and religious agencies, but is itself an independent organization. the committee is composed of: john. r. mott, chairman; ernest d. burton, secretary; raymond b. fosdick, treasurer; james l. barton and w. h. p. faunce. galen m. fisher is associate executive secretary. the offices are at fifth avenue, new york city. in the field of town and country the committee sought first of all to conserve some of the results of the surveys made by the interchurch world movement. in order to verify some of these surveys, it carried on field studies, described later, along regional lines worked out by dr. warren h. wilson[ ] and adopted by the interchurch world movement. these regions are: i. colonial states: all of new england, new york, pennsylvania and new jersey. ii. the south: all the states south of mason and dixon's line and the ohio river east of the mississippi, including louisiana. iii. the southern highlands section: this section comprises about counties in "the back yards of eight southern states." iv. the middle west: the states of ohio, indiana, michigan, illinois, wisconsin, iowa and northern missouri. v. northwest: minnesota, north dakota, south dakota and eastern montana. vi. prairie: oklahoma, kansas and nebraska. vii. southwest: southern missouri, arkansas and texas. viii. range or mountain: arizona, new mexico, utah, colorado, idaho, wyoming, nevada and western montana. the director of the town and country survey department for the interchurch world movement was edmund des. brunner. he is likewise the director of this department for the committee on social and religious surveys. the original surveys were conducted under the supervision of the following: beaverhead county--rev. charles t. greenway, state survey supervisor of the interchurch world movement for montana. the county leader was rev. thomas w. bennett. hughes county--mr. c. o. bemies, state survey supervisor of the interchurch world movement for south dakota. the county survey leader was rev. h. h. gunderson. sheridan county--mr. a. g. alderman, state survey supervisor of the interchurch world movement for wyoming and utah. the county survey leader was rev. m. dewitt long, d.d. union county--rev. h. r. mills, state survey supervisor of the interchurch world movement for new mexico. the county survey leader was professor a. l. england. in the spring of the field worker, miss helen belknap, of the committee on social and religious surveys, visited these counties, verified the results of the survey work previously done, and secured additional information not included in the original study. special acknowledgment should be made to the ministers, county officers and others in these counties for their helpful coöperation and assistance in the successful completion of the survey. the statistical and graphical editor of this volume was mr. a. h. richardson of the chief statistician's division of the american telephone and telegraph company, formerly connected with the russell sage foundation. the technical advisor was mr. h. n. morse of the presbyterian board of home missions, who was also associate director of the town and country survey in the interchurch world movement. valuable help was given by the home missions council; by the council of women for home missions through their sub-committee on town and country, and by a committee appointed jointly by the home missions council and the federal council of churches for the purpose of coöperating with the committee on social and religious surveys in endeavoring to translate the results of the survey into action. the members of this joint committee on utilizing surveys are: _representing the federal council of churches_ anna clark c. n. lathrop roy b. guild u. l. mackey a. e. holt a. e. roberts f. ernest johnson fred b. smith charles e. schaeffer _representing the home missions council and the council of women for home missions_ l. c. barnes, chairman rodney w. roundy, secretary alfred w. anthony rolvix harlan mrs. fred s. bennett r. a. hutchison c. a. brooks florence e. quinlan c. e. burton w. p. shriver a. e. cory paul l. vogt david d. forsyth warren h. wilson introduction the point of view this book is a study of the work of protestant city, town and country churches in four counties on the range. it discusses the effect on the church of the changing conditions in the rocky mountain states, and the task of the church in ministering to the situation which exists to-day. this survey, therefore, does not attempt to deal directly with the spiritual effect of any church upon the life of individuals or groups. such results are not measurable by the foot rule of statistics or by survey methods. it is possible, however, to weigh the concrete accomplishments of churches. these actual achievements are their fruits and "by their fruits ye shall know them." the four counties studied in this book are beaverhead in montana, sheridan in wyoming, union in new mexico and hughes in south dakota. many considerations entered into their choice. for one thing, it must be borne in mind that this book, while complete in itself, is also part of a larger whole. from among the one thousand county surveys completed or nearly completed by the interchurch world movement, twenty-six of those made in the nine most representative rural regions of america were selected for intensive study. in this way it was hoped to obtain a bird's-eye view of the religious situation as it exists in the more rural areas of the united states. all the counties selected were chosen with the idea that they were fair specimens of what was to be found throughout the area of which they are a part. in selecting the counties an effort was made to discover those which were typical, not merely from a statistical viewpoint, but also from the social and religious problems they represented. for example, the four counties described in this pamphlet were chosen because they are representative of large sections throughout the range area. it is recognized that there are reasons why exception may be taken to the choice of counties. no area is completely typical of every situation. a careful study of these counties, however, leads to the conclusion that they are fair specimens of the region they are intended to represent. all these studies have been made from the point of view of the church, recognizing, however, that social and economic conditions affect its life. for instance, it is evident that various racial groups influence church life differently. germans and swedes usually favor liturgical denominations; the scotch incline to the non-liturgical. again, if there is economic pressure and heavy debt, the church faces spiritual handicaps, and needs a peculiar type of ministry. because of the importance of social and economic factors in the life of the church the opening chapters of this book are occupied with a description of these factors. at first glance some of these facts may appear irrelevant, but upon closer observation they will be found to have a bearing upon the main theme--the problem of the church. naturally the greatest amount of time and study has been devoted to the churches themselves; their history, equipment and finances; their members, services and church organizations; their sunday schools, young people's societies and community programs, have all been carefully investigated and evaluated. intensive investigation has been limited to the distinctly rural areas and to those centers of population which have less than five thousand inhabitants. in the case of towns larger than this an effort has been made to measure the service of such towns to the surrounding countryside, but not to study each church and community in detail. the material in this book presents a composite picture of the religious conditions within these four counties. certain major problems, which were found with more or less frequency in all four counties, are discussed, and all available information from any of the counties has been utilized. the opening pages of the book, however, summarize the conditions within each county. while this method has obvious drawbacks it is felt that the advantages outweigh them, and that this treatment is the best suited to bring out the peculiar conditions existing throughout this area. the appendices present the methodology of the survey and the definitions employed. they also include in tabular form the major facts of each county as revealed by the investigation. these appendices are intended especially to meet the needs of church executives and students of sociology who desire to carry investigation further than is possible in the type of presentation used for the main portion of the book. contents chapter page i the range country ii economic and social tendencies iii what of the church? iv the church dollar v to measure church effectiveness vi the preachers' goings and comings vii negro and indian work viii non-protestant work ix seeing it whole appendices i methodology and definitions ii tables illustrations, maps and charts illustrations big hole river, montana _frontispiece_ page. the town lock-up loneliness in union county after some years two community centers a spanish-american type and a typical adobe house in new mexico where main street might have run a wyoming ranch a montana mining camp when oil is found a farm bureau demonstration a home demonstration agent a truck farm in hughes county fruits of the earth up-to-date reaping on the plains wisdom is justified camping in sheridan county a frontier celebration a voice in the wilderness no room for both episcopal church and parish house a neglected outpost of christianity not a store but a church a case of coÖperation happy little picnickers a good time was had by all program of a community rally a parsonage but no church an oasis in the desert watering her garden a community rendezvous "mary, call the cattle home!" waiting at the church hitting the trail the family mansion a real community house a church that serves the community maps montana and wyoming south dakota and new mexico church and community map of hughes county, south dakota - community map of sheridan county, wyoming map showing churches and parish boundaries of sheridan county church and community map of beaverhead county map showing churches and parish boundaries of union county, new mexico community map of union county, new mexico roman catholic churches and parishes, union county, new mexico charts i analysis of protestant church members ii churches gaining in membership iii active church membership iv churches with less than members v relation of size of church membership to gain vi the church dollar vii frequency of church services viii number of pastors during past ten years ix residence of the ministers the church on the changing frontier chapter i the range country a vast expanse of endlessly stretching plains, dun-colored table-lands, mysterious buttes against a far horizon, and "always the tremendous, almost incredible distances"--this is the typical range country. there are a sweep to it and a breadth, and such heavens over the earth! in the east, unless some crimson sunset attracts indifferent eyes, the sky makes less of the picture than the earth. but this is sky country. roughly, the range area comprises the states between the middle west and the far west, and includes a wide variety of landscape. contained in this picturesque area are eight states with parts of others, a million square miles over which are spread four million people about a third less than are crowded into new york city. the four counties here studied, each in a different state, provide fair samples of a great deal of the country. beaverhead county, in montana, and sheridan county, in wyoming, are not far distant one from the other. both are partly mountainous, rugged in contour, with wide valleys rimmed by mountains, and miles of undulating range land and low-lying hills traced by rivers. this is the country where "the smoke goes straight up and the latch-string still hangs on the outside of the old-timer's cabin," where still the "sage-hen clucks to her young at the water-hole in the coulee ... with lazy grace, the eagle swings to his nest in the lofty pinnacle and the prairie dog stands at his door and chatters." beaverhead is in the extreme southwestern corner of montana, slightly northwest of yellowstone park and straight south from butte. it is bounded by rocky mountain ranges on the west, south and northwest. on the south and west it faces the state of idaho. the county is well drained and watered by the two principal rivers, the big hole and beaverhead, and by their tributaries, and here, too, the missouri river has its source. beaverhead county embraces , square miles or , , acres. of this area, , , acres are included in the beaverhead national forest reserve scattered over the north, west and southern parts of the county. a small part of the madison national forest also extends into the county on the west. the altitude at monida, in the southern part of the county, is about , feet above sea level. [illustration: montana and wyoming locating beaverhead and sheridan counties.] the wyoming county, sheridan, lies in the extreme north central section of the state, about miles east of yellowstone park, montana forming its northern boundary. sheridan is about miles long and thirty miles wide, the total area being , square miles, or , , acres, less than half the area of the montana county, beaverhead. the big horn forest reserve covers , acres of sheridan county. rivers and creeks are numerous, the chief ones being tongue river, powder river and big goose, prairie dog and clear creeks. the city of sheridan, the county seat, has an altitude of , feet above sea level. the other two counties, union in new mexico and hughes in south dakota, consist largely of plain lands. union lies in the northeastern corner of the state of new mexico, with three states, colorado, oklahoma and texas, to the north and east of her. union included , square miles, or , , acres, at the time this survey was made. about one-sixth of the southwestern part of union county has, however, been added to part of mora county, to the southwest, to form a new county named harding which was formally inaugurated on june th, . the land consists mainly of dry, level plains and mesas, although there are some mountains and isolated hills or buttes. aside from the mountainous area, which is wooded, there are scarcely any trees with the exception of a few along the larger creeks and those cultivated around ranch houses. the northwestern corner of the county is the most mountainous. the county is drained chiefly by ute creek, flowing southeast through the western and southwestern sections into the canadian river, and in the northern part by the beautiful cimarron. there are a number of small streams, but many are dry during a large part of the year. union has exhilarating, bracing air and radiant sunshine. [illustration: south dakota and new mexico locating hughes and union counties.] hughes is a small county almost exactly in the center of the state of south dakota. it has the shape of a right-angled triangle with the missouri river forming its hypothenuse from the northwest to the southeast corner. it covers , acres of high and rolling prairie, with river and creek bluffs and bottom lands. several creeks and small rivers flow directly through hughes, and it is on the whole one of the best-watered counties in south dakota. pierre, the county seat, is the capital of the state. early days on the frontier the story of these counties is bound up with the discovery and subsequent history of the west. it is, as viola paradise says, "the story of indians and early explorers; of hunters and fur traders in the days not so very long ago when the bison ranged the prairies; then of a few ranchmen, scattered at great distances; of great herds of cattle and sheep, succeeding the wild buffaloes; and of the famous cowboy; then of the coming of the dry farmer with his hated fences; and of the crowding out of the open range cattlemen and the substitution of the homesteader." [illustration: the town lock-up this primitive jail at bannock, once chosen as the capital of montana, has held some rough characters in its time, but is now abandoned.] it was at two forks, in beaverhead county, near what is now the village of armstead, that lewis and clark, at a critical point in their expedition, were met and befriended by the shoshones, the tribe of their indian girl guide, sacajawea.[ ] this was on august , . white fur traders soon followed in the track of this famous expedition, and after them came jason and sidney lee, in , the first missionaries to reach montana. the next landmark in the county's history is the "gold strike" on grasshopper creek, in . news of the find spread like wild-fire. miners rushed to the creek and set up their tents, shacks and log cabins. unlike rome, this first town of montana, called bannock, was built in a single night. soon after the gold seekers had settled down to work in earnest, the road agents, a well-organized gang of "roughs" from all over the west, began to rob the stage-coaches travelling between bannock and virginia city. "innocent" was their pass-word; mustaches, beards and neckties tied with a sailor's knot, their sign of membership. after a succession of miners, homeward bound with their gold-dust, had dropped from sight, never to be heard of again, those who remained decided to elect a sheriff. their choice fell upon a certain henry plummer, who was also sheriff of virginia city. plummer, however, never seemed to arrest the right man, a circumstance which was explained later when it was discovered that he was the chief of the gang of road agents. the funeral of a miner who had died of mountain fever, the first man for some time to die from a natural cause, gave the community the opportunity to organize secretly the "vigilantes," and finally to round up the road agents, either hanging them or giving them warning to leave the country. montana was established as a territory in , bannock becoming the first capital, and in the sane year the first county seat of beaverhead county. the capital was removed to virginia city in , but not until did dillon become the county seat. the boundaries of beaverhead changed very little until , when square miles of madison county, , acres in all, were annexed. men began settling on the land west of bannock as early as ; stock men mainly with herds. a few farmers also began to take up choice bits of land along the rivers. the railroad, then the utah northern, entered from the south in . as it was being built, tent towns were established every fifty miles. one of these towns was never moved and grew into the present town of dillon. the first attempt to open up to the white man the land along the powder and lower tongue rivers, in what is now sheridan county, was made by general patrick e. conner on august , , and was eminently successful. he attacked the arapahoe indians with a force of regular soldiers and successfully routed seven hundred warriors. the next effort ended, however, in disaster. on the twenty-first day of december, , at a point on sheridan's southern boundary now known as massacre hill, eighty-two officers and men sacrificed their lives to the hostile sioux and cheyennes in attempting to open a road across the country from fort laramie to montana. [illustration: loneliness in union county the black spot in the center of this not very attractive picture is a squatter's hut.] [illustration: after some years in contrast with the top picture is this one of an attractive farmhouse which shows what can be done on the plains of new mexico.] the first claim ever taken up in this region was in , on little goose creek, near big horn, and the first irrigation ditch was constructed the next year. big horn was laid out in , and the first store opened. the first newspaper in the county was the big horn _sentinel_, and the first agricultural fair was held in big horn in . the first cabin was built on the present site of sheridan city in . sheridan was laid out in and incorporated as a city in . until , the territory contained in johnson and sheridan counties was unorganized and had no county government, but lay within the jurisdiction of carbon county courts. it became johnson county in . in it was divided by popular vote, the northern portion being named sheridan county in memory of the gallant general phil sheridan, whose army, in the expedition, camped on the site of sheridan city. union county, in centuries past the camping grounds of vanished tribes, is now white man's country, but it did not become so until the santa fé trail opened the great southwest. with the rabbit ear mountains to guide settlers the old trail came across union county, untravelled until , and finally, two years later, the first wagons crept slowly westward, facing in that pioneer mood now become historic the hardships of climate and the perils of hostile redskins. in union county the story survives of a massacre by indians, which accounts for the tardy white settlements in this region. in , there were about a dozen homes of white settlers in the whole area. the railroad, in - , encouraged development which began with clayton a year later. in february, , the territorial legislature incorporated into union county parts of colfax, mora and san miguel. the original boundaries of union county were not changed until , when square miles were added to quay county. beginning in the northern part of the county and gradually working southwards, stockmen took up claims close to water and used public land for grazing. up to about , most of the territory remained open range land in which cattle were raised on a large scale, but since that time, it has gradually been homesteaded. [illustration] [illustration: two community centers the local store and the school of de grey community, hughes county, s. d., the only meeting places for widely scattered "neighbors."] the section around pierre, in hughes county, was the oldest settlement in the state of south dakota. fort pierre, across the river from pierre, was established in , and there was continuous settlement after that. at the conclusion of the red cloud war of - , the laramie treaty with the sioux indians established a great sioux reservation embracing all the land west of missouri, from the niobrara river on the south to the cannon ball river on the north and northwest, to the yellowstone. this reservation lay unbroken until , the year when the indians surrendered the black hills. when the gold rush to the black hills began, fort pierre was the nearest settled point and the traffic center. because the railroad had no right of way through the reservation, the line could not be extended to the black hills. the first permanent american settlement in hughes county was made in , when thomas l. riggs established the congregational indian mission at oahe, where he still continues a church. when the railway reached pierre in , there came the first "boom" in the history of the county. all sorts and conditions of people took up half sections, and hughes county was almost homesteaded between the years and . the second boom came in the years - , later followed by a reaction and slump. about the year , pierre was selected as the state capital. all sorts of efforts were made to steal the honor for some other town until in a bill provided for a capitol building at pierre which was completed in . the railway began in to extend to the black hills. thereafter, until , all the region west of missouri was settled, and practically all of these new settlers came through pierre. in the construction was finished, people were out of work, and there came another slump. there was also a drought during the period - - . transportation and roads there is practically no competition between railroads in any of these counties. each has one main line running through it, along which are located the county seat and other smaller centers. beaverhead has the oregon short line; sheridan the chicago, burlington & quincy; hughes the chicago & northwestern; and union the colorado & southern. three counties also have small sections of branch lines, and sheridan has twelve miles of trolley line giving city service, and reaching all but one of the mining camps to the north of sheridan city. none of these counties has really adequate train service. the distance from markets thus becomes an acute problem in certain parts of all four counties, but especially in beaverhead, sheridan and union on account of their greater distances. each county has at least one good stretch of road. a large proportion of the crossroads have never been improved. many of them are only trails. beaverhead has , miles of roads, of which , miles are improved and are unimproved. approximately $ , . has been spent on roads in the last five years. the combined length of public roads in sheridan county is miles. five miles are hard-surfaced, five are red shale, seventeen are gravel, are state highway and are legally established traveled roads, sixty-six feet wide and dragged when necessary. there are also miles of unimproved roads known as "feeders." during the last five years, approximately $ , . has been spent on county roads, not including the amount spent on state roads. both sheridan and beaverhead are fortunate in their location on highways leading to yellowstone park; beaverhead is on the western park-to-park highway, and sheridan is on the custer battlefield highway. during the past four years roads in union county have improved. the colorado to gulf highway from galveston to denver, enters the county at texline and continues for seventy-five miles to the colfax county line northwest of des moines. this is graded road and it is maintained partly by the federal government, which pays per cent., and partly by the state and county which pay per cent. each. there are miles of state highways in the county for which the state and county each pay per cent. two federal aid projects are also under way in the county at present. something over miles of roads are maintained by the county, and there are about , miles of community roads which are dependent upon local care. the total road mileage of hughes county is , with no hard-surfaced but with four miles of gravel roads, and miles of other improved roads. there are also miles of unimproved road. forty-five miles of highway have been built by the state between pierre and harrold and are maintained by the county. the people all these counties were settled chiefly by homesteaders who came from all over the united states, but chiefly from the middle west and southwest. missouri, nebraska, iowa, kansas, texas and oklahoma are the states most widely represented. a great many are children of original homesteaders. the breathless haste with which settlers occupied and developed this great primeval region of the west, rich in natural resources, is shown by the following figures of population: beaverhead hughes sheridan union , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , the greatest period of growth for beaverhead was from to ; for hughes from to ; but both union and sheridan made their largest increase from to , while beaverhead during those years has made a slow, steady gain. hughes has had "booms," and has gained and lost population in succeeding decades. sheridan and union, the newer counties, have forged rapidly ahead of the others in population. sheridan, on account of her city, has made a rapid urban increase, but her rural increase has been slow and steady. union is a large county with no forest reserve area and has been homesteaded rapidly. although, in , square miles were taken away from union, the population in was , , or an increase of . per cent. during the decade from . the density of rural population per square mile in beaverhead is . , in sheridan . , in hughes . and in union . the west has a smaller percentage of foreign-born population than the east or middle west. in three of the states represented, montana, wyoming and south dakota, the percentage of foreign-born has decreased in the last decade. in montana, it decreased from . per cent. to per cent.; in wyoming, from . per cent. to per cent.; and in south dakota, from . per cent. to . per cent. new mexico, with the smallest proportion of foreign-born of any of the four states, went from . per cent. in to per cent. in . sheridan, with . per cent., is the only one of the four counties studied whose foreign-born population remained constant. in beaverhead, the proportion fell from . to , in hughes from . to . and in union from . to . . the total number of foreign-born in all four counties is , , or . per cent. of the total number of people. germans predominate in union, hughes and sheridan. in beaverhead, the predominating nationalities are danes, swedes and austrians. the new americans in beaverhead, hughes and union are largely on the land; in sheridan county, the majority are in the mining camps. [illustration] [illustration: a spanish-american type and a typical adobe house in new mexico] less than one hundred indians are reported in the combined four counties, and the number has been diminishing in every county except union. sixty-nine of the eighty-one reporting are in hughes county, a small section of which is included in the crow creek indian reservation. but hughes had in . spanish-americans in union, a cross between mexicans and pueblo indians (the spaniards brought no women with them for years), equal between one-fourth and one-third of the total population. they live chiefly in the south-central and southwestern sections of the county, and together with their habitations remind one of picturesque mexico. sheridan county has the largest proportion of negroes of any of the four counties-- out of a total of ; but these western states in general have only a small percentage of negroes in their population, varying from . per cent in new mexico to . in wyoming. the chinese and japanese in the four counties number, all told, less than . wide spaces and few people county areas ordinarily group themselves into so-called "communities," where individuals share common social and economic interests centering in a definite locality. in this country, with its scattered pioneer population, community groupings are less definite and permanent than in the east or middle west. here they are usually determined by topography, and especially by the rivers and creeks and the railroad. along the railroad are trade centers which serve the entire county. the majority of these communities are of small population and large area, with a small trading center containing stores, hotel, school, possibly a church or two and some houses huddled together. the county seat largely centralizes the life of each county. outside the trade centers and the open country area included within their community boundaries, the counties fall into certain social groupings. where the land is good, and is being intensively developed, there are well-defined permanent communities. some have even grown staid and conservative. in other sections the story is pathetically different. one lonely family, a forlorn row of claim shacks along the horizon, are all that is left of a real social life that existed only a few years before. a woman standing at the door of the only habitation in a round of sky and stretch of plain, tells how "all the good neighbors are gone and us left grieving for the fine times we once had." transiency is usual in homesteading country, many people only remaining long enough to homestead their land. in beaverhead and hughes, which have been longer homesteaded, there is a larger proportion of residents of more than fifteen years than in the other two counties. but in all four counties, there are temporary groups of people with some social life at present, which may or may not have significance in the future. on the whole, present development tends to be permanent because most of the desirable land in beaverhead, sheridan and union, and all of the land in hughes has long since been taken up. all community limits are more or less indefinite. for example, a rancher living near the boundary of two communities may go to two or more centers for trade. and a dance or barbecue will bring people from any number of the communities. [illustration: where main street might have run the hut of a lonely homesteader.] county interests tend to become concentrated in increasing proportion in the county seat. dillon, the beaverhead county seat, is fairly well located in the central eastern section. it is considered one of the best business towns of the state, drawing trade from every point in idaho. dillon is a retired ranchers' town, conservative and wealthy. community spirit is not manifest. the old settlers run the town and are not friendly to the ideas of others. even a commercial club has found it hard to survive in dillon. sheridan city, the county seat of sheridan county, with a population of about , , is wide-awake and progressive. although there are a number of growing industries and it is a division point on the railroad, sheridan is also dependent to a large extent upon farming. clayton, the county seat of union, a town with a spirit of "boost," informs travellers by means of a bill board that it is "the smallest town on earth with a rotary." clayton's large proportion of transient population is at once typical of the frontier in its nonchalant spirit, in its cowboys with sombreros, jingling spurs and high-heeled boots that click along the pavements; it typifies the range country in the canvas-covered wagons, coming in provided with camping outfits and rations to last for several days because "home" is far away. but all this is gradually changing, and clayton is becoming more of a farming center, less like the frontier and more like the middle west. pierre, the hughes county seat and state capital, is a busy town. it has a number of industries and is the center for an extensive farming and stock-raising region, but the capitol overshadows the rest of the town in importance. means of livelihood cattle were once raised on a large scale in this country. that was the day of the cowboy. but with the coming of the homesteader and his fenced land, stock has had to be raised in smaller herds and more restricted areas. in the old days, there was a great deal of open range land. most of this has now been homesteaded. naturally the rancher has resented the steady appropriation of his "free range" by the farmer. while cattle raising is still the chief source of income, there has been a steady gain in the relative value of farming, especially since the introduction of irrigation and dry-farming methods. about half the farm land in both beaverhead and sheridan is under irrigation, and there is some irrigated land in the northern part of union, but practically no irrigation in hughes county. some dry farming is carried on in every section of each county. general farming and dairying rank next to stock raising. hay and forage are the chief crops. considerable farm land is fit only for range land for cattle; it is too broken or dry for crops. dairying is comparatively a new development. forest reserve land in beaverhead and sheridan is allotted to ranches for cattle range. in beaverhead national forest, , acres have been homesteaded and seventy-five claims have been listed, chiefly in acre tracts. very little homesteading has been done in the big horn national forest because the entire area is above the practical range of farm crops, and killing frosts occur every month in the year. in the entire forest, only about a dozen tracts have been taken under the homestead laws, averaging a little over one hundred acres each; all have been abandoned, except a few used as summer resorts. [illustration: a wyoming ranch the home of a well-to-do rancher in sheridan county.] as is usually the case in frontier country, a large majority of the farms and ranches are operated by owners. south dakota, at the threshold of the west, has a larger proportion of tenancy than any of the other states represented. the percentage in south dakota is . per cent., in new mexico it is . per cent., in wyoming it is . per cent., and in montana it is . per cent. in beaverhead tenancy has decreased from . per cent. in to . per cent. in . in sheridan, it has remained about the same, . per cent. in and . per cent. in . hughes has had a marked increase--from . per cent. in to . per cent. in . tenancy has increased . per cent. in union during the past decade. this has been partly because so much of the land is held by absentee owners who have proved up on the land, moved away, and are waiting for property to go up in value; also because on account of the high taxation some cattlemen find that they make better profits by renting instead of owning. beaverhead county is rich in minerals, including gold, silver, copper, lead, ore, graphite, coal and building stone. comparatively little mining has been done since the war on account of low prices. a large amount of coal is produced in sheridan county. stretching out one after the other in a compact series, there are six large mines north of sheridan city, set in the midst of an agricultural area and having little relation to the rest of the county. there is also a small coal mine being operated at arvada in the eastern part of the county. a number of farmers and ranchmen are lucky enough to have small coal veins on their land, and mine their own coal with pick and shovel. [illustration: a montana mining camp] oil is thought to be present in both hughes and union, but very little has been done with its development. there is some coal in the mountains in union, and building stone and deposits of lime and alum are found in some communities. there are numerous gas wells in hughes county. many ranches have wells giving sufficient gas for all domestic purposes. each county has a number of smaller industries, such as printing establishments, lumber yards, etc. sheridan city has several large plants, including an iron works, flour mill, sugar beet factory and a brick and tile plant. all the counties benefit from the summer auto-tourist trade. the city and towns all have camping grounds for tourists. sheridan has a tourist building, with a sitting-room, fire-place for rainy days and rest rooms, in her city park. sheridan also has a park in the big horn mountains. both beaverhead and sheridan have a small number of resorts. sheridan has three "dude" ranches, the largest of which is the eaton ranch, established in . the young idea good school systems have been developed in the comparatively short time since these counties were organized and running as active units of group life. buildings are almost all fairly well built. teachers receive good salaries. of course, the schools are nowhere near ideal. the isolation and distances present serious school problems. small rural schools persist where distances are great. union is the only county of the four with any consolidated schools. the problem of supervision is great. each county has local school districts and a local board of trustees in each. the county superintendent, a woman in each county, has a difficult time visiting the more remote schools and does not reach them often. many roads and trails are practically impassable during the largest part of the school year. because of the isolation it is often difficult to find a teacher or to get a place for her to live, when one is secured. school terms vary from five to nine months, the longer terms predominating. only six communities in the four counties have active parents' and teachers' associations. [illustration: when oil is found the snorty gobbler project at grenville, n. m.] besides the two elementary schools in dillon, used as model schools by the state normal which is located there, beaverhead county has forty-six elementary schools. two of these, the schools in both villages, wisdom and lima, offer one year of high school. the only four-year high school in the county, located at dillon, has sixteen teachers and a student enrollment of . the entire school enrollment in the county in - was , ; the total number of teachers, ; the total cost of school maintenance $ , . . the state normal had an enrollment of during the summer of ; in the winter of - and in the summer of . there were seventy-four schools running in sheridan county in - , not including the city schools. in addition to the sheridan high school, there are five schools in the county offering some high school training. big horn has had a four year course, but this year ( - ) is sending her third and fourth year high school pupils to sheridan city in a school bus; dayton offers two years of high school, and ranchester, ulm and clearmont each have one year. an annual county graduation day is held in the sheridan high school. it is an all-day affair with a picnic in the park in the afternoon. the total number of pupils in rural schools in - was , , the total cost of maintenance, $ , . . the sheridan high school with its enrollment of is the largest in the state. the total school enrollment of the county, including the five sheridan city elementary schools and the high school was , . there was a total of teachers, of which ninety-six were employed in the rural schools. a parochial school in sheridan city has an enrollment of about and four teachers. the city also has two privately owned business colleges with a total enrollment of . in union county, there are elementary schools outside of clayton, with a total enrollment of , and a force of teachers. nine schools have some high school work. five have a two-year course; two have a four-year course. several elementary schools have been consolidated within the past few years, and occupy new buildings to which the children living at a distance are transported in motor trucks. besides four earlier issues of school bonds, totalling $ , , the people have voted, in this year of hard times, an additional issue of $ , . clayton has four elementary schools with seventeen teachers and an enrollment of . the clayton high school has twelve teachers and an enrollment of . it has a new well-equipped building. hughes county has thirty-nine rural schools outside of pierre. four schools offer some high school work, two offering one year, one two years and one three years. pierre has three elementary schools. the pierre four-year high school has students. the total school enrollment of the county, including the schools in pierre, was , , the total number of teachers seventy and the total cost of maintenance $ , . . there is a government indian industrial school located just outside pierre. the lack of opportunity for high school training in so large a part of each county, brings about an increasing migration into the county seat for educational advantages. many families leave their ranches and move in for the winter instead of sending a child or two. some come in for elementary schools, because of bad roads and the inaccessibility of their country school. this is one of the greatest factors in the growth of these centers. to illustrate the number of pupils from the country, of the pupils of the sheridan high school are non-resident and all but about ten are from sheridan county. in union county, fifty of the pupils in the clayton high school come from all over the county, the majority coming from ten miles around clayton. the number of county children attending clayton schools is increasing at the rate of about per cent. a year. these children have certain marked characteristics. they are older for their grade than the town children, they average higher marks, and are anxious to make the best of their opportunity. in other words, they do not take education for granted, like the town or city child. chapter ii economic and social tendencies growth of the farm bureau no greater laboratory exists for scientific farming than in this western country. a farm bureau, popularized through county agents, is an asset of prime significance to a region that will endow the rest of the country with the fruits of its development. hughes, in , was the first of the four counties to organize a farm bureau. sheridan and union followed in . beaverhead county has no farm bureau. a county farm agent was employed for eight months in , but did not have the support of the ranchers. they felt that an agent, in a stock raising county like beaverhead where hay flourished without cultivation, was a needless expense. as one rancher remarked, "we did not want some one who knew less about our business than we did." as an index to the success attending expert farm advice, one entire community in beaverhead attempted and abandoned dry farming, whereas in other counties where farm bureaus and agents have given service and advice no entire community has failed so completely. the farm bureaus not only improve agricultural methods, but are creating local leaders and a community spirit. the farm bureau offers a definite program that is rewarding if adopted. it develops in the individual community a spirit of independence and self-respect which must precede coöperation. the sheridan farm bureau records a typical objective: "to promote the development of the most profitable and permanent system of agriculture; the most wholesome and satisfactory living conditions; the highest ideals in home and community life, and a genuine interest in the farm business and rural life on the part of the boys and girls and young people.... there shall be a definite program of work ... based on the results of a careful study of the problems of the county. it shall be formulated and carried out by the members of the organization, with the assistance of their agents and specialists as may be available from the state agricultural college." each farm bureau has county leaders or a board of directors, each member specializing in and promoting some particular project, as poultry, cattle, marketing of grain, dairying, roads, child welfare, clothing, food and county fair. during - forty-three farm bureau meetings were held in sheridan county, with a total attendance of , . twenty extension schools or courses were given with a total attendance of . two community fairs were held, and six communities put on recreation programs. the farm bureau upheld governor carey's announcement of good roads day by donating $ , worth of work on the roads. seventeen communities were organized; twelve have community committees. nothing can better create community spirit and enlist coöperation. [illustration: a farm bureau demonstration the county agent for sheridan is making grasshopper poison.] each community also adopts a program of work of its own under the leadership of the community committee. a community program for union county, which is inaccessible to the railroad, is as follows: program of work goal for accomplishments work still to be to date done poultry market eggs letters written prices not sufficient for markets to warrant shipping as yet livestock organize pig two talks club two leaders organize calf secured club home beautifi- plant trees, planted cation vines and shrubbery road fix bad secured county keep at it places aid. got bridge rodent rodent poison poisoned eradication demonstration coyote "kill 'em" nine put out complete it coyote poison and killed coyotes [illustration: a home demonstration agent here is a woman's club at an all-day meeting in union county receiving instructions in the workings of an iceless refrigerator.] the farm bureau works with the county agents, the home demonstration agents, and the boys' and girls' club leaders, wherever such agents exist. the county agents are giving themselves whole-heartedly to their jobs, and the demands for their services keep them busy driving through counties for purposes of demonstration or organization. the hughes county agent reports the following schedule: fifty days on animal disease, thirty-seven and one-half days on boys' and girls' club work, thirty-seven days on organization, twenty-three days on marketing and days on miscellaneous work. sheridan and union have home demonstration agents, energetic women, who go out over the county organizing groups of women and giving demonstrations and talks. some of their achievements in sheridan county may be cited. hot lunches were established in six rural schools in coöperation with the public health nurse; some phase of health work was carried on in four communities and in sheridan city schools a clothing school was held; women were taught the cold pack method of canning; four home convenience demonstrations were given; five pressure cookers were purchased; twenty-five flocks were culled; twelve american cheese demonstrations were given, and pounds of cheese made. boys' and girls' club work is carried on in every county except beaverhead. the boys and girls all over the county are organized into clubs and work on various kinds of projects. union county's record for is notable: kind of club total membership value of products, pig club $ , . calf club , . poultry club . cooking " . serving " . bean " . maize " . corn " , . --- ---------- total $ , . pure-bred hogs and cattle owned by boys and girls are sold under the auspices of the farm bureau. prizes are offered. in sheridan county, the county club champions are sent to the "annual round-up" at the state university. in hughes, three teams of three members each were given a free trip to the state fair as a reward for their efforts and achievements. one member of the cow-calf club won a free trip to the international live stock show in chicago as a prize for his exhibit at the state fair. development of coöperation irrigation means coöperation, but coöperation in buying and marketing is comparatively a new development. coöperation, however, is a necessity because so many farmers are distant from the trade centers and shipping points. coöperation is the prime interest of the farm bureaus which, in some counties, undertake coöperative buying and selling. the hughes county farm bureau has been especially effective in promoting coöperative enterprise. says the county agent: the medicine valley farm bureau has done considerable work along different lines, but the most outstanding has been the promotion of a farmers' coöperative elevator. most of the stock in this enterprise has been sold and work will be started very soon on the building.... the harrold live stock shipping association was promoted by the farm bureau community club south of harrold. several meetings were held by this club on marketing. members were supplied with coöperative shipping instructions and information. at the present time, most of the stock shipped out of harrold is shipped through this organization. it has proved a success. this community club was also instrumental in the promotion of a coöperative elevator at harrold ... in addition to the organization projects on marketing, considerable buying and selling in car-load lots has been done by the different farm bureau community clubs. the snake butte community club has bought four car-loads of coal for its members, with a saving of at least $ . they have also bought a car of flour, a car of apples and a car of fence posts, all of which has effected a saving of another $ . three other community clubs have bought supplies by the car-load. these purchases have netted members of the county a saving of approximately six hundred dollars.... (the farm bureau through its exchange service has located , bushels of seed flax, pounds of grimm alfalfa seed, bushels of seed wheat, bushels of rye and bushels of seed corn.) one thousand, six hundred and eighty-five pounds of wool was also directed to the state pool of the national wool warehouse and storage company at chicago, illinois. [illustration: a truck farm in hughes county] beaverhead county has three active stock-growers' associations, the most active of which is the big hole stockmen's association which established stock yards at wisdom and at divide, their shipping point. they finally induced the railroad to help pay for the yards. this association was founded chiefly to work for a road from the big hole over into the bitter root valley. the forest service was willing to help build the road if beaverhead and ravalli counties would also help. beaverhead county did not favor the project because it feared competition from the bitter root products. but the big hole valley wanted the road on account of the business it would bring in. the stockmen's association raised about $ , towards it and the county finally put in $ , . besides their contribution of money, the members of the association donated time and teams. one reason why they have held together so well and so long was because they shared the debt. it has been hard sledding, but they have won out. their wage scale, which is established annually, was successfully operated for the first time last year ( ), when all but two ranchers stuck to the prescribed wage of $ . per day for hay hands. they have fixed up the fair grounds at wisdom and give a pow-wow there every year. [illustration: fruits of the earth the community spirit expresses itself in friendly rivalry at union county fair.] largely through the influence of the farm bureau, two coöperative organizations were recently started in union county, the union county farmers' mutual hail insurance association and the registered live stock and pure bred poultry association. there is only one other active coöperative at present, a telephone company at mount dora, capitalized at $ , . a state-wide marketing association has union county members who produced in one-third of all the products marketed through the organization. besides the marketing associations, hughes has a coöperative farmers' lumber company. all these counties have coöperative stores. a coöperative store at wisdom in beaverhead county has fifty stockholders. lima had a coöperative store in - which failed through poor management. two rochdale coöperative stores were started three years ago in ulm and clearmont in sheridan county. when the central organization took the surplus earnings of the branch stores to make up failures in other stores in the chain instead of declaring dividends, both the sheridan county stores withdrew and organized coöperatives of their own in march, . sheridan city for the past eight years has had a coöperative store in which ranchers and farmers from nearby communities have most of the shares. there is also a miners' store in sheridan city. hughes county has one coöperative store with stockholders. urban and rural rivalry all the centers are service stations for the farmers. in some places the old, deep-seated antagonism between town and country is noticeable. there is the feeling that the merchants overcharge, that big business sets the prices, that capital is to be distrusted. most of the merchants have been of the old individualistic type which places the dollar higher than the community, an idea which the commercial clubs are altering. this is especially noticeable in union county, where the feeling between country and town has been very bitter. the farmers unfortunately are unfriendly to and distrustful of the merchants and business men. each group is really interdependent, but 'such' a feeling retards progress and development. as one leading farmer put it, "the prejudice between the farmer and business man _must_ be overcome. there is no limit to the results if we can just get together." the farmers feel that the average merchant in buying farm products has not discriminated between a good and a bad product so far as price goes. in short, the honest farmer does not want to sell bad eggs or sandy maize, but he doesn't like to get a poor price for a good product. farmers feel that the merchants have overcharged them for goods and obtained high profits and they are undoubtedly right to some extent. the farmers believe that the fact of their charging goods on credit with the merchant gives the latter an unfair advantage over them, that the merchant thinks he can pay any price he wants when purchasing from the farmer. chambers of commerce and commercial clubs are working toward a better understanding. get-together meetings have been started. the first union county meeting prepared the farmers by letters and visits, in order to suggest a more friendly and constructive meeting ground. in sheridan and pierre, the commercial clubs have been very ready to coöperate in any movements that would benefit the farmer. an example of happier relations between farmer and merchant is the rest room for farmers' wives maintained in dillon by the good government club. [illustration: up-to-date reaping on the plains answering the world's prayer for daily bread.] hard times in the history of this range area the last three years have been the most difficult for farmers and ranchers. they have suffered acutely from the sharp drop in prices of stock and farm products. part of the range section has had a severe drouth. beaverhead has had several dry years. last year ( ), thousands of dollars' worth of hay had to be shipped into the county as feed, and much livestock had to be sent out of the county to graze. in addition to drouth, grasshoppers, fairly plentiful before, became a scourge in part of sheridan the summer of . the farmers, helped by the farm bureau, worked hard to exterminate them with poisoned oats. simultaneously with the drouth and grasshopper scourge in certain sections, the decrease in prices has led to hard times and much suffering. whereas a rancher was "well off" a few years ago, he now considers himself lucky if he is "in the hole" for only a few thousand. the farmers are bitter. they feel that something is wrong with the "system." one can hardly blame them when crops bring no profit, while taxes seem to be higher than ever. the hard times have made ranchers and farmers do more serious thinking about taxes, farm conditions, and the marketing of farm products than they have ever done before. e. t. devine, writing on "montana farmers" in _the survey magazine_, gives the farmers' position: montana farmers are much like other american producers, urban and rural, but they are even harder hit than most of their fellow countrymen, except, of course, unemployed town workers. they share in the general calamity of relatively low prices for agricultural products and they have also just passed through several years of unprecedented drouth. freight rates are high and burdensome, and the things the farmers have to buy are still high in proportion to the prices which they get for their grain and stock. these farmers are therefore in debt, and are borrowing more than they can. they are actually and not merely in a chronically distorted imagination, having difficulty in paying their interest and taxes; and if their equity is small they are losing it.... the farmers are not seeking fundamental or permanent solutions. what concerns them is to get immediate and appreciable relief from taxes. hard times, as in union county, usually strike our best assets. the county first had a county agent in , a home demonstration agent in , and assistant county agent in and a club leader in . unfortunately, the hard times forced upon the country a program of retrenchment. in the assistant county agent and, early in , the club leader were removed. at present, there is a determined effort in some quarters to dispense with the other two workers. social agencies country folk keep track of things. county papers as well as outside newspapers are read in all communities. these outside newspapers come from denver, kansas city, butte or omaha, depending upon location. four newspapers are published in beaverhead, two in the county seat, and one in each of the two villages. rural sheridan prints but one newspaper, _the tongue river news_, at ranchester. two dailies are published in sheridan city. three communities in union, and three in hughes county, publish their own papers. the town of clayton has the _examiner_ and the _tribune_, as well as a paper printed in spanish. grenville and des moines, two villages in union, also have local papers. in hughes county, pierre has two papers, and blunt and harrold one each. the editors are almost all progressive and up-to-date, and vitally interested in the welfare of their communities. more and better libraries are an urgent need of all these counties. sheridan, pierre and dillon all have splendid carnegie libraries. the majority of the schools have small school libraries. but there is only one public library in beaverhead county, besides that in dillon, in the community house of wisdom village. sheridan has no other library in the whole county. the only libraries in union county are a collection of books for public use in the office of a village lumber yard and a small travelling library. hughes county has a town library and three circulating libraries. [illustration: wisdom is justified the community house at wisdom, beaverhead county.] good leadership is always essential to progress. every one of these counties is fortunate in having some splendid county-wide leaders who are devoting themselves to their county's progress. wherever a county has a farm bureau, leadership is developed by that organization. but in rural sections where distances prevent people from coming together, leadership is wanting. each ranch is a small isolated world and by the very nature of things there are few community undertakings. the development of local leadership, especially in remote sections, should become the concern of this country. as hart says in his book, "community organization," "the destiny of civilization is wrapped up in the future of community life. if that life becomes intelligent, richly developed, democratically organized, socially controlled--the future of civilization is secure.... the determination is largely one of leadership." community spirit red cross work, during the war, did a great deal toward bringing about a unified spirit. the farm bureau is working in this direction. when real needs arise, a community spirit is born, and unsuspected qualities of loyalty, coöperation and leadership develop, as happened in one community in sheridan county, when that community wanted the state highway: they canvassed every load of wheat that went to sheridan city from their community to show how much their road was used. another splendid example of community spirit was the pageant staged by armstead community, in beaverhead county, to celebrate the anniversary of the lewis and clark expedition. every one in the community, even the babies as indian papooses, took part. about half of all the communities have a real community spirit, i.e., a willingness on the part of the people to work unselfishly, coöperatively, for the best interests of the community. this spirit, fostered by the farm bureau or by war work, has directed communities to concern themselves with their roads, schools, methods of farming and the creation and strengthening of all community bonds and interests. the results of this spirit are shown in social and educative agencies like lodges and the local branches of the farm bureau. of the sixty-eight lodges only seventeen are for women, and their total enrollment is about , members. while women have fewer lodges their attendance is more enthusiastic and regular than in the case of the men. there are commercial clubs in the city and towns, and in a number of the villages. the american legion has five branches in the four counties. eight communities have literary societies meeting regularly. then there are the many clubs and societies which are purely social. these include sewing clubs, card clubs, athletic clubs and similar organizations which are found in the city and towns, and in about one-third of the other communities. there are musical organizations in seven communities, and four communities have community singing. these organizations, together with the schools and churches, give the inspiration for most of the social life. [illustration] [illustration: camping in sheridan county the colored cook, at least, seems to delight in her surroundings.] "movies," motors and the dance all the larger centers have moving-picture theatres. with the coming of the "movie," and the general ownership of cars, there is a growing tendency to go into the centers for amusement. dancing is the most popular recreation. if an event is really a success, it ends with a dance. in many communities a dance is the only thing that will "go." one reason for this is the lack of leadership; a dance needs no planning to speak of, which is not the case with other forms of indoor recreation. dances attract people from great distances and are generally held on saturday night, lasting until sunday morning, with a feast at midnight. perhaps the farm bureau has an exhibition during the day, and there is a community dance in the evening. it is held in the hall over the poolroom. an orchestra of three army veterans plays good lively jazz. the latest tunes and dances of the city are as familiar in these remote communities as are the latest modes and fashions. no country square dances here; nothing older than the very latest dancing, and the most modern of ear-capped coiffures! whole families attend, and parents take the floor along with the young folks. there is a great friendliness. the young men are well set-up, muscular and tanned, and some of them even wear spurs which clink together as they dance. feminine noses are not as white as they might be, though powder puffs are here, very properly concealed. most of these girls ride horseback as well as their brothers, and both young women and men, with their athletic supple figures, their innate sense of grace and rhythm, might put to shame our tired, anæmic city dancers. at midnight, there is a supper of fried chicken, sandwiches and real cake brought a few dozen miles more or less by team or car. everything tastes good because it is made at home. afterwards, the tireless feet continue the intricate, graceful measures. but outside the brightly lighted hall, and beyond the sound of laughter and music broods the silent, mysterious night of a spacious country. how many city dancers know the homeward drive through a big country, the moon perhaps lighting the river, the contours of plain and butte, and the sleeping hamlets? the most popular forms of outdoor recreation are the community barbecues, frontier days and pow-wows. only those who live this free, healthy life in the heart of nature have appetites worthy of a barbecue. at noon the delicious beef, roasted all night over a deep trough of coals, and basted with real butter, is a social meal that many of us envy. there are frontier field days with sports belonging to ranch life, such as horse racing and broncho busting. the day usually ends with a big dance. even the "dude" ranches in sheridan hold frontier days, and great events they are, too, with many spectators. in sections of sheridan and union counties, but especially in beaverhead, there is the beauty of the country which furnishes recreation in itself. nature has lavished upon them every gift of line and color. the mountains and the streams, the woods and the canyons, hold a hundred delightful possibilities that are within the reach of almost every one. it is a playground as varied as it is perfect. on saturdays and sundays in the summer, car after car, packed with camp equipment and home-made delicacies, head for the health-giving hills and mountains. [illustration: a frontier celebration the barbecue is an institution typical of the range country and is attended by settlers from far and near.] [illustration: church and community map of hughes county, south dakota] chapter iii what of the church? what country landscape is complete without the church spires? in this spacious western region, in the heart of awe-inspiring natural scenery, the church spires are guideposts to almost , people. this land is new. it has been the changing frontier. tremendous developments have been in process. the country is in a transition stage between the stock-raising past and the agricultural future. population has increased rapidly; population has been shifting. the whole background has been kaleidoscopic. the church has faced bewildering changes and growth. the burden of increasing its service and equipment has been heavy; it has not been able to "keep up" with the pace of civilization. the story of early church growth in the cowboy country is one inspiring loyalty since it eloquently traces the faithfulness of a few in a country where god was easily forgotten. one of the first things to be read of rough-and-ready bannock, among the earliest mining towns on the range, is that church services were held there. the church migrated with its congregations. missionaries from the east came through with the fur trappers and preached the word of god. when the land began to be taken up by settlers, impromptu meetings were held, and sunday schools were started in many places which had no ministers. some of these points of worship gradually developed into organized religious bodies so that at present there are churches which have grown up with the country. a difficult field the church in this frontier country has always faced great difficulties. chiefly, there is the vast area of it, with a scattered and transient population. homesteaders are a restless, uncertain, human quantity. some are engrossed in getting a start. others move on as soon as they have "proved up" on their claims. all are poor; there is always an economic struggle going on. the old frontier spirit of "let have and let be" survives from the cowboy days. this free and easy spirit says: "boys drinking?--well, boys have to have their good times. streets weedy?--well, they might be worse." the same spirit says: "no churches?--well, we're just as well off and our money is better in the bank than paying for a minister who never gets out and does an honest day's work." "good-bye, god, we're going to wyoming," said a little boston girl as the family was starting west. this typifies what happened as people from the east and middle west moved out to the frontier. in the desperate struggle for existence homesteaders had little time for christian enterprise. because of the great distances and scattered population, adequate church ministry has been difficult if not impossible. people had for so long lived without a church that indifference developed. the longer they stayed the less they took the church for granted. the older the section, one finds to-day, the less likely it is to want church ministry. newer homesteaders, recently come from other parts of the country where the church was more available, are more eager for church and sunday school. [illustration: a voice in the wilderness the m. e. church at mosquero, union county, n. m.] development and distribution the differences in religious development and psychology according to the time of settlement are well illustrated by these counties. generally speaking, beaverhead grew up before the church had made much headway. it is conservative. the general attitude is the wary one of "let the church alone." men class churches among those feminine luxuries with which a real, red-blooded man has little to do. on the other hand, union, the most recently developed county of the four, still has a marked "church consciousness." the majority of the people have not yet broken with the habits and customs of the more closely settled and churched middle west from which they came. the other two counties combine these two conditions. part of sheridan is like union, a region newly homesteaded. part of it is like beaverhead, old and settled with frontier habits. hughes, on the threshold of the west, retains the frontier sentiment of all the other counties. [illustration: no room for both the presbyterian church at melrose, montana, and its next-door neighbor, a deserted saloon.] church work has been going on in these counties since , when protestant work was started at bannock, in beaverhead county. churches were organized in the other counties in succeeding decades. the first protestant church was organized in hughes between and , in sheridan and union counties between and . in this comparatively short time, some churches have gone under. beaverhead has had nine protestant churches, of which six are now active. one church, located just outside the border of the county in melrose, a small hamlet, is included in this report. dillon, the county seat, has four churches, or one protestant church for about every persons. outside dillon, the habitable rural area of the county has two protestant churches, or one church for about every , square miles and for about every , persons. roman catholics have two organized churches in the county, mormons have one active and one inactive church, and there is one christian science church. [illustration: community map of sheridan county, wyoming] [illustration: map showing churches and parish boundaries of sheridan county] [illustration: church and community map of beaverhead county] [illustration: map showing churches and parish boundaries of union county, new mexico] [illustration: community map of union county, new mexico] sixteen protestant churches have been organized in hughes county, all but one of which are now active. pierre, the county seat, with six of the churches, has a protestant church for about every people. outside pierre and the section occupied by the crow creek indian reservation, the rural area of the county has one protestant church for about every seventy-three square miles, and for every persons. there are three catholic churches outside the indian reservation. sheridan county has had twenty-two protestant churches, of which seventeen are now active and two are inactive. the city of sheridan has nine protestant churches, one church for about every , persons; outside sheridan, the habitable area of the county has one protestant church for about every square miles, and for about every , persons. the county has five catholic churches, a mormon, a christian science, and a theosophical organization. the newest county of the four has the most churches. thirty-nine protestant churches have been organized in union county, thirty-one of which are now active. clayton, the county seat, has four churches, one for about every persons; outside clayton, the rural area of the county has one protestant church for about every square miles and for about every persons. there are five organized catholic churches. the four counties now have a total of seventy active protestant churches representing eleven different denominations, but there is an acute need of a more strategic distribution. churches located in the city of sheridan will henceforth be referred to as "city" churches; churches located in the towns of dillon, pierre and clayton will be referred to as "town" churches; those located in villages, a classification applying to all centers with a population of to , , will be referred to as "village" churches; and those located in hamlets of less than population or the open country will be known as "country" churches. classified in this way, nine, or per cent. of the total, are "city" churches; thirteen, or per cent., are "town" churches; fourteen, or per cent., are "village" churches, and thirty-four, or per cent., are "country" churches. other than protestant churches will be discussed in a separate chapter. god's houses a live church organization should have a building of its own. it is hard, indeed, to preach the reality of religion without a visible house of god. yet nearly one-third of the organizations have no buildings and must depend on school houses, homes or depots. some of these churches, located in strategic places, acutely need buildings and equipment if they are to hold their own in the future. for others, however, the possession of buildings would be a tragedy, since they would thus become assured of a permanency which is not justified. all the city and town churches have buildings, as well as twelve of the fourteen village, and fifteen of the thirty-four country, churches. in addition, two inactive organizations have buildings which are available and are used to some extent. [illustration: episcopal church and parish house beaverhead county, montana.] the majority of the buildings are of wood; fourteen are of brick, cement or adobe. unfortunately, the range has no typical pioneer architecture of its own. most of the buildings are reminiscent of new england forbears. many of them look barren and unkempt. standing forlorn upon the plains, most of the open country churches are unrelieved by any sign of trees. little or no effort has been made to make them attractive. thirty buildings are lighted by electricity. twenty-two churches are of the usual one-room type, eleven have two-room buildings, four have three rooms, three have five rooms, six have six rooms or more. a few possess special facilities for social purposes. one town church has a parish house. nine have extra rooms and some special equipment, including three gymnasiums. stereopticon outfits have been installed in one city and in two town churches. one other town church borrows a stereopticon once a month from a public school, and one town church occasionally borrows the county moving-picture machine. a new kind of community house was built last summer by the sheridan presbyterian church. it is a summer camp on a mountain stream not far from the big horn mountains, about twenty miles south of sheridan. the building is used for kitchen, dining room, rest room and general headquarters. each family brings its own tent when using the camp. the purpose is to make it a place for tired people, and especially for those who have no cars or other means of taking an outing during some part of the hot weather. the community idea expresses itself in a plan whereby those owning cars shall sometimes transport a family that otherwise might have no outing. church property is valued at $ , , and it is noteworthy that the churches have acquired property of such value in so short a time. the fact that church growth is a present-day phenomenon is illustrated by the two splendid buildings erected since this survey was made, and the preparations for a third which will cover an entire block. the highest value of any city church is $ , , of any town church $ , , of any village church $ , and of any country church, $ , . twenty-eight churches have parsonages, their total valuation amounting to $ , , or an average value of $ , . about one-third of the churches carry some indebtedness on their property. twenty-five churches report a total debt of $ , , of which amount $ , was borrowed by six city churches, $ , by four town churches, $ , by five village churches and $ , by eight country churches. the money was spent for new buildings, new parsonages, repairs and, in one case, for a garage to hold the preacher's ford. curiously enough, instead of being a hardship, working to pay off a debt often brings church members together into a unified working group. the interest paid ranges from to per cent. church membership even more important than the material assets of the churches are their human assets--their members. the total number enrolled in protestant churches in the four counties is , . active members number , , or per cent., while , , or . per cent., are classed as inactive, i.e., they neither attend church services nor contribute to church support, and , or . per cent., are non-resident. the country and city churches have the highest proportion of non-resident members-- . per cent. and . per cent., respectively; the town figure is next at . per cent., and the village percentage is . . these people have moved, or else live too far away to come to church services. in addition to the enrolled membership, there are members of distant churches who have never transferred to local churches. they are scattered through all these counties, and their number is, of course, not known and cannot be estimated. some may have been asked to join local churches, but it is certain that some have not, and that no one knows or seems to care if they have been members of some church elsewhere. they may attend local churches occasionally, but it is more likely that they do not. some of them feel like the little hard-working ranch lady who said, "i was a church member out in iowa, thirty-five years ago, but i've never done lifted by letter and i've been here so long now, i guess i never will." [illustration: chart i] the protestant church member who moves away is not followed up by his church as a general thing. this is partly due to frequent ministerial changes, partly to the lack of well-kept church records, and partly to lack of interest. of course, the fault is not only with the churches on the range; it is a shortcoming of the churches everywhere. since, however, a transient population is characteristic of this country, it would seem to be a matter of prime importance for churches to keep track of the movements of their members. this matter concerns not only local churches and their denominations, but also calls for coöperation among different denominations. [illustration: chart ii] most of the churches are in the larger centers. of the total resident church membership nearly per cent. belong to city churches, per cent. to town churches, per cent. to village churches and only per cent. to country churches. as the center decreases in size, the more it draws from the surrounding country. thus, per cent. of the total resident families of city churches live in the city and per cent. live outside; per cent. of the total resident families of town churches live in the town and per cent. live outside; per cent. of the total resident families belonging to village churches live in villages and per cent. live outside. somehow the church has failed to appeal to the men. a prominent man who never came to church in one of the towns in the counties studied, said to a minister: "here is a hundred dollars. for god's sake, don't let the church go down!" this man realized that the community needed the church, but he chose to help from the outside. this is the prevailing attitude: the men are not antagonistic, but they are indifferent. all the counties have a higher proportion of men than of women in the population; each has a higher proportion of women than men in the church membership. beaverhead, preponderant by . per cent. in males, has the lowest proportion of adult men in the church membership, . per cent. union has the highest proportion of men, . per cent. for all the churches of the four counties, . per cent. of all church members are males over twenty-one, . per cent. are males under twenty-one, . per cent. are females over twenty-one and . per cent. are females under twenty-one. a larger proportion of young people are enrolled in the city and town churches than in those of the village and open country. city and town church memberships have per cent. boys, and . per cent. girls. villages have . per cent. boys, and . per cent. girls. open country churches have . per cent. boys, and . per cent. girls. one reason for the small number of young people is that many grew up without the church. the children now growing up have better church opportunities. the hope of the church for the future is to reach the children. the small church prevails on the range, the average active membership being only about fifty-seven. for the various groups, the active membership is as follows: average active membership country village town city average beaverhead hughes sheridan union the country churches have an average of eighteen, the village churches thirty-five, the town churches ninety-one and the city churches members each. forty-nine of the seventy churches have fifty active members or less, and thirty-six, or . per cent., of these have less than twenty-five each. twenty-one churches have each more than fifty active members. forty-four out of the forty-nine churches of less than fifty members are either in villages or in the open country. all the churches of more than members are either town or city churches. [illustration: chart iii] [illustration: chart iv] it is an acknowledged fact that the size of membership has a good deal to do with church efficiency; in a word, that the small church is a losing proposition. until the present, the small church on the range has been a necessity because of the small and scattered population. it is only the larger centers that have been able to support good-sized churches. even with the coming of irrigation, this western country will never be as thickly populated as the east or middle west. nor can a fair comparison be made between the churches in the larger centers in the middle west and far west. a different policy is likewise needed here because many of these centers in the west are surrounded with large unchurched areas and on that account their churches should be strategic centers for a radiating religious work. [illustration: chart v] in the matter of gain or loss in membership, it is to be noted that, during the last year, a little more than half the churches made a net gain in membership, sixteen churches broke even on the year and seventeen showed a net loss. thus, per cent. of all the churches remained stationary, per cent. lost in membership and per cent. gained. of the churches with or more members, per cent. gained; of those with less than members only . per cent. gained. seven hundred and sixty-four new members were taken in during the year. forty per cent. of these were taken in by letter, the rest on confession of faith. this gain by confession was about per cent. of the previous net active membership. gain was distributed according to sex and age as follows: adult male . % adult female . % boys . % girls . % chapter iv the church dollar one way, though by no means the only way, that the church can judge of its successful work is by the financial support that it receives. in this range country nearly all of the church dollar is raised locally, except about twelve cents donated toward church work by denominational boards. various methods are used by the local church for raising the other eighty-eight cents. half the churches use a budget system. that is, they set down at the beginning of the fiscal year an itemized budget of the amount which they need, on the basis of which amount subscriptions are obtained from each church member or family. twenty-five churches finance all their work this way and ten churches budget only their local needs. thirty-two churches make an annual every-member canvass, i.e., every member is asked regularly each year to contribute something toward the church. weekly envelopes, in single or duplex form, are used in twenty-four churches. forty churches can be said to have a system of regular, frequent payments. the rest of the churches depend upon various combinations of quarterly or annual payments, plate collections at services, bazaars and other money-raising devices. incidentally, the ladies aid and missionary societies are real stand-bys in the matter of church upkeep and benevolences. in fully half the churches, women's organizations undertake to raise some part of the church expenses in various ways, from regular weekly contributions to distributing bags to be filled with pennies for every year of the contributor's age, or by making gayly colored holders at three cents each. nearly one hundred thousand dollars were raised by the , active members in the year of the survey. this is the "real thrill" of the church dollar. the total amount of the budget raised on the field by sixty-eight of the seventy churches[ ] was $ , . . of this amount $ , . , or little less than three-fourths, was procured by subscriptions; $ , . , or slightly less than one-tenth, by collections, and the balance of the $ , . by miscellaneous means. this is an average amount per church of $ . . here again it is clear that the larger the membership of a church, the greater the impetus from within for further growth and activities. this condition is evident in the various church campaigns. the city churches raise more than twice as much as the churches in the town, village or country, but with their larger membership there is not a corresponding drain on the individual. thus, the city and village church members give about the same, $ . and $ . respectively per year; the town members give $ . ; the country members, with fewer buildings, fewer services, and less resident ministers to maintain than the members in the centers, pay $ . each. [illustration: chart vi figures refer to total amount raised and spent, including home mission aid.] considering that nearly half the churches raise their money haphazardly, the average contribution per church and per member, in these four counties on the range, is most encouraging. of course, it must be borne in mind that - came at the end of the fat years, and hard upon this prosperous period followed the lean one of high freight rates and low prices for farm products. church finances depend in part upon the practical presentation of the financial needs of the church, and upon education in christian stewardship--i.e., in learning the value of church work at home and abroad. but there is another side to the question which is quite as vital. is the church rendering a real service to the community, and has it an adequate and worth-while ministry? after all, people cannot be expected to give more than they receive in service. not quite all the money was spent. in each group there was a small surplus; $ . for the country churches, $ . for the village, $ . for the town, and $ . for the city churches. of the total amount spent, $ , . , or about per cent., paid salaries, $ , . , or per cent., was given to missions and benevolences, and the remaining per cent. was used for local expenses and upkeep. the total amount given to benevolences averages $ . a year. all the money spent averages $ . per resident active member, a good record indeed for a homesteading country. the question of benevolences is important because many churches offer no other means to their members of learning and practising unselfish giving and service. one of the standards adopted by the interchurch world movement was that the amount given to benevolences should at least equal per cent. of the total amount spent. the proportion of all money raised which is used to pay salaries and local expenses is higher in country and village churches, while the proportion given for missions and benevolences is lower than in the town and city churches. in other words, the country and village churches have less surplus over and above their running expenses. benevolences receive . per cent. of all money raised by the country churches, and . per cent. of all money raised by the village churches. town churches, on the other hand, give . per cent. of their receipts to benevolences, and the city churches give . per cent. the finances of city churches are well proportioned, almost an equal amount going for salaries, missions and all other expenses. home mission aid it has already been stated that about twelve cents of the church dollar come from the denominational boards in the form of home mission aid. the total amount given to the local churches in the year preceding the survey was $ , . , which went to forty-one churches in amounts varying from $ to $ . two more churches would have been receiving aid if they had had a pastor, and still another church had there been a resident pastor. of the forty-one churches receiving aid, two are city, seven are town, seven are village and twenty-five are country churches. of course, some of these churches, in their turn, hand back money to other boards in the form of missions and benevolences. all the city churches give $ , . in benevolences and missions and receive $ , ; all the town churches give $ , . and receive $ , ; the village churches give $ , and receive $ , , and the country churches give $ , and receive $ , . by counties, beaverhead gets back . per cent. of what she gives, hughes gets back . per cent., sheridan . per cent., while union is the only county which receives more than she gives-- . per cent. the churches which receive aid send back to the boards $ , . . in a word, the churches send money to the church boards, who in turn remit this money. this would seem a strange story to some one not versed in church ethics and denominational procedure. but giving and serving is one of the fundamental ideas of the christian religion, and money given for missions and benevolences is good training as well as definitely a service to humanity. the range has always been home mission territory; justifiably too, because homesteaders have not been able to pay for religious ministry. a homesteader's "bit" is hard earned enough, and seldom adequate to his needs. nevertheless, the problem of financial aid is always a serious one. subsidization of persons as well as institutions must be wisely handled or moral deterioration is likely to set in. the y. m. c. a. never subsidizes a county for its rural work. if the county cannot pay, it must do without the work. ordinarily, several counties combine for rural y. m. c. a. work and have one secretary among them. an excellent grading system for their aided fields has been worked out by the presbyterian home mission board.[ ] one of the first questions considered is the prospect of self-support. how far has it been the policy of the boards to help a church to a status of self-support? forty-four of the seventy active churches have had aid during the last thirty years. only four of these churches are now self-supporting. it has already been pointed out that three churches did not receive aid during the year preceding the survey because they lacked pastors. development toward self-support has evidently not been a criterion of the boards in granting money. another test is whether the field is a "strategic service opportunity"--either allocated to this denomination or a field presenting a unique need. some of the churches fall within such a classification. a total of about $ , has been received, given by eleven denominations. city churches have received $ , , town churches $ , , village churches $ , and country churches $ , . of the total amount, $ , has gone to fifteen strategic service churches. in addition, four of the aided churches receiving $ , serve special groups of population, of which one is swedish, one norwegian, and two are german lutheran churches. there remain thirty churches receiving $ , . three churches, receiving $ , , are the only ones in their community. all the rest are in communities with other churches, at least one of which in each case is aided. [illustration: a neglected outpost of christianity a village church in the center of a large unevangelized area, served by a minister living thirty-five miles away.] aid misapplied some aid has very evidently been granted without a definite understanding on the part of the board as to whether other churches were concerned, whether the community could really support a church, whether, after all, it was good sense to assist a church in that particular situation. not very much money has been spent. more could have been used to advantage. as h. paul douglass says in "from survey to service," "it is in the nature of the case that the conquest of distance by the gospel will take very disproportionate amounts of money compared with other forms of missions. it can be cheap only when it is adequate." the policy has too often been to help keep alive a great many struggling churches which did little to justify support, rather than to develop a smaller number of churches in greater need of help in a poorly churched area. in other words, the policy has been one of denominational expansion rather than of denominational concentration and demonstration. home mission aid too often creates futile competition within a community by supporting a church for selfish denominational purposes. some of these churches were better dead, and they would have died of natural causes but for home mission aid. there are good and bad instances of denominational help. one denomination has aided three churches for thirty years, but has not helped any one of them for the last ten years. they had reached a self-supporting status. but, when a denomination lavishes $ , of home mission aid in keeping alive a church in a village of population, where there is also another church, and when the village is situated near to a large, well-churched center, such aid is wasted. the same denomination fails to give with liberality to a far needier case, the only protestant church in a small village, a railroad center, located fairly in the center of a large unevangelized area. in one of its valleys, a resident recently remarked that they had heard no preaching for twenty years. this instance of neglect is in montana, and the territory has been allocated to this denomination since , so that other churches are keeping their hands off. yet this church, which had a resident pastor until two years before the time of the survey, is now being served by a pastor of a town church living thirty-five miles away who preaches there on a _week-day_ night. no preaching on sunday, no pastoral work, obviously no community work in the village and no touch at all on the districts outside of the village! how well could the lavish aid of $ , have been put to use in this churchless area! this desperate condition needs as much aid every year as _all_ the boards give _all_ forty-one aided churches at present. instead, this church has been allocated to one denomination, and is now getting less attention than before. this case constitutes an abuse of the principle of allocation. chapter v to measure church effectiveness add members contributing to the support of an organization to a probable minister and possibly to a building and you have the ground-plan of the average church in this western country. what, then, is the church program? how are the churches attempting to serve their members, and just how much are they contributing through their program and activities to the life about them, toward bringing about a genuine christianization of a community life? religious values, it is true, are spiritual and cannot be tabulated in statistical tables. this fact is as fully recognized as the corollary that circumstances often limit ideals. what the churches are doing, however, ought to be a fair test of their underlying purpose. in a word, then, what do they consider their job and are they "putting it across"? opportunities for worship all the churches have services for the preaching of god's word, but it has already become evident in the preceding pages that in certain sections of the range country the church, even as a social factor, is regarded rather as a curiosity by the men. an amusing story with a bret harte flavor is told of an early meeting in beaverhead county. the hall in glendale, a busy place then, with banks, restaurants, even a paper, was filled with a rough-and-ready audience of miners and cowboys listening to a lantern lecture. vastly delighted over the trick, one man after another quietly rose from his seat and stepped out of the window. when the preacher ended his talk and the hall lighted up not a soul remained but himself. the next day, however, his audience made it right. they passed a hat and collected $ for him. as has been noted, more than half of the church buildings are adapted to preaching and nothing else, nineteen churches, of necessity, holding their meetings in school houses. the frequency of services varies. the larger centers have an abundance of church meetings. all but two of the town and two of the city churches have two preaching services each sunday. but only three country and two village churches are so fortunate. two additional churches, one a village and one a town church, have the advantage of two services a sunday because they unite regularly with other churches near them, both of which hold two services a sunday. [illustration: not a store but a church christian church at des moines, union county.] forty-five of the seventy churches have less than two services a sunday. of thirty churches, twenty-five country and five village churches, each has less than four services a month. those located in the larger well-churched centers have an ample number of services, while the majority of churches with less than two services a sunday are country churches. yet most of these are holding the only service in their community. seventy-three and five-tenths per cent. of all the country churches have less than four services each month, and per cent. have only one service or even less. all but one of the eighteen churches with only one service or less per month are country churches. ten churches hold special musical services. mid-week prayer meetings are held by sixteen of those which have two services each sunday, but by only one of the forty-five churches in the group holding the fewer number of services. except in winter, the chief handicap to attendance in beaverhead and sheridan lies in the rugged landscape. country members in all the counties have real difficulty in getting to church throughout the year. most of them have long distances to go, and the roads make travel difficult in winter and early spring. in summer, haying is carried on very generally seven days of the week, and church attendance is a problem even if the church service is held at night. the aggregate monthly attendance is , and as the total number of services is , the average attendance per service is about sixty-five persons, low enough, but higher than the average active membership per church, which is about fifty-six. average seating capacity, active membership and attendance compare as follows: [illustration: chart vii] country village town city churches churches churches churches total average seating capacity [ ] [ ] average active membership average attendance at services it is evident from the table above that the churches are only about one-fourth filled on the average. nothing is more disheartening than a church three-quarters empty in which the echoes of the minister's voice reverberate over the vacant seats. union services tangible evidence of coöperation and good-will among churches of different denominations is found in "union" services, which thirty-eight churches might reasonably hold in these counties. just twenty-one of these churches do unite, the majority for thanksgiving day services and in fewer instances, for chautauqua, baccalaureate, memorial day, and summer evening services. in two instances, two churches, methodist and presbyterian, are uniting for services and sunday schools, their other organizations meeting separately. since the time of the survey, two churches, located in an overchurched hamlet, have also temporarily put this plan into effect. [illustration: a case of coÖperation the m. e. church at blunt, s. d., which being pastorless joined with the presbyterian church for preaching services.] evangelism a greater portion of the evangelistic work is done through revival meetings, although less than half of the churches hold them. of all the members admitted on confession of faith by all the churches during the year, per cent. were converted in revival meetings, and joined one of the churches holding such a revival. thirty-one of the seventy churches held or united in thirty such meetings, one being a union meeting of two churches. pastors conducted fifteen meetings, in three of which a neighboring pastor or evangelist assisted. fourteen meetings were held by visiting clergymen. the meetings were well attended, extending from seven to thirty-five days, the average meeting lasting thirteen days. eighty-seven per cent. of the converts and the thirteen who were reclaimed joined the churches holding the revival. this gain amounted to per cent. of the total gain in membership made by these same thirty-one churches during the entire year. forty-four per cent. of all the churches held revivals, and while they represent only per cent. of the total harvest by confession and letter, yet three-fourths of all the gain made by confession of faith were obtained by these churches. the country churches held seventeen meetings, averaged four new members each, and made per cent. of the total gain. the village churches held five meetings and the town churches held four meetings, both averaging five new members each, the village churches making per cent. of the total gain and the town churches per cent. the city churches held only four meetings, averaged about fifty-seven new members each and realized one-third of the total gain made. children and the churches sunday schools are the big hope of this country. young people and older people are not so much interested in the church and religion because so many have grown up without it, but the children have had more chance to know the church. sunday schools are to-day the most frequent form of church work in these western counties. they are especially hopeful because so many of them over-ride denominational lines and unionize; also because they persist when all other church spirit seems to be dead. fifty-six churches have sunday schools of their own, and one city church has a mission sunday school in addition to its own. two groups of two churches each combine their sunday schools. only three churches neither maintain their own sunday schools nor help with a union school. thirty-seven union sunday schools are being carried on in the four counties, nine of which have the assistance of church organizations meeting in the same building. three are located in mining camp villages, the rest in small hamlets or open country. these union schools have a fourth of the total sunday school enrollment. people on ranches and far from town start sunday schools under local leadership without waiting for churches to be organized. when a newcomer sends his children to sunday school it is often the only contact made with religious activity in the new country. the independent sunday school has, therefore, in a sense, a greater responsibility than the church sunday school. the importance of the sunday school is brought out in a comparison between sunday school enrollment and resident church membership. country village town city total number of churches number of sunday schools total resident church membership , , , total enrollment of church sunday schools , , , total enrollment of all sunday schools , , , , average enrollment of all sunday schools average attendance of all sunday schools the enrollment of church sunday schools is larger than the total church membership in union county, and larger than resident church membership in beaverhead, hughes or union. the total enrollment of all sunday schools is per cent. higher than the total resident church membership. without the union county sunday schools this enrollment equals only per cent. of the resident church membership. thirty-five churches have a larger sunday school enrollment than resident church membership; all nine churches helping with union sunday schools have a smaller membership than the union school enrollment. this discrepancy is high in some churches. for example, a country church has thirty-five enrolled in the sunday school and only eight church members; a village church with sixty-five enrolled in its sunday school has seven church members; a town church has fifteen church members and enrolled in its sunday school. country and village sunday schools show the best record. the total enrollment of all country sunday schools, including the union schools, is more than three times as high as church membership. the enrollment of all village sunday schools is about per cent. higher than village church enrollment. there are no union sunday schools in the towns or city. except in the city the average sunday school enrollment exceeds average resident church membership, the advantage being twenty-two for the country schools, nineteen for the village, and twelve for the town schools. the average city church membership, however, exceeds average sunday school enrollment by . when sunday school enrollment is higher than church membership, it is ordinarily encouraging as a promise of future growth. but the large discrepancies between village and open country church membership and sunday school enrollment, coupled with the low percentage of young people in their church memberships, show that these churches are not recruiting new members from their sunday schools as they might. nor are the churches relating themselves to any extent to the separate sunday schools in outlying sections. this _can_ be done, and is most successful in a few cases. for example, the apache valley sunday school, which meets on sunday afternoons at a schoolhouse in union county, is being "fathered" by two ministers from clayton, six miles away, who go out on alternate sundays. this sunday school is live and flourishing. it maintains a high percentage of attendance and carries on various activities. attendance in general is good. the percentage of enrollment represented in the attendance on a typical sunday varies from . per cent. for the town to . per cent. for the city schools. yet only twenty-five schools make definite efforts to increase their attendance. the various methods used are contests such as a competitive boys' and girls' day, a fall rally day, cards, rewards and prizes, a banner class, a look-out committee and the cross and crown system. during the year preceding the survey, pupils joined the churches from the sunday schools, and there were seven probationers at the time the survey was made. decision day was held in four country, one village, five town and four city schools. the results were meager. only thirty-five declared for church membership. nine town and city schools have classes to prepare for church membership, eight schools have sent twenty scholars into some kind of christian work during the last ten years. a country sunday school in hughes county has shown what can be done in this respect. it has sent five young people into christian service during the last ten years, and five more in the whole history of the school. it is significant that one consecrated pastor has served this sunday school and church during this entire time. cradle rolls are another excellent method of enlistment. yet these are kept in only twenty-six schools. the total enrollment is . one of the greatest needs of this country is more local and better trained leadership, not only for sunday schools but for the community at large. the only definite training for leadership is eight teacher training classes, held in two city, four town, one village and one country school. mission study is carried on in seventeen schools more or less frequently, several additional schools annually presenting the cause of missions. one city school has a four-day institute for the study of sunday school methods and missions. twenty-nine schools make regular missionary offerings, and seven take them once a year. twelve schools have libraries with an average of seventy-three volumes each. eighty-three schools give out sunday school papers. there are classes, an average of about twelve per class. proper preparation is one of the greatest needs of the sunday schools in these counties. much of the instruction is haphazard and indifferent. men teach classes and . per cent. of the total enrollment. ordinarily, the man teacher, if there is one, takes the adult class at the expense of the growing boy who needs him more than the adults. graded lessons are used exclusively in ten schools and twenty others use them in some classes. seventeen schools have organized classes. sixty-six schools are open throughout the year. the pastor is superintendent in six schools, teacher in fifteen, substitute teacher in one, "helps" in nineteen, is a student in two, and in one reports his job as "superintendent; teacher and janitor." social events for the sunday schools mean picnics, class parties, and sometimes a real ice cream sociable. about one-third of the schools have a reasonable amount of social activity, while sixteen report a great deal. fifty-seven schools have picnics, and great events they are, too, with more cakes and pies and goodies of all sorts than the community is likely to see again for another year. one or more classes have socials, parties and "hikes" in seventeen schools (four village, nine town and four city). the "anti-kants" is an interesting class of young women. every time one of the class becomes engaged, there is a party and a shower, called a graduation. twenty graduations have taken place in the history of the class. about half of the schools have programs for special days, especially for children's day, christmas and easter. one union school has an easter picnic and egg-hunt. nineteen schools have mixed socials, such as parties, indoor picnics, ice cream suppers and entertainments. one town school has a weekly social. the only special sunday school organizations are a choir association and sunday school athletic teams in three town churches which play competitive games. twenty report no social life of any sort in connection with their schools. they do not even have a picnic to liven things up. [illustration: happy little picnickers the baptist mission at kleenburg, wyoming, does good work for the kiddies.] [illustration: a good time was had by all a sunday school class picnic in union county.] other church organizations various other organizations have been developed within the churches for business, educational and social purposes. women have a great many, men have very few. fifty-six women's organizations are carried on in thirty-seven churches, of which nine are village and nine country churches. there are twenty-eight ladies' aids, thirteen missionary societies and various guilds, circles, auxiliaries, a manse society, a king's daughters, an adelphian and a dorcas. the total enrollment is , , or about per cent. of the total female resident church membership over twenty-one, and per cent. of the total female population aged from eighteen to forty-four, in the four counties. the attendance averages about twenty-one to each organization. in sorry contrast to this array, men's organizations number only seven, and all are connected with city or town churches in pierre, the county seat of hughes county. the enrollment is , or per cent. of the total resident church membership in city and town of males over twenty-one years of age, and only per cent. of the total male population between the ages of eighteen and forty-four in the four counties. men and women have two organizations in common. one is a missionary society which, contrary to custom, shares its endeavors with men, the other is a dramatic club for any one old or young who has dramatic ability. this interesting organization gives a splendid amateur show every year. a former professional actor, who also coaches dramatics in the high school, is the coach. boys left out there are only eight organizations for girls in seven town or city churches. two hundred and twenty-two, or per cent., of all the girls under twenty-one in the town and city resident membership are enrolled. one is a friendly society, and the rest are various kinds of guilds. but boys are the most shabbily treated of all. there are only four organizations especially for them, all in town churches and two in one church, so that only three churches have special clubs for their boys. the enrollment is sixty-nine, or about per cent. of all the boys under twenty-one enrolled in city and town church membership. boys and girls together have two organizations in two town churches with a membership of seventy-three. one is a junior league, and the other a junior baptist young people's union. young people have twenty-eight organizations in ten country, three village, nine town and six city churches. eight of them are epworth leagues, eight are christian endeavors and the rest are various young people's societies, baptist young people's unions, mission volunteers, young people's alliances, two choir organizations and one purely for fun club. their total enrollment of , together with the membership of the mixed boys' and girls' organizations, equals per cent. of the total church resident membership under twenty-one.[ ] more people in the community are reached through the meetings of these organizations than by any other single church activity, with the exception of the celebration of special days. these meetings are often community affairs, especially in the case of the women's organizations. in twenty organizations, the attendance exceeds the enrollment. the men's clubs work for the church, and several do practical community work. their programs in all but two cases include dinners, either at every meeting or at special banquets during the year. one club puts on a father and son banquet every year. men's forum and ladies' aids the most interesting outcome of the work of any of the men's organizations is the men's forum, recently developed in sheridan by the combined men's clubs of the congregational and protestant churches. this was the first open forum held in wyoming. the attendance at the meetings averaged . the principles of the forum are as follows: the complete development of democracy in america. a common meeting ground for all the people in the interest of truth and mutual understanding, and for the cultivation of community spirit. the freest and fullest open discussion of all vital questions affecting human welfare. participation on the part of the audience from the forum floor whether by questions or discussion. the freedom of the forum management from responsibility for utterances by speakers from the platform or floor. among the subjects presented have been "community problems," "the church and industrial conflict," "the golden rule in business: is it practicable?" "the farmers' movement in america," "bolshevism," "feeding the world: is it america's job?" there is no more encouraging sign of community interest in public questions, and a conscious effort on the part of the church to develop a public opinion on social, economic and religious problems. [illustration: program of a community rally] the ladies' aid is often the only woman's organization in the community. most of these clubs meet once or twice a month, with regular programs for bible study or missions, organize sewing and quilting bees, and bazaars, etc. the help they give in church finances has already been appreciated. any such common interest and responsibility holds many an organization together. several promote social welfare work. one organized a teachers' training class to improve material for sunday school teachers. one village has a community ladies' aid which works for the church, although only a few are church members. the community woman's club in a small hamlet is studying missions as a part of its program. in one community, the ladies' aid of the only church, which is pastorless, meets regularly and holds a yearly bazaar to pay the occasional supply preacher and keep the church in repair. at the "frontier day" given by a dude ranch, the ladies' aid from a nearby hamlet had a booth for selling hamburgers and lemonade. in one of the mining camps, the ladies' aid of the mission church sent out invitations for an afternoon tea to raise money for a new piano for the kindergarten. it turned out to be a great social event attended by women, many of them foreign, from all the camps in the vicinity. here is another ladies' aid, the only organization in all that part of a sparsely settled country, and many miles from town which holds eight socials a year and every social is a supper. those suppers bring out whole families, and are the biggest annual events. is it any wonder? the woman on the range has a lonesome time of it. ranches are far apart. she rarely sees her neighbors and less frequently goes to town. this woman needs social activities more than her town sister. yet only nine out of thirty-four country churches have women's organizations. young people's meetings are generally held sunday nights, and the majority hold an occasional social. one town young people's organization has a successful bible study class. the purely for fun club, as its name implies, is purely social and meets twice a month. it has a special garden party once a year. this club is one of the activities of a m. e. community church located in a new dry-farming community which is having a struggle to make both ends meet, but is doing good work in that community. the people are loyal, even enthusiastic. there is not, however, even a church building, let alone any equipment for social activities. a building is desperately needed for church and community center, nor can the members provide it themselves. cases of this kind represent possibilities for the most effective sort of home mission aid. chapter vi the preachers' goings and comings this is a field that challenges a preacher. the love of a new world has drawn his potential flocks and with them a pastor may come to new pastures where the satisfaction of creative pioneer work is not its least attraction. settlements have grown up almost over night. people have come from all over the east, middle west and southwest. many families live far from their neighbors. leadership is the challenging need and it is primarily the task of the church to furnish and develop it. the initial handicap is that here people, from a matter of habit, do not yearn for church ministry as they do in other parts of the country. their traditions do not include it. it is the preacher who must "sell" the idea of religion and the church. no one else will do it. he must be a "builder of something out of nothing--a pioneer of the gospel, creator as well as evangelist." the vagrant minister one of the most startling facts brought out by this survey is the degree to which the ministers have been transient. always a detriment to effective work, this lack of permanency is especially unfortunate in a country of such rapid growth and so transient a population. it takes more than average time to win people's confidence because they do not accept the church _per se_. there are problems enough to be met when a preacher "hog-ties," as the western slang puts it, meaning when he stays on the job. but the preachers have come and gone along with the rest. three of the forty-five churches organized for ten years or more have had the same preacher throughout the period, and five more churches have had only two pastors. but seven churches have changed pastors three times, ten have changed four, seven have changed five, six have changed six, five have changed seven, one has changed eight and one has changed nine times during this period. about half of the country and village churches, per cent. of the town, and one-fourth of the city churches have had five or more pastors during the last ten years. of the churches organized within the last ten years, ten have had one pastor, eight have had two, one has had three, three have had four, one has had six, one has had seven and two have had no regular pastors during the entire time. these men have indeed had the spirit of wanderlust. they have scarcely stayed long enough to get acquainted with their task. [illustration: chart viii] lapses between pastors are revealed. the changing has meant loss of time to three-fourths of the churches. thus, of the group of churches organized ten years or more, city churches have been vacant . per cent. of the ten years, town churches per cent. of the time, village churches per cent. and country churches per cent. of the time. the churches organized in the last ten years, of which the majority are in small hamlets and the open country, have been vacant per cent. of the time. again the churches in the larger centers fare better. distribution of pastors the churches in the four counties are at present being served by forty ministers who have been a long time in church service, but only a short time in their present fields. their average length of time in their present charge is only two and one-third years. twelve of the forty-one present pastors have been in their parishes less than a year, and fourteen more have been serving from one to two years inclusive. thirty-two ministers give their entire time to the ministry. eight have some other occupation in addition to their church work. one is a student, and the rest are ranchers. these eight men serve eleven churches in the four counties and eight churches outside. thirteen churches were without regular pastors at the time of the survey, but five churches were only temporarily pastorless--transiency caught in the act! four of the thirteen were being supplied by local or travelling preachers, one a woman homesteader. the remaining fifty-seven churches, therefore, were being served by forty regular ministers, and two resident social workers who take care of a baptist mission at a mining village in sheridan county. the regular ministers also serve twenty churches in other counties, making a total of seventy-seven churches, or . churches per man. this is a slightly lower proportion of ministers per church than the region averages. how the ministers are divided up so that they will go around is shown in the following table. the sixteen preaching points and missions which these same men also serve are not included because in general they do not take the same amount of time as a regular church.[ ] preachers with no other preachers with occupation other occupation serving one church (b- , h- , s- , u- ) (h- , u- ) serving two churches (b- , h- , s- , u- ) (..., u- ) serving three churches (..., h- , s- , u- ) (..., u- ) serving four churches (..., u- ) serving five churches (...............u- ) -- -- total the denominational basis of church organization, as a preceding chapter shows, leads to an uneven distribution of churches and ministers. if it were not for denominational lines, it would be possible to make a better distribution of the ministers so as to give a larger proportion of the communities a resident minister. the centers have an abundance of ministers, but outside the centers there are too few. thus, thirty-three of the churches have resident preachers, but twenty-two, or _two-thirds_, of these churches are located in centers which have other resident ministers. more than half of the churches with resident pastors are town or city churches. only _nine_ communities have one or more resident ministers serving a single church on full time. one of these communities is the city, three are the towns, one is a village community in beaverhead, one the mining town with the two social workers, and three are country communities. only eighteen communities have such full-time resident pastors. ten other churches have pastors living adjacent to their buildings, but in each case the pastor also serves other churches, or has other occupation. fourteen churches have pastors living from five to eighteen miles distant, four have ministers living from eighteen to thirty-five miles distant. one has its pastor living fifty miles away, one sixty-five and one miles. four pastors live outside their counties. [illustration: chart ix] an adequate parsonage is one means of keeping a resident pastor. about half of the churches have parsonages. of the forty churches with buildings, thirty-four have parsonages and one country pastor has a parsonage and no church building. three parsonages were not being used at the time of the survey. the residence of pastors and the distribution of pastoral service have a clear relation to growth. the pastor is ordinarily responsible for the evangelistic success of the church. if a pastor is non-resident or has too large a territory to serve, his personal contribution is lessened. of the churches having resident pastors, two-thirds made a net gain. of those with non-resident pastors, only one-third gained. pastors' salaries. the question of ministers' salaries is important. inadequate salaries have undoubtedly caused some of the restlessness among the ministry. salaries vary as the minister is on full or on part time, as shown in the following table. the full-time one-church man commands a wage higher than the man with more churches, or the man with another occupation. [illustration: a parsonage but no church the m. e. pastor shown here with his wife and baby has a house but no church building on his circuit. he preaches in three school houses.] minister full time with other full time part time minister occupation minister minister with more and more with one with one than one than one church church church church maximum salary $ , $ , $ , $ , minimum salary average , , , these average salary figures may be compared with the average salary of the y. m. c. a. county secretaries for the entire united states which was $ , in . training of ministers standards of the various denominations as to the educational qualifications of the ministers vary. eighteen of the forty-one pastors are graduates of colleges and theological seminaries; six others are college graduates, three are graduates of seminaries or bible schools, but have no college training. one minister is going to seminary. ten ministers have had no special training for the ministry. chapter vii negro and indian work racial cordiality in this range country, there are not many negroes in proportion to the white settlers, and the relations between the races are cordial. beaverhead county has twenty-eight negroes in dillon and lima communities. sheridan county has a total of about . a small neighborhood, cat creek, six miles west of the city of sheridan has about negroes. there are six negro farm owners at cat creek with farms of acres each. considerable community spirit has been developed, which is manifested by increased friendliness and by pride in the farms. the plum grove club has sixteen members, and meets twice a month for discussions on crop welfare and for social times. there is a sunday school, with an enrollment of fifteen and an average attendance of ten, which is kept going for eight months of the year. preaching services are held occasionally. the negroes in the city of sheridan are hard-working and industrious. they are mainly laborers, but some have small businesses. organizations include a mutual aid society with fifty members and three lodges which are all inactive at present. the national association for the advancement of colored people has a local branch with members. a recently organized athletic club of fifteen members hopes to branch out into a regular athletic association. colored churches there are two colored churches--a methodist episcopal and a baptist north. the methodist episcopal was organized in ; the baptist in the following year. both churches have resident pastors, serving but one point each. each denomination has a church building and a parsonage. the combined value of the church buildings is $ , , of the parsonages $ . the baptist church has recently been rebuilt. both churches use weekly envelopes for raising their money which amounted to $ , . last year, $ , . of which was by subscription, and $ by collection. there was no surplus or deficit. from this fund $ . was spent for salaries, $ . for missions and benevolences, and $ , . for rebuilding and repairs. the baptist church receives home mission aid of $ . the methodist church has thirty-six members, having made a net gain of seven in the year preceding the survey. the baptist church has twenty-six members whose membership has remained constant. the total net active membership of the two churches is fifty-one. each church holds eight sunday preaching services a month. both have sunday schools. the methodist sunday school, with an enrollment of sixteen, is kept going the year round; the baptist sunday school, with an enrollment of twelve, meets for only seven months. the methodist church has three other organizations--a woman's missionary society, a willing workers and ladies' aid, and a literary society for both sexes with a membership of fifty. the baptists have one organization, a christian aid, with a membership of twelve, to which both men and women belong. one church has had six, the other five, pastors in the last ten years. the present pastors are graduates of both college and seminary. a friendly feeling exists between the white and colored people in sheridan, which is manifested by a willingness on the part of the white churches to help the colored. the colored ministers are included in the sheridan ministerial union. indian missions part of the crow creek indian reservation extends into the southeastern part of hughes county, and about per cent. of the people living in this section of hughes are indians. all are farmers owning their own land. an episcopal indian mission was established here in . the pastor, who lives in fort thompson, conducts one morning service a month. there are twenty-six members, of whom twenty-one are active. there is no sunday school, but a ladies' aid with five members meets every week and has twice as large an attendance as it has enrollment. there is also a catholic mission located near the episcopal mission, which was started about . the priest comes from outside the county and holds one mass each month. there are about fifteen families in the membership. chapter viii non-protestant work roman catholic the roman catholic work is the strongest non-protestant religious activity in all the four counties and naturally has a large number of foreign-born and spanish-american communicants in its parishes. there is a total of twenty-four organized catholic churches. beaverhead county has two, hughes three, sheridan five and union fourteen. the city of sheridan, and each of the towns supports a catholic church; eight are located in villages, two of which are in sheridan mining camps, and twelve in small hamlets. nine priests, seven of whom live in these counties, serve the twenty-four churches. four churches, two in villages and two in small hamlets, are served by priests living outside the county. [illustration: an oasis in the desert the grounds in which this catholic church and parsonage stand make this the only spot of verdure in a barren waste extending for miles on every side.] each of the twenty-four churches has a building. there are six priests' houses, valued at $ , , and two parochial school buildings. the value of church buildings is estimated at a total value of $ , . the total value of church property, including land, is $ , . none of the churches have any social equipment. the total receipts of all the churches last year amounted to $ , . and this amount was spent largely on salaries and church upkeep. the only churches receiving aid are two in union, each of which received $ . the average salary is $ . [illustration: roman catholic churches and parishes, union county, new mexico] the total membership is about , , which is within of the total protestant figure for seventy churches. the average total membership is per church. only three of the twenty-four churches have as few as fifty members or less. thirteen churches have catechism and confirmation classes, with a total enrollment of . attendance is high; it equals per cent. of the enrollment. there are seventeen other organizations, three for men, ten for women, one for boys, one for girls and two for young people. the total enrollment is . the church in sheridan has a parochial school. catholic church membership increased more rapidly than the protestant in beaverhead and hughes and less rapidly in sheridan from to , according to the united states religious census. in union, from to , the protestant membership increased more rapidly than the catholic. catholic membership is greater than protestant membership in every county but hughes. there are a total of nineteen catholic mission centers in union and beaverhead. penitentes there are about five groups of penitentes in union county, with an average of twenty-five members each. no women belong. the penitentes are all spanish-americans and are largely sheep and cattle herders. their small adobe and stone buildings are called "morada." meetings are held in lent, on the last three days of holy week. during the ceremonies, members inflict personal punishment, often carrying it to an extreme. this sect, which was at one time distributed over the whole territory of new mexico, since has retreated towards the north. as to their origin, twitchell in his "history of new mexico" says: "it is possible that the penitentes, particularly by their scourging themselves with whips made of cactus, come from the order of flagellants which was a body of religious persons who believed by whipping and scourging themselves for religious discipline they could appease the divine wrath against their sins and the sins of the age." the penitentes are not recognized by the catholic church. latter day saints dillon, in beaverhead, and the city of sheridan, each have a mormon church. there is a church building in dillon, and the one in sheridan is now being erected. there is also an inactive church at lima, organized in . the mormon membership is eighty-five in dillon and thirty-six in sheridan. both churches have sunday schools, with a total enrollment of seventy and relief societies with a total membership of thirty-five. christian science there are two christian science churches, located in dillon and in the city of sheridan, both organized in . the dillon church meets in an office, but the sheridan church has a building valued at $ , . the church membership is about . both churches have sunday schools, with an enrollment of about thirty in dillon and about fifty in sheridan. theosophical the city of sheridan has a theosophical society which meets in a real estate office. the membership is seventeen. six new members were taken in last year. meetings are held every friday night. two meetings a month are for members only, and two are public lectures. chapter ix seeing it whole the range, our last real frontier, has grown up. round-ups are miniature and staged. all the land is fenced. the cowboy is passing, if not gone. even "chaps" and a sombrero are rare, unless worn by a "dude" from the east. the last years have seen a remarkable growth and change in this country. the cattleman and the cowboy have largely given way to the homesteader, and he in turn has become a regular farmer or, as he prefers it, "rancher." the land of the homesteader the cowman used to insist that no one could make a living on the semi-arid range. for many years "there was no sign of permanent settlement on the plains and no one thought of this region as frontier." then the homesteader came. "and always, just back of the frontier," says emerson hough in "the passing of the frontier," "advancing, receding, crossing it this way and that, succeeding and failing, hoping and despairing, but steadily advancing in the net result--has come that portion of the population which builds homes and lives in them, and which is not content with a blanket for a bed and the sky for a roof above." homesteaders are good stock upon which to build a civilization. many of them are sturdy folk who have come to the west to establish homes and with determination are doing so. of course, there are the habitual drifters who have always been failures because they never stayed long enough anywhere to succeed. but they prove up on their claims and then go elsewhere, drifting still. others leave, holding their land as an investment, because they have not found the land or the circumstances up to their expectations. the free land has gradually been taken up, so that there is very little of it left in any one of these counties. the population is becoming less transient on this account. more people are staying because there is no more free land, and no other newer frontier. what, then, has the survey shown of the range? how has it fared in its years of growth? what are its assets as well as its needs? in a word, what has it made of itself? the very presence of real farm-houses on dry farming land and mesas speaks in itself of a small world conquered. of course, there are farm-houses in the valleys. but sheer grit is all that achieves a house and a barn and a wind-shield of trees out on the mesa. lumber is expensive and must be hauled from the nearest market. trees, so wary of growing there, must be watched, watered and carefully tended every day for the first five years. a home on the plains means more sweat and toil and effort than a home anywhere else in our country. [illustration: watering her garden this homesteader of ten years' standing has succeeded in cultivating an attractive garden patch even in the thirsty soil of new mexico.] self-help the rule the development of the range has been haphazard. any land company has been able to work up a "boom" at will. not even misrepresentations and uncounted, unlimited hardships have stirred the government to form and follow any better colonization policy for its unoccupied lands than its "homestead laws." the western farmer has never been cherished by his government as has been the canadian farmer. until the comparatively recent development of county agent services and the farm bureau, he has had to work for everything he got with very little help from any one. an intense economic struggle is behind the homesteaders. they begin from the bottom up. some are just now beginning, but for the majority the difficulty of getting a start is over. but the last few years have been hard for every farmer and rancher on the range, old settler and new alike. no part of the country can afford to have the men on the land as hard pressed as these men have been. too large a proportion of the farms have been mortgaged for the economic well-being of a nation. [illustration: a community rendezvous often the general store is the only gathering place for neighbors miles apart.] made up largely of people from the middle west, this country has taken on some of the characteristics of that region--in the development of small and large centers, and in the improved roads and schools. but on account of the nature of the soil, it will be many years before the range becomes a second middle west, if ever. the land will not support as many people per square mile. much of the area will remain, for years to come, a land of large distances and comparatively few people. the future of the range is not to be summed up by saying, "go to, this country will soon become a second middle west. just give it time." "if you want to see neighbor adams, you'll find him in town on saturday afternoon, most like round perkins' store." such will be the advice given in regard to meeting almost any farmer living in almost any part of these counties. as roads have improved, and autos have come to be generally used by the farmers as a means of transportation, the trade centers along the railroads, especially the county seats, have increased greatly in size and importance. this growth of the centers is characteristic of the whole united states. until after less than per cent. of the american people lived in cities of , population and over. in there were but five cities in the united states having a population of , . now a majority live in the cities; but the west does not yet have the urban development of the east. importance of the county seat as the county seats are coming gradually to have more of a direct relationship to the country around them, they should assume more responsibility toward their counties. through their organizations and civic leagues of business men, these centers are just waking up to the fact that the towns are dependent upon them. as one farmer in union county said, "there is no permanent prosperity except that based on the farmer. if our town is big and top-heavy and the farmers are taxed heavily to keep the town up, it is killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. the , farmers tributary to clayton must pay the bills of everything brought in because, ultimately, the products of the farm have to pay for everything. when conditions are bad, the farmer has to pay the bill and keep going besides." if the development of the future is to be sound each side will do its best to understand the other. a centralized school system school systems are becoming better. people realize the advantages of education. more and more young people are being sent to college. but as distances are gradually being overcome, schools should be administered wholly from the county seat. the county unit plan does away with the local school district boards. this system equalizes burdens and advantages, minimizes dissension, and conduces to economy and efficiency. the average school board has no standards by which to judge an applicant for teaching. one disadvantage of the district system is that so often daughters are put in as teachers. the county unit plan means centralized control. the county superintendent, who is selected solely because of education, training and successful experience, takes over most of the duties which the various districts now have. this means a comprehensive and efficient plan of education for the whole county. social needs other great needs are a better organized social life and more recreational activities. outside the larger center, there is a great lack of social life. social organizations are fairly abundant, but they are almost all city or town affairs. living on the land is a more solitary affair for women than for men. the men drive to town, but the women stay home week in and week out with few diversions. a postmistress in montana told about two women living on large cattle ranches about six miles apart, a small distance in that country. she said to one of them: "there is mrs. denis at the door just going out. did you see her?" the other lady answered: "yes, but i hardly know mrs. denis." they had lived there for more than ten years, near neighbors for the range country, and yet barely acquainted! [illustration: "mary, call the cattle home!" but this "mary" is a homesteader's wife and the range is a long way from the sands o' dee, and "mary" herself is usually a long way from anywhere.] the part of the church finally, there is the duty of the church. "the churches performed an inestimable social function in frontier expansion," says john dewey. "they were the rallying points not only of respectability but of decency and order in the midst of a rough and turbulent population. they were the representatives of social neighborliness and all the higher interests of the communities." the church has played an important rôle in the past, but its position in this same country to-day is disappointing. for some reason it has not become essential to the landscape. [illustration: waiting at the church a christian church in union county which draws its congregation from a wide area.] the immense distances and scattered population have, of course, been a great problem. all the country west of the mississippi makes up . per cent. of the total area of the united states, while the western area has only per cent. of the total population. in , it had only . per cent. of the population. the average density per square mile in the united states is . persons. illinois has . people per square mile, but montana has an average density of only . , wyoming of , new mexico of . and south dakota of . persons. much of the range has never had the chance to go to church, and one result of the lack of church facilities in the past is that it is difficult now to create a church spirit. homesteading is no fun. it means being away from doctors and comforts, getting ahead little by little, facing set-backs, discouragements and loneliness. of course, a homesteader is absorbed by his place. unless he is simply proving up on his claim for the purpose of selling it, he must be absorbed if he is to succeed. he broke with most of his home ties before he came and, after arriving, has not had time to go adventuring for any but those simple things which he must have. "church" is one of the things he left behind. church services have rarely followed him, and generally he has been too busy to seek them. even if he were minded to hunt them out, it takes more than average courage to be "different" when one's neighbors are largely of a common mind. so the absence of church has become a habit. [illustration: hitting the trail will this settler find a church welcome in his new home?] but probably the greatest hindrance to church work has been the shifting population. churches have trained lay leaders only to have them leave "en masse." out of the fourteen churches which have been abandoned in these four counties, nine have gone under because their members melted away. the carrying over of the care-free frontier spirit often makes for a general slackness. this spirit has in it the freedom of the west, the perfect democracy of the cowboy, and is essentially individualistic. if directed into right channels, it should be an asset instead of a drawback. what the frontier church is five sentences sum up the church on the range. it is a church of the center. it is, in the main, a church of the middle-aged. it has been a church with haphazard leadership. it is a church of past achievements and of unlimited future possibilities, provided it has an inspired and sustained leadership. it is a church which needs a social vision. it is natural that, where the centers along the railroad have been the only "sure" things in a country of constantly shifting settlements, the largest number of churches have been established in such centers. but these churches have not reached the great unevangelized areas around them. the "isolated, unattached christian," who lives perhaps only a few miles from town, has been neglected by the church in the center. it is natural, too, that this should be largely a church of the middle-aged. what is there to attract the young people? many of the church organizations have no buildings. with few exceptions, buildings are equipped for little else but preaching and listening. nearly half of the churches have less than four services a month. the sunday schools are not well organized. with the start the sunday schools now have, possibilities are unlimited if they can be conducted on a more business-like basis. yet these young people and children are the great hope of the church. no more wide-awake, vigorous young people are to be found. "if only the church could work out something that would last through the week," said one of them, "it would seem more real." but in many communities the women's organization is not only the sole organization in the church, outside the sunday school, but the only one in the community. the work has been haphazard. home mission aid has been spent out of all proportion to fitness. the same amount now received would go further, eventually, if spent in fewer places. with means and leaders adequate for a small area only, the general idea of some denominations has been to hold, but to do little with a large area. there has been some unnecessary over-lapping of work. with their large fields, the ministers cannot be expected to do more than they are doing at present which is, in most churches, occasional preaching. a missionary pastor said, concerning one of his charges in a neglected community in union, "the second time i went to preach no one came. do you think i'd go back?" under the present system of many points and long distances, this pastor could hardly afford to use the time to go back. yet, to succeed, church ministry must be steadier and more long-suffering. there are some new americans in each county, but they are in larger numbers in sheridan and beaverhead. a large number of the spanish-americans in union are not provided for by the catholic church, and the only protestant work for them in the county, a spanish american mission in clayton, has been given up. in sheridan county there is great need of a comprehensive program that shall include all six mines. there should be at least two community houses built with organized social activities and evening classes; the staff to include a domestic science teacher. with the exception of one class for half a dozen italian mothers in one of sheridan's mining villages, no americanization work is being done in any county. the churches should enlarge their vision so as to include the new americans. [illustration: the family mansion with the family and the union county doctor in front of it. the family is spanish-american.] what the frontier church can be it is possible for the church to serve this kind of country with its scattered people. it is difficult but it can be done. certain denominations have succeeded with what they call a "demonstration parish." the plan is exactly the same as that of the experimental farms conducted by the government. a comprehensive seven-day-a-week plan, which has in mind the whole man, mind, body and soul, in place of the old circuit-rider system, is the program of the congregational demonstration parish in plateau valley, colorado. six thousand feet up on the western slope of the rockies, this valley is shut in on three sides by rugged, white-capped mountains. it is thirty miles long, from one to six miles wide, and contains about square miles of territory. this is a small world in itself, self-contained by the nature of its environment. of the , people, live in the four small villages of collbran, plateau city, melina and mesa. the one great industry of the valley is stock-raising. farmers have devoted themselves chiefly to raising beef cattle, but an interest in dairying is increasing. pure-bred stock is now the goal of their efforts. this beautiful mountain valley was chosen as a "model parish" to show what could be done by the church throughout a large, thinly settled area. although there were five church buildings in the valley, the church-going habit seemed to have been lost or never acquired, possibly because religious privileges had been meager and not altogether suited to the peculiar needs of the people and the country. it is doubtful if people living in the valley were church members or attendants, while not more than children went to sunday school regularly. few persons, however, were actually hostile toward religion or the church. here was the opportunity and the challenge. the work centers in collbran village, where there is a congregational church organization and building. there are two men on the staff. the pastor has charge of the church school, the christian endeavor, and the work with men and young people in collbran village. he also does visiting throughout the valley. the director of extension work has the responsibility for establishing and maintaining out-stations, financing the local budget, and supervising the activities and the building of the community house. this community house is to be the center and great achievement of the modern socio-religious program. the completed building will have rooms and equipment for an ideal church school, kindergarten, game room, library, rest-room and men's club. the gymnasium will have a floor space seventy-five by forty feet and a gallery; it will also serve as an auditorium, while a stage, dressing-rooms and a moving-picture booth form part of the equipment. the basement will have billiard room, bowling alleys, lockers, baths, dining room and kitchen. the entire cost of the building will be approximately $ , , to be financed in part by the congregational church building society and in part by local pledges. this is home mission aid well spent. the first and second units were completed and opened for use on christmas day, . the first unit is the auditorium. the second unit contains the library, assembly room, men's room, women's room, large billiard room and two offices which are to be used as headquarters for the boys' and girls' organizations. the third unit will be completed in the summer of . the pastor and extension man have office hours in the morning. in the afternoon, the women's rest room, with its easy chair, lounge and cribs for babies, and the men's club are open. the billiard and reading rooms are open from one to five-thirty and the library is open from three-thirty to five. this library already has , books, and there are shelves for , more. the library service is probably the most appreciated part of the work for it fills a long and sorely felt need. in the evening, the men's and women's rooms are open, and the reading room and billiard room are open from seven to nine. the privileges of the community house are for each man, woman and child in the valley irrespective of church or creed. so far as possible, everything enjoyed at the center is to be taken to the furthest circumference of the valley. the equipment for the extension work consists of a truck, auto, moving-picture machine and a generator. the community truck is used to furnish group transportation and to promote inter-neighborhood "mixing" in competitive and other ways. the extension director is organizer, social engineer and community builder. he has a regular circuit of preaching appointments and sunday schools. his program includes a one-hour visit to four schools every week. ten minutes are used for physical exercises, thirty minutes for public school music with the coöperation of the teacher and twenty minutes for religious education. he takes out library books and sunday school papers to the teacher, and once a month shows educational moving-pictures. the people are already responding to this constructive program. within four months, the collbran church school has increased nearly per cent. in average daily attendance. the christian endeavor society includes practically all the young people of the intermediate age. the scouts and camp fire organizations are very active and recently held a dual meet with the mesa organizations. wrestling, basket-ball, hog-tying and three-legged races were some of the events. within the year, thirty-seven members were added to the collbran church, among whom were the leading lawyer, banker, doctor, contractor, editor, merchant and rancher. the other two denominations in the valley, the methodist episcopal and baptists, are coöperating in the effort. the small methodist episcopal church at plateau city has come into the movement by arrangement with the methodist episcopal conference, and has become part of the larger parish. this church and community will unite with the congregational church on a common budget for the support of general work. there is now methodist episcopal work in the extreme end of the valley, baptist in the central part, and congregational in the extreme west. each church sticks to its own territory; each urges members of its own denomination to work with churches in other sections. but the larger parish equipment serves all in the extension program. the work is only begun. the larger purpose is to break down distinctions between neighborhoods, as well as between village and country, and to weld all people living over a wide area into one large community with community spirit and a common loyalty. this cannot be done by the church alone; doctors, visiting nurse, school teachers, county agent and farm bureau will gradually be called into a coöperative team play. this, then, is the church not merely aspiring to leadership, but utilizing its opportunity with a real program. asking no favors because of its divine origin, it is determined to make itself a necessity in the community by virtue of what it does. it is the church "actually practising a religion of fellowship, giving value for value and serving all the people and all of their interests, all of the time." the larger parish plan this larger parish plan is the old circuit rider system brought up to date, and given an all-around significance through the use of modern means of transportation and an equipment suited to a religio-social program. the minister is no less a preacher and man of god because he is a community builder. his measure of "success" is his ability to work out with his people a genuine program of rural and social service. with its community church and program, the larger parish plan seeks to make the church both a religious and a social center. under its own roof, if necessary, or better, with an adjoining community house, it has equipment which provides for ideal worship, a modern church school and well-supervised social and recreational activities. it amounts to a church that offers advantages like those of the y. m. c. a. and y. w. c. a. by means of this program, the rural church puts itself at the center rather than at the far circumference of rural life, and becomes one of the most active agencies in the community. [illustration] [illustration: a real community house members of this presbyterian church at sheridan building their own community house under the leadership of the pastor. the women of the church provided the eats.] this plan remedies a characteristic disability of the average rural minister and his church--the neglect in farmstead visitation. especially on the plains, isolation and loneliness persist despite modern improvements. there are country homes near to villages or towns into which no minister or church visitor goes from one year's end to another. within reach of almost any church on the range, and over great stretches of country, children may be found who are growing up without any religious training. in the face of this need and its challenge, the larger parish plan need not wait for people to come into the church. by means of a well-equipped extension program the church, and everything it stands for, is taken to all who need its ministrations. [illustration: a church that serves the community the m. e. church and parsonage at clearmont, wyoming.] preaching is essential. but when a minister and congregation can "brother" scattered peoples, they are most helpful in bringing the kingdom of god to rural america. there may be some justice in the excuse that "the farmer and his family might easily come in to services in their automobile," but it is true that a "house-going minister makes a church-going people." the larger parish plan furnishes the minister the equipment and help to do just this thing. it views the church as a service institution. the montana plan it is even possible for a whole state to make a united plan for church work. montana has had its area, community by community, county by county, or valley by valley, "allocated" to the religious care and undisputed responsibility of one or more denominations. for this new and progressive policy the people of the state were themselves responsible, and its development will be watched with intense interest. unfortunately one of the fields in the only montana county in this survey is not receiving the attention it should from its "allocated denomination." this is the work in the southern part of the county, now served by a non-resident pastor. a glance at the map will show how effectively the larger parish plan could be applied. two tasks face the churches in these counties: first, to increase and enlarge the work of the churches already established, and, secondly, to reach and serve the great unevangelized areas. the former is a problem for the individual church and community. the latter is a problem demanding the coöperation of all religious forces on the field, for "there is religious need enough to tax the best energies and resources of all." the churches in this new western country must keep pace with their rapidly changing environment, and with elastic yet inclusive programs really become community churches. the county seat towns should assume more responsibility for their surrounding areas; in other words, they should plan and develop larger parishes. especially in beaverhead and hughes, this area is unchurched and to a great extent neglected. while the social and economic life of these "centers" naturally overshadows a great portion of the county areas, yet the churches minister very inadequately to their needs. the church parishes on the map represent few members. the centers are growing, their influence is ever widening, so that the church, in building up her work at the center with the idea not only of serving the people at hand but of reaching just as thoroughly the people in the surrounding areas, will naturally fulfill her destiny. to reach areas outside the influence of the church work at the centers, colporteurs should be employed. a sunday school missionary could give permanence to all sunday school work and help to organize new schools in union and possibly in sheridan county. some additional churches should be established; others might very well be closed. but it is chiefly up-to-date, educated, resident pastors that are needed, with a belief that the rural task is worth their lives. coöperation the solution the psychological and religious differences in these four counties have already been shown. all should not be treated alike. every county is different. every county demands individual study and treatment. such conditions call for the survey method and for intensive coöperation. this is the key to the whole situation. business, though still competitive and on an individual basis, combines for the community good, as in the case of rotary and civic clubs. the churches might well emulate this example in organization. there are competent ministerial unions in pierre and sheridan city. what is needed now is a council of religion in each county with a program enlisting every minister and every church, and including every square mile of occupied land in the county. all problems are related. the causes of church ineffectiveness lie in non-coöperation. ministers have stayed too short a time to relate themselves to their parish and their people; denominations in establishing new churches have not been curious enough about the lay of the land; the various component parts have been unrelated--the preacher to the church, the fringe areas to the church in the center and, finally, the church to the people. the frontier of the future yesterday the range population was busy settling down. to-day it is haphazardly here, and still coming. and what of to-morrow? franklin k. lane wrote at the end of his term of service in the department of the interior: "we are quickly passing out of the rough-and-ready period of our national life, in which we have dealt wholesale with men and things, into a period of more intensive development in which we must seek to find the special qualities of the individual unit whether that unit be an acre of desert, a barrel of oil, a mountain canyon, the flow of a river, or the capacity of the humblest of men." here is fertile ground for well directed and progressive development. the east is crystallized into its habits and customs. the west is more plastic because it is in the social making, and is willing, at need, to change its ways. the social baggage of the eastern states is only partly unpacked in this region. the young west is developing a flexible social and institutional life in keeping with its phenomena of time and place. great possibilities are ahead. a real welding process has begun during the last few years as the population tends to become more static, or as it learns to coöperate in such agencies as red cross work during the war and the work of the farm bureau. a new social spirit is developing. the church has counted for a great deal on the range and has done some good, fundamental work. but in order to keep abreast of the new development and to help bring to the range a "satisfying community life which is profitable, sociable, healthful and full of culture and charm and, above all, full of god," the church must make its ministry broader, steadier and more available. appendices i: methodology and definitions ii: tables appendix i methodology and definitions the method used in the town and country surveys of the interchurch world movement and of the committee on social and religious surveys differs from the method of earlier surveys in this field chiefly in the following particulars: . "rural" was defined as including all population living outside incorporated places of over , . previous surveys usually excluded all places of , population or over, which follows the united states census definition of "rural." . the local unit for the assembling of material was the community, regarded, usually, as the trade area of a town or village center. previous surveys usually took the minor civil division as the local unit. the disadvantage of the community unit is that census and other statistical data are seldom available on that basis, thus increasing both the labor involved and the possibility of error. the great advantage is that it presents its results assembled on the basis of units which have real social significance, which the minor civil division seldom has. this advantage is considered as more than compensating for the disadvantage. . the actual service area of each church as indicated by the residences of its members and adherents was mapped and studied. this was an entirely new departure in rural surveys. four chief processes were involved in the actual field work of these surveys: . the determination of the community units and of any subsidiary neighborhood units included within them. the community boundaries were ascertained by noting the location of the last family on each road leading out from a given center who regularly traded at that center. these points, indicated on a map, were connected with each other by straight lines. the area about the given center thus enclosed was regarded as the community. . the study of the economic, social and institutional life of each community as thus defined. . the location of each church in the county, the determination of its parish area, and the detailed study of its equipment, finance, membership, organization, program and leadership. . the preparation of a map showing, in addition to the usual physical features, the boundaries of each community, the location, parish area and circuit connections of each church, and the residence of each minister. the following are the more important definitions used in the making of these surveys and the preparation of the reports: geographical _city_--a center of over , population. not included within the scope of these surveys except as specifically noted. _town_--a center with a population of from , to , . _village_--a center with a population of from to , . _hamlet_--any clustered group of people not living on farms whose numbers do not exceed . _open country_--the farming area, excluding hamlets and other centers. _country_--used in a three-fold division of population included in scope of survey into town, village and country. includes hamlets and open country. _town and country_--the whole area covered by these surveys, i.e., all population living outside cities. _rural_--used interchangeably with town and country. _community_--that unit of territory and of population characterized by common social and economic interests and experiences; an "aggregation of people the majority of whose interests have a common center." usually ascertained by determining the normal trade area of each given center. the primary social grouping of sufficient size and diversity of interests to be practically self-sufficing in ordinary affairs of business, civil and social life. _neutral territory_--any area not definitely included within the area of one community. usually an area between two or more centers, and somewhat influenced by each, but whose interests are so scattered that it cannot definitely be assigned to the sphere of influence of any one center. _neighborhood_--a recognizable social grouping having certain interests in common, but dependent for certain elemental needs upon some adjacent center within the community area of which it is located. _rural industrial_--pertaining to any industry other than farming within the town and country area. population _foreigner_--refers to foreign-born and native-born of foreign parentage. _new americans_--usually includes foreign-born and native-born of foreign or mixed parentage, but sometimes refers only to more recent immigration. in each case the exact meaning is clear from the context. the church _parish_--the area within which the members and regular attendants of a given church live. _circuit_--two or more churches combined under the direction of one minister. _resident pastor_--a church whose minister lives within its parish area is said to have a resident pastor. _full-time resident pastor_--a church with a resident pastor who serves no other church, and follows no other occupation than the ministry, is said to have a full-time resident pastor. _part-time pastor_--a church whose minister either serves another church also, or devotes part of his time to some regular occupation other than the ministry, or both, is said to have a part-time minister. _non-resident member_--one carried on the rolls of a given church but living too far away to permit regular attendance; generally, any member living outside the community in which the church is located unless he is a regular attendant. _inactive member_--one who resides within the parish area of the church, but who neither attends its services nor contributes to its support. _net active membership_--the resultant membership of a given church after the number of non-resident and inactive members is deducted from the total on the church roll. _per capita contributions or expenditures_--the total amount contributed or expended, divided by the number of the net active membership. _budget system_--a church which, at the beginning of the fiscal year, makes an itemized forecast of the entire amount of money required for its maintenance during the year as a basis for a canvass of its membership for funds, is said to operate on a budget system with respect to its local finances. if amounts to be raised for denominational or other benevolences are included in the forecast and canvass, it is said to operate on a budget system for all monies raised. _adequate financial system_--three chief elements are recognized in an adequate financial system: a budget system, an annual every-member canvass, and the use of envelopes for the weekly payment of subscriptions. _receipts_--receipts have been divided under three heads: a. subscriptions, that is monies received in payment of annual pledges. b. collections, that is money received from free will offerings at public services. c. all other sources of revenue, chiefly proceeds of entertainments and interest on endowments. _salary of minister_--inasmuch as some ministers receive, in addition to their cash salary, the free use of a house while others do not, a comparison of the cash salaries paid is misleading. in all salary comparisons, therefore, the cash value of a free parsonage is arbitrarily stated as $ a year, and that amount is added to the cash salary of each minister with free parsonage privileges. thus an average salary stated as $ , is equivalent to $ , cash and the free use of a house. appendix ii tables i land and farm area in the range counties according to the federal censuses for and beaverhead hughes approximate land area (acres) , , , , , , land in farms (acres) , , , , improved land in farms (acres) , , , , woodland in farms (acres) , , , , , other unimproved land in farms (acres) , , , , per cent. of land area in farms . . . . per cent. of farm land improved . . . . average acreage per farm . . . . average improved acreage per farm . . . . sheridan union , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the average acreage per farm in beaverhead and sheridan has increased very slightly in the past ten years, while the improved acreage per farm has decreased. in hughes and union, however, there is a decided increase in both the acreage per farm and the improved acreage per farm. ii farms and farm property in the range counties according to the federal censuses for and _farms operated by owners_ beaverhead number of farms per cent. of all farms . . land in farms (acres) , , improved land in farms (acres) , , value of land, buildings (dollars) , , , , number of farmers owning entire farm number of farmers hiring additional land _color and nativity of owners_ number of native whites number of foreign-horn whites number of non-whites _farms operated by tenants_ number of farms per cent. of all farms . . land in farms (acres) , , improved land in farms (acres) , , value of land and buildings (dollars) , , , , _color and nativity of tenants_ number of native whites number of foreign-born whites number of non-whites _farms operated by managers_ number of farms land in farms (acres) , , improved land in farms (acres) , , value of land and buildings (dollars) , , , , hughes sheridan union , , . . . . . , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . . . . . , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , as is usual in districts that have been homesteaded, the proportion of ownership is high. but because of absentee ownership, land companies operating over large areas and high taxes, the rate of tenancy is increasing. iii acreage and value of cultivated crops in the range counties according to federal censuses for and beaverhead hughes _cereals_ corn , , oats , , , , wheat , , , barley , rye _hay and forage_ all tame and cultivated crops , , , _special crops_ potatoes all other vegetables dollars dollars dollars dollars value of all crops $ , , $ , , $ , , $ , cereals , , , , hay and forage , , , , , , vegetables , , , , dairy products , , , , sheridan union , , , , , , , , , , , , , dollars dollars dollars dollars $ , , $ , , $ , , $ , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , the most important crops are hay and forage in beaverhead and sheridan; in union cereal crops; in hughes, both in nearly equal proportions. dairying is a comparatively new development. iv urban and rural population of the range counties according to the federal censuses for and beaverhead hughes distribution of population: rural population , , , , rural increase - . % - . % urban population , , , urban increase - - . % total population , , , , total increase - . % - . % density of population per sq. mile: rural density . . . . total density . [ ] . . . no. of dwellings , , , , no. of families , , , , sheridan union total , , , , , , . % . % . % , , , , . % % , , , , , , . % . % . % . . . . . [ ] . . . , , , , , , , , , , , , v racial composition of population of the range counties according to federal census of beaverhead hughes sheridan union[ ] number rank number rank number rank number rank total population , , , , native white, total , , , , native parentage , , , , foreign parentage , , mixed parentage , foreign white, total , , austria canada czecho-slovakia denmark england finland france germany greece hungary ireland italy jugo-slavia mexico norway poland russia scotland sweden switzerland syria wales all other countries other than white vi age and school attendance in the range counties according to the federal census for beaverhead hughes sheridan union number per number per number per number per cent. cent. cent. cent. under years , ... ... , ... , ... to years inclusive ... ... , ... , ... attending school . . , . , . and years ... ... ... ... attending school . . . and years ... ... ... ... attending school . . . . to years inclusive ... ... ... ... attending school . . . . the proportion of children in school is high through the age of sixteen. beyond that age the ratio of attendance falls off rapidly, sheridan and union having a smaller proportion in school than the other two counties. vii illiteracy in the range counties according to the federal census for beaverhead hughes sheridan union number per number per number per number per _ten years and over_ cent. cent. cent. cent. total , ... , ... , ... , ... illiterates . . . . native whites , ... , ... , ... , ... illiterates . . . . foreign born whites , ... ... , ... illiterates . . . . negro ... ... ... ... illiterates ... ... . ... _ - years inclusive_ total ... ... , ... , ... illiterates . . . . _illiteracy years and over_ males . . . . native whites ... ... ... ... ... foreign born whites ... ... ... ... negro ... ... ... ... ... ... females . . . . native whites ... ... ... ... foreign born whites ... ... ... ... negro ... ... ... ... ... the rate of illiteracy is higher in sheridan and union than in beaverhead and hughes. viii development of protestant church organizations on the changing frontier a beaverhead total number churches k sheridan number now abandoned b beaverhead number now active l sheridan number now inactive c beaverhead number now abandoned m union total number churches d beaverhead number now inactive n union number now active e hughes total number churches o union number now abandoned f hughes number now active p union number now inactive g hughes number now abandoned q total total number churches h hughes number now inactive r total number now active i sheridan total number churches s total number now abandoned j sheridan number now active t total number now inactive period of organization: a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t - .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. - .. .. .. .. .. .. - .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. - .. .. .. .. - .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- total .. .. about one-sixth of all the churches which have been organized are now either abandoned or inactive. population has shifted; communities have changed; the churches sometimes have not survived. ix-a distribution of churches among denominations churches in _denominations_ country village town city total baptist, north baptist, south church of christ or christian church of christ (unprogressive) congregational evangelical association lutheran: norwegian lutheran of america german swedish polish others methodist, north methodist, south nazarene presbyterian in u. s. a. protestant episcopal seventh day adventist united brethren -- -- -- -- -- total ix-b _denominations_ beaverhead hughes sheridan union total baptist north } baptist south } church of christ or christian church of christ (unprogressive) congregational evangelical association lutheran: norwegian lutheran of america } german } swedish } polish } others } methodist north } methodist south } nazarenes presbyterian in u. s. a. protestant episcopal seventh day adventist united brethren -- -- -- -- -- total with so many denominations at work in the field, every square mile of inhabited area ought to be reached. but large areas and many people are not even touched by the church. x-a residence and activity of church members by types of communities churches in country village town city total net active members , , , inactive " , non-resident " total enrollment , , , average per congregation x-b by counties churches in beaverhead hughes sheridan union total net active members , , inactive " , non-resident " total enrollment , , , , average per congregation the non-resident member is an "unattached christian" and no one looks out for him. xi-a churches classified according to size by types of communities churches with a net active membership of: country village town city total or less to to to over -- -- -- -- -- total xi-b by counties churches with a net active membership of: beaverhead hughes sheridan union total or less to to to over -- -- -- -- -- total scattered and transient population together with denominational competition has resulted in a large proportion of small churches. xii how the churches have grown during a one-year period by types of communities country village town city churches churches churches churches total number per number per number per number per number per cent cent cent cent cent gained stationary declined -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- total the gain in church membership increases with the size of the community. xiii membership gain of the churches organized ten years or more, during the last ten years nine seven thirteen eight country village town city year churches churches churches churches total , , , , , , , , , village and country churches increased % town and city churches increased %. xiv age and sex of resident members by counties beaverhead hughes sheridan union men over % % % % women over % % % % young men and boys under % % % % young women and girls under % % % % the churches are not winning the boys and girls. they need better recreational methods and broader programs. xv ways of raising money a city beaverhead k village sheridan b city hughes l village union c city sheridan m country beaverhead d city union n country hughes e town beaverhead o country sheridan f town hughes p country union g town sheridan q entire county beaverhead h town union r entire county hughes i village beaverhead s entire county sheridan j village hughes t entire county union number of churches with: a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t budget for all monies [ ] budget for local expenses only annual every member canvass [ ] both budget and every member canvass [ ] no budget and no every member canvass total number of churches a fair proportion of the churches are using modern methods of financing their work. xvi occupations of church members a number of members b per cent of total churches located in city town village country entire county a b a b a b a b a b beaverhead: retired farmers . . operating farmers . . farm renters farm laborers business or professional . . . all others . . . total reporting occupations hughes: retired farmers . . . operating farmers . . . farm renters . . . farm laborers business or professional . . all others . . . . total reporting occupations sheridan: retired farmers . operating farmers . . . farm renters . farm laborers . . business or professional . . . all others . . . total reporting occupations union: retired farmers operating farmers . . . farm renters . . farm laborers . . business or professional . . . . all others . . total reporting occupations of the four counties, union is the only one with a higher percentage of farmers on its rolls than of men in other occupations. yet over half the churches in the four counties are country churches. xvii-a the amount of money raised and spent the amount raised by the local churches is $ , . . per cent. subscription $ , . . collections , . . all other methods , . . ---------- $ , . xvii-b the amount spent by the local churches is $ , . . per cent. salaries $ , . . missions and benevolences , . . upkeep and all other expenses , . . the entire amount spent for church purposes is $ , . . per cent. salaries $ , . [ ] . missions and benevolences , . . upkeep and all other expenses , . . of the entire church dollar, about per cent. comes from denominational boards. xviii receipts per church country village town city total thirty-one fourteen thirteen eight sixty-six from: churches churches churches churches churches subscription $ . $ . $ , . $ , . $ , . collections . . . . . all other methods . . . . . ------- ------- --------- --------- --------- total $ . $ . $ , . $ , . $ , . xix receipts per active member country village town city total thirty-one fourteen thirteen eight sixty-six churches churches churches churches churches subscription $ . $ . $ . $ . $ . collections . . . . . all other methods . . . . . ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ total $ . $ . $ . $ . $ . the average active member is generous in the support of his church. xx expenditures per church country village town city total thirty-one fourteen thirteen eight sixty-six for: churches churches churches churches churches salaries $ . $ . $ , . $ , . $ . missions and benevolences . . . , . . upkeep and all other expenses . . . , . . ------- ------- --------- --------- --------- total $ . $ . $ , . $ , . $ , . xxi expenditures per active member country village town city total thirty-one fourteen thirteen eight sixty-six for: churches churches churches churches churches salaries $ . $ . $ . $ . $ . missions and benevolences . . . . . upkeep and all other expenses . . . . . ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ total $ . $ . $ . $ . $ . xxii-a how a typical dollar is raised and spent by the local churches country village town city total thirty-one fourteen thirteen eight sixty-six by: churches churches churches churches churches subscription $. $. $. $. $. collections . . . . . all other methods . . . . . ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- total $ . $ . $ . $ . $ . xxii-b country village town city total thirty-one fourteen thirteen eight sixty-six for: churches churches churches churches churches salary $. $. $. $. $. missions and benevolences . . . . . upkeep and all other expenses . . . . . ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- total $ . $ . $ . $ . $ . on the average, these churches devote one-fourth of their receipts to benevolences. xxiii grading for home mission fields--presbyterian church in u. s. a. a. promising field: . prospect of self-support. . strategic service opportunity. b. problematic field: . uncertain of community development. . denominational responsibility uncertain. c. field to be relinquished: . should be self-sustaining. . work should be discontinued. this would be a good test to apply to every aided church on the range. xxiv number of church services number of services country village town city a month churches churches churches churches total eight [ ] [ ] seven six five four [ ] three two one no regular service services in summer only -- -- -- -- -- total about three hours a week set aside for church services and sunday school means six days a year; only twenty-five out of seventy churches have as large a number. xxv attendance at services compared with seating capacity and active membership beaverhead hughes sheridan union average seating capacity average active membership average attendance at services an average attendance one-third less than the seating capacity means many empty seats. xxvi organizations in the churches other than sunday schools mixed men women grown-up young people number members number members number members number members churches in: country village town city -- --- -- ----- -- -- -- --- total , boys girls boys and girls number members number members number members -- -- -- --- -- -- women's organizations are numerous; men have only one-eighth as many. less than half of the churches have young people's organizations. xxvii number of pastors who have served the churches which have been organized ten years or more a one pastor f six pastors b two pastors g seven pastors c three pastors h eight pastors d four pastors i nine pastors e five pastors churches in: a b c d e f g h i country village town city -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- total the turn-over on the part of the ministers has been high. two-thirds of these churches have had a new minister every two and one half years or oftener. xxviii residence of pastors in relation to their churches country village town city total churches with: pastor resident in parish [ ] pastor resident in community but not in parish pastor resident in other community in same county pastor resident in another county no regular pastor supply pastor -- -- -- -- -- total about half of the churches have their ministers resident among the members. xxix salaries of ministers according to proportion of time devoted to the ministry ministers giving ministers full time to with other ministry occupation with one with more than church one church pastors receiving:[ ] over $ , $ , -$ , $ , -$ , $ , -$ , $ -$ , $ -$ $ -$ $ or less no salary -- -- -- total with the high cost of living, it is difficult to sustain adequate family life on many of these salaries. it is not strange that eight of the ministers must earn part of their support at other occupations. xxx gain and loss in membership as related to residence of ministers (one year period) churches with: country village town city total resident minister [ ] number gaining number stationary number losing non-resident minister number gaining number stationary number losing about two-thirds of the churches with resident ministers made a gain in membership; of the churches with non-resident ministers only about one-third show a gain. fourteen churches were either pastorless or were served by a supply. six of them made a gain during the year preceding the survey. footnotes: [ ] see wilson, "sectional characteristics," _homelands_, august, . [ ] a monument to sacajawea was erected in armstead in . [ ] three country churches raised no money during the year and one city church, which tithes, did not have financial figures available. [ ] see table xxiii. [ ] country churches have buildings. [ ] village churches have buildings. [ ] the membership of the separate boys' and girls' organizations cannot be added here because it would involve duplication. [ ] the capital letters in parentheses in the table indicate the respective counties, beaverhead, hughes, sheridan, union. [ ] in deriving these figures the census board has included the forest reserve territory. the following figures were obtained by excluding this area (with the exception of the inhabited portion of beaverhead): total density per square mile of beaverhead . total density per square mile of sheridan . on the range the development of centers is just beginning. [ ] the census does not give spanish-american separately. they are of course native-born and are included under that division. per cent. of native increase is . in beaverhead for - " " " " decrease " . " hughes " - " " " " increase " . " sheridan " - " " " " " " . " union " - in sheridan, the "new americans" are in the mines; in the other counties, they are on the land. [ ] two federated churches have a single budget and a single canvass. [ ] . % of this amount was raised by local churches. the rest came from the denominational boards. [ ] one church in each of these groups unites regularly with a church holding eight services. [ ] one church in this group also has four week day services. one church has its four services on week day nights and has no sunday services. [ ] one church in this group has two resident social workers. [ ] including $ rental value of parsonage if there is one. [ ] one church in this group has two resident social workers. unique studies of rural america town and country series twelve volumes made under the direction of edmund des. brunner, ph.d. what the protestant churches are doing and can do for rural america--the results of twenty-six intensive county surveys _description_ _publication date_ ( ) church and community survey of salem county, n. j. ready ( ) church and community survey of pend oreille county, washington ready ( ) church and community survey of sedgwick county, kansas ready ( ) religion in the old and new south forthcoming ( ) the new and old immigrant on the land, as seen in two wisconsin counties ready ( ) rural church life in the middle west ready ( ) the country church in colonial counties ready ( ) irrigation and religion, a study of two prosperous california counties ready ( ) the church on the changing frontier ready ( ) the rural church before and after the war, comparative studies of two surveys forthcoming ( ) the country church in industrial zones ready ( ) the town and country church in the united states forthcoming "_they are fine pieces of work and examples of what we need to have done on a large scale._" dr. charles a. ellwood, dept. of sociology, university of missouri. "_i am heartily appreciative of these splendid results._" rev. charles s. macfarland, genl. secy., federal council of the churches of christ in america. published by george h. doran company, new york for committee on social and religious surveys fifth avenue, new york the girl from sunset ranch ------------------------------------------------------------------------ books for girls by amy bell marlowe mo. cloth. illustrated. the oldest of four or natalie's way out the girls of hillcrest farm or the secret of the rocks a little miss nobody or with the girls of pinewood hall the girl from sunset ranch or alone in a great city wyn's camping days or the outing of the go-ahead club frances of the ranges or the old ranchman's treasure the girls of rivercliff school or beth baldwin's resolve the oriole books when oriole came to harbor light when oriole traveled westward (other volumes in preparation) grosset & dunlap publishers--new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [illustration: "cab, miss? take you anywhere you say." frontispiece (page ).] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the girl from sunset ranch or alone in a great city by amy bell marlowe author of the oldest of four, the girls of hillcrest farm, wyn's camping days, etc. illustrated new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright, , by grosset & dunlap the girl from sunset ranch ------------------------------------------------------------------------ contents chapter page i. "snuggy" and the rose pony ii. dudley stone iii. the mistress of sunset ranch iv. headed east v. at both ends of the route vi. across the continent vii. the great city viii. the welcome ix. the ghost walk x. morning xi. living up to one's reputation xii. "i must learn the truth" xiii. sadie again xiv. a new world xv. "step--put; step--put" xvi. forgotten xvii. a distinct shock xviii. probing for facts xix. "jones" xx. out of step with the times xxi. breaking the ice xxii. in the saddle xxiii. my lady bountiful xxiv. the hat shop xxv. the missing link xxvi. their eyes are opened xxvii. the party xxviii. a statement of fact xxix. "the whip hand" xxx. headed west ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the girl from sunset ranch chapter i "snuggy" and the rose pony "hi, rose! up, girl! there's another party making for the view by the far path. get a move on, rosie." the strawberry roan tossed her cropped mane and her dainty little hoofs clattered more quickly over the rocky path which led up from the far-reaching grazing lands of sunset ranch to the summit of the rocky eminence that bounded the valley upon the east. to the west lay a great, rolling plain, covered with buffalo grass and sage; and dropping down the arc of the sky was the setting sun, ruddy-countenanced, whose almost level rays played full upon the face of the bluff up which the pony climbed so nimbly. "on, rosie, girl!" repeated the rider. "don't let him get to the view before us. i don't see why anybody would wish to go there," she added, with a jealous pang, "for it was father's favorite outlook. none of our boys, i am sure, would come up here at this hour." helen morrell was secure in this final opinion. it was but a short month since prince morrell had gone down under the hoofs of the steers in an unfortunate stampede that had cost the sunset ranch much beside the life of its well-liked owner. the view--a flat table of rock on the summit overlooking the valley--had become almost sacred in the eyes of the punchers of sunset ranch since mr. morrell's death. for it was to that spot the ranchman had betaken himself--usually with his daughter--on almost every fair evening, to overlook the valley and count the roaming herds which grazed under his brand. helen, who was sixteen and of sturdy build, could see the nearer herds now dotting the plain. she had her father's glasses slung over her shoulder, and she had come to-night partly for the purpose of spying out the strays along the watercourses or hiding in the distant _coulées_. but mainly her visit to the view was because her father had loved to ride here. she could think about him here undisturbed by the confusion and bustle at the ranch-house. and there were some things--things about her father and the sad conversation they had had together before his taking away--that helen wanted to speculate upon alone. the boys had picked him up after the accident and brought him home; and doctors had been brought all the way from helena to do what they could for him. but mr. morrell had suffered many bruises and broken bones, and there had been no hope for him from the first. he was not, however, always unconscious. he was a masterful man and he refused to take drugs to deaden the pain. "let me know what i am about until i meet death," he had whispered. "i--am--not--afraid." and yet, there was one thing of which he had been sorely afraid. it was the thought of leaving his daughter alone. "oh, snuggy!" he groaned, clinging to the girl's plump hand with his own weak one. "if there were some of your own kind to--to leave you with. a girl like you needs women about--good women, and refined women. squaws, and greasers, and half-breeds aren't the kind of women-folk your mother was brought up among. "i don't know but i've done wrong these past few years--since your mother died, anyway. i've been making money here, and it's all for you, snuggy. that's fixed by the lawyer in elberon. "big hen billings is executor and guardian of you and the ranch. i know i can trust him. but there ought to be nice women and girls for you to live with--like those girls who went to school with you the four years you were in denver. "yet, this is your home. and your money is going to be made here. it would be a crime to sell out now. "ah, snuggy! snuggy! if your mother had only lived!" groaned mr. morrell. "a woman knows what's right for a girl better than a man. this is a rough place out here. and even the best of our friends and neighbors are crude. you want refinement, and pretty dresses, and soft beds, and fine furniture----" "no, no, father! i love sunset ranch just as it is," helen declared, wiping away her tears. "aye. 'tis a beauty spot--the beauty spot of all montana, i believe," agreed the dying man. "but you need something more than a beautiful landscape." "but there are true hearts here--all our friends!" cried helen. "and so they are--god bless them!" responded prince morrell, fervently. "but, snuggy, you were born to something better than being a 'cowgirl.' your mother was a refined woman. i have forgotten most of my college education; but i had it once. "_this_ was not our original environment. it was not meant that we should be shut away from all the gentler things of life, and live rudely as we have. unhappy circumstances did that for us." he was silent for a moment, his face working with suppressed emotion. suddenly his grasp tightened on the girl's hand and he continued: "snuggy! i'm going to tell you something. it's something you ought to know, i believe. your mother was made unhappy by it, and i wouldn't want a knowledge of it to come upon you unaware, in the after time when you are alone. let me tell you with my own lips, girl." "why, father, what is it?" "your father's name is under a cloud. there is a smirch on my reputation. i--i ran away from new york to escape arrest, and i have lived here in the wilderness, without communicating with old friends and associates, because i did not want the matter stirred up." "afraid of arrest, father?" gasped helen. "for your mother's sake, and for yours," he said. "she couldn't have borne it. it would have killed her." "but you were not guilty, father!" cried helen. "how do you know i wasn't?" "why, father, you could never have done anything dishonorable or mean--i know you could not!" "thank you, snuggy!" the dying man replied, with a smile hovering about his pain-drawn lips. "you've been the greatest comfort a father ever had, ever since you was a little, cuddly baby, and liked to snuggle up against father under the blankets. "that was before the big ranch-house was built, and we lived in a shack. i don't know how your mother managed to stand it, winters. _you_ just snuggled into my arms under the blankets--that's how we came to call you 'snuggy.'" "'snuggy' is a good name, dad," she declared. "i love it, because _you_ love it. and i know i gave you comfort when i was little." "indeed, yes! _what_ a comfort you were after your poor mother died, snuggy! ah, well! you shall have your reward, dear. i am sure of that. only i am worried that you should be left alone now." "big hen and the boys will take care of me," helen said, stifling her sobs. "nay, but you need women-folk about. your mother's sister, now--the starkweathers, if they knew, might offer you a home." "that is, aunt eunice's folks?" asked helen. "i remember mother speaking of aunt eunice." "yes. she corresponded with eunice until her death. of course, we haven't heard from them since. the starkweathers naturally did not wish to keep up a close acquaintanceship with me after what happened." "but, dear dad! you haven't told me what happened. _do_ tell me!" begged the anxious girl. then the girl's dying father told her of the looted bank account of grimes & morrell. the cash assets of the firm had suddenly disappeared. circumstantial evidence pointed at prince morrell. his partner and starkweather, who had a small interest in the firm, showed their doubt of him. the creditors were clamorous and ugly. the bookkeeper of the firm disappeared. "they advised me to go away for a while; your mother was delicate and the trouble was wearing her into her grave. and so," mr. morrell said, in a shaking voice, "i ran away. we came out here. you were born in this valley, snuggy. we hoped at first to take you back to new york, where all the mystery would be explained. but that time never came. "neither starkweather, nor grimes, seemed able to help me with advice or information. gradually i got into the cattle business here. i prospered here, while fenwick grimes prospered in new york. i understand he is a very wealthy man. "soon after we came out here your uncle starkweather fell heir to a big property and moved into a mansion on madison avenue. he, and his wife, and the three girls--belle, hortense and flossie--have everything heart could desire. "and they have all i want my snuggy to have," groaned mr. morrell. "they have refinement, and books, and music, and all the things that make life worth living for a woman." "but i _love_ sunset ranch!" cried helen again. "aye. but i watched your mother. i know how much she missed the gentler things she had been brought up to. had i been able to pay off those old creditors while she was alive, she might have gone back. "and yet," the ranchman sighed, "the stigma is there. the blot is still on your father's name, snuggy. people in new york still believe that i was dishonest. they believe that with the proceeds of my dishonesty i came out here and went into the cattle business. "you see, my dear? even the settling with our old creditors--the creditors of grimes & morrell--made suspicion wag her tongue more eagerly than ever. i paid every cent, with interest compounded to the date of settlement. grimes had long since had himself cleared of his debts and started over again. i do not know even that he and starkweather know that i have been able to clear up the whole matter. "however, as i say, the stain upon my reputation remains. i could never explain my flight. i could never imagine what became of the money. somebody embezzled it, and _i_ was the one who ran away. do you see, my dear?" and helen told him that she _did_ see, and assured him again and again of her entire trust in his honor. but mr. morrell died with the worry of the old trouble--the trouble that had driven him across the continent--heavy upon his mind. and now it was serving to make helen's mind most uneasy. the crime of which her father had been accused was continually in her thoughts. who had really been guilty of the embezzlement? the bookkeeper, who disappeared? fenwick grimes, the partner? or, _who?_ as the rose pony--her own favorite mount--took helen morrell up the bluff path to the view on this evening, the remembrance of this long talk with her father before he died was running in the girl's mind. perhaps she was a girl who would naturally be more seriously impressed than most, at sixteen. she had been brought up among older people. she was a wise little thing when she was a mere toddler. and after her mother's death she had been her father's daily companion until she was old enough to be sent away to be educated. the four long terms at the denver school had carried helen morrell (for she had a quick mind) through those grades which usually prepare girls for college. when she came back after graduation, however, she saw that her father needed her companionship more than she needed college. and, again, she was too domestic by nature to really long for a higher education. she was glad now--oh! so glad--that she had remained at sunset ranch during these last few months. her father had died with her arms about him. as far as he could be comforted, helen had comforted him. but now, as she rode up the rocky trail, she murmured to herself: "if i could only clear dad's name!" again she raised her eyes and saw a buckskin pony and its rider getting nearer and nearer to the summit. "get on, rose!" she exclaimed. "that chap will beat us out. who under the sun can he be?" [illustration: "helen crept on hands and knees to the edge of the bluff." (page )] she was sure the rider of the buckskin was no sunset puncher. yet he seemed garbed in the usual chaps, sombrero, flannel shirt and gay neckerchief of the cowpuncher. "and there isn't another band of cattle nearer than froghole," thought the girl, adjusting her body to the rose pony's quickened gait. she did not know it, but she was quite as much an object of interest to the strange rider as he was to her. and it was worth while watching helen morrell ride a pony. the deep brown of her cheek was relieved by a glow of healthful red. her thick plaits of hair were really sunburned; her thick eyebrows were startlingly light compared with her complexion. her eyes were dark gray, with little golden lights playing in them; they seemed fairly to twinkle when she laughed. her lips were as red as ripe sumac berries; her nose, straight, long, and generously moulded, was really her handsomest feature, for of course her hair covered her dainty ears more or less. from the rolling collar of her blouse her neck rose firm and solid--as strong-looking as a boy's. she was plump of body, with good shoulders, a well-developed arm, and her ornamented russet riding boots, with a tiny silver spur in each heel, covered very pretty and very small feet. her hand, if plump, was small, too; but the gauntlets she wore made it seem larger and more mannish than it was. she rode as though she were a part of the pony. she had urged on the strawberry roan and now came out upon the open plateau at the top of the bluff just as the buckskin mounted to the same level from the other side. the rock called "the view" was nearer to the stranger than to herself. it overhung the very steepest drop of the eminence. helen touched rose with the spur, and the pony whisked her tail and shot across the uneven sward toward the big boulder where helen and her father had so often stood to survey the rolling acres of sunset ranch. whether the stranger on the buckskin thought her mount had bolted with her, helen did not know. but she heard him cry out, saw him swing his hat, and the buckskin started on a hard gallop along the verge of the precipice toward the very goal for which the rose pony was headed. "the foolish fellow! he'll be killed!" gasped helen, in sudden fright. "that soil there crumbles like cheese! there! he's down!" she saw the buckskin's forefoot sink. the brute stumbled and rolled over--fortunately for the pony _away_ from the cliff's edge. but the buckskin's rider was hurled into the air. he sprawled forward like a frog diving and--without touching the ground--passed over the brink of the precipice and disappeared from helen's startled gaze. chapter ii dudley stone the victim of the accident made no sound. no scream rose from the depths after he disappeared. the buckskin pony rolled over, scrambled to its feet, and cantered off across the plateau. helen morrell had swerved her own mount farther to the south and came to the edge of the caved-in bit of bank with a rush of hoofs that ended in a wild scramble as she bore down upon the rose pony's bit. she was out of her saddle, and had flung the reins over rose's head, on the instant. the well-trained pony stood like a rock. the girl, her heart beating tumultuously, crept on hands and knees to the crumbling edge of the bluff. she knew its scarred face well. there were outcropping boulders, gravel pits, ledges of shale, brush clumps and a few ragged trees clinging tenaciously to the water-worn gullies. she expected to see the man crushed and bleeding on some rock below. perhaps he had rolled clear to the bottom. but as her swift gaze searched the face of the bluff, there was no rock, splotched with red, in her line of vision. then she saw something in the top of one of the trees, far down. it was the yellow handkerchief which the stranger had worn. it fluttered in the evening breeze like a flag of distress. "e-e-e-_yow!_" cried helen, making a horn of her hands as she leaned over the edge of the precipice, and uttering the puncher's signal call. "e-e-e-_yow!_" came up a faint reply. she saw the green top of the tree stir. then a face--scratched and streaked with blood--appeared. "for the love of heaven!" called a thin voice. "get somebody with a rope. i've got to have some help." "i have a rope right here. pass it under your arms, and i'll swing you out of that tree-top," replied helen, promptly. she jumped up and went to the pony. her rope--she would no more think of traveling without it than would one of the sunset punchers--was coiled at the saddlebow. running back to the verge of the bluff she planted her feet on a firm boulder and dropped the coil into the depths. in a moment it was in the hands of the man below. "over your head and shoulders!" she cried. "you can never hold me!" he called back, faintly. "you do as you're told!" she returned, in a severe tone. "i'll hold you--don't you fear." she had already looped her end of the rope over the limb of a tree that stood rooted upon the brink of the bluff. with such a purchase she would be able to hold all the rope itself would hold. "ready!" she called down to him. "all right! here i swing!" was the reply. leaning over the brink, rather breathless, it must be confessed, the girl from sunset ranch saw him swing out of the top of the tree. the tree-top was all of seventy feet from its roots. if he slipped now he would suffer a fall that surely would kill him. but he was able to help himself. although he crashed once against the side of the bluff and set a bushel of gravel rattling down, in a moment he gained foothold on a ledge. there he stood, wavering until she paid off a little of the line. then he dropped down to get his breath. "are you safe?" she shouted down to him. "sure! i can sit here all night." "you don't want to, i suppose?" she asked. "not so's you'd notice it. i guess i can get down after a fashion." "hurt bad?" "it's my foot, mostly--right foot. i believe it's sprained, or broken. it's sort of in the way when i move about." "your face looks as if that tree had combed it some," commented helen. "never mind," replied the youth. "beauty's only skin deep, at best. and i'm not proud." she could not see him very well, for the sun had dropped so low that down where he lay the face of the bluff was in shadow. "well, what are you going to do? climb up, or down?" "i believe getting down would be easier--'specially if you let me use your rope." "sure!" "but then, there'd be my pony. i couldn't get him with this foot----" "i'll catch him. my rose can run down anything on four legs in these parts," declared the girl, briskly. "and can you get down here to the foot of this cliff where i'm bound to land?" "yes. i know the way in the dark. got matches?" "yes." "then you build some kind of a smudge when you reach the bottom. that'll show me where you are. now i'm going to drop the rope to you. look out it doesn't get tangled." "all right! let 'er come!" "i'll have to leave you if i'm to catch that buckskin before it gets dark, stranger. you'll get along all right?" she added. "surest thing you know!" she dropped the rope. he gathered it in quickly and then uttered a cheerful shout. "all clear?" asked helen. "don't worry about me. i'm all right," he assured her. helen leaped back to her waiting pony. already the golden light was dying out of the sky. up here in the foothills the "evening died hard" as the saying is; but the buckskin pony had romped clear across the plateau. he was now, indeed, out of sight. she whirled rose about and set off at a gallop after the runaway. it was not until then that she remembered she had no rope. that buckskin would have to be fairly run down. there would be no roping him. "but if you can't do it, no other horsie can," she said, aloud, patting the rose pony on her arching neck. "go it, girl! let's see if we can't beat any miserable little buckskin that ever came into this country. a strawberry roan forever!" her "e-e-e-yow! yow!" awoke the pony to desperate endeavor. she seemed to merely skim the dry grass of the open plateau, and in ten minutes helen saw a riderless mount plunging up the side of a _coulée_ far ahead. "there he goes!" cried the girl. "after him, rosie! make your pretty hoofs fly!" the excitement of the chase roused in helen that feeling of freedom and confidence that is a part of life on the plains. those who live much in the open air, and especially in the saddle, seldom think of failure. she knew she was going to catch the runaway pony. such an idea as non-success never entered her mind. this was the first hard riding she had done since mr. morrell died; and now her thoughts expanded and she shook off the hopeless feeling which had clouded her young heart and mind since they had buried her father. while she rode on, and rode hard, after the fleeing buckskin her revived thought kept time with the pony's hoofbeats. no longer did the old tune run in her head: "if i only _could_ clear dad's name!" instead the drum of confidence beat a charge to arms: "i know i _can_ clear his name! "to think of poor dad living out here all these years, with suspicion resting on his reputation back there in new york. and he wasn't guilty! it was that partner of his, or that bookkeeper, who was guilty. that is the secret of it," helen told herself. "i'll go back east and find out all about it," determined the girl, as her pony carried her swiftly over the ground. "up, rose! there he is! don't let him get away from us!" her interest in the chase of the buckskin pony and in the mystery of her father's trouble ran side by side. "on, on!" she urged rose. "why shouldn't i go east? big hen can run the ranch well enough. and there are my cousins--and auntie. if aunt eunice resembles mother---- "go it, rose! there's our quarry!" she stooped forward in the saddle, and as the rose pony, running like the wind, passed the now staggering buckskin, helen snatched the dragging rein, and pulled the runaway around to follow in her own wake. "hush, now! easy!" she commanded her mount, who obeyed her voice quite as well as though she had tugged at the reins. "now we'll go back quietly and trail this useless one along with us. "come up, buck! easy, rose!" so she urged them into the same gait, returning in a wide circle toward the path up which she had climbed before the sun went down--the trail to sunset ranch. "yes! i can do it!" she cried, thinking aloud. "i can and will go to new york. i'll find out all about that old trouble. uncle starkweather can tell me, probably. "and then it will please father." she spoke as though mr. morrell was sure to know her decision. "he will like it if i go to live with them a spell. he said it is what i need--the refining influence of a nice home. "and i _would_ love to be with nice girls again--and to hear good music--and put on something beside a riding skirt when i go out of the house." she sighed. "one cannot have a cow ranch and all the fripperies of civilization, too. not very well. i--i guess i am longing for the flesh-pots of egypt. perhaps poor dad did, too. well, i'll give them a whirl. i'll go east---- "why, where's that fellow's fire?" she was descending the trail into the pall of dusk that had now spread over the valley. far away she caught a glimmer of light--a lantern on the porch at the ranch-house. but right below here where she wished to see a light, there was not a spark. "i hope nothing's happened to him," she mused. "i don't believe he is one of us; if he had been he wouldn't have raced a pony so close to the edge of the bluff." she began to "co-ee! co-ee!" as the ponies clattered down the remainder of the pathway. and finally there came an answering shout. then a little glimmer of light flashed up--again and yet again. "matches!" grumbled helen. "can't he find anything dry to burn down there and so make a steady light?" she shouted again. "this way, miss!" she heard the stranger cry. the ponies picked their way carefully over the loose shale that had fallen to the foot of the bluff. there were trees, too, to make the way darker. "hi!" cried helen. "why didn't you light a fire?" "why, to tell you the truth, i had some difficulty in getting down here, and i--i had to rest." the words were followed by a groan that the young man evidently could not suppress. "why, you're more badly hurt than you said!" cried the girl. "i'd better get help; hadn't i?" "a doctor is out of the question, i guess. i believe that foot's broken." "huh! you're from the east!" she said, suddenly. "how so?" "you say 'guess' in that funny way. and that explains it." "explains what?" "your riding so recklessly." "my goodness!" exclaimed the other, with a short laugh. "i thought the whole west was noted for reckless riding." "oh, no. it only _looks_ reckless," she returned, quietly. "our boys wouldn't ride a pony close to the edge of a steep descent like that up yonder." "all right. i'm in the wrong," admitted the stranger. "but you needn't rub it in." "i didn't mean to," said helen, quickly. "i have a bad habit of talking out loud." he laughed at that. "you're frank, you mean? i like that. be frank enough to tell me how i am to get back to badger's--even on ponyback--to-night?" "impossible," declared helen. "then, perhaps i _had_ better make an effort to make camp." "why, no! it's only a few miles to the ranch-house. i'll hoist you up on your pony. the trail's easy." "whose ranch is it?" he asked, with another suppressed groan. "mine--sunset ranch." "sunset ranch! why, i've heard of that. one of the last big ranches remaining in montana; isn't it?" "yes." "almost as big as ?" "that's right," said helen, briefly. "but i didn't know a girl owned it," said the other, curiously. "she didn't--until lately. my father, prince morrell, has just died." "oh!" exclaimed the other, in a softened tone. "and you are miss morrell?" "i am. and who are you? easterner, of course?" "you guessed right--though, i suppose, you 'reckon' instead of 'guess.' i'm from new york." "is that so?" queried helen. "that's a place i want to see before long." "well, you'll be disappointed," remarked the other. "my name is dudley stone, and i was born and brought up in new york and have lived there all my life until i got away for this trip west. but, believe me, if i didn't have to i would never go back!" "why do you have to go back?" asked helen, simply. "business. necessity of earning one's living. i'm in the way of being a lawyer--when my days of studying, and all, are over. and then, i've got a sister who might not fit into the mosaic of this freer country, either." "well, dudley stone," quoth the girl from sunset ranch, "we'd better not stay talking here. it's getting darker every minute. and i reckon your foot needs attention." "i hate to move it," confessed the young easterner. "you can't stay here, you know," insisted helen. "where's my rope?" "i'm sorry. i had to hitch one end of it up above and let myself down by it." "well, it might have come in handy to lash you on the pony. i don't mind about the rope otherwise. one of the boys will bring it in for me to-morrow. now, let's see what we can do towards hoisting you into your saddle." chapter iii the mistress of sunset ranch dudley stone had begun to peer wonderingly at this strange girl. when he had first sighted her riding her strawberry roan across the plateau he supposed her to be a little girl--and really, physically, she did not seem much different from what he had first supposed. but she handled this situation with all the calmness and good sense of a much older person. she spoke like the men and women he had met during his sojourn in the west, too. yet, when he was close to her, he saw that she was simply a young girl with good health, good muscles, and a rather pretty face and figure. he called her "miss" because it seemed to flatter her; but dud stone felt himself infinitely older than this girl of sunset ranch. it was she who went about getting him aboard the pony, however; he never could have done it by himself. nor was it so easily done as said. in the first place, the badly trained buckskin didn't want to stand still. and the young man was in such pain that he really was unable to aid helen in securing the pony. "here, you take rose," commanded the girl, at length. "she'd stand for anything. up you come, now, sir!" the young fellow was no weakling. but when he put one arm over the girl's strong shoulder, and was hoisted erect, she felt him quiver all over. she knew that the pain he suffered must be intense. "whoa, rose, girl!" commanded helen. "back around! now, sir, up with that lame leg. it's got to be done----" "i know it!" he panted, and by a desperate effort managed to get the broken foot over the saddle. "up with you!" said helen, and hoisted him with a man's strength into the saddle. "are you there?" "oh! ouch! yes," returned the easterner. "i'm here. no knowing how long i'll stick, though." "you'd better stick. here! put this foot in the stirrup. don't suppose you can stand the other in it?" "oh, no! i really couldn't," he exclaimed. "well, we'll go slow. hi, there! come here, you buck!" "he's a vicious little scoundrel," said the young man. "he ought to have a course of sprouts under one of our wranglers," remarked the girl from sunset ranch. "now let's go along." despite the buckskin's dancing and cavorting, she mounted, stuck the spurs into him a couple of times, and the ill-mannered pony decided that walking properly was better than bucking. "you're a wonder!" exclaimed dud stone, admiringly. "you haven't been west long," she replied, with a smile. "women folk out here aren't much afraid of horses." "i should say they were not--if you are a specimen." "i'm just ordinary. i spent four school terms in denver, and i never rode there, so i kind of lost the hang of it." dud stone was becoming anxious over another matter. "are you sure you can find the trail when it's so dark?" he asked. "we're on it now," she said. "i'm glad you're so sure," he returned, grimly. "i can't see the ground, even." "but the ponies know, if i don't," observed helen, cheerfully. "nothing to be afraid of." "i guess you think i _am_ kind of a tenderfoot?" he returned. "you're not used to night traveling on the cattle range," she said. "you see, we lay our courses by the stars, just as mariners do at sea. i can find my way to the ranch-house from clear beyond elberon, as long as the stars show." "well," he sighed, "this is some different from riding on the bridle-path in central park." "that's in new york?" she asked. "yes." "i mean to go there. it's really a big city, i suppose?" "makes denver look like a village," said stone, laughing to smother a groan. "so father said." "you have people there, i hope?" "yes. father and mother came from there. it was before i was born, though. you see, i'm a real montana product." "and a mighty fine one!" he murmured. then he said aloud: "well, as long as you've got folks in the big city, it's all right. but it's the loneliest place on god's earth if one has no friends and no confidants. i know that to be true from what boys have told me who have come there from out of town." "oh, i've got folks," said helen, lightly. "how's the foot now?" "bad," he admitted. "it hangs loose, you see----" "hold on!" commanded helen, dismounting. "we've a long way to travel yet. that foot must be strapped so that it will ride easier. wait!" she handed him her rein to hold and went around to the other side of the rose pony. she removed her belt, unhooked the empty holster that hung from it, and slipped the holster into her pocket. few of the riders carried a gun on sunset ranch unless the coyotes proved troublesome. with her belt helen strapped the dangling leg to the saddle girth. the useless stirrup, that flopped and struck the lame foot, she tucked up out of the way. with tender fingers she touched the wounded foot. she could feel the fever through the boot. "but you'd better keep your boot on till we get home, dud stone," advised helen. "it will sort of hold it together and perhaps keep the pain from becoming greater than you can bear. but i guess it hurts mighty bad." "it sure does, miss morrell," he returned, grimly. "is--is the ranch far?" "some distance. and we've got to walk. but bear up if you can----" she saw him waver in the saddle. if he fell, she could not be sure just how rose, the spirited pony, would act. "say!" she said, coming around and walking by his side, leading the other mount by the bridle. "you lean on me. don't want you falling out of the saddle. too hard work to get you back again." "i guess you think i _am_ a tenderfoot!" muttered young stone. he never knew how they reached sunset ranch. the fall, the terrible wrench of his foot, and the endurance of the pain was finally too much for him. in a half-fainting condition he sank part of his weight on the girl's shoulder, and she sturdily trudged along the rough trail, bearing him up until she thought her own limbs would give way. at last she even had to let the buckskin run at large, he made her so much trouble. but the rose pony was "a dear!" somewhere about ten o'clock the dogs began to bark. she saw the flash of lanterns and heard the patter of hoofs. she gave voice to the long range yell, and a dozen anxious punchers replied. great discussion had arisen over where she could have gone, for nobody had seen her ride off toward the view that afternoon. "whar you been, gal?" demanded big hen billings, bringing his horse to a sudden stop across the trail. "hul-_lo!_ what's that you got with yer?" "a tenderfoot. easy, hen! i've got his leg strapped to the girth. he's in bad shape," and she related, briefly, the particulars of the accident. dudley stone had only a hazy recollection later of the noise and confusion of his arrival. he was borne into the house by two men--one of them the ranch foreman himself. they laid him on a couch, cut the boot from his injured foot, and then the sock he wore. hen billings, with bushy whiskers and the frame of a giant, was nevertheless as tender with the injured foot as a woman. water with a chunk of ice floating in it was used to reduce the swelling. the foreman's blunted fingers probed for broken bones. but it seemed there was none. it was only a bad sprain, and they finally stripped him to his underclothes and bandaged the foot with cloths soaked with ice water. when they got him into bed--in an adjoining room--the young mistress of sunset ranch reappeared, with a tray and napkins, with which she arranged a table. "that's what he wants--some good grub under his belt, snuggy," said the gigantic foreman, finally lighting his pipe. "he'll be all right in a few days. i'll send word to creeping ford for one of the boys to ride down to badger's and tell 'em. that's where mr. stone says he's been stopping." "you're mighty kind," said the easterner, gratefully, as sing, the chinese servant, shuffled in with a steaming supper. "we're glad to have a chance to play good samaritan in this part of the country," said helen, laughing. "isn't that so, hen?" "that's right, snuggy," replied the foreman, patting her on the shoulder. dud stone looked at helen curiously, as the big man strode out of the room. "what an odd name!" he commented. "my father called me that, when i was a tiny baby," replied the girl. "and i love it. all my friends call me 'snuggy.' at least, all my ranch friends." "well, it's too soon for me to begin, i suppose?" he said, laughing. "oh, quite too soon," returned helen, as composedly as a person twice her age. "you had better stick to 'miss morrell,' and remember that i am the mistress of sunset ranch." "but i notice that you take liberties with _my_ name," he said, quickly. "that's different. you're a man. men around here always shorten their names, or have nicknames. if they call you by your full name that means the boys don't like you. and i liked you from the start," said the western girl, quite frankly. "thank you!" he responded, his eyes twinkling. "i expect it must have been my fine riding that attracted you." "no. nor it wasn't your city cowpuncher clothes," she retorted. "i know those things weren't bought farther west than chicago." "a palpable hit!" admitted dudley stone. "no. it was when you took that tumble into the tree; was hanging on by your eyelashes, yet could joke about it," declared helen, warmly. she might have added, too, that now he had been washed and his hair combed, he was an attractive-looking young man. she did not believe dudley stone was of age. his brown hair curled tightly all over his head, and he sported a tiny golden mustache. he had good color and was somewhat bronzed. dud's blue eyes were frank, his lips were red and nicely curved; but his square chin took away from the lower part of his face any suggestion of effeminacy. his ears were generous, as was his nose. he had the clean-cut, intelligent look of the better class of educated atlantic seaboard youth. there is a difference between them and the young westerner. the latter are apt to be hung loosely, and usually show the effect of range-riding--at least, back here in montana. whereas dud stone was compactly built. they chatted quite frankly while the patient ate his supper. dud found that, although helen used many western idioms, and spoke with an abruptness that showed her bringing up among plain-spoken ranch people, she could, if she so desired, use "school english" with good taste, and gave other evidences in her conversation of being quite conversant with the world of which he was himself a part when he was at home. "oh, you would get along all right in new york," he said, laughing, when she suggested a doubt as to the impression she might make upon her relatives in the big town. "you'd not be half the 'tenderfoot' there that i am here." "no? then i reckon i can risk shocking them," laughed helen, her gray eyes dancing. this talk she had with dud stone on the evening of his arrival confirmed the young mistress of sunset ranch in her intention of going to the great city. chapter iv headed east when helen morrell made up her mind to do a thing, she usually did it. a cataclysm of nature was about all that would thwart her determination. this being yielded to and never thwarted, even by her father, might have spoiled a girl of different calibre. but there was a foundation of good common sense to helen's nature. "snuggy won't kick over the traces much," prince morrell had been wont to say. "right you are, boss," had declared big hen billings. "it's usually safe to give her her head. she'll bring up somewhar." but when helen mentioned her eastern trip to the old foreman he came "purty nigh goin' up in th' air his own se'f!" as he expressed it. "what d'yer wanter do anythin' like that air for, snuggy?" he demanded, in a horrified tone. "great jumping jehosaphat! ain't this yere valley big enough fo' you?" "sometimes i think it's too big," admitted helen, laughing. "well, by jo! you'll fin' city quarters close't 'nough--an' that's no josh. huh! las' time ever i went to chicago with a train-load of beeves i went to see kellup flemming what useter work here on this very same livin' sunset ranch. you don't remember him. you was too little, snuggy." "i've heard you speak of him, hen," observed the girl. "well, thar was kellup, as smart a young feller as you'd find in a day's ride, livin' with his wife an' kids in what he called a _flat_. be-lieve me! it was some perpendicular to git into, an' no _flat_. "when we gits inside and inter what he called his parlor, he looks around like he was proud of it (by jo! i'd be afraid ter shrug my shoulders in it, 'twas so small) an' says he: 'what d'ye think of the ranch, hen?' "'ranch,' mind yeh! i was plumb insulted. i says: 'it's all right--what there is of it--only, what's that crack in the wall for, kellup?' "'sufferin' tadpoles!' yells kellup--jest like that! 'sufferin' tadpoles! that ain't no crack in the wall. that's our private hall.' "great jumping jehosaphat!" exclaimed hen, roaring with laughter. "yuh don't wanter git inter no place like that in new york. can't breathe in the house." "i guess uncle starkweather lives in a little better place than that," said helen, after laughing with the old foreman. "his house is on madison avenue." "don't care where it is; there natcherly won't be no such room in a city dwelling as there is here at sunset ranch." "i suppose not," admitted the girl. "huh! won't be room in the yard for a cow," growled big hen. "nor chickens. whatter yer goin' to do without a fresh aig, snuggy?" "i expect that will be pretty tough, hen. but i feel like i must go, you see," said the girl, dropping into the idiom of sunset ranch. "dad wanted me to." "the boss _wanted_ yuh to?" gasped the giant, surprised. "yes, hen." "he never said nothin' to me about it," declared the foreman of sunset ranch, shaking his bushy head. "no? didn't he say anything about my being with women folk, and under different circumstances?" "gosh, yes! but i reckoned on getting mis' polk and mis' harry frieze to take turns coming over yere and livin' with yuh." "but that isn't all dad wanted," continued the girl, shaking her head. "besides, you know both mrs. polk and mrs. frieze are widows, and will be looking for husbands. we'd maybe lose some of the best boys we've got, if they came here," said helen, her eyes twinkling. "great jumping jehosaphat! i never thought of that," declared the foreman, suddenly scared. "i never _did_ like that polk woman's eye. i wouldn't, mebbe, be safe myse'f; would i?" "i'm afraid not," helen gravely agreed. "so, you see, to please dad, i'll have to go to new york. i don't mean to stay for all time, hen. but i want to give it a try-out." she sounded dud stone a good bit about the big city. dud had to stay several days at sunset ranch because he couldn't ride very well with his injured foot. and finally, when he did go back to badger's, they took him in a buckboard. to tell the truth, dud was not altogether glad to go. he was a boyish chap despite the fact that he was nearly through law school, and a sixteen-year-old girl like helen morrell--especially one of her character--appealed to him strongly. he admired the capable way in which she managed things about the ranch-house. sing obeyed her as though she were a man. there was a "rag-head" who had somehow worked his way across the mountains from the coast, and that hindoo about worshipped "missee sahib." the two or three greasers working about the ranch showed their teeth in broad smiles, and bowed most politely when she appeared. and as for the punchers and wranglers, they were every one as loyal to snuggy as they had been to her father. the easterner realized that among all the girls he knew back home, either of her age or older, there was none so capable as helen morrell. and there were few any prettier. "you're going right to relatives when you reach new york; are you, miss morrell?" asked dud, just before he climbed into the buckboard to return to his friend's ranch. "oh, yes. i shall go to aunt eunice," said the girl, decidedly. "no need of my warning you against bunco men and card sharpers," chuckled dud, "for your folks will look out for you. but remember: you'll be just as much a tenderfoot there as i am here." "i shall take care," she returned, laughing. "and--and i hope i may see you in new york," said dud, hesitatingly. "why, i hope we shall run across each other," replied helen, calmly. she was not sure that it would be the right thing to invite this young man to call upon her at the starkweathers'. "i'd better ask aunt eunice about that first," she decided, to herself. so she shook hands heartily with dud stone and let him ride away, never appearing to notice his rather wistful look. she was to see the time, however, when she would be very glad of a friend like dud stone in the great city. helen made her preparations for her trip to new york without any advice from another woman. to tell the truth she had little but riding habits which were fit to wear, save the house frocks which she wore around the ranch. when she had gone to school in denver, her father had sent a sum of money to the principal and that lady had seen that helen was dressed tastefully and well. but all these garments she had outgrown. to tell the truth, helen had spent little of her time in studying the pictures in fashion magazines. in fact, there were no such books about sunset ranch. the girl realized that the rough and ready frocks she possessed were not in style. there was but one store in elberon, the nearest town, where ready-to-wear garments were sold. she went there and purchased the best they had; but they left much to be desired. she got a brown dress to travel in, and a shirtwaist or two; but beyond that she dared not go. helen was wise enough to realize that, after she arrived at her uncle starkweather's, it would be time enough to purchase proper raiment. she "dressed up" in the new frock for the boys to admire, the evening before she left. every man who could be spared from the range--even as far as creeping ford--came in to the "party." they all admired helen and were sorry to see her go away. yet they gave her their best wishes. big hen billings rode part of the way to elberon with her in the morning. she was going to send the strawberry roan back hitched behind the supply wagon. her riding dress she would change in the station agent's parlor for the new dress which was in the tray of her small trunk. "keep yer eyes peeled, snuggy," advised the old foreman, with gravity, "when ye come up against that new york town. 'tain't like elberon--no, sir! 'tain't even like helena. "them folks in new york is rubbing up against each other so close, that it makes 'em moughty sharp--yessir! jumping jehosaphat! i knowed a feller that went there onct and he lost ten dollars and his watch before he'd been off the train an hour. they can do ye that quick!" "i believe that fellow must have been _you_, hen," declared helen, laughing. the foreman looked shamefaced. "wal, it were," he admitted. "but they never got nothin' more out o' me. it was the hottest kind o' summer weather--an' lemme tell yuh, it can be some hot in that man's town. "wal, i had a sheepskin coat with me. i put it on, and i buttoned it from my throat-latch down to my boot-tops. they'd had to pry a dollar out o' my pocket with a crowbar, and i wouldn't have had a drink with the mayor of the city if he'd invited me. no, sirree, sir!" helen laughed again. "don't you fear for me, hen. i shall be in the best of hands, and shall have plenty of friends around me. i'll never feel lonely in new york, i am sure." "i hope not. but, snuggy, you know what to do if anything goes wrong. just telegraph me. if you want me to come on, say the word----" "why, hen! how ridiculous you talk," she cried. "i'll be with relatives." "ya-as. i know," said the giant, shaking his head. "but relatives ain't like them that's knowed and loved yuh all yuh life. don't forgit us out yere, snuggy--and if ye want anything----" his heart was evidently too full for further utterance. he jerked his pony's head around, waved his hand to the girl who likewise was all but in tears, and dashed back over the trail toward sunset ranch. helen pulled the rose pony's head around and jogged on, headed east. chapter v at both ends of the route as helen walked up and down the platform at elberon, waiting for the east-bound transcontinental, she looked to be a very plain country girl with nothing in her dress to denote that she was one of the wealthiest young women in the state of montana. sunset ranch was one of the few remaining great cattle ranches of the west. her father could justly have been called "a cattle king," only prince morrell was not the sort of man who likes to see his name in print. indeed, there was a good reason why helen's father had not wished to advertise himself. that old misfortune, which had borne so heavily upon his mind and heart when he came to die, had made him shrink from publicity. however, business at sunset ranch had prospered both before and since mr. morrell's death. the money had rolled in and the bank accounts which had been put under the administration of big hen billings and the lawyer at elberon, increased steadily. big hen was a generous-handed administrator and guardian. of course, the foreman of the ranch was, perhaps, not the best person to be guardian of a sixteen-year-old girl. he did not treat her, in regard to money matters, as the ordinary guardian would have treated a ward. big hen didn't know how to limit a girl's expenditures; but he knew how to treat a man right. and he treated helen morrell just as though she were a sane and responsible man. "there's a thousand dollars in cash for you, snuggy," he had said. "i got it in soft money, for it's a fac' that they use that stuff a good deal in the east. besides, the hard money would have made a good deal of a load for you to tote in them leetle war-bags of yourn." "but shall i ever need a thousand dollars?" asked helen, doubtfully. "don't know. can't tell. sometimes ye need money when ye least expect it. ye needn't tell anybody how much you've got. only, it's _there_--and a full pocket is a mighty nice backin' for anybody to have. "and if ye find any time ye want more, jest telegraph. we'll send ye what they call a draft for all ye want. cut a dash. show 'em that the girl from sunset ranch is the real thing, snuggy." but she had only laughed at this. it never entered helen morrell's mind that she should ever wish to "cut a dash" before her relatives in new york. she had filed a telegram to mr. willets starkweather, on madison avenue, before the train arrived, saying that she was coming. she hoped that her relatives would reply and she would get the reply en route. when her father died, she had written to the starkweathers. she had received a brief, but kindly worded note from uncle starkweather. and it had scarcely been time yet, so helen thought, for aunt eunice or the girls to write. but could helen have arrived at the madison avenue mansion of willets starkweather at the same hour her message arrived and heard the family's comments on it, it is very doubtful if she would have swung herself aboard the parlor car of the transcontinental, without the porter's help, and sought her seat. the starkweathers lived in very good style, indeed. the mansion was one of several remaining in that section, all occupied by the very oldest and most elevated socially of new york's solid families. they were not people whose names appeared in the gossip columns of the papers to any extent; but to live in their neighborhood, and to meet them socially, was sufficient to insure one's welcome anywhere. the starkweather mansion had descended to willets starkweather with the money--all from his great-uncle--which had finally put the family upon its feet. when prince morrell had left new york under a cloud, his brother-in-law was a struggling merchant himself. now, in sixteen years, he had practically retired. at least, he was no longer "in trade." he merely went to an office, or to his broker's, each day, and watched his investments and his real estate holdings. a pompous, well-fed man was willets starkweather--and always imposingly dressed. he was very bald, wore a closely cropped gray beard, eyeglasses, and "ahem!" was an introduction to almost everything he said. that clearing of the bronchial tubes was an announcement to the listening world that he, willets starkweather, of madison avenue, was about to make a remark. and no matter how trivial that remark might be, coming from the lips of the great man, it should be pondered upon and regarded with awe. mr. starkweather was a widower. helen's aunt eunice had been dead three years. it had never been considered necessary by either mr. starkweather, or his daughters, to write "aunt mary's folks in montana" of mrs. starkweather's death. correspondence between the families had ceased at the time of mrs. morrell's death. the starkweather girls understood that aunt mary's husband had "done something" before he left new york for the wild and woolly west. the family did not--ahem!--speak of him. the three girls were respectively eighteen, sixteen, and fourteen. even flossie considered herself entirely grown up. she attended a private school not far from central park, and went each day dressed as elaborately as a matron of thirty. for hortense, who was just helen morrell's age, "school had become a bore." she had a smattering of french, knew how to drum nicely on the piano--she was still taking lessons in _that_ polite accomplishment--had only a vague idea of the ordinary rules of english grammar, and couldn't write a decent letter, or spell words of more than two syllables, to save her life. belle golfed. she did little else just now, for she was a creature of fads. occasionally she got a new one, and with kindred spirits played that particular fad to death. she might have found a much worse hobby to ride. getting up early and starting for the long island links, or for westchester, before her sisters had had their breakfast, was not doing belle a bit of harm. only, she was getting in with a somewhat "sporty" class of girls and women older than herself, and the bloom of youth had been quite rubbed off. indeed, these three girls were about as fresh as is a dried prune. they had jumped from childhood into full-blown womanhood (or thought they had), thereby missing the very best and sweetest part of their girls' life. they had come in from their various activities of the day when helen's telegram arrived. naturally they ran with it to their father's "den"--a gorgeously upholstered yet small library on the ground floor, at the back. "what is it now, girls?" demanded mr. starkweather, looking up in some dismay at this general onslaught. "i don't want you to suggest any further expenditures this month. i have paid all the bills i possibly can pay. we must retrench--we must retrench." "oh, pa!" said flossie, saucily, "you're always saying that. i believe you say 'we must retrench!' in your sleep." "and small wonder if i do," he grumbled. "i have lost some money; the stock market is very dull. and nobody is buying real estate. i--i am quite at my wits' ends, i assure you, girls." "dear me! and another mouth to feed!" laughed hortense, tossing her head. "_that_ will be excuse enough for telling her to go to a hotel when she arrives." "probably the poor thing won't have the price of a room," observed belle, looking again at the telegram. "what is that in your hand, child?" demanded mr. starkweather, suddenly seeing the yellow slip of paper. "a dispatch, pa," said flossie, snatching it out of belle's hand. "a telegram?" "and you'd never guess from whom," cried the youngest girl. "i--i----let me see it," said her father, with some abruptness. "no bad news, i hope?" "well, i don't call it _good_ news," said the oldest girl, with a sniff. mr. starkweather read it aloud: "coming on transcontinental. arrive grand central terminal p.m. the third. "helen morrell." "now! what do you think of that, pa?" demanded flossie. "'helen morrell,'" repeated mr. starkweather, and a person more observant than any of his daughters might have seen that his lips had grown suddenly gray. he dropped into his chair rather heavily. "your cousin, girls." "fol-de-rol!" exclaimed belle. "i don't see why she should claim relationship." "send her to a hotel, pa," said flossie. "i'm sure _i_ do not wish to be bothered by a common ranch girl. why! she was born and brought up out in the wilds; wasn't she?" demanded hortense. "her father and mother went west before this girl was born--yes," murmured mr. starkweather. he was strangely agitated by the message. but the girls did not notice this. they were not likely to notice anything but their own disturbance over the coming of "that ranch girl." "why, pa, we can't have her here!" cried belle. "of course we can't, pa," agreed hortense. "i'm sure _i_ don't want the common little thing around," added flossie, who, as has been said, was quite two years helen's junior. "we couldn't introduce her to our friends," declared belle. "what a _fright_ she'll be!" wailed hortense. "she'll wear a sombrero and a split riding skirt, i suppose," scoffed flossie, who madly desired a slit skirt, herself. "of course she'll be a perfect dowdy," belle observed. "and be loud and wear heavy boots, and stamp through the house," sighed hortense. "we just _can't_ have her, pa." "why, i wouldn't let any of the girls of _our_ set see her for the world," cried flossie. their father finally spoke. he had recovered from his secret emotion, but he was still mopping the perspiration from his bald brow. "i don't really see how i can prevent her coming," he said, rather weakly. "what nonsense, pa!" "of course you can!" "telegraph her not to come." "but she is already aboard the train," objected mr. starkweather, gloomily. "then, i tell you," snapped flossie, who was the most unkind of the girls. "don't telegraph her at all. don't answer her message. don't send to the station to meet her. maybe she won't be too dense to take _that_ hint." "pooh! these wild and woolly western girls!" grumbled hortense. "i don't believe she'll know enough to stay away." "we can try it," persisted flossie. "she ought to realize that we're not dying to see her when we don't come to the train," said belle. "i--don't--know," mused their father. "now, pa!" cried flossie. "you know very well you don't want that girl here." "no," he admitted. "but--ahem!--we have certain duties----" "bother duties!" said hortense. "ahem! she is your mother's sister's child," spoke mr. starkweather, heavily. "she is a young and unprotected female----" "seems to me," said belle, crossly, "the relationship is far enough removed for us to ignore it. mother's sister, aunt mary, is dead." "true--true. ahem!" said her father. "and isn't it true that this man, morrell, whom she married, left new york under a cloud?" "o--oh!" cried hortense. "so he did." "what did he do?" flossie asked, bluntly. "embezzled; didn't he, pa?" asked belle. "that's enough!" cried flossie, tossing her head. "we certainly don't want a convict's daughter in the house." "hush, flossie!" said her father, with sudden sternness. "prince morrell was never a convict." "no," sneered hortense. "he ran away. he didn't get that far." "ahem! daughters, we have no right to talk in this way--even in fun----" "well, i don't care," cried belle, impatiently. "whether she's a criminal's child or not; i don't want her. none of us wants her. why, then, should we have her?" "but where will she go?" demanded mr. starkweather, almost desperately. "what do we care?" cried flossie, callously. "she can be sent back; can't she?" "i tell you what it is," said belle, getting up and speaking with determination. "we don't want helen morrell here. we will not meet her at the train. we will not send any reply to this message from her. and if she has the effrontery to come here to the house after our ignoring her in this way, we'll send her back where she came from just as soon as it can be done. what do you say, girls?" "fine!" from hortense and flossie. but their father said "ahem!" and still looked troubled. chapter vi across the continent it was not as though helen morrell had never been in a train before. eight times she had gone back and forth to denver, and she had always ridden in the best style. so sleepers, chair cars, private compartments, and observation coaches were no novelty to her. she had discussed the matter with her friend, the elberon station agent, and had bought her ticket through to new york, with a berth section to herself. it cost a good bit of money, but helen knew no better way to spend some of that thousand dollars that big hen had given to her. her small trunk was put in the baggage car, and all she carried was a hand-satchel with toilet articles and kimono; and in it likewise was her father's big wallet stuffed with the yellow-backed notes--all crisp and new--that big hen billings had brought to her from the bank. when she was comfortably seated in her particular section, and the porter had seen that her footstool was right, and had hovered about her with offers of other assistance until she had put a silver dollar into his itching palm, helen first stared about her frankly at the other occupants of the car. nobody paid much attention to the countrified girl who had come aboard at the way-station. the transcontinental's cars are always well filled. there were family parties, and single tourists, with part of a grand opera troupe, and traveling men of the better class. helen would have been glad to join one of the family groups. in one there were two girls and a boy beside the parents and a lady who must have been the governess. one of the girls, and the boy, were quite as old as helen. they were all so well behaved, and polite to each other, yet jolly and companionable, that helen knew she could have liked them immensely. but there was nobody to introduce the lonely girl to them, nor to any others of her fellow travelers. the conductor, even, did not take much interest in the girl in brown. she began to realize that what was the height of fashion in elberon was several seasons behind the style in larger communities. there was not a pretty or attractive thing about helen's dress; and even a very pretty girl will seem a frump in an out-of-style and unbecoming frock. it might have been better for the girl from sunset ranch if she had worn on the train the very riding habit she had in her trunk. at least, it would have become her and she would have felt natural in it. she knew now--when she had seen the hats of her fellow passengers--that her own was an atrocity. and, then, helen had "put her hair up," which was something she had not been used to doing. without practice, or some example to work by, how could this unsophisticated young girl have produced a specimen of modern hair-dressing fit to be seen? even dudley stone could not have thought helen morrell pretty as she looked now. and when she gazed in the glass herself, the girl from sunset ranch was more than a little disgusted. "i know i'm a fright. i've got 'such a muchness' of hair and it's so sunburned, and all! what those girls i'm going to see will say to me, i don't know. but if they're good-natured they'll soon show me how to handle this mop--and of course i can buy any quantity of pretty frocks when i get to new york." so she only looked at the other people on the train and made no acquaintances at all that first day. she slept soundly at night while the transcontinental raced on over the undulating plains on which the stars shone so peacefully. each roll of the drumming wheels was carrying her nearer and nearer to that new world of which she knew so little, but from which she hoped so much. she dreamed that she had reached her goal--uncle starkweather's house. aunt eunice met her. she had never even seen a photograph of her aunt; but the lady who gathered her so closely into her arms and kissed her so tenderly, looked just as helen's own mother had looked. she awoke crying, and hugging the tiny pillow which the pullman company furnishes its patrons as a sample--the _real_ pillow never materializes. but to the healthy girl from the wide reaches of the montana range, the berth was quite comfortable enough. she had slept on the open ground many a night, rolled only in a blanket and without any pillow at all. so she arose fresher than most of her fellow-passengers. one man--whom she had noticed the evening before--was adjusting a wig behind the curtain of his section. he looked when he was completely dressed rather a well-preserved person; and helen was impressed with the thought that he must still feel young to wish to appear so juvenile. even with his wig adjusted--a very curly brown affair--the man looked, however, to be upward of sixty. there were many fine wrinkles about his eyes and deep lines graven in his cheeks. his section was just behind that of the girl from sunset ranch, on the other side of the car. after returning from the breakfast table this first morning helen thought she would better take a little more money out of the wallet to put in her purse for emergencies on the train. so she opened the locked bag and dragged out the well-stuffed wallet from underneath her other possessions. the roll of yellow-backed notes _was_ a large one. helen, lacking more interesting occupation, unfolded the crisp banknotes and counted them to make sure of her balance. as she sat in her seat she thought nobody could observe her. then she withdrew what she thought she might need, and put the remainder of the money back into the old wallet, snapped the strong elastic about it, and slid it down to the bottom of the bag again. the key of the bag she carried on the chain with her locket, which locket contained the miniatures of her mother and father. key and locket she hid in the bosom of her dress. she looked up suddenly. there was the fatherly-looking old person almost bending over her chair back. for an instant the girl was very much startled. the old man's eyes were wonderfully keen and twinkling, and there was an expression in them which helen at first did not understand. "if you have finished with that magazine, my dear, i'll exchange it for one of mine," said the old gentleman coolly. "what! did i frighten you?" "not exactly, sir," returned helen, watching him curiously. "but i _was_ startled." "beg pardon. you do not look like a young person who would be easily frightened," he said, laughing. "you are traveling alone?" "yes, sir." "far?" "to new york, sir," said helen. "ah! a long way for a girl to go by herself--even a self-possessed one like you," said the fatherly old fellow. "i hope you have friends to meet you there?" "relatives." "you have never been there, i take it?" "i have never been farther east than denver before," she replied. "indeed! and so you have not met the relatives you are going to?" he suggested, shrewdly. "you are right, sir." "but, of course, they will not fail to meet you?" "i telegraphed to them. i expect to get a reply somewhere on the way." "then you are well provided for," said the old gentleman, kindly. "yet, if you should need any assistance--of any kind--do not fail to call upon me. i am going through to new york, too." he went back to his seat after making the exchange of magazines, and did not force his attentions upon her further. he was, however, almost the only person who spoke to her all the way across the continent. frequently they ate together at the same table, both being alone. he bought newspapers and magazines and exchanged with her. he never became personal and asked her questions again, nor did helen learn his name; but in little ways which were not really objectionable, he showed that he took an interest in her. there remained, however, the belief in helen's mind that he had seen her counting the money. "i expect i'd like the old chap if he didn't wear a wig," thought helen. "i never could see why people wished to hide the mistakes of nature. and he's an old gentleman, too." yet again and again she recalled that avaricious gleam in his eyes and how eager he had seemed when she had first caught sight of his face looking over her shoulder that first morning on the train. she couldn't forget that. she kept the locked bag near her hand all the time. with lively company a journey across this great continent of ours is a cheerful and inspiring experience. and, of course, youth can never remain depressed for long. but in helen morrell's case the trip could not be counted as an enjoyable one. she was always solitary amid the crowd of travelers. even when she went back to the observation platform she was alone. she had nobody with whom to discuss the beauties of the landscape, or the wonders of nature past which the train flashed. this was her own fault to a degree, of course. the girl from sunset ranch was diffident. these people aboard were all easterners, or foreigners. there were no open-hearted, friendly western folk such as she had been used to all her life. she felt herself among a strange people. she scarcely spoke the same language, or so it seemed. she had felt less awkward and bashful when she had first gone to the school at denver as a little girl. and, again, she was troubled because she had received no reply from her message to uncle starkweather. of course, he might not have been at home to receive it; but surely some of the family must have received it. every time the brakeman, or porter, or conductor, came through with a message for some passenger, she hoped he would call her name. but the transcontinental brought her across the western plains, over the two great rivers, through the mid-west prairies, skirted two of the great lakes, rushed across the wooded and mountainous empire state, and finally dashed down the length of the embattled hudson toward the great city of the new world--the goal of helen morrell's late desires, with no word from the relatives whom she so hoped would welcome her to their hearts and home. chapter vii the great city helen morrell never forgot her initial impressions of the great city. these impressions were at first rather startling--then intensely interesting. and they all culminated in a single opinion which time only could prove either true or erroneous. that belief or opinion helen expressed in an almost audible exclamation: "why! there are so many people here one could _never_ feel lonely!" this impression came to her after the train had rolled past miles of streets--all perfectly straight, bearing off on either hand to the two rivers that wash manhattan's shores; all illuminated exactly alike; all bordered by cliffs of dwellings seemingly cut on the same pattern and from the same material. with clasped hands and parted lips the girl from sunset ranch watched eagerly the glowing streets, parted by the rushing train. as it slowed down at th street she could see far along that broad thoroughfare--an uptown broadway. there were thousands and thousands of people in sight--with the glare of shoplights--the clanging electric cars--the taxicabs and autos shooting across the main stem of harlem into the avenues running north and south. it was as marvelous to the montana girl as the views of a foreign land upon the screen of a moving picture theatre. she sank back in her seat with a sigh as the train moved on. "what a wonderful, wonderful place!" she thought. "it looks like fairyland. it is an enchanted place----" the train, now under electric power, shot suddenly into the ground. the tunnel was odorous and ill-lighted. "well," the girl thought, "i suppose there _is_ another side to the big city, too!" the passengers began to put on their wraps and gather together their hand-luggage. there was much talking and confusion. some of the tourists had been met at th street by friends who came that far to greet them. but there was nobody to greet helen. there was nobody waiting on the platform, to come and clasp her hand and bid her welcome, when the train stopped. she got down, with her bag, and looked about her. she saw that the old gentleman with the wig kept step with her. but he did not seem to be noticing her, and presently he disappeared. the girl from sunset ranch walked slowly up into the main building of the grand central terminal with the crowd. there was chattering all about her--young voices, old voices, laughter, squeals of delight and surprise--all the hubbub of a homing crowd meeting a crowd of friends. and through it all helen walked, a stranger in a strange land. she lingered, hoping that uncle starkweather's people might be late. but nobody spoke to her. she did not know that there were matrons and police officers in the building to whom she could apply for advice or assistance. naturally independent, this girl of the ranges was not likely to ask a stranger for help. she could find her own way. she smiled--yet it was a rather wry smile--when she thought of how dud stone had told her she would be as much of a tenderfoot in new york as he had been on the plains. "it's a fact," she thought. "but, if they didn't get my message, i reckon i can find the house, just the same." having been so much in denver she knew a good deal about city ways. she did not linger about the station long. outside there was a row of taxicabs and cabmen. there was an officer, too; but he was engaged at the moment in helping a fussy old lady get seven parcels, a hat box, and a dog basket into a cab. so helen walked down the row of waiting taxicabs. at the end cab the chauffeur on the seat turned around and beckoned. "cab, miss? take you anywhere you say." "you know where this number on madison street is, of course?" she said, showing a card with the address on it. "sure, miss. jump right in." "how much will it be?" "trunk, miss?" "yes. here is the check." the chauffeur got out of his seat quickly and took the check. "it's so much a mile. the little clock tells you the fare," he said, pleasantly. "all right," replied helen. "you get the trunk," and she stepped into the vehicle. in a few moments he was back with the trunk and secured it on the roof of his cab. then he reached in and tucked a cloth around his passenger, although the evening was not cold, and got in under the wheel. in another moment the taxicab rolled out from under the roofed concourse. helen had never ridden in any vehicle that went so smoothly and so fast. it shot right downtown, mile after mile; but helen was so interested in the sights she saw from the window of the cab that she did not worry about the time that elapsed. by and by they went under an elevated railroad structure; the street grew more narrow and--to tell the truth--helen thought the place appeared rather dirty and unkempt. then the cab was turned suddenly across the way, under another elevated structure, and into a narrow, noisy, ill-kept street. "can it be that uncle starkweather lives in this part of the town?" thought helen, in amazement. she had always understood that the starkweather mansion was in one of the oldest and most respectable parts of new york. but although _this_ might be one of the older parts of the city, to helen's eyes it did _not_ look respectable. the street was full of children and grown people in odd costumes. and there was a babel of voices that certainly were not english. they shot across another narrow street--then another. and then the cab stopped beside the curb near a corner gaslight. "surely this is not madison?" demanded helen, of the driver, as her door was opened. "there's the name, miss," said the man, pointing to the street light. helen looked. she really _did_ see "madison" in blue letters on the sign. "and is this the number?" she asked again, looking at the three-story, shabby house before which the cab had stopped. "yes, miss. don't you see it on the fanlight?" the dull light in the hall of the house was sufficient to reveal to her the number painted on the glass above the door. it was an old, old house, with grimy panes in the windows, and more dull lights behind the shades drawn down over them. but there really could be no mistake, helen thought. the number over the door and the name on the lamp-post reassured her. she stepped out of the cab, her bag in her hand. "see if your folks are here, miss," said the driver, "before i take off the trunk." helen crossed the walk, clinging to her precious bag. she was not a little disturbed by this strange situation. these streets about here were the commonest of the common! and she was carrying a large sum of money, quite unprotected. when she mounted the steps and touched the door, it opened. a bustle of sound came from the house; yet it was not the kind of bustle that she had expected to hear in her uncle's home. there were the crying of children, the shrieking of a woman's angry voice--another singing--language in guttural tones which she could not understand--heavy boots tramping upon the bare boards overhead. this lower hall was unfurnished. indeed, it was a most unlovely place as far as helen could see by the light of a single flaring gas jet. "what kind of a place have i got into?" murmured the western girl, staring about in disgust and horror, and clinging tightly to the locked bag. chapter viii the welcome helen would have faced almost any peril of the range--wolves, a bear even, a stampede, flood, or fire--with more confidence than she felt at this moment. she had some idea of how city people lived, having been to school in denver. it seemed impossible that uncle starkweather and his family could reside in such a place as this. and yet the street and number were correct. surely, the taxicab driver must know his way about the city! from behind the door on her right came the rattle of dishes and voices. putting her courage to the test, helen rapped on the door. but she had to repeat the summons before she was heard. then she heard a shuffling step approach the door, it was unlocked, and a gray old woman, with a huge horsehair wig upon her head, peered out at her. "vot you vant?" this apparition asked, her black eyes growing round in wonder at the appearance of the girl and her bag. "ve puys noddings; ve sells noddings. vot you vant--eh?" "i am looking for my uncle starkweather," said helen, doubtfully. "vor your ungle?" repeated the old woman. "mr. starkweather. does he live in this house?" "'s'arkwesser'? i neffer heard," said the old woman, shaking her huge head. "abramovitch lifs here, and abelosky, and seldt, and--and goronsky. you sure you god de name ride, miss?" "quite sure," replied the puzzled helen. "meppe ubstairs," said the woman, eyeing helen curiously. "vot you god in de pag, lady?" to tell the truth this query rather frightened the girl. she did not reply to the question, but started half-blindly for the stairs, clinging to the bag with both hands. suddenly a door banged above and a quick and light step began to descend the upper flight. helen halted and looked expectantly upward. the approaching step was that of a young person. in a moment a girl appeared, descending the stairs like a young whirlwind. she was a vigorous, red-cheeked girl, with dark complexion, a prominent nose, flashing black eyes, and plump, sturdy arms bared to her dimpled elbows. she saw helen there in the hall and stopped, questioningly. the old woman said something to the newcomer in what helen supposed must be yiddish, and banged shut her own door. "whaddeyer want, miss?" asked the dark girl, coming nearer to helen and smiling, showing two rows of perfect teeth. "got lost?" "i don't know but what i have," admitted the girl from the west. "chee! you're a greenie, too; ain't you?" "i reckon so," replied helen, smiling in return. "at least, i've just arrived in town." the girl had now opened the door and looked out. "look at this, now!" she exclaimed. "did you come in that taxi?" "yes," admitted helen. "chee! you're some swell; aren't you?" said the other. "we don't have them things stopping at the house every day." "i am looking for my uncle, mr. willets starkweather." "that's no jewish name. i don't believe he lives in this house," said the black-eyed girl, curiously. "but, this is the number--i saw it," said helen, faintly. "and it's madison avenue; isn't it? i saw the name on the corner lamp-post." "_madison avenyer?_" gasped the other girl. "yes." "yer kiddin'; ain't yer?" demanded the stranger. "why---- what do you mean?" "this ain't madison avenyer," said the black-eyed girl, with a loud laugh. "ain't you the greenie? why, this is madison _street!_" "oh, then, there's a difference?" cried helen, much relieved. "i didn't get to uncle starkweather's, then?" "not if he lives on madison avenyer," said her new friend. "what's his number? i got a cousin that married a man in harlem. _she_ lives on madison avenyer; but it's a long ways up town." "why, uncle starkweather has his home at the same number on madison avenue that is on that fanlight," and helen pointed over the door. "then he's some swell; eh?" "i--i guess so," admitted helen, doubtfully. "d'jer jest come to town?" "yes." "and told the taxi driver to come down here?" "yes." "well, he'll take you back. i'll take the number of the cab and scare him pretty near into a fit," said the black-eyed girl, laughing. "then he's sure to take you right to your uncle's house." "oh, i'm a thousand times obliged!" cried helen. "i _am_ a tenderfoot; am i not?" and she laughed. the girl looked at her curiously. "i don't know much about tender feet. mine never bother me," she said. "but i could see right away that you didn't belong in this part of town." "well, you've been real kind to me," helen said. "i hope i'll see you again." "not likely," said the other, shaking her head. "why not?" "and you livin' on madison avenyer, and me on madison street?" "i can come down to see you," said helen, frankly. "my name is helen morrell. what's yours?" "sadie goronsky. you see, i'm a russian," and she smiled. "you wouldn't know it by the way i talk; would you? i learned english over there. but some folks in russia don't care to mix much with our people." "i don't know anything about that," said helen. "but i know when i like a person. and i've got reason for liking you." "that goes--double," returned the other, warmly. "i bet you come from a place far away from this city." "montana," said helen. "i ain't up in united states geography. but i know there's a big country the other side of the north river." helen laughed. "i come from a good ways beyond the river," she said. "well, i'll have to get back to the store. old jacob will give me fits." "oh, dear! and i'm keeping you," cried helen. "i should worry!" exploded the other, slangily. "i'm only a 'puller-in.' i ain't a saleslady. come on and i'll throw a scare into that taxi-driver. watch me." this sort of girl was a revelation to helen. she was frankly independent herself; but sadie goronsky showed an entirely different sort of independence. "see here you, mr. man!" exclaimed the jewish girl, attracting the attention of the taxicab driver, who had not left his seat. "whadderyer mean by bringing this young lady down here to madison street when with half an eye you could ha' told that she belonged on madison _avenyer_?" "heh?" grunted the man. "now, don't play no greenie trick with _me_," commanded sadie. "i gotcher number, and i know the company youse woik for. you take this young lady right to the correct address on the avenyer--and see that she don't get robbed before you get her there. you get in, miss morrell. don't you be afraid. this chap won't dare take you anywhere but to your uncle's house now." "she said madison street," declared the taxicab driver, doggedly. "well, now _i_ says madison avenyer!" exclaimed sadie. "get in, miss." "but where'll i find you, sadie?" asked the western girl, holding the rough hand of her new friend. "right at that shop yonder," said the black-eyed girl, pointing to a store only two doors beyond the house which helen had entered. "ladies' garments. you'll see me pullin' 'em in. if you _don't_ see me, ask for miss goronsky. good-night, miss! you'll get to your uncle's all right now." the taxicab driver had started the machine again. they darted off through a side street, and soon came out upon the broader thoroughfare down which they had come so swiftly. she saw by a street sign that it was the bowery. the man slowed down and spoke to her through the tube. "i hope you don't bear no ill-will, miss," he said, humbly enough. "you said madison----" "all right. see if you can take me to the right place now," returned helen, brusquely. her talk with sadie goronsky had given her more confidence. she was awake to the wiles of the city now. dud stone had been right. even big hen billings's warnings were well placed. a stranger like herself had to be on the lookout all the time. after a time the taxicab turned up a wider thoroughfare that had no elevated trains roaring overhead. at twenty-third street it turned west and then north again at madison square. there was a little haze in the air--an october haze. through this the lamps twinkled blithely. there were people on the dusky benches, and many on the walks strolling to and fro, although it was now growing quite late. in the park she caught a glimpse of water in a fountain, splashing high, then low, with a rainbow in it. altogether it was a beautiful sight. the hum of night traffic--the murmur of voices--they flashed past a theatre just sending forth its audience--and all the subdued sights and sounds of the city delighted her again. suddenly the taxicab stopped. "this is the number, miss," said the driver. helen looked out first. not much like the same number on madison street! this block was a slice of old-fashioned new york. on either side was a row of handsome, plain old houses, a few with lanterns at their steps, and some with windows on several floors brilliantly lighted. there were carriages and automobiles waiting at these doors. evening parties were evidently in progress. the house before which the taxicab had stopped showed no light in front, however, except at the door and in one or two of the basement windows. "is this the place you want?" asked the driver, with some impatience. "i'll see," said helen, and hopped out of the cab. she ran boldly up the steps and rang the bell. in a minute the inner door swung open; but the outer grating remained locked. a man in livery stood in the opening. "what did you wish, ma'am?" he asked in a perfectly placid voice. "does mr. willets starkweather reside here?" asked helen. "mr. starkweather is not at home, ma'am." "oh! then he could not have received my telegram!" gasped helen. the footman remained silent, but partly closed the door. "any message, ma'am?" he asked, perfunctorily. "but surely the family is at home?" cried helen. "not at this hour of the hevening, ma'am," declared the english servant, with plain disdain. "but i must see them!" cried helen, again. "i am mr. starkweather's niece. i have come all the way from montana, and have just got into the city. you must let me in." "hi 'ave no orders regarding you, ma'am," declared the footman, slowly. "mr. starkweather is at 'is club. the young ladies are hat an evening haffair." "but auntie--surely there must be _somebody_ here to welcome me?" said helen, in more wonder than anger as yet. "you may come in, miss," said the footman at last. "hi will speak to the 'ousekeeper--though i fear she is abed." "but i have the taxicab driver to pay, and my trunk is here," declared helen, beginning suddenly to feel very helpless. the man had opened the grilled door. he gazed down at the cab and shook his head. "wait hand see mrs. olstrom, first, miss," he said. she stepped in. he closed both doors and chained the inner one. he pointed to a hard seat in a corner of the hall and then stepped softly away upon the thick carpet to the rear of the premises, leaving the girl from sunset ranch alone. _this_ was her welcome to the home of her only relatives, and to the heart of the great city! chapter ix the ghost walk helen had to wait only a short time; but during that wait she was aware that she was being watched by a pair of bright eyes at a crevice between the portières at the end of the hall. "they act as though i came to rob them," thought the girl from the ranch, sitting in the gloomy hall with the satchel at her feet. this was not the welcome she had expected when she started east. could it be possible that her message to uncle starkweather had not been delivered? otherwise, how could this situation be explained? such a thing as inhospitality could not be imagined by helen morrell. a begging indian was never turned away from sunset ranch. a perfect stranger--even a sheepman--would be hospitably treated in montana. the soft patter of the footman's steps soon sounded and the sharp eyes disappeared. there was a moment's whispering behind the curtain. then the liveried englishman appeared. "will you step this way, miss?" he said, gravely. "mrs. olstrom will see you in her sitting-room. leave your bag there, miss." "no. i guess i'll hold onto it," she said, aloud. the footman looked pained, but said nothing. he led the way haughtily into the rear of the premises again. at a door he knocked. "come in!" said a sharp voice, and helen was ushered into the presence of a female with a face quite in keeping with the tone of her voice. the lady was of uncertain age. she wore a cap, but it did not entirely hide the fact that her thin, straw-colored hair was done up in curl-papers. she was vinegary of feature, her light blue eyes were as sharp as gimlets, and her lips were continually screwed up into the expression of one determined to say "prunes." she sat in a straight-backed chair in the sitting-room, in a flowered silk bed-wrapper, and she looked just as glad to see helen as though the girl were her deadliest enemy. "who are you?" she demanded. "i am helen morrell," said the girl. "what do you want of mr. starkweather at this hour?" "just what i would want of him at any hour," returned the western girl, who was beginning to become heartily exasperated. "what's that, miss?" snapped the housekeeper. "i have come to him for hospitality. i am his relative--rather, i am aunt eunice's relative----" "what do you mean, child?" exclaimed the lady, with sudden emotion. "who is your aunt eunice?" "mrs. starkweather. he married my mother's sister--my aunt eunice." "mrs. starkweather!" gasped mrs. olstrom. "of course." "then, where have _you_ been these past three years?" demanded the housekeeper in wonder. "mrs. starkweather has been dead all of that time. mr. willets starkweather is a widower." "aunt eunice dead?" cried helen. the news was a distinct shock to the girl. she forgot everything else for the moment. her face told her story all too well, and the housekeeper could not doubt her longer. "you're a relative, then?" "her--her niece, helen morrell," sobbed helen. "oh! i did not know--i did not know----" "never mind. you are entitled to hospitality and protection. did you just arrive?" "yes, ma'am." "your home is not near?" "in montana." "my goodness! you cannot go back to-night, that is sure. but why did you not write?" "i telegraphed i was coming." "i never heard of it. perhaps the message was not received. gregson!" "yes, ma'am," replied the footman. "you said something about a taxicab waiting outside with this young lady's luggage?" "yes, ma'am." "go and pay the man and have the baggage brought in----" "i'll pay for it, ma'am," said helen, hastily, trying to unlock her bag. "that will be all right. i will settle it with mr. starkweather. here is money, gregson. pay the fare and give the man a quarter for himself. have the trunk brought into the basement. i will attend to miss--er----?" "morrell." "miss morrell, myself," finished the housekeeper. the footman withdrew. the housekeeper looked hard at helen for several moments. "so you came here expecting hospitality--in your uncle's house--and from your cousins?" she observed, jerkily. "well!" she got up and motioned helen to take up her bag. "come. i have no orders regarding you. i shall give you one of the spare rooms. you are entitled to that much. no knowing when either mr. starkweather or the young ladies will be at home," she said, grimly. "i hope you won't put yourself out," observed helen, politely. "i am not likely to," returned mrs. olstrom. "it is you who will be more likely---- well!" she finished, without making her meaning very plain. this reception, to cap all that had gone before since she had arrived at the grand central terminal, chilled helen. the shock of discovering that her mother's sister was dead--and she and her father had not been informed of it--was no small one, either. she wished now that she had not come to the house at all. "i would better have gone to a hotel until i found out how they felt toward me," thought the girl from the ranch. yet helen was just. she began to tell herself that neither mr. starkweather nor her cousins were proved guilty of the rudeness of her reception. the telegram might have gone astray. they might never have dreamed of her coming on from sunset ranch to pay them a visit. the housekeeper began to warm toward her in manner, at least. she took her up another flight of stairs and to a very large and handsomely furnished chamber, although it was at the rear of the house, and right beside the stairs leading to the servants' quarters. at least, so mrs. olstrom said they were. "you will not mind, miss," she said, grimly. "you may hear the sound of walking in this hall. it is nothing. the foolish maids call it 'the ghost walk'; but it is only a sound. you're not superstitious; are you?" "i hope not!" exclaimed helen. "well! i have had to send away one or two girls. the house is very old. there are some queer stories about it. well! what is a sound?" "very true, ma'am," agreed helen, rather confused, but bound to be polite. "now, miss, will you have some supper? mr. lawdor can get you some in the butler's pantry. he has a chafing dish there and often prepares late bites for his master." "no, ma'am; i am not hungry," helen declared. "i had dinner in the dining car at seven." "then i will leave you--unless you should wish something further?" said the housekeeper. "here is your bath," opening a door into the anteroom. "i will place a note upon mr. starkweather's desk saying that you are here. will you need your trunk up to-night, miss?" "oh, no, indeed," helen declared. "i have a kimono here--and other things. i'll be glad of the bath, though. one does get so dusty traveling." she was unlocking her bag. for a moment she hesitated, half tempted to take the housekeeper into her confidence regarding her money. but the woman went directly to the door and bowed herself out with a stiff: "good-night, miss." "my! but this is a friendly place!" mused helen, when she was left alone. "and they seem to have so much confidence in strangers!" therefore, she went to the door into the hall, found there was a bolt upon it, and shot it home. then she pulled the curtain across the keyhole before sitting down and counting all her money over again. "they got _me_ doing it!" muttered helen. "i shall be afraid of every person i meet in this man's town." but by and by she hopped up, hid the wallet under her pillow (the bed was a big one with deep mattress and downy pillows) and then ran to let her bath run in the little room where mrs. olstrom had snapped on the electric light. she undressed slowly, shook out her garments, hung them properly to air, and stepped into the grateful bath. how good it felt after her long and tiresome journey by train! but as she was drying herself on the fleecy towels she suddenly heard a sound outside her door. after the housekeeper left her the whole building had seemed as silent as a tomb. now there was a steady rustling noise in the short corridor on which her room opened. "what _did_ that woman ask me?" murmured helen. "was i afraid of ghosts?" she laughed a little. to a healthy, normal, outdoor girl the supernatural had few terrors. "it _is_ a funny sound," she admitted, hastily finished the drying process and then slipping into her nightrobe, kimono, and bed slippers. all the time her ear seemed preternaturally attuned to that rising and waning sound without her chamber. it seemed to come toward the door, pass it, move lightly away, and then turn and repass again. it was a steady, regular---- _step--put; step--put; step--put----_ and with it was the rustle of garments--or so it seemed. the girl grew momentarily more curious. the mystery of the strange sound certainly was puzzling. "who ever heard of a ghost with a wooden leg?" she thought, chuckling softly to herself. "and that is what it sounds like. no wonder the servants call this corridor 'the ghost walk.' well, me for bed!" she had already snapped out the electric light in the bathroom, and now hopped into bed, reaching up to pull the chain of the reading light as she did so. the top of one window was down half-way and the noise of the city at midnight reached her ear in a dull monotone. back here at the rear of the great mansion, street sounds were faint. in the distance, to the eastward, was the roar of a passing elevated train. an automobile horn hooted raucously. but steadily, through all other sounds, as an accompaniment to them and to helen morrell's own thoughts, was the continuous rustle in the corridor outside her door: _step--put; step--put; step--put._ chapter x morning the starkweather mansion was a large dwelling. built some years before the civil war, it had been one of the "great houses" in its day, to be pointed out to the mid-nineteenth century visitor to the metropolis. of course, when the sightseeing coaches came in fashion they went up fifth avenue and passed by the stately mansions of the victorian era, on madison avenue, without comment. willets starkweather had sprung from a quite mean and un-noted branch of the family, and had never, until middle life, expected to live in the madison avenue homestead. the important members of his clan were dead and gone and their great fortunes scattered. willets starkweather could barely keep up with the expenditures of his great household. there were never servants enough, and mrs. olstrom, the very capable housekeeper, who had served the present master's great-uncle before the day of the new generation, had hard work to satisfy the demands of those there were upon the means allowed her by mr. starkweather. there were rooms in the house--especially upon the topmost floor--into which even the servants seldom went. there were vacant rooms which never knew broom nor duster. the dwelling, indeed, was altogether too large for the needs of mr. starkweather and his three motherless daughters. but their living in it gave them a prestige which nothing else could. as wise as any match-making matron, willets starkweather knew that the family's address at this particular number on madison avenue would aid his daughters more in "making a good match" than anything else. he could not dower them. really, they needed no dower with their good looks, for they were all pretty. the madison avenue mansion gave them the open sesame into good society--choice society, in fact--and there some wealthy trio of unattached young men must see and fall in love with them. and the girls understood this, too--right down to fourteen-year-old flossie. they all three knew that to "pay poor papa" for reckless expenditures now, they must sooner or later capture moneyed husbands. so, there was more than one reason why the three starkweather girls leaped immediately from childhood into full-blown womanhood. flossie had already privately studied the characters--and possible bank accounts--of the boys of her acquaintance, to decide upon whom she should smile her sweetest. these facts--save that the mansion was enormous--were hidden from helen when she arose on the first morning of her city experience. she had slept soundly and sweetly. even the rustling steps on the ghost walk had not bothered her for long. used to being up and out by sunrise, she could not easily fall in with city ways. she hustled out of bed soon after daybreak, took a cold sponge, which made her body tingle delightfully, and got into her clothes as rapidly as any boy. she had only the shoddy-looking brown traveling dress to wear, and the out-of-date hat. but she put them on, and ventured downstairs, intent upon going out for a walk before breakfast. the solemn clock in the hall chimed seven as she found her way down the lower flight of front stairs. as she came through the curtain-hung halls and down the stairs, not a soul did she meet until she reached the front hall. there a rather decrepit-looking man, with a bleared eye, and dressed in decent black, hobbled out of a parlor to meet her. "bless me!" he ejaculated. "what--what--what----" "i am helen morrell," said the girl from sunset ranch, smiling, and judging that this must be the butler of whom the housekeeper had spoken the night before. "i have just come to visit my uncle and cousins." "bless me!" said the old man again. "gregson told me. proud to see you, miss. but--you're dressed to go out, miss?" "for a walk, sir," replied helen, nodding. "at this hour? bless me--bless me--bless me----" he seemed apt to run off in this style, in an unending string of mild expletives. his head shook and his hands seemed palsied. but he was a polite old man. "i beg of you, miss, don't go out without a bit of breakfast. my own coffee is dripping in the percolator. let me give you a cup," he said. "why--if it's not too much trouble, sir----" "this way, miss," he said, hurrying on before, and leading helen to a cozy little room at the back. this corresponded with the housekeeper's sitting-room and helen believed it must be mr. lawdor's own apartment. he laid a small cloth with a flourish. he set forth a silver breakfast set. he did everything neatly and with an alacrity that surprised helen in one so evidently decrepit. "a chop, now, miss? or a rasher?" he asked, pointing to an array of electric appliances on the sideboard by which a breakfast might be "tossed up" in a hurry. "no, no," helen declared. "not so early. this nice coffee and these delicious rolls are enough until i have earned more." "earned more, miss?" he asked, in surprise. "by exercise," she explained. "i am going to take a good tramp. then i shall come back as hungry as a mountain lion." "the family breakfasts at nine, miss," said the butler, bowing. "but if you are an early riser you will always find something tidy here in my room, miss. you are very welcome." she thanked him and went out into the hall again. the footman in livery--very sleepy and tousled as yet--was unchaining the front door. a yawning maid was at work in one of the parlors with a duster. she stared at helen in amazement, but gregson stood stiffly at attention as the visitor went forth into the daylight. "my, how funny city people live!" thought helen morrell. "i don't believe i ever could stand it. up till all hours, and then no breakfast until nine. _what_ a way to live! "and there must be twice as many servants as there are members of the family---- why! more than that! and all that big house to get lost in," she added, glancing up at it as she started off upon her walk. she turned the first corner and went through a side street toward the west. this was not a business side street. there were several tall apartment hotels interspersed with old houses. she came to fifth avenue--"the most beautiful street in the world." it had been swept and garnished by a horde of white-robed men since two o'clock. on this brisk october morning, from the washington arch to th street, it was as clean as a whistle. she walked uptown. at thirty-fourth and forty-second streets the crosstown traffic had already begun. she passed the new department stores, already opening their eyes and yawning in advance of the day's trade. there were a few pedestrians headed uptown like herself. some well-dressed men seemed walking to business. a few neat shop girls were hurrying along the pavement, too. but helen, and the dogs in leash, had the avenue mostly to themselves at this hour. the sleepy maids, or footmen, or pages stared at the western girl with curiosity as she strode along. for, unlike many from the plains, helen could walk well in addition to riding well. she reached the plaza, and crossing it, entered the park. the trees were just coloring prettily. there were morning sounds from the not-far-distant zoo. a few early nursemaids and their charges asleep in baby carriages, were abroad. several old gentlemen read their morning papers upon the benches, or fed the squirrels who were skirmishing for their breakfasts. several plainly-dressed people were evidently taking their own "constitutionals" through the park paths. swinging down from the north come square-shouldered, cleanly-shaven young men of the same type as dud stone. helen believed that dud must be a typical new yorker. but there were no girls abroad--at least, girls like herself who had leisure. and helen was timid about making friends with the nursemaids. in fact, there wasn't a soul who smiled upon her as she walked through the paths. she would not have dared approach any person she met for any purpose whatsoever. "they haven't a grain of interest in me," thought helen. "many of them, i suppose, don't even see me. goodness, what a lot of self-centred people there must be in new york!" she wandered on and on. she had no watch--never had owned one. as she had told dud stone, the stars at night were her clock, and by day she judged the hour by the sun. the sun was behind a haze now; but she had another sure timekeeper. there was nothing the matter with helen's appetite. "i'll go back and join the family at breakfast," the girl thought. "i hope they'll be nice to me. and poor aunt eunice dead without our ever being told of it! strange!" she had come a good way. indeed, she was some time in finding an outlet from the park. the sun was behind the morning haze as yet, but she turned east, and finally came out upon the avenue some distance above the gateway by which she had entered. a southbound auto-bus caught her eye and she signaled it. she not only had brought her purse with her, but the wallet with her money was stuffed inside her blouse and made an uncomfortable lump there at her waist. but she hid this with her arm, feeling that she must be on the watch for some sharper all the time. "big hen was right when he warned me," she repeated, eyeing suspiciously the several passengers in the fifth avenue bus. they were mostly early shoppers, however, or gentlemen riding to their offices. she had noticed the number of the street nearest her uncle's house, and so got out at the right corner. the change in this part of the town since she had walked away from it soon after seven, amazed her. she almost became confused and started in the wrong direction. the roar of traffic, the rattle of riveters at work on several new buildings in the neighborhood, the hoarse honking of automobiles, the shrill whistles of the traffic policemen at the corners, and the various other sounds seemed to make another place of the old-fashioned madison avenue block. "my goodness! to live in such confusion, and yet have money enough to be able to enjoy a home out of town," thought helen. "how foolish of uncle starkweather." she made no mistake in the house this time. there was gregson--now spick and span in his maroon livery--haughtily mounting guard over the open doorway while a belated scrubwoman was cleaning the steps and areaway. helen tripped up the steps with a smile for gregson; but that wooden-faced subject of king george had no joint in his neck. he could merely raise a finger in salute. "is the family up, sir?" she asked, politely. "in mr. starkweather's den, miss," said the footman, being unable to leave his post at the moment. mr. lawdor was not in sight and helen set out to find the room in question, wondering if the family had already breakfasted. the clock in the hall chimed the quarter to ten as she passed it. the great rooms on this floor were open now; but empty. she suddenly heard voices. she found a cross passage that she had not noticed before, and entered it, the voices growing louder. she came to a door before which hung heavy curtains; but these curtains did not deaden the sound entirely. indeed, as helen hesitated, with her hand stretched out to seize the portière, she heard something that halted her. indeed, what she heard within the next few moments entirely changed the outlook of the girl from sunset ranch. it matured that doubt of humanity that had been born the night before in her breast. and it changed--for the time being at least--helen's nature. from a frank, open-hearted, loving girl she became suspicious, morose and secretive. the first words she heard held her spell-bound--an unintentional eavesdropper. and what she heard made her determined to appear to her unkind relatives quite as they expected her to appear. chapter xi living up to one's reputation "well! my lady certainly takes her time about getting up," belle starkweather was saying. "she was tired after her journey, i presume," her father said. "across the continent in a day-coach, i suppose," laughed hortense, yawning. "i _was_ astonished at that bill for taxi hire olstrom put on your desk, pa," said belle. "she must have ridden all over town before she came here." "a girl who couldn't take a plain hint," cried hortense, "and stay away altogether when we didn't answer her telegram----" "hush, girls. we must treat her kindly," said their father. "ahem!" "i don't see _why_?" demanded hortense, bluntly. "you don't understand everything," responded mr. starkweather, rather weakly. "i don't understand _you_, pa, sometimes," declared hortense. "well, i'll tell you one thing right now!" snapped the older girl. "i've ordered her things taken out of that chamber. her shabby old trunk has gone up to the room at the top of the servants' stairway. it's good enough for her." "we certainly have not got to have this cowgirl around for long," continued hortense. "she'd be no fit company for flossie. flossie's rude enough as it is." the youngest daughter had gone to school, so she was not present with her saucy tongue to hold up her own end of the argument. "think of a girl right from a cattle ranch!" laughed belle. "fine! i suppose she knows how to rope steers, and break ponies, and ride bareback like an indian, and all that. fine accomplishments for a new york drawing-room, i must say." "oh, yes," joined in hortense. "and she'll say 'i reckon,' and drop her 'g's' and otherwise insult the king's english." "ahem! i must warn you girls to be less boisterous," advised their father. "why, you sound as though you were almost afraid of this cowgirl, pa," said belle, curiously. "no, no!" protested mr. starkweather, hurriedly. "pa's so easy," complained hortense. "if i had my way i wouldn't let her stay the day out." "but where would she go?" almost whined mr. starkweather. "back where she came from." "perhaps the folks there don't want her," said belle. "of course she's a pauper," observed hortense. "give her some money and send her away, pa," begged belle. "you ought to. she's not fit to associate with flossie. you know just how floss picks up every little thing----" "and she's that man's daughter, too, you know," remarked belle. "ahem!" said their father, weakly. "it's not decent to have her here." "of course, other people will remember what morrell did. it will make a scandal for us." "i cannot help it! i cannot help it!" cried mr. starkweather, suddenly breaking out and battling against his daughters as he sometimes did when they pressed him too closely. "i cannot send her away." "well, she mustn't be encouraged to stay," declared hortense. "i should say not," rejoined belle. "and getting up at this hour to breakfast," hortense sniffed. helen morrell wore strong, well-made walking boots. good shoes were something that she could always buy in elberon. but usually she walked lightly and springily. now she came stamping through the small hall, and on the heels of the last remark, flung back the curtain and strode into the den. "hullo, folks!" she cried. "goodness! don't you get up till noon here in town? i've been clean out to your city park while i waited for you to wash your faces. uncle starkweather! how be you?" she had grabbed the hand of the amazed gentleman and was now pumping it with a vigor that left him breathless. "and these air two of your gals?" quoth helen. "i bet i can pick 'em out by name," and she laughed loudly. "this is belle; ain't it? put it thar!" and she took the resisting belle's hand and squeezed it in her own brown one until the older girl winced, muscular as she herself was. "and this is 'tense--i know!" added the girl from sunset ranch, reaching for the hand of her other cousin. "no, you don't!" cried hortense, putting her hands behind her. "why! you'd crush my hand." "ho, ho!" laughed helen, slapping her hand heartily upon her knee as she sat down. "ain't you the puny one!" "i'm no great, rude----" "ahem!" exclaimed mr. starkweather, recovering from his amazement in time to shut off the snappy remark of hortense. "we--we are glad to see you, girl----" "i knew you'd be!" cried helen, loudly. "i told 'em back on the ranch that you an' the gals would jest about eat me up, you'd be so glad, when ye seen me. relatives oughter be neighborly." "neighborly!" murmured hortense. "and from montana!" "butcher got another one; ain't ye, uncle starkweather?" demanded the metamorphosed helen, looking about with a broad smile. "where's the little tad?" "'little tad'! oh, won't flossie be pleased?" again murmured hortense. "my youngest daughter is at school," replied mr. starkweather, nervously. "shucks! of course," said helen, nodding. "i forgot they go to school half their lives down east here. out my way we don't get much chance at schoolin'." "so i perceive," remarked hortense, aloud. "now i expect _you_,'tense," said helen, wickedly, "have been through all the isms and the ologies there be--eh? you look like you'd been all worn to a frazzle studyin'." belle giggled. hortense bridled. "i really wish you wouldn't call me out of my name," she said. "huh?" "my name is hortense," said that young lady, coldly. "shucks! so it is. but that's moughty long for a single mouthful." belle giggled again. hortense looked disgusted. uncle starkweather was somewhat shocked. "we--ahem!--hope you will enjoy yourself here while you--er--remain," he began. "of course, your visit will be more or less brief, i suppose?" "jest accordin' to how ye like me and how i like you folks," returned the girl from sunset ranch, heartily. "when big hen seen me off----" "who--_who_?" demanded hortense, faintly. "big hen billings," said helen, in an explanatory manner. "hen was dad's--that is he worked with dad on the ranch. when i come away i told big hen not to look for me back till i arrove. didn't know how i'd find you-all, or how i'd like the city. city's all right; only nobody gets up early. and i expect we-all can't tell how we like each other until we get better acquainted." "very true--very true," remarked mr. starkweather, faintly. "but, goodness! i'm hungry!" exclaimed helen. "you folks ain't fed yet; have ye?" "we have breakfasted," said belle, scornfully. "i will ring for the butler. you may tell lawdor what you want--er--_cousin_ helen," and she looked at hortense. "sure!" cried helen. "sorry to keep you waiting. ye see, i didn't have any watch and the sun was clouded over this morning. sort of run over my time limit--eh? ah!--is this mr. lawdor?" the shaky old butler stood in the doorway. "it is _lawdor_," said belle, emphatically. "is there any breakfast left, lawdor?" "yes, miss belle. when gregson told me the young miss was not at the table i kept something hot and hot for her, miss. shall i serve it in my room?" "you may as well," said belle, carelessly. "and, _cousin_ helen!" "yep?" chirped the girl from the ranch. "of course, while you are here, we could not have you in the room you occupied last night. it--it might be needed. i have already told olstrom, the housekeeper, to take your bag and other things up to the next floor. ask one of the maids to show you the room you are to occupy--_while you remain_." "that's all right, belle," returned the western girl, with great heartiness. "any old place will do for me. why! i've slept on the ground more nights than you could shake a stick at," and she tramped off after the tottering butler. "well!" gasped hortense when she was out of hearing, "what do you know about _that_?" "pa, do you intend to let that dowdy little thing stay here?" cried belle. "ahem!" murmured mr. starkweather, running a finger around between his collar and his neck, as though to relieve the pressure there. "her clothes came out of the ark!" declared hortense. "and that hat!" "and those boots--or is it because she clumps them so? i expect she is more used to riding than to walking." "and her language!" rejoined belle. "ahem! what--what can we do, girls?" gasped mr. starkweather. "put her out!" cried belle, loudly and angrily. "she is quite too, too impossible, pa," agreed hortense. "with her coarse jokes," said the older sister. "and her rough way," echoed the other. "and that ugly dress and hat." "a pauper relation! faugh! i didn't know the starkweathers owned one." "seems to me, _one_ queer person in the house is enough," began hortense. her father and sister looked at her sharply. "why, hortense!" exclaimed belle. "ahem!" observed mr. starkweather, warningly. "well! we don't want _that_ freak in the house," grumbled the younger sister. "there are--ahem!--some things best left unsaid," observed her father, pompously. "but about this girl from the west----" "yes, pa!" cried his daughters in duet. "i will see what can be done. of course, she cannot expect me to support her for long. i will have a serious talk with her." "when, pa?" cried the two girls again. "er--ahem!--soon," declared the gentleman, and beat a hasty retreat. "it had better be pretty soon," said belle, bitterly, to her sister. "for i won't stand that dowdy thing here for long, now i tell you!" "good for you, belle!" rejoined hortense, warmly. "it's strange if we can't--with flossie's help--soon make her sick of her visit." chapter xii "i must learn the truth" helen was already very sick of her uncle starkweather's home and family. but she was too proud to show the depth of her feeling before the old serving man in whose charge she had been momentarily placed. lawdor was plainly pleased to wait upon her. he made fresh coffee in his own percolator; there was a cutlet kept warm upon an electric stove, and he insisted upon frying her a rasher of bacon and some eggs. despite all that mentally troubled her, her healthy body needed nourishment and helen ate with an appetite that pleased the old man immensely. "if--if you go out early, miss, don't forget to come here for your coffee," he said. "or more, if you please. i shall be happy to serve you." "and i'm happy to have you," returned the girl, heartily. she could not assume to him the rude tone and manner which she had displayed to her uncle and cousins. _that_ had been the outcome of an impulse which had risen from the unkind expressions she had heard them use about her. as soon as she could get away, she had ceased being an eavesdropper. but she had heard enough to assure her that her relatives were not glad to see her; that they were rude and unkind, and that they were disturbed by her presence among them. but there was another thing she had drawn from their ill-advised talk, too. she had heard her father mentioned in no kind way. hints were thrown out that prince morrell's crime--or the crime of which he had been accused--was still remembered in new york. back into her soul had come that wave of feeling she experienced after her father's death. he had been so troubled by the smirch upon his name--the cloud that had blighted his young manhood in the great city. "i'll know the truth," she thought again. "i'll find out who _was_ guilty. they sha'n't drive me away until i have accomplished my object in coming east." this was the only thought she had while she remained under old lawdor's eye. she had to bear up, and seem unruffled until the breakfast was disposed of and she could escape upstairs. she went up the servants' way. she saw the same girl she had noticed in the parlor early in the morning. "can you show me my room?" she asked her, timidly. "top o' the next flight. door's open," replied the girl, shortly. already the news had gone abroad among the under servants that this was a poor relation. no tips need be expected. the girl flirted her cloth and turned her back upon helen as the latter started through the ghost walk and up the other stairway. she easily found the room. it was quite as good as her own room at the ranch, as far as size and furniture went. helen would have been amply satisfied with it had the room been given to her in a different spirit. but now she closed her door, locked it carefully, hung her jacket over the knob that she should be sure she was not spied upon, and sat down beside the bed. she was not a girl who cried often. she had wept sincere tears the evening before when she learned that aunt eunice was dead. but she could not weep now. her emotion was emphatically wrathful. without cause--that she could see--these city relatives had maligned her--had maligned her father's memory--and had cruelly shown her, a stranger, how they thoroughly hated her presence. she had come away from sunset ranch with two well-devised ideas in her mind. first of all, she hoped to clear her father's name of that old smirch upon it. secondly, he had wished her to live with her relatives if possible, that she might become used to the refinements and circumstances of a more civilized life. refinements! why, these cousins of hers hadn't the decencies of red indians! on impulse helen had taken the tone she had with them--had showed them in "that cowgirl" just what they had expected to find. she would be bluff and rude and ungrammatical and ill-bred. perhaps the spirit in which helen did this was not to be commended; but she had begun it on the impulse of the moment and she felt she must keep it up during her stay in the starkweather house. how long that would be helen was not prepared to say now. it was in her heart one moment not to unpack her trunk at all. she could go to a hotel--the best in new york, if she so desired. how amazed her cousins would be if they knew that she was at this moment carrying more than eight hundred dollars in cash on her person? and suppose they learned that she owned thousands upon thousands of acres of grazing land in her own right, on which roamed unnumbered cattle and horses? suppose they found out that she had been schooled in a first-class institution in denver--probably as well schooled as they themselves? what would they say? how would they feel should they suddenly make these discoveries? but, while she sat there and studied the problem out, helen came to at least one determination: while she remained in the starkweather house she would keep from her uncle and cousins the knowledge of these facts. she would not reveal her real character to them. she would continue to parade before them and before their friends the very rudeness and ignorance that they had expected her to betray. "they are ashamed of me--let them be ashamed," she said, to herself, bitterly. "they hate me--i'll give them no reason for loving me, i promise you! they think me a pauper--i'll _be_ a pauper. until i get ready to leave here, at least. then i can settle with uncle starkweather in one lump for all the expense to which he may be put for me. "i'll buy no nice dresses--or hats--or anything else. they sha'n't know i have a penny to spend. if they want to treat me like a poor relation, let them. i'll _be_ a poor relation. "i must learn the truth about poor dad's trouble," she told herself again. "uncle starkweather must know something about it. i want to question him. he may be able to help me. i may get on the track of that bookkeeper. and he can tell me, surely, where to find fenwick grimes, father's old partner. "no. they shall serve me without knowing it. i will be beholden to them for my bread and butter and shelter--for a time. let them hate and despise me. what i have to do i will do. then i'll 'pay the shot,' as big hen would say, and walk out and leave them." it was a bold determination, but not one that is to be praised. yet, helen had provocation for the course she proposed to pursue. she finally unlocked her trunk and hung up the common dresses and other garments she had brought with her. she had intended to ask her cousins to take her shopping right away, and she, like any other girl of her age, longed for new frocks and pretty hats. but there was a lot of force in helen's character. she would go without anything pretty unless her cousins offered to buy it themselves. she would bide her time. one thing she hid far back in her closet under the other things--her riding habit. she knew it would give the lie to her supposed poverty. she had sent to chicago for that, and it had cost a hundred dollars. "but i don't suppose there'd be a chance to ride in this big town," she thought, with a sigh. "unless it is hobby-horses in the park. well! i can get on for a time without the rose pony, or any other critter on four legs, to love me." but she was hungry for the companionship of the animals whom she had seen daily on the ranch. "why, even the yip of a coyote would be sweet," she mused, putting her head out of the window and scanning nothing but chimneys and tin roofs, with bare little yards far below. finally she heard a japanese gong's mellow note, and presumed it must announce luncheon. it was already two o'clock. people who breakfasted at nine or ten, of course did not need a midday meal. "i expect they don't have supper till bedtime," thought helen. first she hid her wallet in the bottom of her trunk, locked the trunk and set it up on end in the closet. then she locked the closet door and took out the key, hiding the latter under the edge of the carpet. "i'm getting as bad as the rest of 'em," she muttered. "i won't trust anybody, either. now for meeting my dear cousins at lunch." she had slipped into one of the simple house dresses she had worn at the ranch. she had noticed that forenoon that both belle and hortense starkweather were dressed in the most modish of gowns--as elaborate as those of fashionable ladies. with no mother to say them nay, these young girls aped every new fashion as they pleased. helen started downstairs at first with her usual light step. then she bethought herself, stumbled on a stair, slipped part of the way, and continued to the very bottom of the last flight with a noise and clatter which must have announced her coming long in advance of her actual presence. "i don't want to play eavesdropper again," she told herself, grimly. "i always understood that listeners hear no good of themselves, and now i know it to be a fact." gregson stood at the bottom of the last flight. his face was as wooden as ever, but he managed to open his lips far enough to observe: "luncheon is served in the breakfast room, miss." a sweep of his arm pointed the way. then she saw old lawdor pottering in and out of a room into which she had not yet looked. it proved to be a sunny, small dining-room. when alone the family usually ate here, helen discovered. the real dining-room was big enough for a dancing floor, with an enormous table, preposterously heavy furniture all around the four sides of the room, and an air of gloom that would have removed, before the food appeared, even, all trace of a healthy appetite. when helen entered the brighter apartment her three cousins were already before her. the noise she made coming along the hall, despite the heavy carpets, had quite prepared them for her appearance. belle and hortense met her with covert smiles. and they watched their younger sister to see what impression the girl from sunset ranch made upon flossie. "and this is flossie; is it?" cried helen, going boisterously into the room and heading full tilt around the table for the amazed flossie. "why, you look like a smart young'un! and you're only fourteen? well, i never!" she seized flossie by both hands, in spite of that young lady's desire to keep them free. "goodness me! keep your paws off--do!" ejaculated flossie, in great disgust. "and let me tell you, if i _am_ only fourteen i'm 'most as big as you are and i know a whole lot more." "why, floss!" exclaimed hortense, but unable to hide her amusement. the girl from sunset ranch took it all with apparent good nature, however. "i reckon you _do_ know a lot. you've had advantages, you see. girls out my way don't have much chance, and that's a fact. but if i stay here, don't you reckon i'll learn?" the starkweather girls exchanged glances of amusement. "i do not think," said belle, calmly, "that you would better think of remaining with us for long. it would be rather bad for you, i am sure, and inconvenient for us." "how's that?" demanded helen, looking at her blankly. "inconvenient--and with all this big house?" "ahem!" began belle, copying her father. "the house is not always as free of visitors as it is now. and of course, a girl who has no means and must earn her living, should not live in luxury." "why not?" asked helen, quickly. "why--er--well, it would not be nice to have a working girl go in and out of our house." "and you think i shall have to go to work?" "why, of course, you may remain here--father says--until you can place yourself. but he does not believe in fostering idleness. he often says so," said belle, heaping it all on "poor pa." helen had taken her seat at the table and gregson was serving. it mattered nothing to these ill-bred starkweather girls that the serving people heard how they treated this "poor relation." helen remained silent for several minutes. she tried to look sad. within, however, she was furiously angry. but this was not the hour for her to triumph. flossie had been giggling for a few moments. now she asked her cousin, saucily: "i say! where did you pick up that calico dress, helen?" "this?" returned the visitor, looking down at the rather ugly print. "it's a gingham. bought it ready-made in elberon. do you like it?" "i love it!" giggled flossie. "and it's made in quite a new style, too." "do you think so? why, i reckoned it was old," said helen, smoothly. "but i'm glad to hear it's so fitten to wear. for, you see, i ain't got many clo'es." "don't you have dressmakers out there in montana?" asked hortense, eyeing the print garment as though it was something entirely foreign. "i reckon. but we folks on the range don't get much chance at 'em. dressmakers is as scurce around sunset ranch as killyloo birds. unless ye mought call injun squaws dressmakers." "what are killyloo birds?" demanded flossie, hearing something new. "well now! don't you have them here?" asked helen, smiling broadly. "never heard of them. and i've been to bronx park and seen all the birds in the flying cage," said flossie. "our nature teacher takes us out there frequently. it's a dreadful bore." "well, i didn't know but you might have 'em east here," observed helen, pushing along the time-worn cowboy joke. "i said they was scurce around the ranch; and they be. i never saw one." "really!" ejaculated hortense. "what are killyloo birds good for?" "why, near as i ever heard," replied helen, chuckling, "they are mostly used for making folks ask questions." "i declare!" snapped belle. "she is laughing at you, girls. you're very dense, i'm sure, hortense." "say! that's a good one!" laughed flossie. but hortense muttered: "vulgar little thing!" helen smiled tranquilly upon them. nothing they said to her could shake her calm. and once in a while--as in the case above--she "got back" at them. she kept consistently to her rude way of speaking; but she used the tableware with little awkwardness, and belle said to hortense: "at least somebody's tried to teach her a few things. she is no sword-swallower." "i suppose aunt mary had some refinement," returned hortense, languidly. helen's ears were preternaturally sharp. she heard everything. but she had such good command of her features that she showed no emotion at these side remarks. after luncheon the three sisters separated for their usual afternoon amusements. neither of them gave a thought to helen's loneliness. they did not ask her what she was going to do, or suggest anything to her save that, an hour later, when belle saw her cousin preparing to leave the house in the same dress she had worn at luncheon, she cried: "oh, helen, _do_ go out and come in by the lower door; will you? the basement door, you know." "sure!" replied helen, cheerfully. "saves the servants work, i suppose, answering the bell." but she knew as well as belle why the request was made. belle was ashamed to have her appear to be one of the family. if she went in and out by the servants' door it would not look so bad. helen walked over to the avenue and looked at the frocks in the store windows. by their richness she saw that in this neighborhood, at least, to refit in a style which would please her cousins would cost quite a sum of money. "i won't do it!" she told herself, stubbornly. "if they want me to look well enough to go in and out of the front door, let them suggest buying something for me." she went back to the starkweather mansion in good season; but she entered, as she had been told, by the area door. one of the maids let her in and tossed her head when she saw what an out-of-date appearance this poor relation of her master made. "sure," this girl said to the cook, "if i didn't dress better nor _her_ when i went out, i'd wait till afther dark, so i would!" helen heard this, too. but she was a girl who could stick to her purpose. criticism should not move her, she determined; she would continue to play her part. "mr. starkweather is in the den, miss," said the housekeeper, meeting helen on the stairs. "he has asked for you." mrs. olstrom was a very grim person, indeed. if she had shown the girl from the ranch some little kindliness the night before, she now hid it all very successfully. helen returned to the lower floor and sought that room in which she had had her first interview with her relatives. mr. starkweather was alone. he looked more than a little disturbed; and of the two he was the more confused. "ahem! i feel that we must have a serious talk together, helen," he said, in his pompous manner. "it--it will be quite necessary--ahem!" "sure!" returned the girl. "glad to. i've got some serious things to ask you, too, sir." "eh? eh?" exclaimed the gentleman, worried at once. "you fire ahead, sir," said helen, sitting down and crossing one knee over the other in a boyish fashion. "my questions will wait." "i--ahem!--i wish to know who suggested your coming here to new york?" "my father," replied helen, simply and truthfully. "your father?" the reply evidently both surprised and discomposed mr. starkweather. "i do not understand. your--your father is dead----" "yes, sir. it was just before he died." "and he told you to come here to--to _us_?" "yes, sir." "but why?" demanded the gentleman with some warmth. "dad said as how you folks lived nice, and knew all about refinement and eddication and all that. he wanted me to have a better chance than what i could get on the ranch." mr. starkweather glared at her in amazement. he was not at all a kind-hearted man; but he was very cowardly. he had feared her answer would be quite different from this, and now took courage. "do you mean to say that merely this expressed wish that you might live at--ahem!--at my expense, and as my daughters live, brought you here to new york?" "that begun it, uncle," said helen, coolly. "preposterous! what could prince morrell be thinking of? why should i support you, miss?" "why, that don't matter so much," remarked helen, calmly. "i can earn my keep, i reckon. if there's nothing to do in the house i'll go and find me a job and pay my board. but, you see, dad thought i ought to have the refining influences of city life. good idea; eh?" "a very ridiculous idea! a very ridiculous idea, indeed!" cried mr. starkweather. "i never heard the like." "well, you see, there's another reason why i came, too, uncle," helen said, blandly. "what's that?" demanded the gentleman, startled again. "why, dad told me everything when he died. he--he told me how he got into trouble before he left new york--'way back there before i was born," spoke helen, softly. "it troubled dad all his life, uncle starkweather. especially after mother died. he feared he had not done right by her and me, after all, in running away when he was not guilty----" "not guilty!" "not guilty," repeated helen, sternly. "of course, we all know _that_. somebody got all that money the firm had in bank; but it was not my father, sir." she gazed straight into the face of mr. starkweather. he did not seem to be willing to look at her in return; nor could he pluck up the courage to deny her statement. "i see," he finally murmured. "that is the second reason that has brought me to new york," said helen, more softly. "and it is the more important reason. if you don't care to have me here, uncle, i will find work that will support me, and live elsewhere. but i _must_ learn the truth about that old story against father. i sha'n't leave new york until i have cleared his name." chapter xiii sadie again mr. starkweather appeared to recover his equanimity. he looked askance at his niece, however, as she announced her intention. "you are very young and very foolish, helen--ahem! a mystery of sixteen or seventeen years' standing, which the best detectives could not unravel, is scarcely a task to be attempted by a mere girl." "who else is there to do it?" helen demanded, quickly. "i mean to find out the truth, if i can. i want you to tell me all you know, and i want you to tell me how to find fenwick grimes----" "nonsense, nonsense, girl!" exclaimed her uncle, testily. "what good would it do you to find grimes?" "he was the other partner in the concern. he had just as good a chance to steal the money as father." "ridiculous! mr. grimes was away from the city at the time." "then you _do_ remember all about it, sir?" asked helen, quickly. "ahem! _that_ fact had not slipped my mind," replied her uncle, weakly. "and then, there was allen chesterton, the bookkeeper. was a search ever made for him?" "high and low," returned her uncle, promptly. "but nobody ever heard of him thereafter." "and why did the shadow of suspicion not fall upon him as strongly as it did upon my father?" cried the girl, dropping, in her earnestness, her assumed uncouthness of speech. "perhaps it did--perhaps it did," muttered mr. starkweather. "yes, of course it did! they both ran away, you see----" "didn't you advise dad to go away--until the matter could be cleared up?" demanded helen. "why--i--ahem!" "both you and mr. grimes advised it," went on the girl, quite firmly. "and father did so because of the effect his arrest might have upon mother in her delicate health. wasn't that the way it was?" "i--i presume that is so," agreed mr. starkweather. "and it was wrong," declared the girl, with all the confidence of youth. "poor dad realized it before he died. it made all the firm's creditors believe that he was guilty. no matter what he did thereafter----" "stop, girl!" exclaimed mr. starkweather. "don't you know that if you stir up this old business the scandal will all come to light? why--why, even _my_ name might be attached to it." "but poor dad suffered under the blight of it all for more than sixteen years." "ahem! it is a fact. it was a great misfortune. perhaps he _was_ advised wrongly," said mr. starkweather, with trembling lips. "but i want you to understand, helen, that if he had not left the city he would undoubtedly have been in a cell when you were born." "i don't know that that would have killed me--especially, if by staying here, he might have come to trial and been freed of suspicion." "but he could not be freed of suspicion." "why not? i don't see that the evidence was conclusive," declared the girl, hotly. "at least, _he_ knew of none such. and i want to know now every bit of evidence that could be brought against him." "useless! useless!" muttered her uncle, wiping his brow. "it is not useless. my father was accused of a crime of which he wasn't guilty. why, his friends here--those who knew him in the old days--will think me the daughter of a criminal!" "but you are not likely to meet any of them----" "why not?" demanded helen, quickly. "surely you do not expect to remain here in new york long enough for that?" said uncle starkweather, exasperated. "i tell you, i cannot permit it." "i must learn what i can about that old trouble before i go back--if i go back to montana at all," declared his niece, doggedly. mr. starkweather was silent for a few moments. he had begun the discussion with the settled intention of telling helen that she must return at once to the west. but he knew he had no real right of control over the girl, and to claim one would put him at the disadvantage, perhaps, of being made to support her. he saw she was a very determined creature, young as she was. if he antagonized her too much, she might, indeed, go out and get a position to support herself and remain a continual thorn in the side of the family. so he took another tack. he was not a successful merchant and real estate operator for nothing. he said: "i do not blame you, helen, for _wishing_ that that old cloud over your father's name might be dissipated. i wish so, too. but, remember, long ago your--ahem!--your aunt and i, as well as fenwick grimes, endeavored to get to the bottom of the mystery. detectives were hired. everything possible was done. and to no avail." she watched him narrowly, but said nothing. "so, how can you be expected to do now what was impossible when the matter was fresh?" pursued her uncle, suavely. "if i could help you----" "you can," declared the girl, suddenly. "will you tell me how?" he asked, in a rather vexed tone. "by telling me where to find mr. grimes," said helen. "why--er--that is easily done, although i have had no dealings with mr. grimes for many years. but if he is at home--he travels over the country a great deal--i can give you a letter to him and he will see you." "thank you, sir." "you are determined to try to rake up all this trouble?" "i will see mr. grimes. and i will try to find allen chesterton." "out of the question!" cried her uncle. "chesterton is dead. he dropped out of sight long ago. a strange character at best, i believe. and if he was the thief----" "well, sir?" "he certainly would not help you convict himself." "not intentionally, sir," admitted helen. "i never did see such an opinionated girl," cried mr. starkweather, in sudden wrath. "i'm sorry, sir, if i trouble you. if you don't want me here----" now, her uncle had decided that it would not be safe to have the girl elsewhere in new york. at least, if she was under his roof, he could keep track of her activities. he began to be a little afraid of this very determined, unruffled young woman. "she's a little savage! no knowing what she might do, after all," he thought. finally he said aloud: "well, helen, i will do what i can. i will communicate with mr. grimes and arrange for you to visit him--soon. i will tell you--ahem!--in the near future, all i can recollect of the affair. will that satisfy you?" "i will take it very kindly of you, uncle," said helen non-committally. "and when you are satisfied of the impossibility of your doing yourself, or your father's name, any good in this direction, i shall expect you to close your visit in the east here and return to your friends in montana." she nodded, looking at him with a strange expression on her shrewd face. "you mean to help me as a sort of a bribe," she observed, slowly. "to pay you i am to return home and never trouble you any more?" "well--er--ahem!" "is that it, uncle starkweather?" "you see, my dear," he began again, rather red in the face, but glad that he was getting out of a bad corner so easily, "you do not just fit in, here, with our family life. you see it yourself, perhaps?" "perhaps i do, sir," replied the girl from sunset ranch. "you would be quite at a disadvantage beside my girls--ahem! you would not be happy here. and of course, you haven't a particle of claim upon us." "no, sir; not a particle," repeated helen. "so you see, all things considered, it would be much better for you to return to your own people--ahem--_own people_," said mr. starkweather, with emphasis. "now--er--you are rather shabby, i fear, helen. i am not as rich a man as you may suppose. but i---- the fact is, the girls are ashamed of your appearance," he pursued, without looking at her, and opening his bill case. "here is ten dollars. i understand that a young miss like you can be fitted very nicely to a frock downtown for less than ten dollars. i advise you to go out to-morrow and find yourself a more up-to-date frock than--than that one you have on, for instance. "somebody might see you come into the house--ahem!--some of our friends, i mean, and they would not understand. get a new dress, helen. while you are here look your best. ahem! we all must give the hostage of a neat appearance to society." "yes, sir," said helen, simply. she took the money. her throat had contracted so that she could not thank him for it in words. but she retained a humble, thankful attitude, and it sufficed. he cared nothing about hurting the feelings of the girl. he did not even inquire--in his own mind--if she _had_ any feelings to be hurt! he was so self-centred, so pompous, so utterly selfish, that he never thought how he might wrong other people. willets starkweather was very tenacious of his own dignity and his own rights. but for the rights of others he cared not at all. and there was not an iota of tenderness in his heart for the orphan who had come so trustingly across the continent and put herself in his charge. indeed, aside from a feeling of something like fear of helen, he betrayed no interest in her at all. helen went out of the room without a further word. she was more subdued that evening at dinner than she had been before. she did not break out in rude speeches, nor talk very much. but she was distinctly out of her element--or so her cousins thought--at their dinner table. "i tell you what it is, girls," belle, the oldest cousin, said after the meal and when helen had gone up to her room without being invited to join the family for the evening, "i tell you what it is: if we chance to have company to dinner while she remains, i shall send a tray up to her room with her dinner on it. i certainly could not _bear_ to have the van ramsdens, or the de vornes, see her at our table." "quite true," agreed hortense. "we never could explain having such a cousin." "horrors, no!" gasped flossie. helen had found a book in the library, and she lit the gas in her room (there was no electricity on this upper floor) and forgot her troubles and unhappiness in following the fortunes of the heroine of her story-book. it was late when she heard the maids retire. they slept in rooms opening out of a side hall. by and by--after the clock in the metropolitan tower had struck the hour of eleven--helen heard the rustle and step outside her door which she had heard in the corridor downstairs. she crept to her door, after turning out her light, and opening it a crack, listened. had somebody gone downstairs? was that a rustling dress in the corridor down there--the ghost walk? did she hear again the "step--put; step--put" that had puzzled her already? she did not like to go out into the hall and, perhaps, meet one of the servants. so, after a time, she went back to her book. but the incident had given her a distaste for reading. she kept listening for the return of the ghostly step. so she undressed and went to bed. long afterward (or so it seemed to her, for she had been asleep and slept soundly) she was aroused again by the "step--put; step--put" past her door. half asleep as she was, she jumped up and ran to the door. when she opened it, it seemed as though the sound was far down the main corridor--and she thought she could see the entire length of that passage. at least, there was a great window at the far end, and the moonlight looked ghostily in. no shadow crossed this band of light, and yet the rustle and step continued after she reached her door and opened it. then---- was that a door closed softly in the distance? she could not be sure. after a minute or two one thing she _was_ sure of, however; she was getting cold here in the draught, so she scurried back to bed, covered her ears, and went to sleep again. helen got up the next morning with one well-defined determination. she would put into practice her uncle's suggestion. she would buy one of the cheap but showy dresses which shopgirls and minor clerks had to buy to keep up appearances. it was a very serious trouble to helen that she was not to buy and disport herself in pretty frocks and hats. the desire to dress prettily and tastefully is born in most girls--just as surely as is the desire to breathe. and helen was no exception. she was obstinate, however, and could keep to her purpose. let the starkweathers think she was poor. let them continue to think so until her play was all over and she was ready to go home again. her experience in the great city had told helen already that she could never be happy there. she longed for the ranch, and for the rose pony--even for big hen billings and sing and the rag-head, jo-rab, and manuel and jose, and all the good-hearted, honest "punchers" who loved her and who would no more have hurt her feelings than they would have made an infant cry. she longed to have somebody call her "snuggy" and to smile upon her in good-fellowship. as she walked the streets nobody appeared to heed her. if they did, their expression of countenance merely showed curiosity, or a scorn of her clothes. she was alone. she had never felt so much alone when miles from any other human being, as she sometimes had been on the range. what had dud said about this? that one could be very much alone in the big city? dud was right. she wished that she had dud stone's address. she surely would have communicated with him now, for he was probably back in new york by this time. however, there was just one person whom she had met in new york who seemed to the girl from sunset ranch as being "all right." and when she made up her mind to do as her uncle had directed about the new frock, it was of this person helen naturally thought. sadie goronsky! the girl who had shown herself so friendly the night helen had come to town. she worked in a store where they sold ladies' clothing. with no knowledge of the cheaper department stores than those she had seen on the avenue, it seemed quite the right thing to helen's mind for her to search out sadie and her store. so, after an early breakfast taken in mr. lawdor's little room, and under the ministrations of that kind old man, helen left the house--by the area door as requested--and started downtown. she didn't think of riding. indeed, she had no idea how far madison street was. but she remembered the route the taxicab had taken uptown that first evening, and she could not easily lose her way. and there was so much for the girl from the ranch to see--so much that was new and curious to her--that she did not mind the walk; although it took her until almost noon, and she was quite tired when she got to chatham square. here she timidly inquired of a policeman, who kindly crossed the wide street with her and showed her the way. on the southern side of madison street she wandered, curiously alive to everything about the district, and the people in it, that made them both seem so strange to her. "a dress, lady! a hat, lady!" the buxom jewish girls and women, who paraded the street before the shops for which they worked, would give her little peace. yet it was all done good-naturedly, and when she smiled and shook her head they smiled, too, and let her pass. suddenly she saw the sturdy figure of sadie goronsky right ahead. she had stopped a rather over-dressed, loud-voiced woman with a child, and helen heard a good deal of the conversation while she waited for sadie (whose back was toward her) to be free. the "puller-in" and the possible customer wrangled some few moments, both in yiddish and broken english; but sadie finally carried her point--and the child--into the store! the woman had to follow her offspring, and once inside some of the clerks got hold of her and sadie could come forth to lurk for another possible customer. "well, see who's here!" exclaimed the jewish girl, catching sight of helen. "what's the matter, miss? did they turn you out of your uncle's house upon madison avenyer? i never _did_ expect to see you again." "but i expected to see you again, sadie; i told you i'd come," said helen, simply. "so it wasn't just a josh; eh?" "i always keep my word," said the girl from the west. "chee!" gasped sadie. "we ain't so partic'lar around here. but i'm glad to see you, miss, just the same. be-lieve me!" chapter xiv a new world the two girls stood on the sidewalk and let the tide of busy humanity flow by unnoticed. both were healthy types of youth--one from the open ranges of the great west, the other from a land far, far to the east. helen morrell was brown, smiling, hopeful-looking; but she certainly was not "up to date" in dress and appearance. the black-eyed and black-haired russian girl was just as well developed for her age and as rugged as she could be; but in her cheap way her frock was the "very latest thing," her hair was dressed wonderfully, and the air of "city smartness" about her made the difference between her and helen even more marked. "i never s'posed you'd come down here," said sadie again. "you asked was i turned out of my uncle's house," responded helen, seriously. "well, it does about amount to that." "oh, no! never!" cried the other girl. "let me tell you," said helen, whose heart was so full that she longed for a confidant. besides, sadie goronsky would never know the starkweather family and their friends, and she felt free to speak fully. so, without much reserve, she related her experiences in her uncle's house. "now, ain't they the mean things!" ejaculated sadie, referring to the cousins. "and i suppose they're awful rich?" "i presume so. the house is very large," declared helen. "and they've got loads and loads of dresses, too?" demanded the working girl. "oh, yes. they are very fashionably dressed," helen told her. "but see! i am going to have a new dress myself. uncle starkweather gave me ten dollars." "chee!" ejaculated sadie. "wouldn't it give him a cramp in his pocket-book to part with so much mazouma?" "mazouma?" "that's hebrew for money," laughed sadie. "but you _do_ need a dress. where did you get that thing you've got on?" "out home," replied helen. "i see it isn't very fashionable." "say! we got through sellin' them things to greenies two years back," declared sadie. "you haven't been at work all that time; have you?" gasped the girl from the ranch. "sure. i got my working papers four years ago. you see, i looked a lot older than i really was, and comin' across from the old country all us children changed our ages, so't we could go right to work when we come here without having to spend all day in school. we had an uncle what come over first, and he told us what to do." helen listened to this with some wonder. she felt perfectly safe with sadie, and would have trusted her, if it were necessary, with the money she had hidden away in her closet at uncle starkweather's; yet the other girl looked upon the laws of the land to which she had come for freedom as merely harsh rules to be broken at one's convenience. "of course," said sadie, "i didn't work on the sidewalk here at first. i worked back in old yawcob's shop--making changes in the garments for fussy customers. i was always quick with my needle. "then i helped the salesladies. but business was slack, and people went right by our door, and i jumped out one day and started to pull 'em in. and i was better at it---- "good-day, ma'am! will you look at a beautiful skirt--just the very latest style--we've only got a few of them for samples?" she broke off and left helen to stand wondering while sadie chaffered with another woman, who had hesitated a trifle as she passed the shop. "oh, no, ma'am! you was no greenie. i could tell that at once. that's why i spoke english to you yet," sadie said, flattering the prospective buyer, and smiling at her pleasantly. "if you will just step in and see these skirts--or a two-piece suit if you will?" helen observed her new friend with amazement. although she knew sadie could be no older than herself, she used the tact of long business experience in handling the woman. and she got her into the store, too! "i wash my hands of 'em when they get inside," she said, laughing, and coming back to helen. "if old yawcob and his wife and his salesladies can't hold 'em, it isn't _my_ fault, you understand. i'm about the youngest puller-in there is along madison street--although that little hunchback in front of the millinery shop yonder _looks_ younger." "but you don't try to pull _me_ in," said helen, laughing. "and i've got ten whole dollars to spend." "that's right. but then, you see, you're my friend, miss," said sadie. "i want to be sure you get your money's worth. so i'm going with you when you buy your dress--that is, if you'll let me." "let you? why, i'd dearly love to have you advise me," declared the western girl. "and don't--_don't_--call me 'miss.' i'm helen morrell, i tell you." "all right. if you say so. but, you know, you _are_ from madison avenyer just the same." "no. i'm from a great big ranch out west." "that's like a farm--yes? i gotter cousin that works on a farm over on long island. it's a big farm--it's eighty acres. is that farm you come from as big as that?" helen nodded and did not smile at the girl's ignorance. "very much bigger than eighty acres," she said. "you see, it has to be, for we raise cattle instead of vegetables." "well, i guess i don't know much about it," admitted sadie, frankly. "all i know is this city and mostly this part of it down here on the east side. we all have to work so hard, you know. but we're getting along better than we did at first, for more of us children can work. "and now i want you should go home with me for dinner, helen--yes! it is my dinner hour quick now; and then we will have time to pick you out a bargain for a dress. sure! you'll come?" "if i won't be imposing on you?" said helen, slowly. "huh! that's all right. we'll have enough to eat _this_ noon. and it ain't so jewish, either, for father don't come home till night. father's awful religious; but i tell mommer she must be up-to-date and have some 'merican style about her. i got her to leave off her wig yet. catch _me_ wearin' a wig when i'm married just to make me look ugly. not!" all this rather puzzled helen; but she was too polite to ask questions. she knew vaguely that jewish people followed peculiar rabbinical laws and customs; but what they were she had no idea. however, she liked sadie, and it mattered nothing to helen what the east side girl's faith or bringing up had been. sadie was kind, and friendly, and was really the only person in all this big city in whom the ranch girl could place the smallest confidence. sadie ran into the store for a moment and soon a big woman with an unctuous smile, a ruffled white apron about as big as a postage stamp, and her gray hair dressed as remarkably as sadie's own, came out upon the sidewalk to take the young girl's place. "can't i sell you somedings, lady?" she said to the waiting helen. "now, don't you go and run _my_ customer in, ma finkelstein!" cried sadie, running out and hugging the big woman. "helen is my friend and she's going home to eat mit me." "_ach!_ you are already a united stater yet," declared the big woman, laughing. "undt the friends you have it from number five av'noo--yes?" "you guessed it pretty near right," cried sadie. "helen lives on madison avenyer--and it ain't madison avenyer _uptown_, neither!" she slipped her hand in helen's and bore her off to the tenement house in which helen had had her first adventure in the great city. "come on up," said sadie, hospitably. "you look tired, and i bet you walked clear down here?" "yes, i did," admitted helen. "some o' mommer's soup mit lentils will rest you, i bet. it ain't far yet--only two flights." helen followed her cheerfully. but she wondered if she was doing just right in letting this friendly girl believe that she was just as poor as the starkweathers thought she was. yet, on the other hand, wouldn't sadie goronsky have felt embarrassed and have been afraid to be her friend, if she knew that helen morrell was a very, very wealthy girl and had at her command what would seem to the russian girl "untold wealth"? "i'll pay her for this," thought helen, with the first feeling of real happiness she had experienced since leaving the ranch. "she shall never be sorry that she was kind to me." so she followed sadie into the humble home of the latter on the third floor of the tenement with a smiling face and real warmth at her heart. in yiddish the downtown girl explained rapidly her acquaintance with "the gentile." but, as she had told helen, sadie's mother had begun to break away from some of the traditions of her people. she was fast becoming "a united stater," too. she was a handsome, beaming woman, and she was as generous-hearted as sadie herself. the rooms were a little steamy, for mrs. goronsky had been doing the family wash that morning. but the table was set neatly and the food that came on was well prepared and--to helen--much more acceptable than the dainties she had been having at uncle starkweather's. the younger children, who appeared for the meal, were right from the street where they had been playing, or from work in neighboring factories, and were more than a little grimy. but they were not clamorous and they ate with due regard to "manners." "ve haf nine, mees," said mrs. goronsky, proudly. "undt they all are healt'y--_ach! so_ healt'y. it takes mooch to feed them yet." "don't tell about it, mommer" cried sadie. "it aint stylish to have big fam'lies no more. don't i tell you?" "what about that preesident we hadt--that teddy sullivan--what said big fam'lies was a good d'ing? aindt that enough? sure, sarah, a _preesident_ iss stylish." "oh, mommer!" screamed sadie. "you gotcher politics mixed. 'sullivan' is the district leader wot gifs popper a job; but 'teddy' was the president yet. you ain't never goin' to be real american." but her mother only laughed. indeed, the light-heartedness of these poor people was a revelation to helen. she had supposed vaguely that very poor people must be all the time serious, if not actually in tears. "now, helen, we'll rush right back to the shop and i'll make old yawcob sell you a bargain. she's goin' to get her new dress, mommer. ain't that fine?" "sure it iss," declared the good woman. "undt you get her a bargain, sarah." "_don't_ call me 'sarah,' mommer!" cried the daughter. "it ain't stylish, i tell you. call me 'sadie.'" her mother kissed her on both plump cheeks. "what matters it, my little lamb?" she said, in their own tongue. "mother love makes _any_ name sweet." helen did not, of course, understand these words; but the caress, the look on their faces, and the way sadie returned her mother's kiss made a great lump come into the orphan girl's throat. she could hardly find her way in the dim hall to the stairway, she was so blinded by tears. chapter xv "step--put; step--put" an hour later helen was dressed in a two-piece suit, cut in what a chorus of salesladies, including old mrs. finkelstein and sadie herself, declared were most "stylish" lines--and it did not cost her ten dollars, either! indeed, sadie insisted upon going with her to a neighboring millinery store and purchasing a smart little hat for $ . , which set off the new suit very nicely. "sure, this old hat and suit of yours is wort' a lot more money, helen," declared the russian girl. "but they ain't just the style, yuh see. and style is everything to a girl. why, nobody'd take you for a greenie _now_!" helen was quite wise enough to know that she had never been dressed so cheaply before; but she recognized, too, the truth of her friend's statement. "now, you take the dress home, and the hat. maybe you can find a cheap tailor who will make over the dress. there's enough material in it. that's an awful wide skirt, you know." "but i couldn't walk in a skirt as narrow as the one you have on, sadie." "chee! if it was stylish," confessed sadie, "i'd find a way to walk in a piece of stove-pipe!" and she giggled. so helen left for uptown with her bundles, wearing her new suit and hat. she took a fourth avenue car and got out only a block from her uncle's house. as she hurried through the side street and came to the madison avenue corner, she came face-to-face with flossie, coming home from school with a pile of books under her arm. flossie looked quite startled when she saw her cousin. her eyes grew wide and she swept the natty looking, if cheaply-dressed western girl, with an appreciative glance. "goodness me! what fine feathers!" she cried. "you've been loading up with new clothes--eh? say, i like that dress." "better than the caliker one?" asked helen, slily. "you're not so foolish as to believe i liked _that_," returned flossie, coolly. "i told belle and hortense that you weren't as dense as they seemed to think you." "thanks!" said helen, drily. "but that dress is just in the mode," repeated flossie, with some admiration. "your father's kindness enabled me to get it," said helen, briefly. "humph!" said flossie, frankly. "i guess it didn't cost you much, then." helen did not reply to this comment; but as she turned to go down to the basement door, flossie caught her by the arm. "don't you do that!" she exclaimed. "belle can be pretty mean sometimes. you come in at the front door with me." "no," said helen, smiling. "you come in at the area door with _me_. it's easier, anyway. there's a maid just opening it." so the two girls entered the house together. they were late to lunch--indeed, helen did not wish any; but she did not care to explain why she was not hungry. "what's the matter with you, flossie?" demanded hortense. "we've done eating, belle and i. and if you wish your meals here, helen, please get here on time for them." "you mind your own business!" cried flossie, suddenly taking up the cudgels for her cousin as well as herself. "you aren't the boss, hortense! i got kept after school, anyway. and cook can make something hot for me and helen." "you _need_ to be kept after school--from the kind of english you use," sniffed her sister. "i don't care! i hate the old studies!" declared flossie, slamming her books down upon the table. "i don't see why i have to go to school at all. i'm going to ask pa to take me out. i need a rest." which was very likely true, for miss flossie was out almost every night to some party, or to the theater, or at some place which kept her up very late. she had no time for study, and therefore was behind in all her classes. that day she had been censured for it at school--and when they took a girl to task for falling behind in studies at _that_ school, she was very far behind, indeed! flossie grumbled about her hard lot all through luncheon. helen kept her company; then, when it was over, she slipped up to her own room with her bundles. both hortense and belle had taken a good look at her, however, and they plainly approved of her appearance. "she's not such a dowdy as she seemed," whispered hortense to the oldest sister. "no," admitted belle. "but that's an awful cheap dress she bought." "i guess she didn't have much to spend," laughed hortense. "pa wasn't likely to be very liberal. it puzzles me why he should have kept her here at all." "he says it is his duty," scoffed belle. "now, you know pa! he never was so worried about duty before; was he?" these girls, brought up as they were, steeped in selfishness and seeing their father likewise so selfish, had no respect for their parent. nor could this be wondered at. going up to her room that afternoon helen met mrs. olstrom coming down. the housekeeper started when she saw the young girl, and drew back. but helen had already seen the great tray of dishes the housekeeper carried. and she wondered. who took their meals up on this top floor? the maids who slept here were all accounted for. she had seen them about the house. and gregson, too. of course mr. lawdor and mrs. olstrom had their own rooms below. then who could it be who was being served on this upper floor? helen was more than a little curious. the sounds she had heard the night before dove-tailed in her mind with these soiled dishes on the tray. she was almost tempted to walk through the long corridor in which she thought she had heard the scurrying footsteps pass the night before. yet, suppose she was caught by mrs. olstrom--or by anybody else--peering about the house? "_that_ wouldn't be very nice," mused the girl. "because these people think i am rude and untaught, is no reason why i should display any _real_ rudeness." she was very curious, however; the thought of the tray-load of dishes remained in her mind all day. at dinner that night even mr. starkweather gave helen a glance of approval when she appeared in her new frock. "ahem!" he said. "i see you have taken my advice, helen. we none of us can afford to forget what is due to custom. you are much more presentable." "thank you, uncle starkweather," replied helen, demurely. "but out our way we say: 'fine feathers don't make fine birds.'" "you needn't fret," giggled flossie. "your feather's aren't a bit too fine." but flossie's eyes were red, and she plainly had been crying. "i _hate_ the old books!" she said, suddenly. "pa, why do i have to go to school any more?" "because i am determined you shall, young lady," said mr. starkweather, firmly. "we all have to learn." "hortense doesn't go." "but you are not hortense's age," returned her father, coolly. "remember that. and i must have better reports of your conduct in school than have reached me lately," he added. flossie sulked over the rest of her dinner. helen, going up slowly to her room later, saw the door of her youngest cousin's room open, and glancing in, beheld flossie with her head on her book, crying hard. each of these girls had a beautiful room of her own. flossie's was decorated in pink, with chintz hangings, a lovely bed, bookshelves, a desk of inlaid wood, and everything to delight the eye and taste of any girl. beside the common room helen occupied, this of flossie's was a fairy palace. but helen was naturally tender-hearted. she could not bear to see the younger girl crying. she ventured to step inside the door and whisper: "flossie?" up came the other's head, her face flushed and wet and her brow a-scowl. "what do _you_ want?" she demanded, quickly. "nothing. unless i can help you. and if so, _that_ is what i want," said the ranch girl, softly. "goodness me! _you_ can't help me with algebra. what do i want to know higher mathematics for? i'll never have use for such knowledge." "i don't suppose we can ever learn _too_ much," said helen, quietly. "huh! lots you know about it. you never were driven to school against your will." "no. whenever i got a chance to go i was glad." "maybe i'd be glad, too, if i lived on a ranch," returned flossie, scornfully. helen came nearer to the desk and sat down beside her. "you don't look a bit pretty with your eyes all red and hot. crying isn't going to help," she said, smiling. "i suppose not," grumbled flossie, ungrateful of tone. "come, let me get some water and cologne and bathe your face." helen jumped up and went to the tiny bathroom. "now, i'll play maid for you, flossie." "oh, all right," said the younger girl. "i suppose, as you say, crying isn't going to help." "not at all. no amount of tears will solve a problem in algebra. and you let me see the questions. you see," added helen, slowly, beginning to bathe her cousin's forehead and swollen eyes, "we once had a very fine school-teacher at the ranch. he was a college professor. but he had weak lungs and he came out there to montana to rest." "that's good!" murmured flossie, meaning bathing process, for she was not listening much to helen's remarks. "i knew it would make you feel better. but now, let me see these algebra problems. i took it up a little when--when professor payton was at the ranch." "you didn't!" cried flossie, in wonder. "let me see them," pursued her cousin, nodding. she had told the truth--as far as she went. after professor payton had left the ranch and helen had gone to denver to school, she had showed a marked taste for mathematics and had been allowed to go far ahead of her fellow-pupils in that study. now, at a glance, she saw what was the matter with flossie's attempts to solve the problems. she slipped into a seat beside the younger girl again and, in a few minutes, showed flossie just how to solve them. "why, helen! i didn't suppose you knew so much," said flossie, in surprise. "you see, _that_ is something i had a chance to learn between times--when i wasn't roping cows or breaking ponies," said helen, drily. "humph! i don't believe you did either of those vulgar things," declared flossie, suddenly. "you are mistaken. i do them both, and do them well," returned helen, gravely. "but they are _not_ vulgar. no more vulgar than your sister belle's golf. it is outdoor exercise, and living outdoors as much as one can is a sort of religion in the west." "well," said flossie, who had recovered her breath now. "i don't care what you do outdoors. you can do algebra in the house! and i'm real thankful to you, cousin helen." "you are welcome, flossie," returned the other, gravely; but then she went her way to her own room at the top of the house. flossie did not ask her to remain after she had done all she could for her. but helen had found plenty of reading matter in the house. her cousins and uncle might ignore her as they pleased. with a good book in her hand she could forget all her troubles. now she slipped into her kimono, propped herself up in bed, turned the gas-jet high, and lost herself in the adventures of her favorite heroine. the little clock on the mantel ticked on unheeded. the house grew still. the maids came up to bed chattering. but still helen read on. she had forgotten the sounds she had heard in the old house at night. mrs. olstrom had mentioned that there were "queer stories" about the starkweather mansion. but helen would not have thought of them at this time, had something not rattled her doorknob and startled her. "somebody wants to come in," was the girl's first thought, and she hopped out of bed and ran to unlock it. then she halted, with her hand upon the knob. a sound outside had arrested her. but it was not the sound of somebody trying the latch. instead she plainly heard the mysterious "step--put; step--put" again. was it descending the stairs? it seemed to grow fainter as she listened. at length the girl--somewhat shaken--reached for the key of her door again, and turned it. then she opened it and peered out. the corridor was faintly illuminated. the stairway itself was quite dark, for there was no light in the short passage below called "the ghost-walk." the girl, in her slippers, crept to the head of the flight. there she could hear the steady, ghostly footstep from below. no other sound within the great mansion reached her ears. it _was_ queer. to and fro the odd step went. it apparently drew nearer, then receded--again and again. helen could not see any of the corridor from the top of the flight. so she began to creep down, determined to know for sure if there really was something or somebody there. nor was she entirely unafraid now. the mysterious sounds had got upon her nerves. whether they were supernatural, or natural, she was determined to solve the mystery here and now. half-way down the stair she halted. the sound of the ghostly step was at the far end of the hall. but it would now return, and the girl could see (her eyes having become used to the dim light) more than half of the passage. there was the usual rustling sound at the end of the passage. then the steady "step--put" approached. chapter xvi forgotten from the stair-well some little light streamed up into the darkness of the ghost-walk. and into this dim radiance came a little old lady--her old-fashioned crimped hair an aureole of beautiful gray--leaning lightly on an ebony crutch, which in turn tapped the floor in accompaniment to her clicking step-- "step--put; step--put; step--put." then she was out of the range of helen's vision again. but she turned and came back--her silken skirts rustling, her crutch tapping in perfect time. this was no ghost. although slender--ethereal--almost bird-like in her motions--the little old lady was very human indeed. she had a pink flush in her cheeks, and her skin was as soft as velvet. of course there were wrinkles; but they were beautiful wrinkles, helen thought. she wore black half-mitts of lace, and her old-fashioned gown was of delightfully soft, yet rich silk. the silk was brown--not many old ladies could have worn that shade of brown and found it becoming. her eyes were bright--the unseen girl saw them sparkle as she turned her head, in that bird-like manner, from side to side. she was a dear, doll-like old lady! helen longed to hurry down the remaining steps and take her in her arms. but, instead, she crept softly back to the head of the stairs, and slipped into her own room again. _this_ was the mystery of the starkweather mansion. the nightly exercise of this mysterious old lady was the foundation for the "ghost-walk." the maids of the household feared the supernatural; therefore they easily found a legend to explain the rustling step of the old lady with the crutch. and all day long the old lady kept to her room. that room must be in the front of the house on this upper floor--shut away, it was likely, from the knowledge of most of the servants. mrs. olstrom, of course, knew about the old lady--who she was--what she was. it was the housekeeper who looked after the simple wants of the mysterious occupant of the starkweather mansion. helen wondered if mr. lawdor, the old butler, knew about the mystery? and did the starkweathers themselves know? the girl from the ranch was too excited and curious to go to sleep now. she had to remain right by her door, opened on a crack, and learn what would happen next. for an hour at least she heard the steady stepping of the old lady. then the crutch rapped out an accompaniment to her coming upstairs. she was humming softly to herself, too. helen, crouched behind the door, distinguished the sweet, cracked voice humming a fragment of the old lullaby: "rock-a-by, baby, on the tree-top, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock, when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, down will come baby----" thus humming, and the crutch tapping--a mere whisper of sound--the old lady rustled by helen's door, on into the long corridor, and disappeared through some door, which closed behind her and smothered all further sound. helen went to bed; but she could not sleep--not at first. the mystery of the little old lady and her ghostly walk kept her eyes wide open and her brain afire for hours. she asked question after question into the dark of the night, and only imagination answered. some of the answers were fairly reasonable; others were as impossible as the story of jack the giant killer. finally, however, helen dropped asleep. she awoke at her usual hour--daybreak--and her eager mind began again asking questions about the mystery. she went down in her outdoor clothes for a morning walk, with the little old lady uppermost in her thoughts. as usual, mr. lawdor was on the lookout for her. the shaky old man loved to have her that few minutes in his room in the early morning. although he always presided over the dinner, with gregson under him, the old butler seldom seemed to speak, or be spoken to. helen understood that, like mrs. olstrom, lawdor was a relic of the late owner--mr. starkweather's great-uncle's--household. cornelius starkweather had been a bachelor. the mansion had descended to him from a member of the family who had been a family man. but that family had died young--wife and all--and the master had handed the old homestead over to mr. cornelius and had gone traveling himself--to die in a foreign land. once helen had heard lawdor murmur something about "mr. cornelius" and she had picked up the remainder of her information from things she had heard mr. starkweather and the girls say. now the old butler met her with an ingratiating smile and begged her to have something beside her customary coffee and roll. "i have a lovely steak, miss. the butcher remembers me once in a while, and he knows i am fond of a bit of tender beef. my teeth are not what they were once, you know, miss." "but why should i eat your nice steak?" demanded helen, laughing at him. "my teeth are good for what the boys on the range call 'bootleg.' that's steak cut right next to the hoof!" "ah, but, miss! there is so much more than i could possibly eat," he urged. he had already turned the electricity into his grill. the ruddy steak--salted, peppered, with tiny flakes of garlic upon it--he brought from his own little icebox. the appetizing odor of the meat sharpened helen's appetite even as she sipped the first of her coffee. "i'll just _have_ to eat some, i expect, mr. lawdor," she said. then she had a sudden thought, and added: "or perhaps you'd like to save this tidbit for the little old lady in the attic?" mr. lawdor turned--not suddenly; he never did anything with suddenness; but it was plain she had startled him. "bless me, miss--bless me--bless me----" he trailed off in his usual shaky way; but his lips were white and he stared at helen like an owl for a full minute. then he added: "is there a lady in the attic, miss?" and he said it in his most polite way. "of course there is, mr. lawdor; and you know it. who is she? i am only curious." "i--i hear the maids talking about a ghost, miss--foolish things----" "and i'm not foolish, mr. lawdor," said the western girl, laughing shortly. "not that way, at least. i heard her; last night i saw her. next time i'm going to speak to her--unless it isn't allowed." "it--it isn't allowed, miss," said lawdor, speaking softly, and with a glance at the closed door of the room. "nobody has forbidden _me_ to speak to her," declared helen, boldly. "and i'm curious--mighty curious, mr. lawdor. surely she is a nice old lady--there is nothing the matter with her?" the butler touched his forehead with a shaking finger. "a little wrong there, miss," he whispered. "but mary boyle is as innocent and harmless as a baby herself." "can't you tell me about her--who she is--why she lives up there--and all?" "not here, miss." "why not?" demanded helen, boldly. "it might offend mr. starkweather, miss. not that he has anything to do with mary boyle. he had to take the old house with her in it." "what _do_ you mean, lawdor?" gasped helen, growing more and more amazed and--naturally--more and more curious. the butler flopped the steak suddenly upon the sizzling hot plate and in another moment the delicious bit was before her. the old man served her as expertly as ever, but his face was working strangely. "i couldn't tell you here, miss. walls have ears, they say," he whispered. "but if you'll be on the first bench beyond the sixth avenue entrance to central park at ten o'clock this morning, i will meet you there. "yes, miss--the rolls. some more butter, miss? i hope the coffee is to your taste, miss?" "it is all very delicious, lawdor," said helen, rather weakly, and feeling somewhat confused. "i will surely be there. i shall not need to come back for the regular breakfast after having this nice bit." helen attracted much less attention upon her usual early morning walk this time. she was dressed in the mode, if cheaply, and she was not so self-conscious. but, in addition, she thought but little of herself or her own appearance or troubles while she walked briskly uptown. it was of the little old woman, and her mystery, and the butler's words that she thought. she strode along to the park, and walked west until she reached the bridle-path. she had found this before, and came to see the riders as they cantered by. how helen longed to put on her riding clothes and get astride a lively mount and gallop up the park-way! but she feared that, in doing so, she might betray to her uncle or the girls the fact that she was not the "pauper cowgirl" they thought her to be. she found a seat overlooking the path, at last, and rested for a while; but her mind was not upon the riders. before ten o'clock she had walked back south, found the entrance to the park opposite sixth avenue, and sat down upon the bench specified by the old butler. at the stroke of the hour the old man appeared. "you could not have walked all this way, lawdor?" said the girl, smiling upon him. "you are not at all winded." "no, miss. i took the car. i am not up to such walks as you can take," and he shook his head, mumbling: "oh, no, no, no, no----" "and now, what can you tell me, sir?" she said, breaking in upon his dribbling speech. "i am just as curious as i can be. that dear little old lady! why is she in uncle's house?" "ah, miss! i fancy she will not be there for long, but she was an encumbrance upon it when mr. willets starkweather came with his family to occupy it." "what _do_ you mean?" cried the girl. "mary boyle served in the starkweather family long, long ago. before i came to valet for mr. cornelius, mary boyle had her own room and was a fixture in the house. mr. cornelius took her more--more philosophically, as you might say, miss. my present master and his daughters look upon poor mary boyle as a nuisance. they have to allow her to remain. she is a life charge upon the estate--that, indeed, was fixed before mr. cornelius's time. but the present family are ashamed of her. perhaps i ought not to say it, but it is true. they have relegated her to a suite upon the top floor, and other people have quite forgotten mary boyle--yes, oh, yes, indeed! quite forgotten her--quite forgotten her----" then, with the aid of some questioning, helen heard the whole sad story of mary boyle, who was a nurse girl in the family of the older generation of starkweathers. it was in her arms the last baby of the family had panted his weakly little life out. she, too, had watched by the bed of the lady of the mansion, who had borne these unfortunate children only to see them die. and mary boyle was one of that race who often lose their own identity in the families they serve. she had loved the lost babies as though they had been of her own flesh. she had walked the little passage at the back of the house (out of which had opened the nursery in those days) so many, many nights with one or the other of her fretful charges, that by and by she thought, at night, that she had them yet to soothe. mary boyle, the weak-minded yet harmless ex-nurse, had been cherished by her old master. and in his will he had left her to the care of mr. cornelius, the heir. in turn she had been left a life interest in the mansion--to the extent of shelter and food and proper clothes--when willets starkweather became proprietor. he could not get rid of the old lady. but, when he refurnished the house and made it over, he had banished mary boyle to the attic rooms. the girls were ashamed of her. she sometimes talked loudly if company was about. and always of the children she had once attended. she spoke of them as though they were still in her care, and told how she had walked the hall with one, or the other, of her dead and gone treasures the very night before! for it was found necessary to allow mary boyle to have the freedom of that short corridor on the chamber floor late at night. otherwise she would not remain secluded in her own rooms at the top of the house during the daytime. as the lower servants came and went, finally only mrs. olstrom and mr. lawdor knew about the old lady, save the family. and mr. starkweather impressed it upon the minds of both these employés that he did not wish the old lady discussed below stairs. so the story had risen that the house was haunted. the legend of the "ghost walk" was established. and mary boyle lived out her lonely life, with nobody to speak to save the housekeeper, who saw her daily; mr. lawdor, who climbed to her rooms perhaps once each week, and mr. starkweather himself, who saw and reported upon her case to his fellow trustees each month. it was, to helen, an unpleasant story. it threw a light on the characters of her uncle and cousins which did not enhance her admiration of them, to say the least. she had found them unkind, purse-proud heretofore; but to her generous soul their treatment of the little old woman, who must be but a small charge upon the estate, seemed far more blameworthy than their treatment of herself. the story of the old butler made helen quiver with indignation. it was like keeping the old lady in jail--this shutting her away into the attic of the great house. the western girl went back to madison avenue (she walked, but the old butler rode) with a thought in her mind that she was not quite sure was a wise one. yet she had nobody to discuss her idea with--nobody whom she wished to take into her confidence. there were two lonely and neglected people in that fine mansion. she, herself, was one. the old nurse, mary boyle, was the other. and helen felt a strong desire to see and talk with her fellow-sufferer. chapter xvii a distinct shock that evening when mr. starkweather came home, he handed helen a sealed letter. "i have ascertained," the gentleman said, in his most pompous way, "that mr. fenwick grimes is in town. he has recently returned from a tour of the west, where he has several mining interests. you will find his address on that envelope. give the letter to him. it will serve to introduce you." he watched her closely while he said this, but did not appear to do so. helen thanked him with some warmth. "this is very good of you, uncle starkweather--especially when i know you do not approve." "ahem! sleeping dogs are much better left alone. to stir a puddle is only to agitate the mud. this old business would much better be forgotten. you know all that there is to be known about the unfortunate affair, i am quite sure." "i cannot believe that, uncle," helen replied. "had you seen how my dear father worried about it when he was dying----" mr. starkweather could look at her no longer--not even askance. he shook his head and murmured some commonplace, sympathetic phrase. but it did not seem genuine to his niece. she knew very well that mr. starkweather had no real sympathy for her; nor did he care a particle about her father's death. but she tucked the letter into her pocket and went her way. as she passed through the upstairs corridor flossie was entering one of the drawing-rooms, and she caught her cousin by the hand. flossie had been distinctly nicer to helen--in private--since the latter had helped her with the algebra problems. "come on in, helen. belle's just pouring tea. don't you want some?" said the youngest starkweather girl. it was in helen's mind to excuse herself. yet she was naturally too kindly to refuse to accept an advance like this. and she, like flossie, had no idea that there was anybody in the drawing-room save belle and hortense. in they marched--and there were three young ladies--friends of belle--sipping tea and eating macaroons by the log fire, for the evening was drawing in cold. "goodness me!" ejaculated belle. "well, i never!" gasped hortense. "have _you_ got to butt in, floss?" "we want some tea, too," said the younger girl, boldly, angered by her sisters' manner. "you'd better have it in the nursery," yawned hortense. "this is no place for kids in the bread-and-butter stage of growth." "oh, is that so?" cried flossie. "helen and i are not kids--distinctly _not_! i hope i know my way about a bit--and as for helen," she added, with a wicked grin, knowing that the speech would annoy her sisters, "helen can shoot, and rope steers, and break ponies to saddle, and all that. she told me so the other evening. isn't that right, cousin helen?" "why, your cousin must be quite a wonderful girl," said miss van ramsden, one of the visitors, to flossie. "introduce me; won't you, flossie?" belle was furious; and hortense would have been, too, only she was too languid to feel such an emotion. flossie proceeded to introduce helen to the three visitors--all of whom chanced to be young ladies whom belle was striving her best to cultivate. and before flossie and helen had swallowed their tea, which belle gave them ungraciously, gregson announced a bevy of other girls, until quite a dozen gaily dressed and chattering misses were gathered before the fire. at first helen had merely bowed to the girls to whom she was introduced. she had meant to drink her tea quietly and excuse herself. she did not wish now to display a rude manner before belle's guests; but her oldest cousin seemed determined to rouse animosity in her soul. "yes," she said, "helen is paying us a little visit--a very brief one. she is not at all used to our ways. in fact, indian squaws and what-do-you call-'ems--greasers--are about all the people she sees out her way." "is that so?" cried miss van ramsden. "it must be a perfectly charming country. come and sit down by me, miss morrell, and tell me about it." indeed, at the moment, there was only one vacant chair handy, and that was beside miss van ramsden. so helen took it and immediately the young lady began to ask questions about montana and the life helen had lived there. really, the young society woman was not offensive; the questions were kindly meant. but helen saw that belle was furious and she began to take a wicked delight in expatiating upon her home and her own outdoor accomplishments. when she told miss van ramsden how she and her cowboy friends rode after jack-rabbits and roped them--if they could!--and shot antelope from the saddle, and that the boys sometimes attacked a mountain lion with nothing but their lariats, miss van ramsden burst out with: "why, that's perfectly grand! what fun you must have! do hear her, girls! why, what we do is tame and insipid beside things that happen out there in montana every day." "oh, don't bother about her, may!" cried belle. "come on and let's plan what we'll do saturday if we go to the nassau links." "listen here!" cried miss van ramsden, eagerly. "golf can wait. we can always golf. but your cousin tells the very bulliest stories. go on, miss morrell. tell some more." "do, do!" begged some of the other girls, drawing their chairs nearer. helen was not a little embarrassed. she would have been glad to withdraw from the party. but then she saw the looks exchanged between belle and hortense, and they fathered a wicked desire in the western girl's heart to give her proud cousins just what they were looking for. she began, almost unconsciously, to stretch her legs out in a mannish style, and drop into the drawl of the range. "coyote running is about as good fun as we have," she told miss van ramsden in answer to a question. "yes, they're cowardly critters; but they can run like a streak o' greased lightning--yes-sir-ree-bob!" then she began to laugh a little. "i remember once when i was a kid, that i got fooled about coyotes." "i'd like to know what you are now," drawled hortense, trying to draw attention from her cousin, who was becoming altogether too popular. "and you should know that children are better seen than heard." "let's see," said helen, quickly, "our birthdays are in the same month; aren't they, 'tense? i believe mother used to tell me so." "oh, never mind your birthdays," urged miss van ramsden, while some of the other girls smiled at the repartee. "let's hear about your adventure with the coyote, miss morrell." "why, ye see," said helen, "it wasn't much. i was just a kid, as i say--mebbe ten year old. dad had given me a light rifle--just a twenty-two, you know--to learn to shoot with. and big hen billings----" "doesn't that sound just like those dear western plays?" gasped one young lady. "you know--'the squaw man of the golden west,' or 'missouri,' or----" "hold on! you're getting your titles mixed, lettie," cried miss van ramsden. "do let miss morrell tell it." "to give that child the center of the stage!" snapped hortense, to belle. "i could shake flossie for bringing her in here," returned the oldest starkweather girl, quite as angrily. "tell us about your friend, big hen billings," drawled another visitor. "he _does_ sound so romantic!" helen almost giggled. to consider the giant foreman of sunset ranch a romantic type was certainly "going some." she had the wicked thought that she would have given a large sum of money, right then and there, to have had big hen announced by gregson and ushered into the presence of this group of city girls. "well," continued helen, thus urged, "father had given me a little rifle and big hen gave me a maverick----" "what's that?" demanded flossie. "well, in this case," explained helen, "it was an orphaned calf. sometimes they're strays that haven't been branded. but in this case a bear had killed the calf's mother in a _coulée_. she had tried to fight mr. bear, of course, or he never would have killed her at that time of year. bears aren't dangerous unless they're hungry." "my! but they look dangerous enough--at the zoo," observed flossie. "i tell ye," said helen, reflectively, "that was a pretty calf. and i was little, and i hated to hear them blat when the boys burned them----" "burned them! burned little calves! how cruel! what for?" these were some of the excited comments. and in spite of belle and hortense, most of the visitors were now interested in the western girl's narration. "they have to brand 'em, you see," explained helen. "otherwise we never could pick our cattle out from other herds at the round-up. you see, on the ranges--even the fenced ranges--cattle from several ranches often get mixed up. our brand is the link-a. our ranch was known, in the old days, as the 'link-a.' it's only late years that we got to calling it sunset ranch." "sunset ranch!" cried miss van ramsden, quickly. "haven't i heard something about _that_ ranch? isn't it one of the big, big cattle and horse-breeding ranches?" "yes, ma'am," said helen, slowly, fearing that she had unwittingly got into a blind alley of conversation. "and your father owns _that_ ranch?" cried miss van ramsden. "my--my father is dead," said helen. "i am an orphan." "oh, dear me! i am so sorry," murmured the wealthy young lady. but here belle broke in, rather scornfully: "the child means that her father worked on that ranch. she has lived there all her life. quite a rude place, i fawncy." helen's eyes snapped. "yes. he worked there," she admitted, which was true enough, for nobody could honestly have called prince morrell a sluggard. "he was--what you call it--a cowpuncher, i believe," whispered belle, in an aside. if helen heard she made no sign, but went on with her story. "you see, it was _such_ a pretty calf," she repeated. "it had big blue eyes at first--calves often do. and it was all sleek and brown, and it played so cunning. of course, its mother being dead, i had a lot of trouble with it at first. i brought it up by hand. "and i tied a broad pink ribbon around its neck, with a big bow at the back. when it slipped around under its neck bozie would somehow get the end of the ribbon in its mouth, and chew, and chew on it till it was nothing but pulp." she laughed reminiscently, and the others, watching her pretty face in the firelight, smiled too. "so you called it bozie?" asked miss van ramsden. "yes. and it followed me everywhere. if i went out to try and shoot plover or whistlers with my little rifle, there was bozie tagging after me. so, you see when it came calf-branding time, i hid bozie." "you hid it? how?" demanded flossie. "seems to me a calf would be a big thing to hide." "i didn't hide it under my bed," laughed helen. "no, sir! i took it out to a far distant _coulée_ where i used to go to play--a long way from the bunk-house--and i hitched bozie to a stub of a tree where there was nice, short, sweet grass for him. "i hitched him in the morning, for the branding fires were going to be built right after dinner. but i had to show up at dinner--sure. the whole gang would have been out hunting me if i didn't report for meals." "yes. i presume you ran perfectly wild," sighed hortense, trying to look as though she were sorry for this half-savage little cousin from the "wild and woolly." "oh, very wild indeed," drawled helen. "and after dinner i raced back to the _coulée_ to see that bozie was all right. i took my rifle along so the boys would think i'd gone hunting and wouldn't tell father. "i'd heard coyotes barking, as i thought, all the forenoon. and when i came to the hollow, there was bozie running around and around his stub, and getting all tangled up, blatting his heart out, while two big old coyotes (or so i thought they were) circled around him. "they ran a little way when they saw me coming. coyotes sometimes _will_ kill calves. but i had never seen one before that wouldn't hunt the tall pines when they saw me coming. "crackey, those two were big fellers! i'd seen big coyotes, but never none like them two gray fellers. and they snarled at me when i made out to chase 'em--me wavin' my arms and hollerin' like a piute buck. i never had seen coyotes like them before, and it throwed a scare into me--it sure did! "and bozie was so scared that he helped to scare me. i dropped my gun and started to untangle him. and when i got him loose he acted like all possessed! [illustration: "let's hear about your adventure with the coyote, miss morrell." (page .)] "he wanted to run wild," proceeded helen. "he yanked me over the ground at a great rate. and all the time those two gray fellers was sneakin' up behind me. crackey, but i got scared! "a calf is awful strong--'specially when it's scared. you don't know! i had to leave go of either the rope, or the gun, and somehow," and helen smiled suddenly into miss van ramsden's face--who understood--"somehow i felt like i'd better hang onter the gun." "they weren't coyotes!" exclaimed miss van ramsden. "no. they was wolves--real old, gray, timber-wolves. we hadn't been bothered by them for years. two of 'em, working together, would pull down a full-grown cow, let alone a little bit of a calf and a little bit of a gal," said helen. "o-o-o!" squealed the excited flossie. "but they didn't?" "i'm here to tell the tale," returned her cousin, laughing outright. "bozie broke away from me, and the wolves leaped after him--full chase. i knelt right down----" "and prayed!" gasped flossie. "i should think you would!" "i _did_ pray--yes, ma'am! i prayed that the bullet would go true. but i knelt down to steady my aim," said helen, chuckling again. "and i broke the back of one of them wolves with my first shot. that was wonderful luck--with a twenty-two rifle. the bullet's only a tiny thing. "but i bowled mr. wolf over, and then i ran after the other one and the blatting bozie. bozie dodged the wolf somehow and came circling back at me, his tail flirting in the air, coming in stiff-legged jumps as a calf does, and searching his soul for sounds to tell how scart he was! "i'd pushed another cartridge into my gun. but when bozie came he bowled me over--flat on my back. then the wolf made a leap, and i saw his light-gray underbody right over my head as he flashed after poor bozie. "i jest let go with the gun! crackey! i didn't have time to shoulder it, and it kicked and hit me in the nose and made my nose bleed awful. i was 'all in,' too, and i thought the wolf was going to eat bozie, and then mebbe _me_, and i set up to bawl so't big hen heard me farther than he could have heard my little rifle. "big hen was always expectin' me to get inter some kind of trouble, and he come tearin' along lookin' for me. and there i was, rolling in the grass an' bawling, the second wolf kicking his life out with the blood pumping from his chest, not three yards away from me, and bozie streakin' it acrost the hill, his tail so stiff with fright you could ha' hung yer hat on it!" "isn't that perfectly grand!" cried miss van ramsden, seizing helen by the shoulders when she had finished and kissing her on both cheeks. "and you only ten years old?" "but, you see," said helen, more quietly, "we are brought up that way in montana. we would die a thousand deaths if we were taught to be afraid of anything on four legs." "it must be an exceedingly crude country," remarked hortense, her nose tip-tilted. "shocking!" agreed belle. "i'd like to go there," announced flossie, suddenly. "i think it must be fine." "quite right," agreed miss van ramsden. the older starkweather girls could not go against their most influential caller. they were only too glad to have the van ramsden girl come to see them. but while the group were discussing helen's story, the girl from sunset ranch stole away and went up to her room. she had not meant to tell about her life in the west--not in just this way. she had tried to talk about as her cousins expected her to, when once she got into the story; but its effect upon the visitors had not been just what either the starkweather girls, or helen herself, had expected. she saw that she was much out of the good graces of belle and hortense at dinner; they hardly spoke to her. but flossie seemed to delight in rubbing her sisters against the grain. "oh, pa," she cried, "when helen goes home, let me go with her; will you? i'd just love to be on a ranch for a while--i know i should! and i _do_ need a vacation." "nonsense, floss!" gasped hortense. "you are a perfectly vulgar little thing," declared belle. "i don't know where you get such low tastes." mr. starkweather looked at his youngest daughter in amazement. "how very ridiculous," he said. "ahem! you do not know what you ask, flossie." "oh! i never can have anything i want," whined miss flossie. "and it must be great fun out on that ranch. you ought to hear helen tell about it, pa." "ahem! i have no interest in such things," said her father, sternly. "nor should you. no well conducted and well brought up girl would wish to live among such rude surroundings." "very true, pa," sighed hortense, shrugging her shoulders. "you are a very common little thing, with very common tastes, floss," admonished her oldest sister. now, all this was whipping helen over flossie's shoulders. the latter grinned wickedly; but helen felt hurt. these people were determined to consider sunset ranch an utterly uncivilized place, and her associates there beneath contempt. the following morning she set out to find the address upon the letter mr. starkweather had given to her. whether she should present this letter to mr. grimes at once, helen was not sure. it might be that she would wish to get acquainted with him before he knew her identity. her expectations were very vague, at best; and yet she had hope. she hoped that through this old-time partner of her father's she might pick up some clue to the truth about the lost money. the firm of grimes & morrell had been on the point of paying several heavy bills and notes. the money for this purpose, as well as the working capital of the firm, had been in two banks. either partner could draw checks against these accounts. when the deposits in both banks had been withdrawn it had been done by checks for each complete balance being presented at the teller's window of both banks. and the tellers were quite sure that the person presenting the checks was prince morrell. in the rush of business, however, neither teller had been positive of this. of course, it might have been the bookkeeper, or mr. grimes, who had got the money on the checks. however it might be, the money disappeared; there was none with which to pay the creditors or to continue the business of the firm. fenwick grimes had been a sufferer; willets starkweather had been a sufferer. what allen chesterton, the bookkeeper, had been, it was hard to say. he had walked out of the office of the firm and had never come back. likewise after a few days of worry and disturbance, prince morrell had done the same. at least, the general public presumed that mr. morrell had run away without leaving any clue. it looked as though the senior partner and the bookkeeper were in league. but public interest in the mystery had soon died out. only the creditors remembered. after ten years they were pleasantly reminded of the wreck of the firm of grimes & morrell by the receipt of their lost money, with interest compounded to date. the lawyer that had come on from the west to make the settlement for prince morrell bound the creditors to secrecy. the bankruptcy court had long since absolved fenwick grimes from responsibility for the debts of the old firm. neither he nor mr. starkweather had to know that the partner who ran away had legally cleared his name. but there was something more. the suspicion against prince morrell had burdened the cattle king's mind and heart when he died. and his little daughter felt it to be her sacred duty to try, at least, to uncover that old mystery and to prove to the world that her father had been guiltless. mr. grimes lived in an old house in a rather shabby old street just off washington square. helen asked mr. lawdor how to find the place, and she rode downtown upon a fifth avenue 'bus. the house was a half-business, half-studio building; and mr. grimes's name--graven on a small brass plate--was upon a door in the lower hall. in fact, mr. grimes, and his clerk, occupied this lower floor, the gentleman owning the building, which he was holding for a rise in real estate values in that neighborhood. the clerk, a sharp-looking young man with a pen behind his ear, answered helen's somewhat timid knock. he looked her over severely before he even offered to admit her, asking: "what's your business, please?" "i came to see mr. grimes, sir." "by appointment?" "no-o, sir. but----" "he is very busy. he seldom sees anybody save by appointment. are--are you acquainted with him?" "no, sir. but my business is important." "to you, perhaps," said the clerk, with a sneering smile. "but if it isn't important to _him_ i shall catch it for letting you in. what is it?" "it is business that i can tell to nobody except mr. grimes. not in detail. but i can say this much: it concerns a time when mr. grimes was in business with another man--sixteen years or more ago and i have come--come from his old partner." "humph!" said the clerk. "a begging interview? for, if so, take my advice--don't try it. it would be no use. mr. grimes never gives anything away. he wouldn't even bait a rat-trap with cheese-parings." "i have not come here to beg money of mr. grimes," said helen, drawing herself up. "well, you can come in and wait. perhaps he'll see you." this had all been said very low in the public hall, the clerk holding the door jealously shut behind him. now he opened it slowly and let her enter a large room, with old and dusty furniture set about it, and the clerk's own desk far back, by another door--which latter he guarded against all intrusion. behind that door, of course, was the man she had come to see. but as helen turned to take a seat on the couch which the clerk indicated with a gesture of his pen, she suddenly discovered that she was not the only person waiting in the room. in a decrepit armchair by one of the front windows, and reading the morning paper, with his wig pushed back upon his bald brow, was the queer old gentleman with whom she had ridden across the continent when she had come to new york. the discovery of this acquaintance here in mr. grimes's office gave helen a distinct shock. chapter xviii probing for facts helen sat down quickly and stared across the room at the queer old man. the latter at first seemed to pay her no attention. but finally she saw that he was skillfully "taking stock" of her from behind the shelter of the printed sheet. the western girl was more direct than that. she got up and walked across to him. the clerk uttered a very loud "ahem!" as though to warn her to drop her intention; but helen said coolly: "don't you remember me, sir?" "ha! i believe it _is_ the little girl who came from the coast with me last week," said the man. "not from the coast; from montana," corrected helen. "but you are dressed differently now and i was not sure," he said. "how have you been?" "very well, i thank you. and you, sir?" "well. very. but i did not expect to see you again--er--_here_." "no, sir. and you are waiting to see mr. grimes, too?" "er--something like that," admitted the old man. helen eyed him thoughtfully. she had already glanced covertly once or twice at the clerk across the room. she was quite bright enough to see between the rungs of a ladder. "_you_ are mr. grimes," she said, bluntly, looking again at the old man, who was adjusting his wig. he looked up at her slily, his avaricious little eyes twinkling as they had aboard the train when he had looked over her shoulder and caught her counting her money. "you're a very smart little girl," he said, with a short laugh. "what have you come to see me about? do you think of investing some of your money in mining stocks?" "no," said helen. "i have no money to invest." "humph. did you find your folks?" he asked, turning the subject quickly. "yes, sir." "what's the matter with you, then? what do you want?" "you _are_ mr. grimes?" she pursued, to make sure. "well, i don't deny it." "i have come to talk to you about--about prince morrell," she said, in a very low voice so that the clerk could not hear. "_who_?" gasped the man, falling back in his chair. evidently helen had startled him. "prince morrell," she replied. "what are you to prince morrell?" demanded the man. "i am his daughter. he is dead. i have come here to talk with you about the time--the time he left new york," said the girl from sunset ranch, hesitatingly. mr. grimes stared at her, with his wig still awry, for some moments; then the color began to come back into his face. helen had not realized before that he had turned pale. "you come into my office," he snapped, jumping up briskly. "i'll get to the bottom of this!" his movements were so very abrupt and he looked at her so strangely that, to tell the truth, the girl from sunset ranch was a bit frightened. she trailed along behind him, however, with only a hesitating step, passing the wondering clerk, and heard the lock of the door of the inner office snap behind her as mr. grimes shut it. he drew heavy curtains over the door, too. the place was a gloomy apartment until he turned on the electric light over a desk table. she saw that there were curtains at all the windows, and at the other door, too. "come here," he said, beckoning her to the desk, and to a chair that stood by it, and still speaking softly. "we will not be overheard here. now! tell me what you mean by coming to me in this way?" he shot such an ugly look at her that helen was again startled. "what do _you_ mean?" she returned, hiding her real emotion. "i have come to ask some questions. why shouldn't i?" "you say prince morrell is dead?" "yes, sir. nearly two months, now." "who sent you, then?" "sent me to you?" queried helen, in wonder. "yes. somebody must have sent you," said mr. grimes, watching her with his little eyes, in which there seemed to burn a very baleful look. "you are mistaken. nobody sent me," said helen, recovering a measure of her courage. she believed that this strange man was a coward. but why should he be afraid of her? "you came clear across this continent to interview me about--about something that is gone and forgotten--almost before you were born?" "it isn't forgotten," returned helen, meaningly. "such things are never forgotten. my father said so." "but it's no use hauling everything to the surface of the pool again," grumbled mr. grimes. "that is about what uncle starkweather says; but i do not feel that way," said helen, slowly. "ha! starkweather! of course he's in it. i might have known," muttered the old man. "so _he_ sent you to me?" "no, sir. he objected to my coming," declared helen, quite convinced now that she should not deliver her uncle's letter. "the starkweathers are the people you came east to visit?" "yes, sir." "and how did _they_ receive you in their fine madison avenue mansion?" queried mr. grimes, looking up at her slily again. "just as you know they did," returned helen, briefly. "ha! how's that? and you with all that----" he halted and--for a moment--had the grace to blush. he saw that she read his mind. "they do not know that i have some money for emergencies," said helen, coolly. "ho, ho!" chuckled mr. grimes, suddenly. "so they consider you a pauper relative from the west?" "yes, sir." "ho, ho!" he laughed again, and rubbed his hands. "how _did_ prince leave you fixed?" "i--i have something beside the money you saw me counting," she told him, bluntly. "and willets starkweather doesn't know it?" "he has never asked me if i were in funds." "i bet you!" cackled grimes, at last giving way to a spasm of mirth which, helen thought, was not nice to look upon. "and how does he fancy having you in his family?" "he does not like it. neither do his daughters. and one of their reasons is because people will ask questions about prince morrell's daughter. they are afraid their friends will bring up father's old trouble," continued helen, her voice quivering. "so that is why, mr. grime's, i am determined to know the truth about it." "the truth? what do you mean?" snarled grimes, suddenly starting out of his chair. "why, sir," said helen, amazed, "dad told me all about it when he was dying. all he knew. but he said by this time surely the truth of the matter must have come to light. i want to clear his name----" "how are you going to do _that_?" demanded mr. grimes. "i hope you will help me--if you can, sir," she said, pleadingly. "how can i help more now than i could at the time he was charged with the crime?" "i do not know. perhaps you can't. perhaps uncle starkweather cannot, either. but, it seems to me, if anything had been heard from that bookkeeper----" "allen chesterton?" "yes, sir." "well! i don't know how you are going to prove it, but i have always believed allen was guilty," declared mr. grimes, nodding his head vigorously, and still watching her face. "oh, have you, mr. grimes?" cried the girl, eagerly, clasping her hands. "you have _always_ believed it?" "quite so. evidence was against my old partner--yes. but it wasn't very direct. and then--what became of allen? why did he run away?" "that is what other people said about father," said helen, doubtfully. "it did not make him guilty, but it made him _look_ guilty. the same can be said of the bookkeeper." "but how can you go farther than that?" asked mr. grimes. "it's too long ago for the facts to be brought out. we can have our suspicions. we might even publish our suspicions. let us get something in the papers--i can do it," and he nodded, decisively, "stating that facts recently brought to light seemed to prove conclusively that prince morrell, once accused of embezzlement of the bank accounts of the firm of grimes & morrell, was guiltless of that crime. and we will state that the surviving partner of the firm is convinced that the only person guilty of that embezzlement was one allen chesterton, who was the firm's bookkeeper. how about _that_? wouldn't that fill the bill?" asked mr. grimes, rubbing his hands together. "if we had such an article published in the papers and circulated among his old friends, wouldn't that satisfy you, my dear? then you would do no more of this foolish probing for facts that cannot possibly be reached--eh? what do you say, helen morrell? isn't that a famous idea?" but the girl from sunset ranch was, for the moment, speechless. for a second time, it seemed to her, she was being bribed to make no serious investigation of the evidence connected with her father's old trouble. both uncle starkweather and this old man seemed to desire to head her off! chapter xix "jones" "isn't that a famous idea?" demanded mr. grimes, for the second time. "i--i am not so sure, sir," helen stammered. "why, of course it is!" he cried, smiting the desk before him with the flat of his palm. "don't you see that your father's name will be cleared of all doubt? and quite right, too! he never _was_ guilty." "it makes me quite happy to hear you say so," said the girl, wiping her eyes. "but how about the bookkeeper?" "who--allen?" "yes, sir." "well, we couldn't find him now. if he kept hidden then, when there was a hue and cry out for him, what chance would there be of finding him after seventeen years? oh, no! allen can't be found. and, even if he could, i doubt but the thing is outlawed. i don't know that the authorities would take it up. and i am pretty sure the creditors of the old firm would not." "that is not what i mean," said helen, softly. "but suppose we accuse this bookkeeper--_and he is not guilty, either_?" "well! is that any great odds? nobody knows where he is----" "but suppose he should reappear," persisted helen. "suppose somebody who loved him--a daughter, perhaps, as i am the daughter of prince morrell--with just as great a desire to clear her father's name as i have to clear mine---- suppose such a person should appear determined to prove mr. chesterton not guilty, too?" "ha, but we've beat 'em to it--don't you see?" demanded mr. grimes, heartlessly. "oh, sir! i could not take such an apparent victory at such a cost!" cried helen, wiping her eyes again. "you say you _believe_ allen chesterton was guilty instead of father. but you put forward no evidence--no more than the mere suspicion that cursed poor dad. no, no, sir! to claim new evidence, but to show no new evidence, is not enough. i must find out for sure just who stole that money. that is what dad himself said would be the only way in which his name could be cleared." "nonsense, girl!" ejaculated fenwick grimes, scowling again. "i am sorry to go against both your wishes and uncle starkweather's," said helen, slowly. "but i want the truth! i can't be satisfied with anything but the truth about this whole unfortunate business. "it made poor dad very unhappy when he was dying. it troubled my poor mother--so _he_ said--all her life out there in montana. i want to know where the money went--who got it--all about it. then i can prove to people that it was not _my_ father who committed the crime." "this is a very quixotic thing you have undertaken, my girl," remarked mr. grimes, with a sudden change in his manner. "i hope not. i hope i shall learn the truth." "how?" he shot the question at her as from a gun. his face had grown very grim and his sly little eyes gleamed threateningly. more than ever did helen dislike and fear this man. the avaricious light in his eyes as he noted the money she carried on the train, had first warned her against him. now, when she knew so much more about him, and how he was immediately connected with her father's old trouble, helen feared him all the more. because of his love of money alone, she could not trust him. and he had suggested something which was, upon the face of it, dishonest and unfair. she rose from her seat and shook her head slowly. "i do not know how," helen said, sadly. "but i hope something may turn up to help me. i understand that you have never known anything about allen chesterton since he ran away?" "not a thing," declared mr. grimes, shortly, rising as well. "it is through him i hoped to find the truth," she murmured. "so you won't accept my help?" growled mr. grimes. "not--not the kind you offer. it--it wouldn't be right," helen replied. "very well, then!" snapped the man, and opened the door into the outer office. as he ushered her into the other room the outer door opened and a shabby man poked his head and shoulders in at the door. "i say!" he said, quaveringly. "is mr. grimes----" "get out of here, you old ruffian!" cried fenwick grimes, flying into a sudden passion. "of course, you'd got to come around to-day!" "i only wanted to say, mr. grimes----" "out of my sight!" roared grimes. "here, leggett!" to his clerk; "give jones a dollar and let him go. i can't see him now." "jones, sir?" queried the clerk, seemingly somewhat staggered, and looking from his employer to the old scarecrow in the doorway. "yes, sir!" snarled mr. grimes. "i said jones, sir--jones, jones, jones! do you understand plain english, mr. leggett? take that dollar on the desk and give it into the hands of _jones_ there at the door. and then oblige me by kicking him down the steps if he doesn't move fast enough." leggett moved rapidly himself after this. he seemed to catch his employer's real meaning, and he grabbed the dollar and chased the beggar out into the hall. grimes, meanwhile, held helen back a bit. but he had nothing of any consequence to say. finally she bade him good-morning and went out of the office. she had not given him uncle starkweather's letter. somehow, she thought it best not to do so. if she had been doubtful of the sincerity of her uncle when she broached the subject nearest her heart, she had been much more suspicious of fenwick grimes. she walked composedly enough out of the building; but it was hard work to keep back the tears. it _did_ seem such a great task for a mere girl to attempt! and nobody would help her. she had nobody in whom to confide--nobody with whom she might discuss the mystery. and when she told herself this her mind naturally flashed to the only real friend she had made in new york--sadie goronsky. helen had looked up a map of the city the evening before in her uncle's library, and she had marked the streets intervening between this place where she had interviewed her father's old partner, and madison street on the east side. she had ridden downtown to washington arch; so she felt equal to the walk across town and down the bowery to the busy street where sadie plied her peculiar trade. she crossed the square and went through west broadway to bleecker street and turned east on that busy and interesting thoroughfare. suddenly, right ahead of her, she beheld the shabby brown hat and wrinkled coat of the old man who had stuck his head in at the door of mr. grimes's office, and so disturbed the equilibrium of that individual. here was "jones." at first helen thought him to be under the influence of drink. then she saw that the man's erratic actions must be the result of some physical or mental disability. the old man could not walk in a straight line; but he tacked from one side of the walk to the other, taking long "slants" across the walk, first touching the iron balustrade of a step on one hand, and then bringing up at a post on the edge of the curb. he seemed to mutter all the time to himself, too; but what he said, or whether it was sense, or nonsense, helen (although she walked near him) could not make out. she did not wish to offend the old man; yet he seemed so helpless and peculiar that for several blocks she trailed him (as he seemed to be going her way), fearing that he would get into some trouble. at the busy crossings helen was really worried. the man first started, then dodged back, scouted up and down the way, seemed undecided, looked all around as though for help, and then, at the very worst time, when the vehicles in the street were the most numerous, he darted across, escaping death and destruction half a dozen times between curb and curb. but somehow the angel that directs the destinies of foolish people who cross busy city streets, shielded him from harm, and helen finally lost him as he turned down one of the main stems of the town while she kept on into the heart of the east side. and to helen morrell, the very "heart of the east side" was right in the goronsky flat on madison street. she had been comparing that home at the same number on madison street with that her uncle's house boasted on madison avenue, with the latter mansion. the goronsky tenement was a _home_, for love and contentment dwelt there; the stately starkweather dwelling housed too many warring factions to be a real home. helen came, at length, to madison street. she had timed her coming so as to reach jacob finkelstein's shop just about the time sadie would be going to dinner. "miss helen! ain't i glad to see you?" cried sadie. "is there anything the matter with the dress, yet?" "no, miss sadie. i was downtown and thought i would ask you to go to dinner with me. i went with you yesterday." "o-oo my! i don't know," said sadie, shaking her head. "i bet you'd like to come home with me instead--no?" "i would like to. but it would not be right for me to accept your hospitality and never return it," said helen. "chee! you must 'a' had a legacy," laughed sadie. "i--i have a little more money than i had yesterday," admitted helen, which was true, for she had taken some out of the wallet in the trunk before she left her uncle's house. "well, when you swells feel like spendin' there ain't no stoppin' youse, i suppose," declared sadie. "do you wanter fly real high?" "i guess we can afford a real nice dinner," said helen, smiling. "are you good for as high as thirty-fi' cents apiece?" demanded sadie. "yes." "chee! then i can take you to a stylish place where we can get a swell feed at noon, for that. it's up on grand street. all the buyers and department store heads go there with the wholesale salesmen for lunch. wait till i git me hat!" and away sadie shot, up the tenement house stairs, so fast that her little feet, bound by the tight skirt she wore, seemed fairly to twinkle. helen had but a few moments to wait on the sidewalk; yet within that short time something happened to change the entire current of the day's adventures. she heard some boys shouting from the direction of the bowery; there was a crowd crossing the street diagonally; she watched it with some apprehension at first, for it came right along the sidewalk toward her. "hi, fellers! see de lurcher! here comes de lurcher!" yelled one ribald youth, who leaped on the stoop to which helen had retreated the better to see over the heads of the crowd at the person who was the core of it. and then helen, in no little amazement, saw that this individual was none other than the man whom she had seen driven out of fenwick grimes's office. a gang of hoodlums surrounded him. they jeered at him, tore at his ragged clothes, hooted, and otherwise nagged the poor old fellow. at every halt he made they pressed closer upon the "lurcher." it was easy to see why he had been given that name. he was probably an old inhabitant of the neighborhood, and his lurching from side to side of the walk had suggested the nickname to some local wit. just as he steered for the rail of the step on which helen stood, half fearful, and reached it, sadie goronsky came bounding out of the house. instantly she took a hand--and as usual a master hand--in the affair. "what you doin' to that old man, you izzy strefonifsky? and, freddie bloom, you stop or i'll tell your mommer! ike, let him alone, or i'll make your ears tingle myself--i can do it, too!" sadie charged as she commanded. the hoodlums scattered--some laughing, some not so easily intimidated. but the old man was clinging to the rail and muttering over and over to himself: "they got my dollar--they got my dollar." "what's that?" cried sadie, coming back after chasing the last of the boys off the block. "what's the matter, mr. lurcher?" "my dollar--they got my dollar," muttered the old man. "oh, dear!" whispered helen. "and perhaps it was all he had." "you can bet it was," said sadie, angrily. "the likes of him wouldn't likely have _two_ dollars all at once! i'd like to scalp those imps! that i would!" the old man, paying little attention to the two girls, but still muttering about his loss, lurched away on his erratic course homeward. "chee!" said sadie. "ain't that tough luck? he lives right around the corner, all alone. and he's just as poor as he can be. i don't know what his real name is. but the boys guy him sumpin' fierce! ain't it mean?" "it certainly is," agreed helen. "say!" said sadie, abruptly, but looking at helen with sheepish eye. "well, what?" "say, was yer _honest_ goin' to blow seventy cents for that feed i spoke of up on grand street?" "certainly. and i----" "and a dime to the waiter?" "of course." "that's eighty cents," ran on sadie, glibly enough now. "and twenty would make a dollar. i'll dig up the twenty cents to put with your eighty, and what d'ye say we run after old lurcher an' give him a dollar--say we found it, you know--and then go upstairs to my house for dinner? mommer's got a nice dinner, and she'd like to see you again fine!" "i'll do it!" cried helen, pulling out her purse at once. "here! here's a dollar bill. you run after him and give it to him. you can give me the twenty cents later." "sure!" cried the russian girl, and she was off around the corner in the wake of the lurcher, with flying feet. helen waited for her friend to return, just inside the tenement house door. when sadie reappeared, helen hugged her tight and kissed her. "you are a _dear_!" the western girl cried. "i do love you, sadie!" "aw, chee! that ain't nothin'," objected the east side girl. "we poor folks has gotter help each other." so helen would not spoil the little sacrifice by acknowledging to more money, and they climbed the stairs again to the goronsky tenement. the girl from sunset ranch was glad--oh, so glad!--of this incident. chilled as she had been by the selfishness in her uncle's madison avenue mansion, she was glad to have her heart warmed down here among the poor of madison street. chapter xx out of step with the times "no," sadie told helen, afterward, "i am very sure that poor lurcher man doesn't drink. some says he does; but you never notice it on him. it's just his eyes." "his eyes?" queried helen, wonderingly. "yes. he's sort of blind. his eyelids keep fluttering all the time. he can't control them. and, if you notice, he usually lifts up the lid of one eye with his finger before he makes one of his base-runs for the next post. chee! i'd hate to be like that." "the poor old man! and can nothing be done for it?" "plenty, i reckon. but who's goin' to pay for it? not him--he ain't got it to pay. we all has our troubles down here, helen." the girls had come down from the home of sadie again, and helen was preparing to leave her friend. "aren't there places to go in the city to have one's eyes examined? free hospitals, i mean?" "sure! and they got lurcher to one, once. but all they give him was a prescription for glasses, and it would cost a lot to get 'em. so it didn't do him no good." helen looked at sadie suddenly. "how much would it take for the glasses?" she asked. "i dunno. ten dollars, mebbe." "and do you s'pose he could have that prescription now?" asked helen, eagerly. "mebbe. but why for?" "perhaps i could--could get somebody uptown interested in his case who is able to pay for the spectacles." "chee, that would be bully!" cried sadie. "will you find out about the prescription?" "sure i will," declared sadie. "nex' time you come down here, helen, i'll know all about it. and if you can get one of them rich ladies up there to pay for 'em--well! it would beat goin' to a swell restaurant for a feed--eh?" and she laughed, hugged the western girl, and then darted across the sidewalk to intercept a possible customer who was loitering past the row of garments displayed in front of the finkelstein shop. but helen did not get downtown again as soon as she expected. when she awoke the next morning there had set in a steady drizzle--cold and raw--and the panes of her windows were so murky that she could not see even the chimneys and roofs, or down into the barren little yards. this--nor a much heavier--rain would not have ordinarily balked helen. she was used to being out in all winds and weathers. but she actually had nothing fit to wear in the rain. if she had worn the new cheap dress out of doors she knew what would happen. it would shrink all out of shape. and she had no raincoat, nor would she ask her cousins--so she told herself--for the loan of an umbrella. so, as long as it rained steadily, it looked as though the girl from sunset ranch was a sure-enough "shut-in." nor did she contemplate this possibility with any pleasure. there was nothing for her to do but read. and one cannot read all the time. she had no "fancy-work" with which to keep her hands and mind busy. she wondered what her cousins did on such days. she found out by keeping her ears and eyes open. after breakfast belle went shopping in the limousine. there was an early luncheon and all three of the starkweather girls went to a matinée. in neither case was helen invited to go--no, indeed! she was treated as though she were not even in the house. seldom did either of the older girls speak to her. "i might as well be a ghost," thought helen. and this reminded her of the little old lady who paced the ghost-walk every night--the ex-nurse, mary boyle. she had thought of going to see her on the top floor before; but she had not been able to pluck up the courage. now that her cousins were gone from the house, however, and mrs. olstrom was taking a nap in her room, and mr. lawdor was out of the way, and all the under-servants mildly celebrating the free afternoon below stairs, helen determined to venture out of her own room, along the main passage of the top floor, to the door which she believed must give upon the front suite of rooms which the little old lady occupied. she knocked, but there was no response. nor could she hear any sound from within. it struck helen that the principal cruelty of the starkweathers' treatment of this old soul was her being shut away alone up here at the top of the house--too far away from the rest of its occupants for a cry to be heard if the old lady should be in trouble. "if they shut up a dog like this, he would howl and thus attract attention to his state," muttered helen. "but here is a human being----" she tried the door. the latch clicked and the door swung open. helen stepped into a narrow, hall-like room, well furnished with old-fashioned furniture (probably brought from below stairs when mr. starkweather re-decorated the mansion) with one window in it. the door which evidently gave upon the remainder of the suite was closed. as helen listened, however, from behind this closed door came a cheerful, cracked voice--the same voice she had heard whispering the lullaby in the middle of the night. but now it was tuning up on an old-time ballad, very popular in its day: "wait till the clouds roll by, jennie-- wait till the clouds roll by! jennie, my own true loved one-- wait till the clouds roll by." "she doesn't sound like a hopeless prisoner," thought helen, with surprise. she waited a minute longer and, as the thin yet still sweet voice stopped, helen knocked timidly on the inner door. immediately the voice said, "come in, deary. 'tis not for the likes of you to be knockin' at old mary's door. come in!" helen turned the knob slowly and went into the room. the moment she crossed the threshold she forgot the clouds and rain and gloominess which had depressed her. indeed, it seemed as though the sun must be ever shining into this room, high up under the roof of the starkweather mansion. in the first place, it was most cheerfully papered and painted. there were pretty, simple, yellow and white hangings. the heavier pieces of old furniture had gay "tidies" or "throws" upon them to relieve the sombreness of the dark wood. the pictures on the walls were all in white or gold frames, and were of a cheerful nature--mostly pictures of childhood, or pictures which would amuse children. evidently much of the furnishings of the old nursery had been brought up here to mary boyle's sitting-room. helen had a glimpse, through a half-open door, of the bedroom--quite as bright and pretty. there was a little stove set up here, and a fire burned in it. it was one of those stoves that have isinglass all around it so that the fire can be seen when it burns red. it added mightily to the cheerful tone of the room. how neat everything appeared! yet the very neatest thing in sight was the little old lady herself, sitting in a green-painted rocker, with a low sewing-table at her side, wooden needles clicking fast in her fleecy knitting. she looked up at helen with a little, bird-like motion--her head a bit on one side and her glance quizzical. this, it proved, was typical of mary boyle. "deary, deary me!" she said. "you're a _new_ girl. and what do you want mary to do for you?" "i--i thought i'd come and make you a little call," said helen, timidly. this wasn't at all as she expected to find the shut-in! instead of gloom, and tears, and the weakness of age, here were displayed all the opposite emotions and qualities. the woman who was forgotten did not appear to be an object of pity at all. she merely seemed out of step with the times. "i'm sure you're very welcome, deary," said the old nurse. "draw up the little rocker yonder. i always keep it for young company," and mary boyle, who had had no young company up here for ten or a dozen years, spoke as though the appearance of a youthful face and form was of daily occurrence. "you see," spoke helen, more confidently, "we are neighbors on this top floor." "neighbors; air we?" "i live up here, too. the family have tucked me away out of sight." "hush!" said the little old woman. "we shouldn't criticise our bethers. no, no! and this is a very cheerful par-r-rt of the house, so it is." "but it must be awful," exclaimed helen, "to have to stay in it all the time!" "i don't have to stay in it all the time," replied the nurse, quickly. "no, ma'am. i hear you in the night going downstairs and walking in the corridor," helen said, softly. the wrinkled old face blushed very prettily, and mary boyle looked at her visitor doubtfully. "sure, 'tis such a comfort for an old body like me," she said, at last, "to make believe." "make believe?" cried helen, with a smile. "why, _i'm_ not old, and i love to make believe." "ah, yis! but there is a differ bechune the make-believes of the young and the make-believes of the old. _you_ are playin' you're grown up, or dramin' of what's comin' to you in th' future--sure, i know! i've had them drames, too, in me day. "but with old folks 'tis different. we do be har-r-rking back instead of lookin' for'ard. and with me, it's thinkin' of the babies i've held in me ar-r-rms, and rocked on me knee, and walked the flure wid when they was ailin'--an' sure the babies of _this_ house was always ailin', poor little things." "they were a great trouble to you, then?" asked helen, softly. "trouble, is it?" cried mary boyle, her eyes shining again. "sure, how could a blessid infant be a trouble? 'tis a means of grace they be to the hear-r-rt--i nade no preacher to tell me that, deary. i found thim so. and they loved me and was happy wid me," she added, cheerfully. "the folks below think me a little quare in me head," she confided to her visitor. "but they don't understand. to walk up and down the nursery corridor late at night relaves the ache here," and she put her little, mitted hand upon her heart. "ye see, i trod that path so often--so often----" her voice trailed off and she fell silent, gazing into the glow of the fire in the stove. but there was a smile on her lips. the past was no time to weep over. this cheerful body saw only the bright spots in her long, long life. helen loved to hear her talk. and soon she and mary boyle were very well acquainted. one thing about the old nurse helen liked immensely. she asked no questions. she accepted helen's visit as a matter of course; yet she showed very plainly that she was glad to have a young face before her. but the girl from sunset ranch did not know how mrs. olstrom might view her making friends with the old lady; so she made her visit brief. but she promised to come again and bring a book to read to mary boyle. "radin' is a great accomplishment, deary," declared the old woman. "i niver seemed able to masther it--although me mistress oft tried to tache me. but, sure, there was so much to l'arn about babies, that ain't printed in no book, that i was always radin' them an' niver missed the book eddication till i come to be old. but th' foine poethry me mistress useter be radin' me! sure, 'twould almost put a body to slape, so swate and grand it was." so, helen searched out a book of poems downstairs, and the next forenoon she ventured into the front suite again, and read ta mary boyle for an hour. the storm lasted several days, and each day the girl from the west spent more and more time with the little old woman. but this was all unsuspected by uncle starkweather and the three girls. if mrs. olstrom knew she said nothing. at least, she timed her own daily visits to the little old woman so that she would not meet helen in the rooms devoted to old mary's comfort. nor were helen's visits continued solely because she pitied mary boyle. how could she continue to pity one who did not pity herself? no. helen received more than she gave in this strange friendship. seeking to amuse the old nurse, she herself gained such an uplift of heart and mind that it began to counteract that spirit of sullenness that had entered into the western girl when she had first come to this house and had been received so unkindly by her relatives. instead of hating them, she began to pity them. how much uncle starkweather was missing by being so utterly selfish! how much the girls were missing by being self-centred! why, see it right here in mary boyle's case! nobody could associate with the delightful little old woman without gaining good from the association. instead of being friends with the old nurse, and loving her and being loved by her, the starkweather girls tucked her away in the attic and tried to ignore her existence. "they don't know what they're missing--poor things!" murmured helen, thinking the situation over. and from that time her own attitude changed toward her cousins. she began to look out for chances to help them, instead of making herself more and more objectionable to belle, hortense, and flossie. chapter xxi breaking the ice as for floss, helen had already got a hold upon that young lady. "come on, helen!" the younger cousin would whisper after dinner. "come up to my room and give me a start on these lessons; will you? that's a good chap." and often when the rest of the family thought the unwelcome visitor had retired to her room at the top of the house, she was shut in with flossie, trying to guide the stumbling feet of that rather dull girl over the hard places in her various studies. for floss had soon discovered that the girl from sunset ranch somehow had a wonderful insight into every problem she put up to her. nor were they all in algebra. "i don't see how you managed to do it, 'way out there in that wild place you lived in; but you must have gone through 'most all the text-books i have," declared flossie, once. "oh, i had to grab every chance there was for schooling," helen responded, and changed the subject instantly. flossie thought she had a secret from her sisters, however, and she hugged it to her with much glee. she realized that helen was by no means the ignoramus belle and hortense said. "and let 'em keep on thinking it," flossie said, to herself, with a chuckle. "i don't know what helen has got up her sleeve; but i believe she is fooling all of us." a long, dreary fortnight of inclement weather finally got on the nerves of hortense. belle could go out tramping in it, or cab-riding, or what-not. she was athletic, and loved exercise in the open air, no matter what the weather might be. but the second sister was just like a pussy-cat; she loved comfort and the warm corners. however, being left alone by belle, and nobody coming in to call for several days, hortense was completely overpowered by loneliness. she had nothing within herself to fight off nervousness and depression. so, having caught a little, sniffly cold, she decided that she was sick and went to bed. the starkweather girls did not each have a maid. mr. starkweather could not afford that luxury. but hortense at once requisitioned one of the housemaids to wait upon her and of course mrs. olstrom's very carefully-thought-out system was immediately turned topsy-turvy. "i cannot allow you, miss, to have the services of maggie all day long," helen heard the housekeeper announce at the door of the invalid's room. "we are not prepared to do double work in this house. you must either speak to your father and have a nurse brought in, or wait upon yourself." "oh, you heartless, wicked thing!" cried hortense. "how can you be so cruel? i couldn't wait upon myself. i want my broth. and i want my hair done. and you can see yourself how the room is all in a mess. and----" "maggie must do her parlor work to-day. you know that. if you want to be waited upon, miss, get your sister to do it," concluded the housekeeper, and marched away. "and she very well knows that belle has gone out somewhere and flossie is at school. i could _die_ here, and nobody would care," wailed hortense. helen walked into the richly furnished room. hortense was crying into her pillow. her hair was still in two unkempt braids and she _did_ need a fresh boudoir cap and gown. "can i do anything to help you, 'tense?" asked helen, cheerfully. "oh, dear me--no!" exclaimed her cousin. "you're so loud and noisy. and do, _do_ call me by my proper name." "i forgot. sure, i'll call you anything you say," returned the western girl, smiling at her. meanwhile she was moving about the room, deftly putting things to rights. "i'm going to tell father the minute he comes home!" wailed hortense, ignoring her cousin for the time and going back to her immediate troubles. "i am left all alone--and i'm sick--and nobody cares--and--and----" "where do you keep your caps, hortense?" interrupted helen. "and if you'll let me, i'll brush your hair and make it look pretty. and then you get into a fresh nightgown----" "oh, i couldn't sit up," moaned hortense. "i really couldn't. i'm too weak." "i'll show you how. let me fix the pillows--_so!_ and _so!_ there--nothing like trying; is there? you're comfortable; aren't you?" "we-ell----" helen was already manipulating the hairbrush. she did it so well, and managed to arrange hortense's really beautiful hair so simply yet easily on her head that the latter quite approved of it--and said so--when she looked into her hand-mirror. then helen got her into a chair, in a fresh robe and a pretty kimono, while she made the bed--putting on new sheets and cases for the pillows so that all should be sweet and clean. of course, hortense wasn't really sick--only lazy. but she thought she was sick and helen's attentions pleased the spoiled girl. "why, you're not such a bad little thing, helen," she said, dipping into a box of chocolates on the stand by her bedside. chocolates were about all the medicine hortense took during this "bad attack." and she was really grateful--in her way--to her cousin. it was later on this day that helen plucked up courage to go to her uncle and give him back the letter he had written to fenwick grimes. "i did not use it, sir," she said. "ahem!" he said, and with evident relief. "you have thought better of it, i hope? you mean to let the matter rest where it is?" "i have not abandoned my attempt to get at the truth--no, uncle starkweather." "how foolish of you, child!" he cried. "i do not think it is foolish. but i will try not to mix you up in my inquiries. that is why i did not use the letter." "and you have seen grimes?" he asked, hastily. "oh, yes." "does he know who you are?" "oh, yes." "and you reached him without an introduction? i understand he is hard to approach. he is a money-lender, in a way, and he has an odd manner of never appearing to come into personal contact with his clients." "yes, sir. i think him odd." "did--did he think he could help you?" "he thinks just as you do, sir," stated helen, honestly. "and, then, he accused you of sending me to him at first; so i would not use your letter and so compromise you." "ahem!" said the gentleman, surprised that this young girl should be so circumspect. it rather startled him to discover that she was thoughtful far beyond her years. was it possible that--somehow--she _might_ bring to light the truth regarding the unhappy difficulty that had made prince morrell an exile from his old home for so many years? once may van ramsden ran in to see belle and caught helen going through the hall on her way to her own room. it was just after luncheon, which she and belle had eaten in a silence that could be felt. belle would not speak to her cousin unless she was obliged to, and helen did not see that forcing her attentions upon the other girl would do any good. "why, here you are, helen morrell! why don't i ever see you when i come here?" cried the caller, shaking helen by both hands and smiling upon her heartily from her superior height. "when are your cousins going to bring you to call upon me?" helen might have replied, truthfully, "never;" but she only shook her head and smilingly declared: "i hope to see you again soon, miss van ramsden." "well, i guess you must!" cried the caller. "i want to hear some more of your experiences," and she went on to meet the scowling belle at the door of the reception parlor. later her eldest cousin said to the western girl: "in going up and down to your room, miss, i want you to remember that there is a back stairway. use the servants' stairs, if you please!" helen made no reply. she wasn't breaking much of the ice between her and belle starkweather, that was sure. and to add to belle's dislike for her cousin, there was another happening in which miss van ramsden was concerned, soon after this. hortense was still abed, for the weather remained unpleasant--and there really was nothing else for the languid cousin to do. miss van ramsden found belle out, and she went upstairs to say "how-do" to the invalid. helen was in the room making the spoiled girl more comfortable, and miss van ramsden drew the younger girl out into the hall when she left. "i really have come to see _you_, child," she said to helen, frankly. "i was telling papa about you and he said he would dearly love to meet prince morrell's daughter. papa went to college with your father, my dear." helen was glad of this, and yet she flushed a little. she was quite frank, however: "does--does your father know about poor dad's trouble?" she whispered. "he does. and he always believed mr. morrell not guilty. father was one of the firm's creditors, and he has always wished your father had come to him instead of leaving the city so long ago." "then he's been paid?" cried helen, eagerly. "certainly. it is a secret, i believe--father warned me not to speak of it unless you did; but everybody was paid by your father after a time. _that_ did not look as though he were dishonest. his partner took advantage of the bankruptcy courts." "of--of course your father has no idea who _was_ guilty?" whispered helen, anxiously. "none at all," replied miss van ramsden. "it was a mystery then and remains so to this day. that bookkeeper was a peculiar man, but had a good record; and it seems that he left the city before the checks were cashed. or, so the evidence seemed to prove. "now, don't cry, my dear! come! i wish we could help you clear up that old trouble. but many of your father's old friends--like papa--never believed prince morrell guilty." helen was crying by this time. the kindness of this older girl broke down her self-possession. they heard somebody coming up the stairs, and miss van ramsden said, quickly: "take me to your room, dear. we can talk there." helen never thought that she might be giving the starkweather family deadly offence by doing this. she led miss van ramsden immediately to the rear of the house and up the back stairway to the attic floor. the caller looked somewhat amazed when helen ushered her into the room. "well, they could not have put you much nearer the sky; could they?" she said, laughing, yet eyeing helen askance. "oh, i don't mind it up here," returned helen, truthfully enough. "and i have some company on this floor." "ahem! the maids, i suppose?" said may van ramsden. "no, no," helen assured her, eagerly. "the dearest little old lady you ever saw." then she stopped and looked at her caller in some distress. for the moment she had forgotten that she was probably on the way to reveal the starkweather family skeleton! "a little old lady? who can _that_ be?" cried the caller. "you interest me." "i--i--well, it is an old lady who was once nurse in the family and i believe uncle starkweather cares for her----" "it's never nurse boyle?" cried miss van ramsden, suddenly starting up. "why! i remember about her. but somehow, i thought she had died years ago. why, as a child i used to visit her at the house, and she used to like to have me come to see her. that was before your cousins lived here, helen. then i went to europe for several years and when we returned the house had all been done over, your uncle's family was here, and i think--i am not sure--somebody told me dear old mary boyle was dead." "no," observed helen, thoughtfully. "she is not dead. she is only forgotten." miss van ramsden looked at the western girl for some moments in silence. she seemed to understand the whole matter without a word of further explanation. "would you mind letting me see mary boyle while i am here?" she asked, gravely. "she was a very lovely old soul, and all the families hereabout--i have heard my mother often say--quite envied the starkweathers their possession of such a treasure." "certainly we can go in and see her," declared helen, throwing all discretion to the winds. "i was going to read to her this afternoon, anyway. come along!" she led the caller through the hall to mary boyle's little suite of rooms. to herself helen said: "let the wild winds of disaster blow! whew! if the family hears of this i don't know but they will want to have me arrested--or worse! but what can i do? and then--mary boyle deserves better treatment at their hands." chapter xxii in the saddle the little old lady "tidied" her own room. she hopped about like a bird with the aid of the ebony crutch, and helen and miss van ramsden heard the "step--put" of her movements when they entered the first room. "come in, deary!" cried the dear old soul. "i was expecting you. ah, whom have we here? good-day to you, ma'am!" "nurse boyle! don't you remember me?" cried the visitor, going immediately to the old lady and kissing her on both cheeks. "bless us, now! how would i know ye?" cried the old woman. "is it me old eyes i have set on ye for many a long year now?" "and i blame myself for it, nurse," cried may van ramsden. "don't you remember little may--the van ramsdens' may--who used to come to see you so often when she was about so-o high?" cried the girl, measuring the height of a five or six-year-old. "a neighbor's baby _did_ come to see old mary now and then," cried the nurse. "but you're never may?" "i am, nurse." "and growed so tall and handsome? well, well, well! it does bate all, so it does. everybody grows up but mary boyle; don't they?" and the old woman cackled out a sweet, high laugh, and sat down to "visit" with her callers. the two girls had a very charming time with mary boyle. and may van ramsden promised to come again. when they left the old lady she said, earnestly, to helen: "and there are others that will be glad to come and see nurse boyle. when she was well and strong--before she had to use that crutch--she often appeared at our houses when there was trouble--serious trouble--especially with the babies or little children. and what mary boyle did not know about pulling young ones out of the mires of illness, wasn't worth knowing. why, i know a dozen boys and girls whose lives were probably saved by her. they shall be reminded of her existence. and--it shall be due to you, little cinderella!" helen smiled deprecatingly. "it will be due to your own kind heart, miss van ramsden," she returned. "i see that everybody in the city is not so busy with their own affairs that they cannot think of other people." the young lady kissed her again and said goodbye. but that did not end the matter--no, indeed! the news that miss van ramsden had been taken to the topmost story of the starkweather mansion--supposedly to helen's own room only--by the western girl, dribbled through the servants to belle starkweather herself when she came home. "now, pa! i won't stand that common little thing being here any longer--no, i won't! why, she did that just on purpose to make folks talk--to make people believe that we abuse her. of course, she told may that _i_ sent her to the top story to sleep. you get rid of that girl, pa, or i declare i'll go away. i guess i can find somebody to take me in as long as you wish to keep prince morrell's daughter here in _my_ place." "ahem! i--i must beg you to compose yourself, belle----" "i won't--and that's flat!" declared his eldest daughter. "either she goes; or i do." "do let belle go, pa," drawled flossie. "she is getting too bossy, anyway. _i_ don't mind having helen here. she is rather good fun. and may van ramsden came here particularly to see helen." "that's not so!" cried belle, stamping her foot. "it is. maggie heard her say so. maggie was coming up the stairs and heard may ask helen to take her to her room. what could the poor girl do?" "ahem! flossie--i am amazed at you--amazed at you!" gasped mr. starkweather. "what do you learn at school?" "goodness me! i couldn't tell you," returned the youngest of his daughters, carelessly. "it's none of it any good, though, pa. you might as well take me out." "i've told that girl to use the back stairs, and to keep out of the front of the house," went on belle, ignoring flossie. "if she had not been hanging about the front of the house, may van ramsden would not have seen her----" "'tain't so!" snapped flossie. "_will_ you be still, minx?" demanded the older sister. "i don't care. let's give helen a fair deal. i tell you, pa, may said she came particularly to see helen. besides, helen had been in hortense's room, and that is where may found her. helen was brushing hortense's hair. hortense told me so." "ahem! i am astonished at you, flossie. the fact remains that helen is a source of trouble in the house. i really do wish i knew how to get rid of her." "you give me permission, pa," sneered belle, "and i'll get rid of her very quickly--you see!" "no, no!" exclaimed the troubled father. "i--i cannot use the iron hand at present--not at present." "humph!" exclaimed the shrewd belle. "i'd like to know what you are afraid of, pa?" mr. starkweather tried to frown down his daughter, but was unsuccessful. he merely presented a picture of a very cowardly man trying to look brave. it wasn't much of a picture. so--as may be easily conceived--helen was not met at dinner by her relatives in any conciliatory manner. yet the girl from the west really wished she might make friends with uncle starkweather and her cousins. "it must be that a part of the fault is with me," she told herself, when she crept up to her room after a gloomy time in the dining-room. "if i had it in me to please them--to make them happier--surely they could not treat me as they do. oh, dear, i wish i had learned better how to be popular." that night helen felt about as bad as she had any time since she arrived in the great city. she was too disturbed to read. she lay in bed until the small hours of the morning, unable to sleep, and worrying over all her affairs, which seemed, since she had arrived in new york, to go altogether wrong. she had not made an atom of progress in that investigation which she had hoped would bring to light the truth about the mystery which had sent her father and mother west--fugitives--before she was born. she had only succeeded in becoming thoroughly suspicious of her uncle starkweather and of fenwick grimes. nor had she made any advance in the discovery of the mysterious allen chesterton, the bookkeeper of her father's old firm, who held, she believed, the key to the mystery. she did not know what step to take next. she did not know what to do. and there was nobody with whom she could consult--nobody in all this great city to whom she could go. never before had helen felt so lonely as she did this night. she had money enough with her to pay somebody to help her dig back for facts regarding the disappearance of the money belonging to the old firm of grimes & morrell. but she did not know how to go about getting the help she needed. her only real confidante--sadie goronsky--would not know how to advise her in this emergency. "i wish i had let dud stone give me his address. he said he was learning to be a lawyer," thought helen. "and just now, i s'pose, a lawyer is what i need most. but i wouldn't know how to go about engaging a lawyer--not a good one." she awoke at her usual time next morning, and the depression of the night before was still with her. but when she jumped up she saw that it was no longer raining. the sky was overcast, but she could venture forth without running the risk of spoiling her new suit. and right there a desperate determination came into helen morrell's mind. she had learned that on the west side of central park there was a riding academy. she was _hungry_ for an hour in the saddle. it seemed to her that a gallop would clear all the cobwebs away and make her feel like herself once more. the house was still silent and dark. she took her riding habit out of the closet, made it up into a bundle, and crept downstairs with it under her arm. she escaped the watchful lawdor for once, and got out by the area door before even the cook had crept, yawning, downstairs to begin her day's work. helen, hurrying through the dark, dripping streets, found a little restaurant where she could get rolls and coffee on her way to the columbus circle riding academy. it was still early when the girl from sunset ranch reached her goal. yes, a mount was to be had, and she could change her street clothes for her riding suit in the dressing-rooms. the city--at least, that part of it around central park--was scarcely awake when helen walked her mount out of the stable and into the park. the man in charge had given her to understand that there were few riders astir so early. "you'll have the bridle-path to yourself, miss, going out," he said. helen had picked up a little cap to wear, and astride the saddle, with her hair tied with a big bow of ribbon at the nape of her neck, she looked very pretty as the horse picked his way across the esplanade into the bridle-path. but there were few, as the stableman had said, to see her so early in the morning. it did not rain, however. indeed, there was a fresh breeze which, she saw, was tearing the low-hung clouds to shreds. and in the east a rosy spot in the fog announced the presence of the sun himself, ready to burst through the fleecy veil and smile once more upon the world. the trees and brush dripped upon the fallen leaves. for days the park caretakers had been unable to rake up these, and they had become almost a solid pattern of carpeting for the lawns. and down here in the bridle-path, as she cantered along, their pungent odor, stirred by the hoofs of her mount, rose in her nostrils. this wasn't much like galloping over an open trail on a nervous little cow-pony. but it was both a bodily and mental relief for the outdoor girl who had been, for these past weeks, shut into a groove for which she was so badly fitted. she saw nobody on horseback but a mounted policeman, who turned and trotted along beside her, and was pleasant and friendly. this pleased helen; and especially was she pleased when she learned that he had been west and had "punched cows" himself. that had been some years ago, but he remembered the link-a--now the sunset--ranch, although he had never worked for that outfit. helen's heart expanded as she cantered along. the sun dispelled the mist and shone warm upon the path. the policeman left her, but now there were other riders abroad. she went far out of town, as directed by the officer, and found the ride beautiful. after all, there were some lovely spots in this great city, if one only knew where to find them. she had engaged a strong horse with good wind; but she did not want to break him down. so she finally turned her face toward the city again and let the animal take its own pace home. she had ridden down as far as th street and had crossed over into the park once more, when she saw a couple of riders advancing toward her from the south. they were a young man and a girl, both well mounted, and helen noted instantly that they handled their spirited horses with ease. indeed, she was so much interested in the mounts themselves, that she came near passing the two without a look at their faces. suddenly she heard an exclamation from the young fellow, she looked up, and found herself gazing straight into the handsome face of dudley stone. "for the love of heaven!" gasped that astonished young man. "it surely _is_ helen morrell! jess! see here! here's the very nicest girl who ever came out of montana!" dud's sister--helen knew she must be his sister, for she had the same coloring as and a strong family resemblance to the budding lawyer--wheeled her horse and rode directly to helen's side. "oh, miss morrell!" she cried, putting out her gauntleted hand. "is it really she, dud? how wonderful!" helen shook hands rather timidly, for miss jessie stone was torrential in her speech. there wasn't a chance to "get a word in edgewise" when once she was started upon a subject that interested her. "my goodness me!" she cried, still shaking helen's hand. "is this really the girl who pulled you out of that tree, dud? who saved your life and took you on her pony to the big ranch? my, how romantic! "and you really own a ranch, miss morrell? how nice that must be! and plenty of cattle on it--why! you don't mind the price of beef at all; do you? and what a clever girl you must be, too. dud came back full of your praise, now i tell you----" "there, there!" cried dud. "hold on a bit, jess, and let's hear how miss morrell is--and what she is doing here in the big city, and all that." "well, i declare, dud! you take the words right out of my mouth," said his sister, warmly. "i was just going to ask her that. and we're going to the casino for breakfast, miss morrell, and you must come with us. you've had your ride; haven't you?" "i--i'm just returning," admitted helen, rather breathless, if jess was not. "come on, then!" cried the good-natured but talkative city girl. "come, dud, you ride ahead and engage a table and order something nice. i'm as ravenous as a wolf. dear me, miss morrell, if you have been riding long you must be quite famished, too!" "i had coffee and rolls early," said helen, as dud spurred his horse away. "oh, what's coffee and rolls? nothing at all--nothing at all! after i've been jounced around on this saddle for an hour i feel as though i never _had_ eaten. i don't care much for riding myself, but dud is crazy for it, and i come to keep him company. you must ride with us, miss morrell. how long are you going to stay in town? and to think of your having saved dud's life--well! he'll never get over talking about it." "he makes too much of the incident," declared helen, determined to get in a word. "i only lent him a rope and he saved himself." "no. you carried him on your pony to that ranch. oh, i know it all by heart. he talks about it to everybody. dud is _so_ enthusiastic about the west. he is crazy to go back again--he wants to live there. i tell him i'll go out and try it for a while, and if i find i can stand it, he can hang out his shingle in that cow-town--what do you call it?" "elberon?" suggested helen. "yes--elberon. dud says there is a chance for another lawyer there. and he came back here and entered the offices of larribee & polk right away, so as to get working experience, and be entered at the bar all the sooner. but say!" exclaimed jess, "i believe one reason why he is so eager to go back to the west is because _you_ live there." "oh, miss stone!" "do call me jess. 'miss stone' is so stiff. and you and i are going to be the very best of friends." "i really hope so, jess. but you must call me helen, too," said the girl from sunset ranch. jess leaned out from her saddle, putting the horses so close that the trappings rubbed, and kissed the western girl resoundingly on the cheek. "i just _loved_ you!" said the warm-hearted creature, "when dud first told me about you. but now that i see you in the flesh, i love you for your very own self! i hope you'll love me, too, helen morrell--and you won't mind if i talk a good deal?" [illustration: "here's the very nicest girl who ever came out of montana." (page .)] "not in the least!" laughed helen. "and i _do_ love you already. i am so, so glad that you and dud both like me," she added, "for my cousins do not like me at all, and i have been very unhappy since coming to new york." "here we are!" cried jess, without noting closely what her new friend said. "and there is dud waiting for us on the porch. dear old dud! whatever should i have done if you hadn't got him out of that tree-top, helen?" chapter xxiii my lady bountiful that was a wonderful breakfast at the casino. not that helen ever remembered much about what she ate, although dud had ordered choice fruit and heartier food that would have tempted the most jaded appetite instead of that of a healthy girl who had been riding horseback for two hours and a half. but, it was so heartening to be with people at the table who "talked one's own language." the stones and helen chattered like a trio of young crows. dud threatened to chloroform his sister so that he and helen could get in a word or two during jess's lapse into unconsciousness; but finally _that_ did not become necessary because of the talkative girl's interest in a story that helen related. they had discussed many other topics before this subject was broached. and it was the real reason for helen's coming east to visit the starkweathers. "dud" was "in the way of being a lawyer," as he had previously told her, and helen had come to realize that it was a lawyer's advice she needed more than anything else. "now, jess, will you keep still long enough for me to listen to the story of my very first client?" demanded dud, sternly, of his sister. "oh, i'll stuff the napkin into my mouth! you can gag me! your very first client, dud! and it's so interesting." "it is customary for clients to pay over a retainer; isn't it?" queried helen, her eyes dancing. "how much shall it be, mr. lawyer?" and she opened her purse. there was the glint of a gold piece at the bottom of the bag. dud flushed and reached out his hand for it. "that five dollars, miss helen. thank you. i shall never spend this coin," declared dud, earnestly. "and i shall take it to a jeweler's and have it properly engraved." "what will you have put on it?" asked helen, laughing. he looked at her from under level brows, smiling yet quite serious. "i shall have engraved on it 'snuggy, to dud'--if i may?" he said. but helen shook her head and although she still smiled, she said: "you'd better wait a bit, mr. lawyer, and see if your advice brings about any happy conclusion of my trouble. but you can keep the gold piece, just the same, to remember me by." "as though i needed _that_ reminder!" he cried. jess removed the corner of the napkin from between her pretty teeth. "get busy, do!" she cried. "i'm dying to hear about this strange affair you say you have come east to straighten out, helen." so the girl from sunset ranch told all her story. everything her father had said to her upon the topic before his death, and all she suspected about fenwick grimes and allen chesterton--even to the attitude uncle starkweather took in the matter--she placed before dud stone. he gave it grave attention. helen was not afraid to talk plainly to him, and she held nothing back. but at the best, her story was somewhat disconnected and incomplete. she possessed very few details of the crime which had been committed. mr. morrell himself had been very hazy in his statements regarding the affair. "what we want first," declared dud, impressively, "is to get the _facts_. of course, at the time, the trouble must have made some stir. it got into the newspapers." "oh, dear, yes," said helen. "and that is what uncle starkweather is afraid of. he fears it will get into the papers again if i make any stir about it, and then there will be a scandal." "with his name connected with it?" "yes." "he's dreadfully timid for his own good name; isn't he?" remarked dud, sarcastically. "well, first of all, i'll get the date of the occurrence and then search the files of all the city papers. the reporters usually get such matters pretty straight. to misstate such business troubles is skating on the thin ice of libel, and newspapers are careful. "well, when we have all the facts before us--what people surmised, even, and how it looked to 'the man on the street,' as the saying is--then we'll know better how to go ahead. "are you willing to leave the matter to me, helen?" "what did i give you a retainer for?" demanded the girl from sunset ranch, smiling. "true," he replied, his own eyes dancing; "but there is a saying among lawyers that the feminine client does not really come to a lawyer for advice; rather, she pays him to listen to her talk." "isn't that horrid of him?" cried jess, unable to keep still any longer. "as though we girls talked any more than the men do. i should say not!" but helen agreed to let dud govern her future course in trying to untangle the web of circumstance that had driven her father out of new york years before. as dud said, somebody was guilty, and that somebody was the person they must find. it encouraged helen mightily to have someone talk this way about the matter. a solution of the problem seemed so imminent after she parted from the fledgling lawyer and his sister, that helen determined to hasten to their conclusion certain plans she had made, before she returned to the west. for helen could not remain here. her uncle's home was not the refined household that dear dad had thought, in which she would be sheltered and aided in improving herself. "i might as well take board at the zoo and live in the bear's den," declared helen, perhaps a little harsh in her criticism. "there are no civilizing influences in _that_ house. i'd never get a particle of 'culture' there. i'd rather associate with sing, and jo-rab, and the boys, and hen billings." her experience in the great city had satisfied helen that its life was not for her. some things she had learned, it was true; but most of them were unpleasant things. "i'd rather hire some lady to come out to sunset and live with me and teach me how to act gracefully in society, and all that. there are a lot of 'poor, but proud' people who would be glad of the chance, i know." but on this day--after she had left her riding habit at a tailor's to be brushed and pressed, and had made arrangements to make her changes there whenever she wished to ride in the morning--on this day helen had something else to do beside thinking of her proper introduction to society. this was the first day it had been fit for her to go downtown since she and sadie goronsky had had their adventure with the old man whom sadie called "lurcher," but whom fenwick grimes had called "jones." helen was deeply interested in the old man's case, and if he could be helped in any proper way, she wanted to do it. also, there was sadie herself. helen believed that the russian girl, with her business ability and racial sharpness, could help herself and her family much more than she now was doing, if she had the right kind of a chance. "and i am going to give her the chance," helen told herself, delightedly. "she has been, as unselfish and kind to me--a stranger to her and her people--as she could be. i am determined that sadie goronsky and her family shall always be glad that sadie was kind to the 'greenie' who hunted for uncle starkweather's house on madison street instead of madison avenue." after luncheon at the starkweathers' helen started downtown with plenty of money in her purse. she rode to madison street and was but a few minutes in reaching the finkelstein store. to her surprise the front of the building was covered with big signs reading "bankrupt sale! prices cut in half!" sadie was not in sight. indeed, the store was full of excited people hauling over old jacob finkelstein's stock of goods, and no "puller-in" was needed to draw a crowd. the salespeople seemed to have their hands full. not seeing sadie anywhere, helen ventured to mount to the goronsky flat. mrs. goronsky opened the door, recognized her visitor, and in shrill yiddish and broken english bade her welcome. "you gome py mein house to see mein sarah? sure! gome in! gome in! sarah iss home to-day." "why, see who's here!" exclaimed sadie, appearing with a partly-completed hat, of the very newest style, in her hand. "i thought the wet weather had drowned you out." "it kept me in," said helen, "for i had nothing fit to wear out in the rain." "well, business was so poor that jacob had to fail. and that always gives me a few days' rest. i'm glad to get 'em, believe me!" "why--why, can a man fail more than once?" gasped helen. "he can in the clothing business," responded sadie, laughing, and leading the way into the tiny parlor. "i bet there was a crowd in there when you come by?" "yes, indeed," agreed helen. "sure! he'll get rid of all the 'stickers' he's got it in the shop, and when we open again next week for ordinary business, everything will be fresh and new." "oh, then, you're really not out of a job?" asked helen, relieved for her friend's sake. "no. i'm all right. and you?" "i came down particularly to see about that poor old man's spectacles," helen said. "then you didn't forget about him?" "no, indeed. did you see him? has he got the prescription? is it right about his eyes being the trouble?" "sure that's what the matter is. and he's dreadful poor, helen. if he could see better he might find some work. he wore his eyes out, he told me, by writing in books. that's a business!" "then he has the prescription." "sure. i seen it. he's always hoping he'd get enough money to have the glasses. that's all he needs, the doctor told him. but they cost fourteen dollars." "he shall have them!" declared helen. "you don't mean it, helen?" cried the russian girl. "you haven't got that much money for him?" "yes, i have. will you go around there with me? we'll get the prescription and have it filled." "wait a bit," said sadie. "i want to finish this hat. and lemme tell you--it's right in style. what do you think?" "how wonderfully clever you are!" cried the western girl. "it looks as though it had just come out of a shop." "sure it does. i could work in a hat shop. only they wouldn't pay me anything at first, and they wouldn't let me trim. but i know a girl that ain't a year older nor me what gets sixteen dollars a week trimming in a millinery store on grand street. o' course, she ain't the _madame_; she's only assistant. but sixteen dollars is a good bunch of money to bring home on a saturday night--believe me!" "is that what you'd like to do--keep a millinery shop?" asked helen. "wouldn't i--just?" gasped sadie. "why, helen--i dream about it nights!" helen became suddenly interested. "would a little shop pay, sadie? could you earn your living in a little shop of your own--say, right around here somewhere?" "huh! i've had me eye on a place for months. but it ain't no use. you got to put up for the rent, and the wholesalers ain't goin' to let a girl like me have stock on credit. and there's the fixtures--aw, well, what's the use? it's only a dream." helen was determined it should not remain "only a dream." but she said nothing further. chapter xxiv the hat shop "them folks you're living with must have had a change of heart, helen," said sadie goronsky, as the two girls sallied forth--sadie with her new hat set jauntily on her sleek head. "why do you say that?" "if they are willing to spend fourteen dollars on old lurcher's eyes." "oh, it isn't a member of my uncle's family who is furnishing the money for this charity," helen replied. sadie asked no further questions, fortunately. it was a very miserable house in which the old man lodged. helen's heart ached as she beheld the poverty and misery so evident all about her. "lurcher" lived on the top floor at the back--a squalid, badly-lighted room--and alone. "but a man with eyes as bad as mine don't really need light, you see, young ladies," he whispered, when sadie had ushered herself and helen into the room. he had tried to keep it neat; but his housekeeping arrangements were most primitive, and cold as the weather had now become, he had no stove save a one-wick oil stove on which he cooked his meals--such as they were. "you see," sadie told him, "this is my friend, helen, and she seen you the other day when you--you lost that dollar, you know." "ah, yes, wonderful bright eyes you have, miss, to find a dollar in the street." "ain't they?" cried sadie, grinning broadly at helen. "chee, it ain't everybody that can pick up money in the streets of new york--though we all believed we could before we come over here from russia. sure!" "you see," said helen, softly, "i had seen you before, mr.--er--lurcher. i saw you over on the west side that morning." "you saw me over there?" asked the old man, yet still in a very low voice--a sort of a faded-out voice--and he seemed not a little startled. "you saw me over there, miss? _where_ did you see me?" "on--on bleecker street," responded helen, which was quite true. she saw that the man evidently did not wish his visit to fenwick grimes to be known. perhaps he had some unpleasant connection with the money-lender. "yes, yes!" said lurcher, with relief. "i--i come through there frequently. but i have such difficulty in seeing my way about, that i follow a beaten path--yes! a beaten path." helen was very curious about the old man's acquaintance with fenwick grimes. the more she thought over her own interview with the money-lender and mine-owner, the deeper became her suspicion that her father's one-time partner was an untrustworthy man. anybody who seemed to know him better than _she_ did, naturally interested helen. dud stone had promised to find out all about grimes, and helen knew that she would wait impatiently for his report. but she was interested in lurcher for his own miserable sake, too. he had lived by himself in this wretched lodging for years. how he lived he did not say; but it was evident that his income was both infinitesimal and uncertain. nevertheless, he was not a mean-looking man, nor were his garments unclean. they _were_ ragged. he admitted, apologetically, that he could not see to use a needle and so "had sort o' got run down." "i'll come some day soon and mend you up," promised helen, when the old man gave her the prescription he had received from the oculist at the eye and ear hospital. "and you shall have these glasses just as soon as the lenses can be ground." "god bless you, miss!" said the old man, simply. he had a quiet, "listening" face, and seldom spoke above a whisper. he was more the shadow of a man than the substance. "ain't that a terrible end to look forward to, helen?" remarked sadie, seriously, as they descended the stairs to the street. "he ain't got no friends, and no family, and no way to make a decent livin'. they wouldn't have the likes of him around in offices, writin' in books." "oh, you mean he is a bookkeeper?" cried helen. "sure, i do. that's a business! my papa is going to be in business for himself again. and so will i--you see! that's the only way to get on, and lay up something for your old age. work for yourself----" "in a millinery store; eh?" suggested helen, smiling. "that's right!" declared sadie, boldly. "where is the little store you spoke of? do you suppose you can ever get it, sadie?" "don't! you make me feel bad here," said sadie, with her hand on her heart. "say! i just _ache_ to try what i can do makin' lids for the east side four hundred. the wholesale houses let youse come there and work when they're makin' up the season's pattern hats, and then you can get all the new wrinkles. oh, i wish i was goin' to start next season in me own store instead of pullin' greenies into papa yawcob's suit shop," and the east side girl sighed dolefully. "let's go see the shop you want," suggested helen. "oh, dear! it don't do no good," said sadie. "but i often go out of my way to take a peek at it." they went a little farther uptown and helen was shown the tiny little store which sadie had picked out as just the situation for a millinery shop. "ye see, there's other stores all around; but no millinery. women come here to buy other things, and if i had that little winder full of tasty hats--chee! wouldn't it pull 'em in?" they stood there some minutes, while the young east side girl, so wise in the ways of earning a living, so sharp of apprehension in most things, told her whole heart to the girl who had never had to worry about money matters at all--told it with no suspicion that my lady bountiful stood by her side. she pointed out to helen just where she would have her little counter, and the glass-fronted wall cases for the trimmed hats, and the deep drawers for "shapes," and the little case in which to show the flowers and buckles, and the chair and table and mirror for the particular customers to sit at while they were being fitted. "and i'd take that hunchback girl--rosie seldt--away from the millinery store on my block--she _hates_ to work on the sidewalk the way they make her--she could help me lots. rosie is a smart girl with some ideas of her own. and i'd curtain off the end of the store down there for a workroom, and for stock--chee, but i'd make this place look swell!" helen, who had noted the name and address of the rental agent on the card in the window, cut her visit with sadie short, so afraid was she that she would be tempted to tell her friend of the good fortune that was going to overtake her. for the girl from sunset ranch knew just what she was going to do. dud stone had given her the address of the law firm where he was to be found, and the very next morning she went to the offices of larribee & polk and saw dud. in his hands she put a sum of money and told him what she wished done. but when dud learned that the girl had the better part of eight hundred dollars in cash with her, he took her to a bank and made her open an account at once. "where do you think you are--still in the wild and woolly west where pretty near everybody you meet is honest?" demanded dud. "you ought to be shaken! that money here in the big city is a temptation to half the people you pass on the street. suppose one of the servants at your uncle's house should see it? you have no right to put temptation in people's way." helen accepted his scolding meekly as long as he did not refuse to carry out her plan for sadie goronsky. when dud heard the full particulars of the western girl's acquaintanceship with sadie, he had no criticism to offer. that very day dud engaged the store, paid three months' rent, and bought the furnishings. sadie was not to be told until the store was ready for occupancy. there was still time enough. helen knew that the millinery season did not open until february. meanwhile, although helen's goings and comings were quite ignored by uncle starkweather and the girls, some incidents connected with helen morrell had begun to stir to its depth the fountain of the family's wrath against the girl from sunset ranch. twice may van ramsden had come to call on helen. once she had brought ruth and mercy de vorne with her. and on each occasion she had demanded that gregson take their cards to helen. gregson had taken the cards up one flight and then had sent on the cards by maggie to helen's room. gregson said below stairs that he would "give notice" if he were obliged to take cards to anybody who roomed in the attic. may and her friends trooped up the stairs in the wake of their cards, however--for so it had been arranged with helen, who expected them on both occasions. the anger of the starkweather family would have been greater had they known that these calls of their own most treasured social acquaintances were really upon the little old lady who had been shut away into the front attic suite, and whose existence even was not known to some of the servants in the starkweather mansion. may, as she had promised, was bringing, one or two at a time, her friends who, as children when cornelius starkweather was alive, had haunted this old house because they loved old mary boyle. and may was proving, too, to the western girl, that all new york people of wealth were neither heartless or ungrateful. yet the crime of forgetfulness these young women must plead to. the visits delighted mary boyle. helen knew that she slept better--after these little excitements of the calls--and did not go pattering up and down the halls with her crutch in the dead of night. so the days passed, each one bringing so much of interest into the life of helen morrell that she forgot to be lonely, or to bewail her lot. she was still homesick for the ranch--when she stopped to think about it. but she was willing to wait a while longer before she flitted homeward to big hen and the boys. chapter xxv the missing link helen met dud stone and his sister on the bridle-path one morning by particular invitation. the message had come to the house for her late the evening before and had been put into the trusty hand of old lawdor, the butler. dud had learned the particulars of the old embezzlement charge against prince morrell. "i've got here in typewriting the reports from three papers--everything they had to say about it for the several weeks that it was kept alive as a news story. it was not so great a crime that the metropolitan papers were likely to give much space to it," dud said. "you can read over the reports at your leisure, if you like. but the main points for us to know are these: "in the two banks were, in the names of morrell & grimes, something over thirty-three thousand dollars. either partner could draw the money. the missing bookkeeper could _not_ draw the money. "the checks came to the banks in the course of the day's business, and neither teller could swear that he actually remembered giving the money to mr. morrell; yet because the checks were signed in his name, and apparently in his handwriting, they both 'thought' it must have been mr. morrell who presented the checks. "now, mind you, fenwick grimes had gone off on a business trip of some duration, and allen chesterton had disappeared several days before the checks were drawn and the money removed from the banks. "it was hinted by one ingenious police reporter that the bookkeeper was really the guilty man. he even raked up some story of the man at his lodgings which intimated that chesterton had some art as an actor. parts of disguises were found abandoned at his empty rooms. this suggestion was made: that chesterton was a forger and had disguised himself as mr. morrell so as to cash the checks without question. then fenwick grimes returned and discovered that the bank balances were gone. "at first your father was no more suspected than was grimes himself. then, one paper printed an article intimating that your father, the senior partner of the firm, might be the criminal. you see, the bank tellers had been interviewed. before that the suggestion that by any possibility mr. morrell was guilty had been scouted. but the next day it was learned your father and mother had gone away. immediately the bookkeeper was forgotten and the papers all seemed to agree that prince morrell had really stolen the money. "oddly enough the creditors made little trouble at first. your uncle starkweather was mentioned as having been a silent partner in the concern and having lost heavily himself----" "poor dad was able to pay uncle starkweather first of all--years and years ago," interposed helen. "ah! and grimes? do you know if he made any claim on your father at any time?" "i think not. you see, he was freed of all debt almost at once through bankruptcy. mr. grimes really had a very small financial interest in the firm. dad said he was more like a confidential clerk. both he and uncle starkweather considered grimes a very good asset to the firm, although he had no money to put into it. that is the way it was told to me." "and very probable. this grimes is notoriously sharp," said dud, reflectively. "and right after he went through bankruptcy he began to do business as a money-lender. supposedly he lent other people's money; but he is now worth a million, or more. question is: where did he get his start in business after the robbery and the failure of grimes & morrell?" "oh, dud!" "don't you suspect him, too?" demanded the young man. "i--i am prejudiced, i fear." "so am i," agreed dud, with a grim chuckle. "i'm going after that man grimes. it's funny he should go into business with a mysterious capital right after the old firm was closed out, when before that he had had no money to invest in the firm of which he was a member." "i feared as much," sighed helen. "and he was so eager to throw suspicion on the lost bookkeeper, just to satisfy my curiosity and put me off the track. he's as bad as uncle starkweather. _he_ doesn't want me to go ahead because of the possible scandal, and mr. grimes is afraid for his own sake, i very much fear. what a wicked man he must be!" "possibly," said dud, eyeing the girl sharply. "have you told me all your uncle has said to you about the affair?" "i think so, dud. why?" "well, nothing much. only, in hunting through the files of the newspapers for articles about the troubles of grimes & morrell i came across the statement that mr. starkweather was in financial difficulties about the same time. _he_ settled with his creditors for forty cents on the dollar. this was before your uncle came into _his_ uncle's fortune, of course, and went to live on madison avenue." "well--is that significant?" asked the girl, puzzled. "i don't know that it is. but there is something you mentioned just now that _is_ of importance." "what is that, dud?" "why, the bookkeeper--allen chesterton. he's the missing link. if we could get him i believe the truth would easily be learned. in one newspaper story of the grimes & morrell trouble, it was said that grimes and chesterton had been close friends at one time--had roomed together in the very house from which the bookkeeper seemed to have fled a couple of days before the embezzlement was discovered." "would detectives be able to pick up any clue to the missing man--and missing link?" asked helen, thoughtfully. "it's a cold trail," dud observed, shaking his head. "i don't mind spending some money. i can send to big hen for more----" "of course you can. i don't believe you realize how rich you are, helen." "i--i never had to think about it." "no. but about hiring a detective. i hate to waste money. wait a few days and see if i can get on the blind side of mr. grimes in some way." so the matter rested; but it was helen herself who made the first discovery which seemed to point to a weak place in fenwick grimes's armor. helen had been once to the poor lodging of mr. lurcher to "mend him up"; for she was a good little needlewoman and she knew she could make the old fellow look neater. he had got his glasses, and at first could only wear them a part of the day. the doctor at the hospital gave him an ointment for his eyelids, too, and he was on a fair road to recovery. "i can cobble shoes pretty good, miss," he said. "and there is work to be had at that industry in several shops in the neighborhood. once i was a clerk; but all that is past, of course." helen did not propose to let the old fellow suffer; but just yet she did not wish to do anything further for him, or sadie might suspect that her friend, helen, was something different from the poor girl sadie thought she was. after the above interview with dud, helen went downtown to see sadie again; and she ran around the corner to spend a few minutes with mr. lurcher. as she went up the stairs she passed a man coming down. it was dark, and she could not see the person clearly. yet helen realized that the individual eyed her sharply, and even stopped and came part way up the stairs again to see where she went. when she came down to the street again she was startled by almost running into mr. grimes, who was passing the house. "what! what! what!" he snapped, staring at her. "what brings you down in _this_ neighborhood? a nice place for mr. willets starkweather's niece to be seen in. i warrant he doesn't know where you are?" "you are quite right, mr. grimes," helen returned, quietly. "what are you doing here?" asked grimes, rather rudely. "visiting friends," replied helen, without further explanation. "you're still trying to rake up that old trouble of your father's?" demanded grimes, scowling. "not down here," returned helen, with a quiet smile. "that is sure. but i _am_ doing what i can to learn all the particulars of the affair. mr. van ramsden was a creditor and father's friend, and his daughter tells me that _he_ will do all in his power to help me." "ha! van ramsden! well, it's little you'll ever find out through _him_. well! you'd much better have let me do as i suggested and cleared up the whole story in the newspapers," growled grimes. "now, now! where's that clerk of mine, i wonder? he was to meet me here." and he went muttering along the walk; but helen stood still and gazed after him in some bewilderment. for it dawned on the girl that the man who had passed her as she went up to see old mr. lurcher, or "jones," was leggett, fenwick grimes's confidential man. chapter xxvi their eyes are opened as her cousins were not at all interested in what became of helen during the day, neither was helen interested in how the three starkweather girls occupied their time. but on this particular afternoon, while helen was visiting lurcher, and chatting with sadie goronsky on the sidewalk in front of the finkelstein shop, she would have been deeply interested in what interested the starkweather girls. all three chanced to be in the drawing-room when gregson came past the door in his stiffest manner, holding the tray with a single card on it. "who is it, gregson?" asked belle. "i heard the bell ring. somebody to see me?" "no, mem, it his not," declared the footman. "me?" said hortense, holding out her hand. "who is it, i wonder?" "nor is hit for you, mem," repeated gregson. "it can't be for _me_?" cried flossie. but before the footman could speak again, belle rose majestically and crossed the room. "i believe i know what it is," she said, angrily. "and it is going to stop. you were going to take the card upstairs, gregson?" "no, mem!" said gregson, somewhat heated. "hi do not carry cards above the second floor." "it's somebody to see helen!" cried flossie, clapping her hands softly and enjoying her older sister's rage. "give it to me!" exclaimed belle, snatching the card from the tray. she turned toward her sisters to read it. but when her eye lit upon the name she was for the moment surprised out of speech. "goodness me! who is it?" gasped hortense. "jessie stone--'miss jessie dolliver stone.' goodness me!" whispered belle. "not the stones of riverside drive--_the_ stones?" from hortense. "dud stone's sister?" exclaimed flossie. "and dud stone is the very nicest boy i ever met," quoth hortense, clasping her hands. "i know miss jessie. jess, they all call her. i saw her on the westchester links only last week and she never said a word about this." "about coming to see helen--it isn't possible!" cried hortense. "gregson, you have made a mistake." "hi beg your pardon--no, mem. she asked for miss helen. i left 'er in the reception parlor, mem----" "she thinks one of us is named helen!" cried belle, suddenly. "show her up, gregson." gregson might have told her different; but he saw it would only involve him in more explanation; therefore he turned on his heel and in his usual stately manner went to lead dud stone's sister into the presence of the three excited girls. jessie by no means understood the situation at the starkweather house between helen and her cousins. it had never entered miss stone's head, in fact, that anybody could be unkind to, or dislike, "such a nice little thing as helen morrell." so she greeted the starkweather girls in her very frankest manner. "i really am delighted to see you again, miss starkweather," jess said, being met by belle at the door. "and are these your sisters? i'm charmed, i am sure." hortense and flossie were introduced. the girls sat down. "you don't mean to say helen isn't here?" demanded jess. "i came particularly to invite her to dinner to-morrow night. we're going to have a little celebration and dud and i are determined to have her with us." "helen?" gasped belle. "not helen morrell?" demanded hortense. "why, yes--of course--your cousin helen. how funny! of course she's here? she lives with you; doesn't she?" "why--er--we have a--a distant relative of poor mamma's by that name," said belle, haughtily. "she--she came here quite unexpectedly--er quite uninvited, i may say. pa is _so-o_ easy, you know; he won't send her away----" "send her away! send helen morrell away?" gasped jess stone. "are--are we talking about the same girl, i wonder? why, helen is a most charming girl--and pretty as a picture. and brave no end! "why, it was she who saved my brother's life when he was away out west----" "mr. stone never went to montana?" cried flossie. "he never met helen at sunset ranch?" "be still, floss!" commanded belle; but miss stone turned to answer the younger girl. "of course. dud stopped at the ranch some days, too. he had to, for he hurt his foot. that's when helen saved his life. he was flung from the back of a horse over the edge of a cliff and fortunately landed in the top of a tree. "but the tree was very tall and he could not have gotten out of it safely with his wounded foot had not helen ridden up to the brink of the precipice, thrown him a rope, and swung him out of the tree upon a ledge of rock. then he worked his way down the side of the cliff while helen caught his horse. but his foot hurt him so that he could never have got into the saddle alone; and helen put him on her own pony and led the pony to the ranch house." "bully for helen!" ejaculated flossie, under her breath. even hortense was flushed a bit over the story. but belle could see nothing to admire in her cousin from the west, and she only said, harshly: "very likely, miss stone. helen seems to be a veritable hoyden. these ranch girls are so unfortunate in their bringing up and their environment. in the wilds i presume helen may be passable; but she is quite, quite impossible here in the city----" "i don't know what you mean by being 'impossible,'" interrupted jess stone. "she is a lovely girl." "you haven't met her?" cried belle. "it's only mr. stone's talk." "i certainly _have_ met her, miss starkweather. certainly i know her--and know her well. had i known when she was coming to new york i would have begged her to come to us. it is plain that her own relatives do not care much for helen morrell," said the very frank young lady. "well--we--er----" "why, helen has been meeting me in the bridle-path almost every morning. and she rides wonderfully." "riding in central park!" cried hortense. "why--why, the child has nothing decent to wear," declared belle. "how could she get a riding habit--or hire a horse? i do not understand this, miss stone, but i can tell you right now, that helen has nothing fit to wear to your dinner party. she came here a little pauper--with nothing fit to wear in her trunk. pa _did_ find money enough for a new street dress and hat for her; but he did not feel that he could support in luxury every pauper who came here and claimed relationship with him." miss stone's mouth fairly hung open, and her eyes were as round as eyes could be, with wonder and surprise. "what is this you tell me?" she murmured. "helen morrell a pauper?" "i presume those people out there in montana wanted to get the girl off their hands," said belle, coldly, "and merely shipped her east, hoping that pa would make provision for her. she has been a great source of annoyance to us, i do assure you." "a source of annoyance?" repeated the caller. "and why not? without a rag decent to wear. with no money. scarcely education enough to make herself intelligibly understood----" flossie began to giggle. but jessie stone rose to her feet. this volatile, talkative girl could be very dignified when she was aroused. "you are speaking of _my_ friend, helen morrell," she interrupted belle's flow of angry language, sternly. "whether she is your cousin, or not, she is _my_ friend, and i will not listen to you talk about her in that way. besides, you must be crazy if you believe your own words! helen morrell poor! helen morrell uneducated! "why, helen was four years in one of the best preparatory schools of the west--in denver. let me tell you that denver is some city, too. and as for being poor and having nothing to wear--why, whatever can you mean? she owns one of the few big ranches left in the west, with thousands upon thousands of cattle and horses upon it. and her father left her all that, and perhaps a quarter of a million in cash or investments beside." "not helen?" shrieked belle, sitting down very suddenly. "little helen--_rich_?" murmured hortense. "does helen really _own_ sunset ranch?" cried flossie, eagerly. "she certainly does--every acre of it. why, dud knows all about her and all about her affairs. if you consider that girl poor and uneducated you have fooled yourselves nicely." "i'm glad of it! i'm glad of it!" exclaimed flossie, clapping her hands and pirouetting about the room. "serves you right, belle! _i_ found out she knew a whole lot more than i did, long ago. she's been helping me with my lessons." "and she _is_ a nice little thing," joined in hortense, "i don't care what you say to the contrary, belle. she was the only one in this house that showed me any real sympathy when i was sick----" belle only looked at her sisters, but could say nothing. "and if helen hasn't anything fit to wear to your party to-morrow night, i will lend her something," declared hortense. "you need not bother," said jess, scornfully. "if helen came in the plainest and most miserable frock to be found she would be welcome. good-day to you, miss starkweather--and miss hortense--and miss flossie." she swept out of the room and did not even need the gorgeous gregson to show her to the door. chapter xxvii the party helen chanced that evening to be entering the area door just as mr. starkweather himself was mounting the steps of the mansion. her uncle recognized the girl and scowled over the balustrade at her. "come to the den at once; i wish to speak to you helen--ahem!" he said in his most severe tones. "yes, sir," responded the girl respectfully, and she passed up the back stairway while mr. starkweather went directly to his library. therefore he did not chance to meet either of his daughters and so was not warned of what had occurred in the house that afternoon. "helen," said uncle starkweather, viewing her with the same stern look when she approached his desk. "i must know how you have been using your time while outside of my house? something has reached my ear which greatly--ahem!--displeases me." "why--i--i----" the girl was really at a loss what to say. she did not know what he was driving at and she doubted the advisability of telling uncle starkweather everything that she had done while here in the city as his guest. "i was told this afternoon--not an hour ago--that you have been seen lurking about the most disreputable parts of the city. that you are a frequenter of low tenement houses; that you associate with foreigners and the most disgusting of beggars----" "i wish you would stop, uncle," said helen, quickly, her face flushing now and her eyes sparkling. "sadie goronsky is a nice girl, and her family is respectable. and poor old mr. lurcher is only unfortunate and half-blind. he will not harm me." "beggars! yiddish shoestring pedlars! a girl like you! where--ahem!--_where_ did you ever get such low tastes, girl?" "don't blame yourself, uncle," said helen, with some bitterness. "i certainly did not learn to be kind to poor people from _your_ example. and i am sure i have gained no harm from being with them once in a while--only good. to help them a little has helped me--i assure you!" but mr. starkweather listened not at all to this. "where did you find these low companions?" he demanded. "i met sadie the night i arrived here in the city. the taxicab driver carried me to madison street instead of madison avenue. sadie was kind to me. as for old mr. lurcher, i saw him first in mr. grimes's office." uncle starkweather suddenly lost his color and fell back in his chair. for a moment or two he seemed unable to speak at all. then he stammered: "in fenwick grimes's office?" "yes, sir." "what--what was this--ahem!--this beggar doing there?" "if he is a beggar, perhaps he was begging. at least, mr. grimes seemed very anxious to get rid of him, and gave him a dollar to go away." "and you followed him?" gasped mr. starkweather. "no. i went to see sadie, and it seems mr. lurcher lives right in that neighborhood. i found he needed spectacles and was half-blind and i----" "tell me nothing more about it! nothing more about it!" commanded her uncle, holding up a warning hand. "i will not--ahem!--listen. this has gone too far. i gave you shelter--an act of charity, girl! and you have abused my confidence by consorting with low company, and spending your time in a mean part of the town." "you are wrong, sir. i have done nothing of the kind," said helen, firmly, but growing angry herself, now. "my friends are decent people, and a poor part of the city does not necessarily mean a criminal part." "hush! how dare you contradict me?" demanded her uncle. "you shall go home. you shall go back to the west at once! ahem! at once. i could not assume the responsibility of your presence here in my house any longer." "then i will find a position and support myself, uncle starkweather. i have told you i could do that before." "no, indeed!" exclaimed mr. starkweather, at once. "i will not allow it. you are not to be trusted in this city. i shall send you back to that place you came from--ahem!--sunset ranch, is it? that is the place for a girl like you." "but, uncle----" "no more! i will listen to nothing else from you," he declared, harshly. "i shall purchase your ticket through to-morrow, and the next day you must go. ahem! remember that i _will_ be obeyed." helen looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes for fully a minute. but he said no more and his stern countenance, as well as his unkind words and tone, repelled her. she put out her hand once, as though to speak, but he turned away, scornfully. it was her last attempt to soften him toward her. he might then, had he not been so selfish and haughty, have made his peace with the girl and saved himself much trouble and misery in the end. but he ignored her, and helen, crying softly, left the room and stole up to her own place in the attic. she could not see anybody that evening, and so did not go down to dinner. later, to her amazement, maggie came to her door with a tray piled high with good things--a very elaborate repast, indeed. but helen was too heartsick to eat much, although she did not refuse the attention--which she laid to the kindness of lawdor, the butler. but for once she was mistaken. the tray of food did not come from lawdor. nor was it the outward semblance of anybody's kindness. the tray delivered at helen's door was the first result of a great fright! at dinner the girls could not wait for their father to be seated before they began to tell him of the amazing thing that had been revealed to them that afternoon by jessie stone. "where's cousin helen, gregson?" asked belle, before seating herself. "see that she is called. she may not have heard the gong." if gregson's face could display surprise, it displayed it then. "of course, dear helen has returned; hasn't she?" added hortense. "i'll go up myself and see if she's here," flossie suggested. "ahem!" said the surprised mr. starkweather. "i listened sharply for her, but i did not hear her pass my door," said hortense. "i must ask her to come back to that spare room on the lower floor," sighed belle. "she is too far away from the rest of the family." "girls!" gasped mr. starkweather, at length finding speech. "oh, you needn't explode, pa!" ejaculated belle. "we are aware of something about helen that changes the complexion of affairs entirely." "what does this mean?" demanded mr. starkweather, blankly. "something about helen?" "yes, indeed, pa," said flossie, spiritedly. "who do you suppose owns that sunset ranch she talks about?" "and who do you suppose is worth a quarter of a million dollars--more than _you_ are worth, pa, i declare?" cried hortense. "girls!" exclaimed belle. "that is very low. if we have made a mistake regarding cousin helen, of course it can be adjusted. but we need not be vulgar enough to say _why_ we change toward her." mr. starkweather thumped upon the table with the handle of his knife. "girls!" he commanded. "i will have this explained. what do you mean?" out it came then--in a torrent. three girls can do a great deal of talking in a few minutes--especially if they all talk at once. but mr. starkweather got the gist of it. he understood what it all meant, and he realized what it meant to _him_, as well, better than his daughters could. prince morrell, whom he had always considered a bit of a fool, and therefore had not even inquired about after he left for the west, had died a rich man. he had left this only daughter, who was an heiress to great wealth. and he, willets starkweather, had allowed the chance of a lifetime to slip through his fingers! if he had only made inquiries about the girl and her circumstances! he might have done that when he learned that mr. morrell was dead. when helen had told him her father wished her to be in the care of her mother's relatives, mr. starkweather could have then taken warning and learned the girl's true circumstances. he had not even accepted her confidences. why, he might have been made the guardian of the girl, and handled all her fortune! these thoughts and a thousand others raced through the scheming brain of the man. could he correct his fault at this late date? if he had only known of this that his daughters had learned from jess stone, before he had taken helen to task as he had that very evening! fenwick grimes had telephoned to him at his office. something mr. grimes had said--and he had not seen mr. grimes nor talked personally with him for years--had put mr. starkweather into a great fright. he had decided that the only safe place for helen morrell was back in the west--he supposed with the poor and ignorant people on the ranch where her father had worked. where prince morrell had _worked_! why, if morrell had owned sunset ranch, helen was one of the wealthiest heiresses in the whole western country. mr. starkweather had asked a few questions about sunset ranch of men who knew. but, as the owner had never given himself any publicity, the name of morrell was never connected with it. while the three girls chattered over the details of the story mr. starkweather merely played with his food, and sat staring into a corner of the room. he was trying to scheme his way out of the difficulty--the dangerous difficulty, indeed--in which he found himself. so, his first move was characteristic. he sent the tray upstairs to helen. but none of the family saw helen again that night. however, there was another caller. this was may van ramsden. she did not ask for helen, however, but for mr. starkweather himself, and that gentleman came graciously into the room where may was sitting with the three much excited sisters. belle and hortense and flossie were bubbling over with the desire to ask miss van ramsden if _she_ knew that helen was a rich girl and not a poor one. but there was no opportunity. the caller broached the reason for her visit at once, when she saw mr. starkweather. "we are going to ask a great favor of you, sir," she said, shaking hands. "and it does seem like a very great impudence on our part. but please remember that, as children, we were all very much attached to her. you see," pursued miss van ramsden, "there are the de vorne girls, and jo and nat paisley, and adeline schenk, and some of the blutcher boys and girls--although the younger ones were born in europe--and sue livingstone, and crayton ballou. oh! there really is a score or more." "ahem!" said mr. starkweather, not only solemnly, but reverently. these were names he worshipped. he could have refused such young people nothing--nothing!--and would have told miss van ramsden so had what she said next not stricken him dumb for the time. "you see, some of us have called on nurse boyle, and found her so bright and so delighted with our coming, that we want to give her a little tea-party to-morrow afternoon. it would be so delightful to have her greet the girls and boys who used to be such friends of hers in the time of mr. cornelius, right up there in those cunning rooms of hers. "we always used to see her in the nursery suite, and there are the same furniture, and hangings, and pictures, and all. and nurse boyle herself is just the same--only a bit older--ah! girls!" she added, turning suddenly to the three sisters, "you don't know what it means to have been cared for, and rocked, and sung to, when you were ill, perhaps, by mary boyle! you missed a great deal in not having a mary boyle in your family." "_mary boyle!_" gasped mr. starkweather. "yes. can we all come to see her to-morrow afternoon? i am sure if you tell mrs. olstrom, your housekeeper will attend to all the arrangements. helen knows about it, and she'll help pour the tea. mary thinks there is nobody quite like helen." these shocks were coming too fast for mr. starkweather. had anything further occurred that evening to torment him it is doubtful if he would have got through it as gracefully as he did through this call. may van ramsden went away assured that no obstacle would be placed in the way of mary boyle's party in the attic. but neither mr. starkweather, nor his three daughters, could really look straight into each other's faces for the remainder of that evening. and they were all four remarkably silent, despite the exciting things that had so recently occurred to disturb them. in the morning helen got an invitation from jess stone to dinner that evening. she said "come just as you are"; but she did not tell helen that she had innocently betrayed her true condition to the starkweathers. helen wrote a long reply and sent it by special messenger through old lawdor, the butler. then she prepared for the tea in mary boyle's rooms. at breakfast time helen met the family for the first time since the explosion. self-consciousness troubled the countenances and likewise the manner of mr. starkweather and his three daughters. "ahem! a very fine morning, helen. have you been out for your usual ramble, my dear?" "how-do, helen? hope you're feeling quite fit." "dear me, helen! how pretty your hair is, child. you must show me how you do it in that simple way." but flossie was more honest. she only nodded to helen at first. then, when gregson was out of the room, she jumped up, went around the table swiftly, and caught the western girl about the neck. "helen! i'm just as ashamed of myself as i can be!" she cried, her tears flowing copiously. "i treated you so mean all the time, and you have been so very, very decent about helping me in my lessons. forgive me; will you? oh, please say you will!" helen kissed her warmly. "nothing to forgive, floss," she said, a little bruskly, perhaps. "don't let's speak about it." she merely bowed and said a word in reply to the others. nor could mr. starkweather's unctuous conversation arouse her interest. "you have a part in the very worthy effort to liven up old nurse boyle, i understand?" said mr. starkweather, graciously. "is there anything needed that i can have sent in, helen?" "oh, no, sir. i am only helping miss van ramsden," helen replied, timidly. "i think may van ramsden should have told _me_ of her plans," said belle, tossing her head. "or, _me_," rejoined hortense. "pah!" snapped flossie. "none of us ever cared a straw for the old woman. queer old thing. i thought she was more than a little cracked." "flossie!" ejaculated mr. starkweather, angrily, "unless you can speak with more respect for--ahem!--for a faithful old servitor of the starkweather family, i shall have to--ahem!--ask you to leave the table." "you won't have to ask me--i'm going!" exclaimed flossie, flirting out of her chair and picking up her books. "but i want to say one thing while i'm on my way," observed the slangy youngster: "you're all just as tiresome as you can be! why don't you own up that you'd never have given the old woman a thought if it wasn't for may van ramsden and her friends--and helen?" and she beat a retreat in quick order. it was an unpleasant breakfast for helen, and she retired from the table as soon as she could. she felt that this attitude of the starkweathers toward her was really more unhappy than their former treatment. for she somehow suspected that this overpowering kindness was founded upon a sudden discovery that she was a rich girl instead of an object of charity. how well-founded this suspicion was she learned when she and jess met. hortense brought her up two very elaborate frocks that forenoon, one for her to wear when she poured tea in mary boyle's rooms, and the other for her to put on for the stones' dinner party. "they will just about fit you. i'm a mite taller, but that won't matter," said the languid hortense. "and really, helen, i am just as sorry as i can be for the mean way you have been treated while you have been here. you have been so good-natured, too, in helping a chap. hope you won't hold it against me--and _do_ wear the dresses, dear." "i will put on this one for the afternoon," said helen, smiling. "but i do not need the evening dress. i never wore one quite--quite like that, you see," as she noted the straps over the shoulders and the low corsage. "but i thank you just the same." later belle said to her airily: "dear cousin helen! i have spoken to gustaf about taking you to the stones' in the limousine to-night. and he will call for you at any hour you say." "i cannot avail myself of that privilege, belle," responded helen, quietly. "jess will send for me at half-past six. she has already arranged to do so. thank you." there was so much going on above stairs that day that helen was able to escape most of the oppressive attentions of her cousins. great baskets of flowers were sent in by some of the young people who remembered and loved mary boyle, and helen helped to arrange them in the little old lady's rooms. tea things for a score of people came in, too. and cookies and cakes from the caterer's. at three o'clock, or a little after, the callers began to arrive. belle, and hortense, and flossie received them in the reception hall, had them remove their cloaks below stairs, and otherwise tried to make it appear that the function was really of their own planning. but nobody invited either of the starkweather girls upstairs to mary boyle's rooms. perhaps it was an oversight. but it certainly _did_ look as though they had been forgotten. but the party on the attic floor was certainly a success. how pretty the little old lady looked, sitting in state with all the young and blooming faces about her! here were growing up into womanhood and manhood (for some of the boys had not been ashamed to come) the children whom she had tended and played with and sung to. and she sung to them again--verses of forgotten songs, lullabies she had crooned over some of their cradles when they were ill, little broken chants that had sent many of them, many times, to sleep. altogether it was a most enjoyable afternoon, and nurse boyle was promised that it should not be the last tea-party she would have. "if you are 'way up here in the top of the house, you shall no more be forgotten," they told her. helen was the object next in interest to nurse boyle. may van ramsden had told about the starkweathers' little "cinderella cousin"; and although none of these girls and boys who had gathered knew the truth about helen's wealth and her position in life, they all treated her cordially. when they trooped away and left the little old lady to lie down to recuperate after the excitement, helen went to her own room, and remained closely shut up for the rest of the day. at half-past six she came downstairs, bag in hand. she descended the servants' staircase, told mr. lawdor that her trunk, packed and locked, was ready for the expressman when he came, and so stole out of the area door. she escaped any interview with her uncle, or with the girls. she could not bid them good-by, yet she was determined not to go back to sunset ranch on the morrow, nor would she remain another night under her uncle's roof. chapter xxviii a statement of fact dud stone had that very day seen the fixtures put into the little millinery store downtown, and it was ready for sadie goronsky to take charge; there being a fund of two hundred dollars to sadie's credit at a nearby bank, with which she could buy stock and pay her running expenses for the first few weeks. yet sadie didn't know a thing about it. this last was the reason helen went downtown early in the morning following the little dinner party at the stones'. at that party helen had met the uncle, aunt, and cousins of dud and jess stone, with whom the orphaned brother and sister lived, and she had found them a most charming family. jess had invited helen to bring her trunk and remain with her as long as she contemplated staying in new york, and this helen was determined to do. even if the starkweathers would not let the expressman have her trunk, she was prepared to blossom out now in a butterfly outfit, and take the place in society that was rightfully hers. but helen hadn't time to go shopping as yet. she was too eager to tell sadie of her good fortune. sadie was to be found--cold as the day was--pacing the walk before finkelstein's shop, on the sharp lookout for a customer. but there were a few flakes of snow in the air, the wind from the river was very raw, and it did seem to helen as though the russian girl was endangering her health. "but what can poor folks do?" demanded sadie, hoarsely, for she already had a heavy cold. "there is nothing for me to do inside the store. if i catch a customer i make somet'ings yet. well, we must all work!" "some other kind of work would be easier," suggested helen. "but not so much money, maybe." "if you only had your millinery store." "don't make me laugh! me lip's cracked," grumbled sadie. "have a heart, helen! i ain't never goin' to git a store like i showed you." sadie was evidently short of hope on this cold day. helen seized her arm. "let's go up and look at that store again," she urged. "have a heart, i tell ye!" exclaimed sadie goronsky. "whaddeyer wanter rub it in for?" "anyway, if we run it will help warm you." "all ri'. come on," said sadie, with deep disgust, but she started on a heavy trot towards the block on which her heart had been set. and when they rounded the corner and came before the little shop window, sadie stopped with a gasp of amazement. freshly varnished cases, and counter, and drawers, and all were in the store just as she had dreamed of them. there were mirrors, too, and in the window little forms on which to set up the trimmed hats and one big, pink-cheeked, dolly-looking wax bust, with a great mass of tow-colored hair piled high in the very latest mode, on which was to be set the very finest hat to be evolved in that particular east side shop. "wha--wha--what----" "let's go in and look at it," said helen, eagerly, seizing her friend's arm again. "no, no, no!" gasped sadie. "we can't. it ain't open. oh, oh, oh! somebody's got _my_ shop!" helen produced the key and opened the door. she fairly pushed the amazed russian girl inside, and then closed the door. it was nice and warm. there were chairs. there was a half-length partition at the rear to separate the workroom from the showroom. and behind that partition were low sewing chairs to work in, and a long work-table. helen led the dazed sadie into this rear room and sat her down in one of the chairs. then she took one facing her and said: "now, you sit right there and make up in your mind the very prettiest hat for _me_ that you can possibly invent. the first hat you trim in this store must be for me." "helen! helen!" cried sadie, almost wildly. "you're crazy yet--or is it me? i don't know what you mean----" "yes, you do, dear," replied helen, putting her arms about the other girl's neck. "you were kind to me when i was lost in this city. you were kind to me just for nothing--when i appeared poor and forlorn and--and a greenie! now, i am sorry that it seemed best for me to let your mistake stand. i did not tell my uncle and cousins either, that i was not as poor and helpless as i appeared." "and you're rich?" shrieked sadie. "you're doing this yourself? this is _your_ store?" "no, it is _your_ store," returned helen, firmly. "of course, by and by, when you are established and are making lots of money, if you can ever afford to pay me back, you may do so. the money is yours without interest until that time." "i got to cry, helen! i got to cry!" sobbed sadie goronsky. "if an angel right down out of heaven had done it like you done it, i'd worship him on my knees. and you're a rich girl--not a poor one?" helen then told her all about herself, and all about her adventures since coming alone to new york. but after that sadie wanted to keep telling her how thankful she was for the store, and that helen must come home and see mommer, and that mommer must be brought to see the shop, too. so helen ran away. she could not bear any more gratitude from sadie. her heart was too full. she went over to poor lurcher's lodgings and climbed the dark stairs to his rooms. she had something to tell him, as well. the purblind old man knew her step, although she had been there but a few times. "come in, miss. yours are angel's visits, although they are more frequent than angel's visits are supposed to be," he cried. "i do hope you are keeping off the street this weather, mr. lurcher," she said. "if you can mend shoes i have heard of a place where they will send work to you, and call for it, and you can afford to have a warmer and lighter room than this one." "ah, my dear miss! that is good of you--that is good of you," mumbled the old man. "and why you should take such an interest in _me_----?" "i feel sure that you would be interested in me, if i were poor and unhappy and you were rich and able to get about. isn't that so?" she said, laughing. "aye. truly. and you _are_ rich, my dear miss?" "very rich, indeed. father was one of the big cattle kings of montana, and prince morrell's sunset ranch, they tell me, is one of the _great_ properties of the west." the old man turned to look at her with some eagerness. "that name?" he whispered. "_who_ did you say?" "why--my father, prince morrell." "your father? prince morrell your father?" gasped the old man, and sat down suddenly, shaking in every limb. the girl instantly became excited, too. she stepped quickly to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "did you ever know my father?" she asked him. "i--i once knew a mr. prince morrell." "was it here in new york you knew him?" "yes. it was years ago. he--he was a good man. i--i had not heard of him for years. i was away from the city myself for ten years--in new orleans. i went there suddenly to take the position of head bookkeeper in a shipping firm. then the firm failed, my health was broken by the climate, and i returned here." helen was staring at him in wonder and almost in alarm. she backed away from him a bit toward the door. "tell me your real name!" she cried. "it's not lurcher. nor is it jones. no! don't tell me. i know--i know! you are allen chesterton, who was once bookkeeper for the firm of grimes & morrell!" chapter xxix "the whip hand" an hour later helen and the old man hurried out of the lodging house and helen led him across town to the office where dudley stone worked. at first the old man peered all about, on the watch for fenwick grimes or his clerk. "they have been after me every few days to agree to leave new york. i did not know what for, but i knew fenwick was up to some game. he always _was_ up to some game, even when we were young fellows together. "now he is rich, and he might have found me better lodgings and something to do. but after i came back from the south and was unfit to do clerical work because of my eyes, he only threw me a dollar now and then--like throwing a bone to a starving dog." that explained how helen had chanced to see the old man at fenwick grimes's door on the occasion of her visit to her father's old partner. and later, in the presence of dudley stone--who was almost as eager as helen herself--the old man related the facts that served to explain the whole mystery surrounding the trouble that had darkened prince morrell's life for so long. briefly, allen chesterton and fenwick grimes had grown up together in the same town, as boys had come to new york, and had kept in touch with each other for years. neither had married and for years they had roomed together. but chesterton was a plodding bookkeeper and would never be anything else. grimes was mad for money, but he was always complaining that he never had a chance. his chance came through willets starkweather, when the latter's brother-in-law was looking for a working partner--a man right in grimes's line, and who was a good salesman. grimes got into the firm on very limited capital, yet he was a trusted member and prince morrell depended on his judgment in most things. allen chesterton had been brought into the firm's office to keep the books through grimes's influence, of course. by and by it seemed to chesterton that his old comrade was running pretty close to the wind. the bookkeeper feared that _he_ might be involved in some dubious enterprise. there was flung in chesterton's way (perhaps _that_ was by the influence of grimes, too) a chance to go to new orleans to be bookkeeper in a shipping firm. he could get passage upon a vessel belonging to the firm. he had this to decide between the time of leaving the office one afternoon and early the next morning. he took the place and bundled his things aboard, leaving a letter for fenwick grimes. that letter, it is needless to say, grimes never made public. and by the time the slow craft chesterton was on reached her destination, the firm of grimes & morrell had gone to smash, morrell was a fugitive, and the papers had ceased to talk about the matter. the true explanation of the mystery was now plain. chesterton said that it was not himself, but grimes, who had been successful as an amateur actor. grimes had often disguised himself so well as different people that he might have made something by the art in a "protean turn" on the vaudeville stage. chesterton had known all about the thirty-three thousand dollars belonging to morrell & grimes in the banks. grimes had hinted to his friend how easy it would be to sequestrate this money without morrell knowing it. at first, evidently, grimes had wished to use the bookkeeper as a tool. then he improved upon his plan. he had gotten rid of chesterton by getting him the position at a distance. his going out of town himself had been merely a blind. he had imitated prince morrell so perfectly--after forging the checks in his partner's handwriting--that the tellers of the two banks had thought morrell really guilty as charged. "so fenwick grimes got thirty-three thousand dollars with which to begin business on, after the bankruptcy proceedings had freed him of all debts," said dud stone, reflectively. "yet there must have been one other person who knew, or suspected, his crime." "who could that be?" cried helen. "surely mr. chesterton is guiltless." "personally i would have taken the old man's statement without his swearing to it. _that_ is the confidence i have in him. i only wished it to be put into affidavit form that it might be presented to the courts--if necessary." "if necessary?" repeated helen, faintly. "you see, my dear girl, you now have the whip hand," said dud. "you can make the man--or men--who ill-used your father suffer for the crime----" "but, is there more than grimes? are you _sure_?" "i believe that there is another who _knew_. either legally, or morally, he is guilty. in either case he was and is a despicable man!" exclaimed dud, hotly. "you mean my uncle," observed helen, quietly. "i know you do. how do you think he benefited by this crime?" "i believe he had a share of the money. he held grimes up, undoubtedly. grimes is the bigger criminal in a legal sense. but starkweather benefited, i believe, after the fact. and _he_ let your father remain in ignorance----" "and let poor dad pay him back the money he was supposed to have lost in the smashing of the firm?" murmured helen. "do--do you think he was paid twice--that he got money from both grimes and father?" "we'll prove that by grimes," said the fledgling lawyer who, in time, was likely to prove himself a successful one indeed. he sent for mr. grimes to come to see him on important business. when the money-lender arrived, dud got him into a corner immediately, showed the affidavit, and hinted that starkweather had divulged something. immediately grimes accused helen's uncle of exactly the part in the crime dud had suspected him of committing. after the affair blew over and grimes had set up in business, starkweather had come to him and threatened to tell certain things which he knew, and others that he suspected, unless he was given the money he had originally invested in the firm of grimes & morrell. "i shut his mouth. that's all he took--his rightful share; but i've got his receipts, and i can make it look bad for him. and i _will_ make it look bad for that old stiff-and-starched hypocrite if he lets me be driven to the wall." this defiance of fenwick grimes closed the case as far as any legal proceedings were concerned. the matter of recovering the money from grimes would have to be tried in the civil courts. all the creditors of the firm were satisfied. to get grimes indicted for his old crime would be a difficult matter in new york county. "but you have the whip hand," dud stone told the girl from sunset ranch again. "if you want satisfaction, you can spread the story broadcast by means of the newspapers, and you will involve starkweather in it just as much as you will grimes. and between you and me, helen, i think willets starkweather richly deserves just that punishment." chapter xxx headed west just at this time helen morrell wasn't thinking at all about wreaking vengeance upon those who might have ill-treated her when she was alone in the great city. instead, her heart was made very tender by the delightful things that were being done for her by those who loved and admired the sturdy little girl from sunset ranch. in the first place, jess and dud stone, and their cousins, gave helen every chance possible to see the pleasanter side of city life. she had gone shopping with the girls and bought frocks and hats galore. indeed, she had had to telegraph to big hen for more money. she got the money; but likewise she received the following letter: "dear snuggy:-- "we lets colts get inter the alfalfa an' kick up their heels for a while; but they got to steady down and come home some time. ain't you kicked up your heels sufficient in that lonesome city? and it looks like somebody was getting money away from you--or have you learnt to spend it down east there? come on home, snuggy! the hull endurin' ranch is jest a-honin' for you. sing's that despondint i expects to see him cut off his pigtail. jo-rab has gone back on his rice-and-curry rations, the greasers don't plunk their mandolins no more, and the punchers are as sorry lookin' as winter-kept steers. come back, snuggy, and liven up the old place, is the sincere wish of, yours warmly, "henry billings." helen only waited to see some few matters cleared up before she left for the west. as it happened, dud stone obtained a chance to represent a big corporation for some months, in elberon and helena. his smattering of legal knowledge was sufficient to enable him to accept the job. it was a good chance for jess to go out, too, and try the climate and the life, over both of which her brother was so enthusiastic. but she would go to sunset ranch to remain for some time if helen went west with them and--of course--helen was only too glad to agree to such a proposition. meanwhile the western girl was taken to museums, and parks, and theaters, and all kinds of show places, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. may van ramsden and others of those who had attended mary boyle's tea party in the attic of the starkweather house hunted helen out, too, in the home of her friends on riverside drive, and the last few weeks of helen's stay were as wonderful and exciting as the first few weeks had been lonely and sad. dud had insisted upon publishing the facts of the old trouble which had come upon the firm of grimes & morrell, in pamphlet form, including allen chesterton's affidavit, and this pamphlet was mailed to the creditors of the old firm and to all of prince morrel's old friends in new york. but nothing was said in the printed matter about willets starkweather. fenwick grimes took a long trip out of town, and made no attempt to put in an answer to the case. but mr. starkweather was a very much frightened man. dud came home one afternoon and advised helen to go and see her uncle. since her departure from the starkweather mansion she had seen neither the girls nor uncle starkweather himself. "he doesn't know what you are going to do with him. he brought the money he received from your father to my office; but, of course, i would not accept it. you've got the whip hand, helen----" "but i do not propose to crack the whip, dud," declared the western girl, quickly. "you're a good chap, snuggy!" exclaimed dud, warmly, and helen smiled and forgave him for using the intimate nickname. but helen went across town the very next day and called upon her uncle. this time she mounted the broad stone steps, instead of descending to the basement door. gregson opened the door and, by his manner, showed that even with the servants the girl from sunset ranch was upon a different footing in her uncle's house. mr. starkweather was in his den and helen was ushered into the room without crossing the path of any other member of the family. "helen!" he ejaculated, when he saw her, and to tell the truth the girl was shocked by his changed appearance. mr. starkweather was quite broken down. the cloud of scandal that seemed to be menacing him had worn his pomposity to a thread, and his dignified "ahem!" had quite disappeared. indeed, to see this once proud and selfish man fairly groveling before the daughter of the man he had helped injure in the old times, was not a pleasant sight. helen cut the interview as short as she could. she managed to assure uncle starkweather that he need have no apprehension. that he had known all the time grimes was guilty, and that he had benefited from that knowledge, was the sum and substance of willets starkweather's connection with the old crime. at that time he had been, as dud stone learned, in serious financial difficulties. he used the money received from grimes's ill-gotten gains, to put himself on his feet. then had come the death of old cornelius starkweather and the legacy. after that, when prince morrell sent starkweather the money he was supposed to have lost in the bankruptcy of grimes & morrell, starkweather did not dare refuse it. he feared always that it would be discovered he had known who was really guilty of the embezzlement. flossie met helen in the hall and hugged her. "don't you go away mad at me, helen," she cried. "i know we all treated you mean; but--but i guess i wouldn't act that way again, to any girl, no matter what belle does." "i do not believe you would, floss," agreed helen, kissing her warmly. "and are you really going back to that lovely ranch?" "very soon. and some time, if you care to and your father will let you, i'll be glad to have you come out there for a visit." "bully for you, helen! i'll surely come," cried flossie. hortense was on hand to speak to her cousin, too. "you are much too nice a girl to bear malice, i am sure, helen," she said. "but we do not deserve very good treatment at your hands. i hope you will forgive us and, when you come to new york again, come to visit us." "i am sure you would not treat me again as you did this time," said helen, rather sternly. "you can be sure we wouldn't. not even belle. she's awfully sorry, but she's too proud to say so. she wants father to bring old mary boyle downstairs into the old nursery suite that she used to occupy when uncle cornelius was alive; only the old lady doesn't want to come. she says she's only a few more years at best to live and she doesn't like changes." helen saw the nurse before she left the house, and left the dear old creature very happy indeed. helen was sure nurse boyle would never be so lonely again, for her friends had remembered her. even mrs. olstrom, the housekeeper, came to shake hands with the girl who had been tucked away into an attic bedroom as "a pauper cousin." and old mr. lawdor fairly shed tears when he learned that he was not likely to see helen again. there were other people in the great city who were sorry to see helen morrell start west. through dud stone, allen chesterton had been found light work and a pleasant boarding place. there would always be a watchful eye upon the old man--and that eye belonged to miss sadie goronsky--rather, "s. goron, milliner," as the new sign over the hat shop door read. "for you see," said miss sadie, with a toss of her head, "there ain't no use in advertisin' it that you are a yid. _that_ don't do no good, as i tell mommer. sure, i'm proud i'm a jew. we're the greatest people in the world yet. but it ain't good for business. "now, 'goron' sounds frenchy; don't it, helen? and when i get a-going down here good, i'll be wantin' some time to look at a place on fift' av'ner, maybe. 'madame goron' would be dead swell--yes? but you put the 'sky' to it and it's like tying a can to a dog's tail. there ain't nowhere to go then but _home_," declared this worldly wise young girl. helen had dinner again with the goronskys, and sadie's mother could not do enough to show her fondness for her daughter's benefactor. sadie promised to write to helen frequently and the two girls--so much alike in some ways, yet as far apart as the poles in others--bade each other an affectionate farewell. the next day helen morrell and her two friends, dud and jess stone, were headed west. that second trip across the continent was a very different journey for helen than the first had been. she and jess stone had become the best of friends. and as the months slid by the two girls--helen, a product of the west, and jessie, a product of the great eastern city--became dearer and dearer companions. as for dud--of course he was always hanging around. his sister sometimes wondered--and that audibly--how he found time for business, he was so frequently at sunset ranch. this was only said, however, in wicked enjoyment of his discomfiture--and of helen's blushes. for by that time it was an understood thing about sunset ranch that in time dud was going to have the right to call its mistress "snuggy" for all the years of her life--just as her father had. and helen, contemplating this possibility, did not seem to mind. the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------ something about amy bell marlowe and her books for girls in these days, when the printing presses are turning out so many books for girls that are good, bad and indifferent, it is refreshing to come upon the works of such a gifted authoress as miss amy bell marlowe, who is now under contract to write exclusively for messrs. grosset & dunlap. in many ways miss marlowe's books may be compared with those of miss alcott and mrs. meade, but all are thoroughly modern and wholly american in scene and action. her plots, while never improbable, are exceedingly clever, and her girlish characters are as natural as they are interesting. on the following pages will be found a list of miss marlowe's books. every girl in our land ought to read these fresh and wholesome tales. they are to be found at all booksellers. each volume is handsomely illustrated and bound in cloth, stamped in colors. published by grosset & dunlap, new york. a free catalogue of miss marlowe's books may be had for the asking. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the oldest of four "i don't see any way out!" it was natalie's mother who said that, after the awful news had been received that mr. raymond had been lost in a shipwreck on the atlantic. natalie was the oldest of four children, and the family was left with but scant means for support. "i've got to do something--yes, i've just got to!" natalie said to herself, and what the brave girl did is well related in "the oldest of four; or, natalie's way out." in this volume we find natalie with a strong desire to become a writer. at first she contributes to a local paper, but soon she aspires to larger things, and comes in contact with the editor of a popular magazine. this man becomes her warm friend, and not only aids her in a literary way but also helps in a hunt for the missing mr. raymond. natalie has many ups and downs, and has to face more than one bitter disappointment. but she is a plucky girl through and through. "one of the brightest girls' stories ever penned," one well-known author has said of this book, and we agree with him. natalie is a thoroughly lovable character, and one long to be remembered. published as are all the amy bell marlowe books, by grosset & dunlap, new york, and for sale by all booksellers. ask your dealer to let you look the volume over. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the girls of hillcrest farm "we'll go to the old farm, and we'll take boarders! we can fix the old place up, and, maybe, make money!" the father of the two girls was broken down in health and a physician had recommended that he go to the country, where he could get plenty of fresh air and sunshine. an aunt owned an abandoned farm and she said the family could live on this and use the place as they pleased. it was great sport moving and getting settled, and the boarders offered one surprise after another. there was a mystery about the old farm, and a mystery concerning one of the boarders, and how the girls got to the bottom of affairs is told in detail in the story, which is called, "the girls of hillcrest farm; or, the secret of the rocks." it was great fun to move to the farm, and once the girls had the scare of their lives. and they attended a great "vendue" too. "i just had to write that story--i couldn't help, it," said miss marlowe, when she handed in the manuscript. "i knew just such a farm when i was a little girl, and oh! what fun i had there! and there was a mystery about that place, too!" published, like all the marlowe books, by grosset & dunlap, new york, and for sale wherever good books are sold. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a little miss nobody "oh, she's only a little nobody! don't have anything to do with her!" how often poor nancy nelson heard those words, and how they cut her to the heart. and the saying was true, she _was_ a nobody. she had no folks, and she did not know where she had come from. all she did know was that she was at a boarding school and that a lawyer paid her tuition bills and gave her a mite of spending money. "i am going to find out who i am, and where i came from," said nancy to herself, one day, and what she did, and how it all ended, is absorbingly related in "a little miss nobody; or, with the girls of pinewood hall." nancy made a warm friend of a poor office boy who worked for that lawyer, and this boy kept his eyes and ears open and learned many things. the book tells much about boarding school life, of study and fun mixed, and of a great race on skates. nancy made some friends as well as enemies, and on more than one occasion proved that she was "true blue" in the best meaning of that term. published by grosset & dunlap, new york, and for sale by booksellers everywhere. if you desire a catalogue of amy bell marlowe books send to the publishers for it and it will come free. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the girl from sunset ranch helen was very thoughtful as she rode along the trail from sunset ranch to the view. she had lost her father but a month before, and he had passed away with a stain on his name--a stain of many years' standing, as the girl had just found out. "i am going to new york and i am going to clear his name!" she resolved, and just then she saw a young man dashing along, close to the edge of a cliff. over he went, and helen, with no thought of the danger to herself, went to the rescue. then the brave western girl found herself set down at the grand central terminal in new york city. she knew not which way to go or what to do. her relatives, who thought she was poor and ignorant, had refused to even meet her. she had to fight her way along from the start, and how she did this, and won out, is well related in "the girl from sunset ranch; or, alone in a great city." this is one of the finest of amy bell marlowe's books, with its true-to-life scenes of the plains and mountains, and of the great metropolis. helen is a girl all readers will love from the start. published by grosset & dunlap, new york, and for sale by booksellers everywhere. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ wyn's camping days "oh, girls, such news!" cried wynifred mallory to her chums, one day. "we can go camping on lake honotonka! isn't it grand!" it certainly was, and the members of the go-ahead club were delighted. soon they set off, with their boy friends to keep them company in another camp not far away. those boys played numerous tricks on the girls, and the girls retaliated, you may be sure. and then wyn did a strange girl a favor, and learned how some ancient statues of rare value had been lost in the lake, and how the girl's father was accused of stealing them. "we must do all we can for that girl," said wyn. but this was not so easy, for the girl campers had many troubles of their own. they had canoe races, and one of them fell overboard and came close to drowning, and then came a big storm, and a nearby tree was struck by lightning. "i used to love to go camping when a girl, and i love to go yet," said miss marlowe, in speaking of this tale, which is called, "wyn's camping days; or, the outing of the go-ahead club." "i think all girls ought to know the pleasures of summer life under canvas." a book that ought to be in the hands of all girls. issued by grosset & dunlap, new york, and for sale by booksellers everywhere. transcriber's note: variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error: line : misererable --> miserable line : teriffic --> terrific line : only only --> only italic printed text has been formatted as _text_. fraktur printed text has been formatted as =text=. with the indians in the rockies [illustration: the shale began sliding under my feet (page )] with the indians in the rockies by james willard schultz with illustrations by george varian =london= constable & co. limited boston and new york houghton mifflin company copyright, , by james willard schultz all rights reserved this book is affectionately dedicated to my wife celia hawkins schultz whose good comradeship and sympathy have been my greatest help in writing the tale preface when in the seventies i turned my back on civilization and joined the trappers and traders of the northwest, thomas fox became my friend. we were together in the indian camps and trading posts often for months at a time; he loved to recount his adventures in still earlier days, and thus it was that i learned the facts of his life. the stories that he told by the evening camp-fire and before the comfortable fireplaces of our various posts, on long winter days, were impressed upon my memory, but to make sure of them i frequently took notes of the more important points. as time passed, i realized more and more how unusual and interesting his adventures were, and i urged him to write an account of them. he began with enthusiasm, but soon tired of the unaccustomed work. later, however, after the buffalo had been exterminated and we were settled on a cattle-ranch, where the life was of a deadly monotony compared with that which we had led, i induced him to take up the narrative once more. some parts of it he wrote with infinite detail; other parts consisted only of dates and a few sentences. he was destined never to finish the task. an old bullet wound in his lung had always kept him in poor health, and when, in the winter of , he contracted pneumonia, the end was quick. his last request was that i would put his notes in shape for publication. this i have done to the best of my ability in my own old age; how well i have done it is for the reader to judge. brave, honest old ah-ta-to-yi (the fox), as the blackfeet and frontiers-men loved to call him! we buried him on a high bluff overlooking the valley of the two medicine river, and close up to the foothills of the rockies, the "backbone-of-the-world" that he loved so well. after we had filled in the grave and the others had gone, pitamakan and i sat by the new-made mound until the setting sun and the increasing cold warned us also to descend into the valley. the old chief was crying as we mounted our horses. "although of white skin," he faltered, "the man who lies there was my brother. i doubt not that i shall soon meet him in the sand-hills." ah-pun-i lodge, february, . illustrations the shale began sliding under my feet (page ) _frontispiece_ it toppled over with a crash and lay still again and again it rose pitamakan fiercely striking a blow the avalanche burst into the flat i grabbed them up and followed him _reproduced from drawings by george varian, by permission of the youth's companion._ with the indians in the rockies chapter i my father kept a little firearm shop in st. louis. over it was the sign:---- david fox & co. wholesale & retail guns & ammunition. fine rifles & fowling pieces made to order. "co." on the sign stood for my uncle, wesley fox, who was a silent partner in the business. longer than i could remember, he had been an employee of the american fur company away up the missouri river. it was a great event in the quiet life of our little family of three when he came, as he did every two or three years, to pay us a short visit. he no sooner set foot in the house than my mother began to cook bread, cakes, puddings and pies. i have seen him make what he called a delicious breakfast on nothing but buttered toast and coffee. that was because he did not get any bread where he lived except on christmas day. every pound of freight that went up the river above fort union in the company's keel-boats and bateaux was for the indian trade, and there was no room for such luxuries as flour. while uncle wesley was with us, mother always let me put away my books, and not say any lessons to her, and i went with him everywhere in the town. that is what st. louis was in those days--just a good-sized town. i liked best to go with him to the levee and see the trappers and traders coming in, their bateaux loaded down with beaver and other fur pelts. nearly all these men wore buckskin clothes and moccasins, and fur caps of their own make. they all had long hair and big whiskers and mustaches that looked as if they had been trimmed with a butcher-knife. every time my uncle wesley came out of the far west he brought me a bow and arrows in a fine case and quiver; or a stone-headed war-club; real weapons that had killed buffalo and been in battles between the tribes. and once he brought me a sioux scalp, the heavy braided hair all of four feet in length. when i asked him where he got it he laughed a little and said, "oh, i got it up there near fort union." but i had seen my mother shake her head at him, and by that i knew that i was not to be told more. i guessed, though, that he had taken that scalp himself, and long afterward i found out that i had guessed right. one night i heard the family talking about me. i had been sent to bed and was supposed to be asleep, but as the door to my room was open and i was lying wide awake, i couldn't help hearing. my mother was taking uncle wesley to task. "you know that the presents you bring him only add to his interest in trapping and trading," she said, "and as it is, we don't succeed very well in interesting him in his studies, and in the life we have planned for him." "you know how our hearts are set on his going to princeton," said my father, in his always low, gentle voice, "and then becoming such a preacher as his grandfather was before him. you must help us, wesley. show the boy the dark side of the plains life, the hardships and dangers of it." in our little sitting-room there was a picture of grandfather fox, a tall, dark man with a long wig. he wore a long-tailed coat with a tremendous collar, knee-breeches, black stockings, and shoes with enormous buckles. i thought that i should not like to be a preacher if that was the way i must dress. and thinking that, i lost the rest of what they were saying and fell asleep. uncle wesley stayed with us only a few days that spring. he intended to remain a month, but one morning pierre chouteau, the head of the great fur company, came to our house and had a long talk with him, with the result that he left for fort union the very next day, to take the place of some one who had died there. so i went back to my studies, and my parents kept me closer at home than ever. i was allowed to go out on real play spells only for two hours on saturday afternoons. there were very few american boys in the town in those days. most of my playmates were french creoles, who spoke very little english, or none at all, so naturally i learned their patois. that knowledge was very useful to me in after days. i am going to pass over what i have to say now as quickly as possible, for even after all these years, and old as i am, the thought of it still hurts. in february of the following winter my father fell ill of smallpox and died. then my mother and i took it, and my mother died also. i did not know anything about her death until many days after she was buried, and then i wanted to die, too. i felt that there was nothing in the world for me, until one day pierre chouteau himself came for me in his grand carriage, took me to his house, and kept me there until may, when my uncle arrived again in st. louis. uncle wesley put on what we call "a bold front" when he came to me, but for all that i could see that he was very sad. we had just one talk about my future. "i should like to carry out your father's and mother's plans for you, tom," he said. "the only way to do it, so far as i can see, is to send you to cynthia mayhew, in hartford, connecticut. she loved your mother,--they were just like sisters,--and i know that she would be glad to take care of you and see to your education." i broke out crying, and said that if he sent me away from him i should die. how could he be so cruel as to send me far away among strangers? and then i cried all the harder, although i was ashamed of myself for doing so. uncle wesley almost broke down himself. he gulped hard two or three times, and his voice wasn't steady as he took me on his lap and felt of my spindling legs and arms. "poor boy! you are weak," he said. "weak in body and low in mind. well, we'll say no more about this matter of your education now. i'll take you up the river with me for a year, or until you get good and strong. but we'll pack your study books along, and a good part of your mother's library, and you'll have to dig into them every evening after we get settled. now that's fair, isn't it?" it was more than fair. my fondest dream was to be realized. i was actually to see the country and the indians and the great herds of buffalo. there was nothing in st. louis now to keep my uncle or make his stay there a pleasure. as quickly as possible he disposed of the little shop and its contents, and deposited the entire proceeds with the company for me "for a rainy day," as he said. on april , , we left st. louis on the chippewa, a fine new boat that the company had just bought. i was thirteen years old, and that was my first steamboat ride. as the stern-wheel craft swung out from the levee and steamed rapidly--as it seemed to me--up-stream, the novel experience gave me the keenest pleasure. i fairly hugged myself as i remembered that by the channel of the river it was more than two thousand miles to our destination. we no sooner left the mississippi and turned into the more muddy waters of the missouri than i earnestly begged my uncle to get his rifle out of the cabin and load it, so as to be ready to shoot buffalo. i was terribly disappointed when he told me that many days must pass before we should see any of the animals. but to please me he brought the rifle to the cabin deck and fired a couple of shots at the sawyers in the river. again he loaded the piece, and told me to shoot at one. "even boys must know how to shoot where we are going," he said. "now take a fine sight at the end of that little sawyer and let's see how near it you can place a bullet." i did as i was told and fired, after a long, wabbly aim; the water splashed just over the tip of the log, and a number of passengers clapped their hands and praised me. that shot began my training in shooting. every day after that, until we got to the game country, i spent an hour shooting at different objects in the water and on the banks. one morning i fired at one of a pair of wild geese. the bird gave a flap or two of its great wings, its head dropped, and it floated inertly with the current. "i killed it!" i shouted. "i killed it! wasn't that a fine shot, uncle?" he was silent a moment, and then said gravely:-- "it was a thoughtless boy's shot. and i hope it will be the only one. a true hunter never takes the life of god's creatures needlessly." that was all he said, but the reproof was enough. i took it to heart, and all my life i have not only profited by it, but preached to others against the wanton taking of life. after passing st. charles, missouri, the ranches of the settlers were farther and farther apart, and in a few days we saw the last of them and were in the wild country. game now became more and more frequent, especially white-tail deer, of which we soon had some for the table. the boat was always tied to an island or to the shore at sundown, and during the short remainder of daylight we would all scatter in the near timber to hunt. a number of wild turkeys were killed, which made us some fine feasts. on these occasions, however, i was only a follower of the hunters. my red-letter day was yet to come. at fort pierre we saw a great number of sioux indians. formerly a company post, it had been sold to the united states, and was now occupied by several companies of soldiers. two days after leaving the fort, we sighted the first of the buffalo herds, a small band of bulls that splashed out of the river not far ahead of the boat, and took to the hills. about four o'clock that afternoon, the port engine breaking down, we had to make a long stop for repairs. as soon as we swung into the bank and learned that the boat would be tied there for the night, my uncle got out his rifle, and we went hunting. the timber bordering the river was half a mile wide, with an undergrowth of willow- and rose-brush so thick that we never could have penetrated it but for the game trails crossing it in every direction. from the looks of them, i thought that thousands of animals must be living there. the trails were worn deep by their sharp hoofs. in places the earth was moist but hard, and there the tracks were plainly outlined. my uncle pointed out the difference in them--how the tracks of the deer differed from those of elk, and how these differed again from the tracks of the buffalo. i was taught, too, that wolf tracks were longer than those of the mountain-lion, which were nearly circular. finally, i was asked to prove my knowledge. "what made those tracks?" i was asked. i hesitated a moment, and replied that i thought buffalo had made them. "right," said my uncle. "they seem very fresh; we will follow them." the myriad tracks of different game, the mystery of the deep woods, the thought that hostile indians might be there hunting us, all combined to excite me. my heart thumped rapidly and i found it difficult to breathe. i was afraid, and kept looking intently in all directions--even behind me, for i expected every moment to see something come charging through the brush, either to rend us with sharp claws or to stick our bodies full of arrows. but nothing could have induced me to admit that i felt so; gritting my teeth, i followed on uncertain legs, close at uncle wesley's heels. so close was i that when he suddenly stopped, i bumped into him, and then gave a little squeal of fright, for i thought that he had discovered something to justify my fears. "_sh-h-h-h!_" he cautioned, and reaching back and drawing me to his side, he pointed significantly ahead. we were only a few yards from the outer edge of the timber; a hundred yards farther on were three buffalo bulls, standing motionless on the open, sparsely grassed bottom-land. how big they were! how majestic and yet uncouth they loomed before me! they had apparently no necks at all. forgetting entirely our purpose in coming there, i stared at them with intense interest, until my uncle passed me the rifle and whispered, "take that farthest one. he is young and in good condition. aim low, close behind his shoulder." my hands closed on the long-barreled, heavy weapon. heretofore my boy strength had been sorely taxed to shoot with it, but now, in my tense excitement, it fairly leaped to my shoulder, and i was able to hold it steady. i pulled the trigger. _bang!_ a thick cloud of powder smoke drifted into my face, and then passed on, and i saw two of the bulls running across the bottom; the other was swaying, staggering round and round, with blood streaming from its mouth. before i could reload, it toppled over with a crash and lay still. [illustration: it toppled over with a crash and lay still] i stood staring at the animal like one in a dream; it was hard to realize that i had actually killed it. uncle wesley broke my trance by praising the shot i had made, and added that the animal was in fine condition and would weigh all of a ton. he had me lie down on it, my feet even with its fore feet, and i found that i could not reach the top of its withers, or rather, its hump: its height had been more than six feet. i now got my first lesson in skinning and butchering one of these great animals. without axe or windlass, or any of the other things regarded as indispensable by farmers and by professional butchers, the old-time plainsmen made a quick and neat job of this work with only a common butcher-knife. first, my uncle doubled up the bull's fore legs and straightened back the hind ones. then, little by little, he twisted the great head sharply back beside the body, at the same time heaving up the back, and in a moment or two the animal lay prone on its belly, propped up in that position by the head. if the skin had been wanted, the rolling-up of the animal would have been reversed, and it would have lain on its back, legs up, and as in the other way, propped in position by the bent-back head. after making an incision along the back from head to tail, he skinned both sides down to the ground, and even under the body, by propping the head one way and then another, and slanting the carcass so that there was knife room beneath. at last the body lay free, back up, on the clean, spread-out skin. the choicest part of it was the so-called "hump," or in frontier language, the "boss ribs." these dorsal ribs rose gradually from the centre of the back to a length of twenty inches and more just above the point of the shoulders, and were deeply covered with rich tenderloin. it took but a moment to get the set off. uncle wesley cut an incision along each side at the base of them; then he unjointed a hind leg at the gambrel-joint, and with that for a club he hit the tips of the ribs a few blows, causing them to snap off from the back-bone like so many pipe-stems, and the whole hump lay free on the hide. next, he removed the legs with a few deft cuts of the knife, and laid them out on the clean grass; unjointed the backbone at the third rib and removed the after part; severed the neck from the big ribs, cut them apart at the brisket, and smashed one side of them free from the backbone with the leg club, and there we had the great animal divided in eight parts. lastly, he removed the tongue through an incision in the lower jaw. "there," said he, when it was all done, "now you know how to butcher. let's hurry to the boat and get the roustabouts to carry in the meat." from this point on, there were days at a time when we saw no indians, and the various kinds of game animals were more and more plentiful and tame. at last, several days after passing fort clarke, we came to the american fur company's greater post, fort union, situated on the north bank of the river about five miles above the mouth of the yellowstone. it was begun in , under the direction of the factor, kenneth mckenzie, and finished in . a stockade of logs ten or twelve feet long, set up on end, side by side, protected the buildings, and this, in turn, was commanded by two-storied bastions, in which cannon were mounted at the northeast and southwest corners. when we approached the place, a flag was run up on the staff of the fort, cannon boomed a welcome, and a great crowd of indians and company men, headed by the factor, gathered at the shore to greet us. my uncle and i were escorted to the two-story house which formed the rear of the fort, and in which were the quarters of the factor and clerks. i learned afterward that distinguished guests had been housed there: george catlin, the painter and philanthropist, in ; maximilian, prince of neuwied, in ; and audubon, the great naturalist, in . all of them published extremely interesting accounts of what they saw and did in the upper missouri country, which i commend to the reader, maximilian's "travels in north america" especially; for i went up the river from fort union just as he did, and there had been practically no change in the conditions of the country from his time to mine. maximilian gives a wonderfully accurate and vivid description of the remarkable scenery of the missouri, without question the most strangely picturesque river in america, and probably in the world. my uncle wesley was a valued clerk of the american fur company. he was sent from one to another of their far western forts, as occasion for his services arose, and frequently he was in full charge of a post for months at a time, while the factor went on a trip to the states. when we arrived in fort union he was told that he must go on to fort benton, where the factor needed his help. at that time, since the company's steamboats went no farther than fort union, all the goods for the posts beyond were sent in keel-boats, or bateaux. it was not until the summer of that the extreme upper river was found to be navigable, and on july of that year the chippewa and the key west arrived at fort benton. a keel-boat was lying at fort union when we arrived there; it was waiting for part of the chippewa's cargo of ammunition, guns, and various trade goods, mostly tobacco, red and blue cloth, brass wire for jewelry, chinese vermilion, and small trinkets. these were soon transferred, and we resumed our voyage, uncle wesley in charge of the boat and crew. the minnie was sixty feet long, ten feet wide, and was decked over. the crew consisted of thirty french-canadian cordelliers, or towmen, a cook, a steersman and two bowmen, and a hunter with his horse. in a very small cabin aft there were two bunks. forward there was a mast and sail for use when the wind was favorable--which was seldom. there was a big sweep oar on each side, and a number of poles were scattered along the deck to be used as occasion required. in the bow there was a four-pound howitzer, loaded with plenty of powder, and a couple of quarts of trade balls, in case of an attack by indians, which was not at all improbable. by the channel it was called eight hundred miles from fort union to fort benton, where we hoped to arrive in two months. after the first day's experience, i thought that we should be fortunate if we reached the place in two years. from morning until night the cordelliers toiled as i had never seen men toil before. it was a painful sight, those thirty men tugging on the long tow-rope as they floundered through water often waist-deep; through quicksand or mud so tenacious that the more unfortunate were dragged out of it gasping for breath and smeared with the stuff from head to foot. they frequently lost their footing on steep places and rolled down into deep water; banks of earth caved upon them; they were scratched and torn by rose-brush and bull-berry thorns; they were obliged to cut trails along the top of the banks in places, and to clear a way for the boat through dense masses of sawyers and driftwood. a day or two after leaving fort union we narrowly escaped losing the boat, and the lives of all of us who were on it, in the treacherous swirling current. at the time the cordelliers were walking easily along a sandy shore under a high bank. ahead of them, at the edge of the water, lay a dead buffalo bull, its rump partly eaten by the prowling animals. when the lead-man was within a few feet of it a big grizzly sprang toward him from the other side of the carcass, where it had lain asleep. the men dropped the rope and with loud cries sprang into the water, since they could not climb the bank. the boat at once turned broadside to the swift current, drifted against two sawyers, and began to turn turtle. the lower rail was already under water, and the horse had lost its footing and tumbled overboard, where it hung strangling, when by the greatest good fortune first one and then the other of the sawyers snapped under the strain, and the boat righted and swung in to the bank. we now had time to see what was going on above. the bear was just leaving the opposite shore and making for the timber; the men, dripping from their hasty bath, were gathered in a close group near the carcass, and were talking and gesticulating as only frenchmen can. we suspected that something was wrong, and while the bowmen made the boat fast, the rest of us hurried up the shore. the group parted at our approach and disclosed one of their number--the lead-man on the rope--lying moaning on the sand. the bear had overtaken and mauled him terribly, and then, frightened probably by the loud cries of so many men, it took to the river and swam away. we got the wounded man aboard at once, and my uncle set his arm and made him as comfortable as possible. the hunter had saved his horse by cutting its rope and swimming with it to a landing far down stream. as soon as the tow-line was recovered we went on, thankful that the accident had been no worse. yet through it all they were cheerful and happy, and at the evening camp-fire my uncle was frequently obliged to speak harshly to keep them from shouting their voyageur songs, that might have brought some prowling war party of indians down on us. the food of these men was meat--nothing but meat, washed down with a little tea. sometimes they managed to dig a few _pommes blanches_, white, edible roots that were very palatable when roasted in the coals. uncle wesley and i had a box of hard crackers and a few pounds of flour and sugar. when they were gone, he told me, we should have no more until we sat down to our christmas dinner. that did not worry me; i thought that if big, strong men could live on meat, a boy could, too. the river wound like a snake through the great valley. there were long points only a mile or two across by land, but many times that distance round by the channel. sometimes when we came to such a place uncle wesley and i would hunt across the bottom and then wait for the boat. on these trips i killed my first deer and elk and antelope--not to mention several more buffalo. but uncle wesley was always uneasy when away from the boat; he was responsible for it and its cargo, which was worth more than a hundred thousand dollars in furs. should anything happen to it while he was away from it, even for an hour's hunt, his hope of eventually becoming a member of the great company would have to be given up. finally, after minute instructions in the proper handling of the rifle, i was allowed to accompany the hunter on his daily quests for meat. baptiste rondin was a dreamy, gentle little creole from louisiana. he came from a good family, had not been taught to work, and had hated books, so he told me. so when misfortune came to his family, and he had to do something, he chose the position he now held in preference to others with more pay which the chouteaus had offered him. when we started out in the morning, i would climb up behind him on the gentle old horse, and we would ride for miles up one side or the other of the river. we always saw various kinds of game soon after leaving the boat, but never attempted to kill any until some was found convenient to the shore of the river, where the boat could land and the meat easily be taken aboard. besides looking for game, we examined every dusty trail, every mudflat and sandbar, and constantly scanned the bottoms and the hills for signs of indians. they were the great terror of the cordelliers; often a boat's crew was surprised and killed, or the cargo was destroyed. we tied up one night four or five miles below the mouth of the musselshell river, which my uncle wesley said lewis and clark had so named on account of the quantities of fossil shells that are found there. early the next morning baptiste saddled the old horse, and we started out to hunt at the same time that the cordelliers hauled the rope tight and began their weary tramp. we came to the lower edge of the big bottom at the mouth of the musselshell. opposite the mouth there was a heavily timbered island. one small band of antelope was the only game in sight between us and the musselshell. on the other side of it, at the upper end of the bottom and close to the missouri, there were a couple of hundred buffalo, some feeding, some lying down. they were so far away that we rode boldly through the tall sage-brush to the little river, and across it to the outer edge of the strip of timber. there baptiste told me to remain with the horse while he crept out to the herd and made a killing. i did not like being left alone. there were many fresh grizzly tracks on the river sands just behind me, and i was afraid of the terrible animals, so afraid that i did not dare to dismount and gather some strawberries which showed in the grass at the horse's feet. the passing minutes seemed hours. the tall sage-brush out ahead had swallowed baptiste. by rising in the stirrups i could just see the backs of some of the distant buffalo. a sudden splash in the river made my heart flutter, and i quickly turned to see what had caused it. here and there between the trees and brush its glistening surface was in plain view, and through one opening i saw something more terrible than a whole band of grizzlies: an indian crossing toward me. i saw his face, painted red with blue bars across the cheeks; i noted that he wore leather clothing; that a shield hung suspended from his left arm; that in his right hand he grasped a bow and a few arrows. all this i noted in an instant of time; and then nearer to me, and more to the right, a stick snapped, and i turned my head to see another indian in the act of letting an arrow fly at me. i yelled and gave the horse such a thump with the stock of my rifle that he made a long, quick leap. that was a lucky thing for me. the arrow aimed at my body cut through my coat sleeve and gashed my left arm just above the elbow. i yelled frantically for baptiste and urged the horse on through the sage-brush. i looked back, and saw that indians all up and down the stream were leaving the timber and running toward me. i looked ahead and saw the smoke of baptiste's gun, heard the report, saw the buffalo bunch up and then scurry westward for the nearest hills. the thought came to me that i could pick the hunter up, and that the old horse would easily carry us beyond the possibility of an attack by indians afoot. that hope was shattered a moment later. the buffalo suddenly circled and came back into the bottom, and i saw that they had been turned by some indians at the edge of the hills. indians were strung out clear across the flat, were leaping through the sage-brush toward us, and shouting their dreadful war-cry; they were hemming us in on the south, and the great river cut off our retreat to the north. i urged the old horse on, determined to reach baptiste and die by his side, but the indians who had appeared on the hills were now quite near him. i saw him raise his rifle and fire at the one in the lead, then turn and run a few steps and spring from the high cut-bank into the river. but just before jumping he paused, and raising a hand, motioned to me to turn back. to turn back! accustomed to obeying him, i sawed on the bridle and the horse stopped. i looked over my shoulder, and saw that the nearest of the indians were not three hundred yards from me. in my distress i cried, "what shall i do? oh, what shall i--what can i do to escape?" chapter ii i do not know why i cried out. of course there was no one to answer, to advise, or assist me. i have often noticed that in times of stress men shout the questions that they ask themselves. why had baptiste motioned me to go back, when by doing so i must run right into the indians? i must have misunderstood his signal. clearly, my only chance of escape was the same as his, and that was by the river. pummeling the old horse with rifle-stock and heels, i headed him for the stream. not straight toward it, where the bank was apparently very high, but obliquely, toward a point not far above the mouth of the musselshell. there the bank was certainly not high, for the tips of water-willows peeped above it. in a few moments i was close enough to look over it. between the narrow strip of willows and the edge of the water there was an oozy mudflat, fifty yards wide, impassable for man or horse. i looked back at the enemy, and saw that when i had turned downstream, those toward the upper end of the bottom had given up the chase, while the rest had turned with me and run faster than ever. thus there was a wide gap between the two parties, and i circled toward it, as my last chance. first up the river for several hundred yards, then straight south, away from it. both parties immediately perceived my intention, and spurted to close the gap. harder and harder i thumped the horse, although by this time he had waked up, and was entering into the spirit of the flight. the distance between the two parties of indians was now not more than three hundred yards, and i was more than that from the point for which we all were heading; but to offset this i was covering the ground much faster than they were. the indians were now yelling frightfully, to encourage one another to greater speed. i could see their painted faces, and a little later their fierce eyes. the gap was very small now; they began shooting, and several pieces of lead ripped by me with the sound of tearing paper. i did not try to use my rifle. in that first experience there was no anger in my heart against the enemy, nothing but fear of them. i felt, rather than saw, that they would be unable to head me off, if only by a narrow margin, and i bent low over the horse to make myself as small a target as possible. more guns boomed close on each side of me. arrows whizzed, too, and the shaft of one struck my rifle-stock, glanced from it, and cut the skin on the back of my hand. that was when i passed right between the two parties. in a dazed way, i kept urging the horse on, until presently it dawned on me that i was past the danger point. having looked back to make sure of this, i changed my course, crossed the musselshell, and went on down the bottom, and then along the shore of the river several miles, until i came to the boat. when the cordelliers saw me returning in such haste, they knew that something was wrong. they ceased towing, and let the boat drift in to the bank, in such a position that i rode right on the deck. i was still so frightened that it was difficult for me to talk, but my uncle, guessing the parts of the story which i omitted, ordered all the men aboard. in a few minutes we were at the other shore of the river. the cordelliers objected to going on with the tow-line, but my uncle was firm that they should start without delay, and they did. the steersman, an old and tried employee, was sent ahead of them to scout, and uncle wesley took his place at the sweep. the howitzer was freshly primed, and one of the men instructed to stand by, ready to aim and fire it. i was anxious about baptiste, and although my uncle told me not to worry, i doubted if we should ever see him again. in a couple of hours we arrived off the island opposite the mouth of the musselshell, and lo! baptiste came out of the brush at the lower end of it, and signaled us to take him aboard. that was done with the skiff. as soon as he came on deck he ran to me, in his impetuous french way, gave me a hug and a thump on the back, and exclaimed, "it is my brave boy! and he is safe! one little wound in the hand? that is nothing. now, tell me how you made the escape." but at this moment my uncle came to consult the hunter, and my story was deferred. i learned from baptiste later that the indians were crees, probably on their way south, to raid the crow horse herds. by this time we had passed the island. baptiste was just asking us to note how high the cut-bank was from which he had jumped into the stream, when the whole party of indians rose out of the sage-brush at the edge of it, and with much yelling, fired their guns at us. as the distance was three or four hundred yards, only a few of their balls struck anywhere near the boat. uncle wesley himself sprang to the howitzer, swung it round, tilted up the barrel, and fired it. some of the balls dropped into the water near the far shore, several spatted little puffs of dust out of the dry cut-bank, and others must have passed right among the war party. anyway, the indians all ducked down and ran back from the bluff. we saw no more of them. ever since leaving the mouth of the yellowstone we had been passing through the extraordinary formation of the bad lands. from this point onward the scenery became more and more wonderful. boy that i was, i was so deeply impressed with the strange grandeur of it all that the sensations i experienced were at times actually oppressive. at every turn there was something to astonish the eye. there were gleaming white and gray turreted castles, perched high above the stream; cities of clustering domes and towers and minarets, all wrought by the elements from sandstones of varying hardness, but all so apparently real as to suggest that men and women in mediæval dress might pass out of the gates in the walls at any moment. we arrived at fort benton just ninety days after leaving fort union. the flag was raised and cannon fired in our honor, and more than five thousand blackfeet, headed by the factor, alexander culbertson, and the employees of the fort, crowded to the river-bank to give us welcome. i was astonished to see so many indians. i noticed that they were tall, fine-looking men and women; that they wore beautiful garments of tanned skins; that their hair was done up in long, neat braids; that many of the leading men shook hands with my uncle, and seemed glad to meet him. my uncle introduced me to that great man, the factor, who patted me kindly on the shoulder. with him we went into the fort, where, just as we passed through the big gate, a tall, handsome indian woman, wearing a neat calico dress, a plaid shawl, and beautifully embroidered moccasins, came running to us, threw her arms round my uncle, and kissed him. i must have looked as surprised as i felt, especially when i noted that he was very glad to meet her. having spoken a few words to her, which i couldn't understand, he turned to me. "thomas," he said, "this is your aunt. i hope that you and she will become great friends." i was now more surprised than ever, but tried not to show it as i answered, "yes, sir." at that the woman gave a smile that was pleasant to see, and the next instant she had me in her arms and was kissing me, smoothing my hair, and talking blackfoot to me in her strangely clear and pleasant voice. my uncle interpreted. "she says that she wants to be your mother now; that she wants you to love her, to come to her for everything you need." i do not know just what it was,--her voice, her appearance, the motherly feeling of her arms round me,--but there was something about this indian woman that made my heart go straight out to her. i gave her hand a squeeze, while tears came to my eyes as i snuggled up close to her. right willingly i went with her and uncle wesley to the room in the far end of the long adobe building forming the east side of the fort, which he said was to be our home for a long time to come. it was the kind of room that gave one a restful feeling at sight. opposite the doorway was a big fireplace of stone and adobe, with hooks above the mantel for rifles and powder-horns and ball-pouches. two windows on the courtyard side afforded plenty of light. there were a strong table and comfortable chairs, all home-made. a settee covered with buffalo-robes was placed before the fire. a curtained set of shelves in the corner contained the dishes and cooking-utensils. the north end of the room was partitioned off for a sleeping-place. my bed, i was told, would be the buffalo-robe couch under the window at the right of the door. the next day my uncle took me all round the fort and made me known to the different employees--clerks and tailors, carpenters and blacksmiths, and the men of the trade-room. the fort was a large one, about three hundred feet square, all of adobe. entering the front gate, you saw that three long buildings, of which the easterly one was two stories high, formed three sides of the quadrangle, and that a high wall containing the gate formed the fourth, or south side, facing the river. the outer walls of the buildings were thus the defensive walls of the fort. they were protected against assault by two-storied bastions, with cannon at the southeast and northwest corners. all the tribes of the northwest together could not have taken the place by assault without the loss of thousands of their force, and they knew it. before night the keel-boat was unloaded, and our trunks were brought in and unpacked. my mother's little library and my school-books filled a new set of shelves, and that evening i began, under my uncle's direction, a course of study and reading, preparatory to going east to school in the following year. no boy ever had a happier time than i had in that fort so far beyond the borders of civilization. day in and day out there was always something worth while going on. hundreds, and often thousands, of indians came in to trade, and i found endless pleasure in mingling with them and learned their language and customs. in this i was encouraged by tsistsaki (little bird woman), my uncle's wife. she had no children, and all her natural mother love was given to me. in her way of thinking, nothing that i did could be wrong, and the best of everything was not good enough for me. the beautifully embroidered buckskin suits and moccasins she made for me fairly dazzled the eye with their blaze of color. these were not for everyday wear, but i took every possible occasion for putting them on, and strutted around, the envy of all the indian boys in the country. the winter passed all too quickly. with the approach of spring my uncle began to plan for my long trip to st. louis, and thence to the home of my mother's connecticut friend, where i was to prepare for princeton. i said nothing to him, but i had many talks with my aunt-mother, tsistsaki; and one night we poured out such a torrent of reasons why i should not go, ending our pleadings with tears, that he gave in to us, and agreed that i should grow up in the fur trade. a frequent visitor in our cozy room in the fort was a nephew of tsistsaki, a boy several years older than i. we liked each other at sight, and every time we met we became firmer friends than ever. "friend" means much more to indians--at least, to the blackfeet--than it does to white people. once friends, indians are always friends. they almost never quarrel. so it came to be with pitamakan (eagle running) and myself. my uncle wesley was as much pleased as his wife. one day he said to me, "pitamakan is an honest, good-hearted boy, and brave, too. he gets all that from his father, who is one of the very best and most trustworthy indians in all this country, and from his mother, who is a woman of fine character. see to it that you keep his friendship." except, of course, baptiste rondin, the hunter of the fort, pitamakan was almost the only one with whom i was allowed to go after the buffalo and the other game which swarmed on the plains near by. what with my daily studies, occasional hunts, and the constant pleasure i had in the life of the fort, time fairly flew; no day was too long. and yet, for four years, i never once went more than five miles from the fort. during this time my one great desire was to go on a trip into the rocky mountains. clearly visible from the high plains to the north and south of the river, their pine-clad slopes and sharp, bare peaks always seemed to draw me to explore their almost unknown fastnesses. in the fall of there came an opportunity for me to do this. the small robes band of the blackfeet, of which pitamakan's father, white wolf (mah-kwi´-yi ksik-si-num), was chief, outfitted at the fort for an expedition to trap beaver along the foot of the great mountains, and, much to my surprise and delight, i was permitted to accompany them. at this time there were ninety lodges--about six hundred people--of the small robes (i-nuk-siks) band of the blackfeet. they had several thousand horses, and when the moving camp was strung out on the plain, the picturesque riders, the pack-animals laden with queerly shaped, painted rawhide and leather pouches and sacks, made a pageant of moving color that was very impressive. our first camp after leaving the fort was on the teton river. a couch was made up for me in white wolf's lodge. the lodge of the plains indians was the most comfortable portable shelter ever devised by man. one of average size was made of sixteen large cow buffalo-hides, tanned into soft leather, cut to shape, and sewed together with sinew thread. this cone-shaped "lodge skin" was stretched over tough, slender poles of mountain-pine, and the lower edge, or skirt, was pegged so that it was at least four inches above the ground. within, a leather lining, firmly weighted to the ground by the couches and household impedimenta of the occupants, extended upward for five or six feet, where it was tied to a rope that was fastened to the poles clear round. there was a space as wide as the thickness of the poles between the "skin" and the lining, so that the cold, outside air rushing up through it created a draft for the fire, and carried the smoke out of the open space at the top. this lining, of course, prevented the cold air from coming into the lower part of the lodge, so that even in the coldest weather a small fire was enough for comfort. traveling leisurely up the teton river, we came in three or four days to the foot of the great range. there we went into camp for several weeks, long enough for the hunters to trap most of the beavers, not only on the main stream, but on all its little tributaries. pitamakan and i had twelve traps, and were partners in the pursuit of the animals. from the teton we moved northward to back-fat creek, now dupuyer creek. from there we went to the two medicine waters, and then on to the cut-bank river. the trapping area of this stream was small. on the first day of our camp there pitamakan and i foolishly went hunting, with the result that when, on the next day, we began looking for a place to set our traps, we found that all the beaver-ponds and bank-workings had been occupied by the other trappers. it was late in the afternoon, after we had followed up the south fork to a tremendous walled cañon, where it was impossible for the beavers to make dams and homes, that we made this discovery. our disappointment was keen, for from cut-bank the camp was to return to fort benton, and we had only thirty-seven of the fifty beaver pelts that we had planned to take home with us. we were sitting on a well-worn trail that stretched along the mountainside above the cañon, when pitamakan suddenly exclaimed:-- "listen to me! we will get the rest of the beaver! you see this trail? well, it crosses this backbone of the world, and is made by the other-side people,--the kootenays and the flatheads,--so that they can come over to our plains and steal our buffalo. you can see that it has not been used this summer. it will not be used at all now, since winter is so near. now, down on the other side there are many streams in the great forest, and no doubt there are beavers in them. we will go over there to-morrow, and in a few days' trapping we will catch enough to make up the number we set out to get." this plan seemed good to me, and i said so at once. we left the traps on the trail and started to camp, to prepare for an early start in the morning. we decided to say nothing to any one of our intentions, to white wolf least of all, lest he should forbid our going. at dusk we picketed near camp two horses that we selected for the trip, and during the evening we refilled our powder-horns and ball-pouches to the neck. rising the next morning before any of the others were awake, and each taking a heavy buffalo-robe from our bedding, we quietly left the lodge, saddled and mounted our horses, and rode away. some dried meat and buffalo back fat taken from the lodge furnished us a substantial breakfast. the trail was plain and easy to follow. we picked up the traps, and mounting steadily, arrived at the extreme summit of the great range not long after midday. from where we stood, the trail ran slightly downward, along a narrow divide, across to the next mountain. the south side of the divide was a sheer drop of several thousand feet. the top was a narrow, jagged knife of rock, along which a man could not have passed on foot. on the north side the sharp reef dropped almost precipitously to a narrow and exceedingly steep slope of fine shale rock, which terminated at the edge of a precipice of fearful depth. it was along this shale slope that the trail ran, but there were no signs of it now, for the tracks of the last horses that passed had been filled. even while we stood there, small particles of shale were constantly rolling and tinkling down it and off into abysmal space. shuddering, i proposed that we turn back, but pitamakan made light of the danger. "i have been here before, and know what to do," he said. "i can make it so that we can safely cross it." with a long, thin and narrow slab of rock he began gouging a trail out of the steep slide. the small and the large pieces of detritus which he dislodged rattled off the edge of the cliff, but strain my ears as i might, i could not hear them strike bottom. it was fully a hundred yards across this dangerous place, but pitamakan soon made his way along it, and back to me. his path seemed more fit for coyotes than for horses, but he insisted that it was wide enough, and started leading his animal out on it. there was nothing for me to do but to follow with mine. when part way across, my horse's hind feet broke down the little path, and he went with the sliding shale for several feet, all the time madly pawing to get back on the sound portion on which i stood. when i tried to help him by pulling on the lead-rope, the shale began sliding under my feet. at that, pitamakan, starting to run with his horse, shouted to me to do the same. for the rest of the way across, the strain on me and my animal was killing. we tore out all trace of the path in our efforts to keep from going down and off the slide. wherever we put down our feet the shale started slipping, and the struggle to climb faster than it slipped exhausted our strength. when finally we did reach the firm rock where my companion stood waiting, we were utterly fatigued and dripping with sweat. pitamakan's face was ashy gray from the strain of watching my struggles. he drew me to him, and i could feel him trembling, while he said, in a choking voice, "oh, i thought you would never get here, and i just had to stand and look, unable to help you in any way! i didn't know. i should have made a wider, firmer path." we sat down, and he told me about this pass: that after the winter snows came neither man nor horse could cross it, since the least movement would start the snow sliding. three blackfeet had once lost their lives there. in that manner, the avalanche which they loosened had swept them with it over the cliff, to the horror of their comrades who stood looking on. upon our return, he said, he would make a safe path there, if it took him all day to finish the task. soon we went on, turned the shoulder of the twin mountain, and felt that we had come into another world. near by there were some tremendous peaks, some of them covered with great fields of ice, which i learned later were true glaciers. in other ways, too, this west side was different from the east side of the rockies. as far as we could see there were no plains, only one great, dark, evergreen forest that covered the slopes of the mountains and filled the endless valleys. here, too, the air was different; it was damp and heavy, and odorous of plants that grow in moist climates. working our way from ledge to ledge down the mountain, we came, toward sunset, to what my friend called the salt springs. farther west than this point he had never been. early the next morning we pushed on, for we were anxious to reach the low valleys where the beavers were to be found. still following the trail, we struck, about mid-afternoon, a large stream bordered with alder, cottonwood, and willow, the bark of which is the beaver's favorite food. there were some signs of the animals here, but as we expected to find them more plentiful farther down, we kept on until nearly sundown, when we came to a fine grass meadow bordering the now larger river. here was feed for the horses; in a pond at the upper end of the meadow there were five beaver lodges. "here is the place for us," said pitamakan. "let us hurry and picket the horses, and kill a deer; night is at hand." we started to ride into the timber to unsaddle, when we heard a heavy trampling and crackling of sticks off to the left of the beaver-pond, and so sat still, rifles ready, expecting to see a band of elk come into the open. a moment later thirty or forty indians, men, women, and children, rode into the meadow. perceiving us, the men whipped up their horses and came racing our way. "they are kootenays! it is useless to fire at them, or to run!" pitamakan exclaimed. "i do not think they will harm us. anyhow, look brave; pretend that you are not afraid." the men who surrounded us were tall and powerfully built. for what seemed to me an endless time, they sat silently staring, and noting every detail of our outfit. there was something ominous in their behavior; there came to me an almost uncontrollable impulse to make a move of some kind. it was their leader who broke the suspense. "_in-is-saht!_" (dismount!) he commanded, in blackfoot, and we reluctantly obeyed. at that they all got off their horses, and then at word from the chief, each crowding and pushing to be first, they stripped us of everything we had. one man got my rifle; another the ammunition; another snatched off my belt, with its knife, and the little pouch containing flint, steel, and punk, while the chief and another, who seemed to be a great warrior, seized the ropes of our horses. and there we were, stripped of everything that we possessed except the clothes we stood in. at that the chief broke out laughing, and so did the rest. finally, commanding silence, he said to us, in very poor blackfoot:-- "as you are only boys, we will not kill you. return to your chief, and tell him that we keep our beaver for ourselves, just as the plains people keep the buffalo for themselves. now go." there was nothing to do but obey him, and we started. one man followed us a few steps, and struck pitamakan several blows across the back with his whip. at that my friend broke out crying; not because of the pain, but because of the terrible humiliation. to be struck by any one was the greatest of all insults; and my friend was powerless to resent it. looking back, we saw the kootenays move on through the meadow and disappear in the timber. completely dazed by our great misfortune, we mechanically took our back trail, and seldom speaking, walked on and on. when night came, rain began to fall and the wind rose to a gale in the treetops. at that pitamakan shook his head, and said, dejectedly, "at this season rain down here means snow up on top. we must make strong medicine if we are ever to see our people again." hungry and without food or weapons for killing any game, wet and without shelter or any means of building a fire, we certainly were in a terrible plight. worse still, if it was snowing on the summit, if winter had really set in, we must inevitably perish. i remembered hearing the old trappers say that winter often began in october in the rocky mountains; and this day was well on in november! "pitamakan! we are not going to survive this!" i cried. for answer, he began singing the coyote song, the blackfoot hunter's prayer for good luck. it sounded weird and melancholy enough there in the darkening forest. chapter iii "there! something tells me that will bring us good luck," said pitamakan, when he had finished the medicine song. "first of all, we must find shelter from the rain. let us hurry and search for it up there along the foot of the cliffs." leaving the trail, we pushed our way up the steep slope of the valley, through underbrush that dropped a shower of water on us at the slightest touch. there were only a few hundred yards between us and the foot of the big wall which shot high above the tops of the pines, but by the time we arrived there night had fairly come. at this point a huge pile of boulders formed the upper edge of the slope, and for a moment we stood undecided which way to turn. "toward home, of course!" pitamakan exclaimed, and led the way along the edge of the boulders, and finally to the cliff. there in front of us was a small, jagged aperture, and stooping down, we tried to see what it was like inside. the darkness, however, was impenetrable. i could hear my companion sniffing; soon he asked, "do you smell anything?" but i could detect no odor other than that of the dank forest floor, and said so. "well, i think that i smell bear!" he whispered, and we both leaped back, and then stealthily drew away from the place. but the rain was falling now in a heavy downpour; the rising wind lashed it in our faces and made the forest writhe and creak and snap. every few moments some old dead pine went down with a crash. it was a terrible night. "we can't go on!" said pitamakan. "perhaps i was mistaken. bears do not lie down for their winter sleep until the snow has covered up their food. we must go back and take our chance of one being there in that hole." we felt our way along the foot of the cliff until we came to the place. there we knelt down, hand in hand, sniffed once more, and exclaimed, "_kyaiyo!_" (bear!) "but not strong; only a little odor, as if one had been here last winter," pitamakan added. "the scent of one sticks in a place a long time." although i was shivering so much from the cold and wet that my teeth rattled, i managed to say, "come on! we've got to go in there." crawling inch by inch, feeling of the ground ahead, and often stopping to sniff the air and listen, we made our cautious way inside, and presently came to a fluffy heap of dried grass, small twigs and leaves that rustled at our touch. "ah, we survive, brother!" pitamakan exclaimed, in a cheerful voice. "the bear has been here and made himself a bed for the winter; they always do that in the month of falling leaves. he isn't here now, though, and if he does come we will yell loud and scare him away." feeling round now to learn the size of the place, we found that it was small and low, and sloped to the height of a couple of feet at the back. having finished the examination, we burrowed down into the grass and leaves, snuggled close together, and covered ourselves as well as we could. little by little we stopped shivering, and after a while felt comfortably warm, although wet. we fell to talking then of our misfortune, and planning various ways to get out of the bad fix we were in. pitamakan was all for following the kootenays, stealing into their camp at night, and trying to recover not only our horses, but, if possible, our rifles also. i made the objection that even if we got a whole night's start of the kootenays, they, knowing the trails better than we did, would overtake us before we could ride to the summit. we finally agreed to follow the trail of our enemies and have a look at their camp; we might find some way of getting back what they had taken. we really slept well. in the morning i awoke first, and looking out, saw nothing but thick, falling snow. i nudged my companion, and together we crept to the mouth of the cave. the snow was more than a foot deep in front of us, and falling so fast that only the nearest of the big pines below could be seen. the weather was not cold, certainly not much below freezing, but it caused our damp clothing to feel like ice against the skin. we crept back into our nest, shivering again. "with this snow on the ground, it would be useless to try to take anything from the kootenays," i said. "true enough. they could follow our tracks and easily overtake us," pitamakan agreed. as he said no more for a long time, and would not even answer when i asked a question, i, too, became silent. but not for long; so many fears and doubts were oppressing me that i had to speak. "we had better start on, then, and try to cross the summit." pitamakan shook his head slowly. "neither we nor any one else will cross the summit until summer comes again. this is winter. see, the snow is almost to our knees out there; up on top it is over our heads." "then we must die right here!" i exclaimed. for answer, my partner began the coyote prayer song, and kept singing it over and over, except when he would break out into prayers to the sun, and to old man--the world-maker--to give us help. there in the low little cave his song sounded muffled and hollow enough. had i not been watching his face, i must have soon begged him to stop, it was so mournful and depressing. but his face kept brightening and brightening until he actually smiled; and finally he turned to me and said, "do not worry, brother. take courage. they have put new thoughts into me." i asked what the thoughts were, and he replied by asking what we most needed. "food, of course," i said. "i am weak from hunger." "i thought you would say that!" he exclaimed. "it is always food with white people. get up in the morning and eat a big meal; at midday, another; at sunset, another. if even one of these is missed, they say they are starving. no, brother, we do not most need food. we could go without it half a moon and more, and the long fast would only do us good." i did not believe that. it was the common belief in those times that a person could live for only a few days without food. "no, it is not food; it is fire that we most need," pitamakan continued. "were we to go out in that snow and get wet and then have no means of drying and warming ourselves, we should die." "well, then, we must just lie here and wait for the snow to melt away," i said, "for without flint and steel we can have no fire." "then we will lie here until next summer. this country is different from ours of the plains. there the snow comes and goes many times during the winter; here it only gets deeper and deeper, until the sun beats cold-maker, and comes north again." i believed that to be true, for i remembered that my uncle had told me once that there were no chinook winds on the west side of the range. so i proposed what had been on my mind for some time: that we go to the camp of the kootenays and beg them to give us shelter. "if they didn't kill us, they would only beat us and drive us away. no, we cannot go to them," said pitamakan decidedly. "now don't look so sad; we shall have fire." he must have read my thoughts, for he added, "i see that you don't believe that i can make fire. listen! before you white people came with your flints and steels, we had it. old man himself taught us how to make it. i have never seen it made in the old way because my people got the new way before i was born. but i have often heard the older ones tell how it used to be made, and i believe that i can do it myself. it is easy. you take a small, dry, hard stick like an arrow-shaft, and twirl it between the palms of your hands, or with a bowstring, while the point rests in a hole in a piece of dry wood, with fine shreds of birch bark in it. the twirling stick heats these and sets them on fire." although i did not understand this explanation very well, i yet had some faith that pitamakan could make the fire. he added that he would not try it until the weather cleared, and we could go round in the timber without getting wet except from the knees down. we lay there in the bear's bed all that day. at sunset the snow ceased falling, but when the clouds disappeared, the weather turned much colder, and it was well for us that the heat of our bodies had pretty thoroughly dried our clothing. as it was, we shivered all through the night, and were very miserable. out in the darkness we heard some animal scraping through the snow, and feared that it might be the bear come to get into its bed. we had talked about that. if it was a black bear, we were safe enough, because they are the most cowardly of all animals, and even when wounded, will not attack a man. but what if it were a big grizzly! we both knew tales enough of their ferocity. only that summer a woman, picking berries, had been killed by one. so when we heard those soft footsteps we yelled; stopped and listened, and yelled again, and again, until we were hoarse. then we listened. all was still. whatever had roused us was gone, but fear that a grizzly would come shuffling in kept us awake. day came long before the sun rose above the tremendous peaks that separated us from the plains. much as we ached to crawl out of the cave and run and jump, we lay still until the sun had warmed the air a bit. the night before i had been ravenously hungry; but now my hunger had largely passed, and pitamakan said that i would soon forget all about food. "but we can't live all winter without eating!" i objected. "of course not," he replied. "as soon as we have fire, we will go hunting and kill game. then we will make us a comfortable lodge. oh, we're going to be very comfortable here before many days pass." "but the kootenays!" i objected. "they will come again and drive us on, or kill us!" "just now they are moving out of the mountains as fast as they can go, and will not return until summer comes again." when we finally crawled out after our long rest, we saw that a bear really had been near us in the night. it had come walking along the slope, close to the foot of the cliff, until right in front of the cave, and then, startled, no doubt, by our yells, had gone leaping straight down into the timber. the short impressions of its claws in the snow proved it to have been a black bear. we were glad of that; another night, fear, at least, would not prevent us from sleeping. both of us were clothed for summer hunting, i in buckskin trousers and flannel shirt, with no underclothing or socks. pitamakan wore buffalo cow-leather leggings, breech-clout, and, fortunately, a shirt like mine that his aunt had given him. neither of us had coat or waistcoat, but in place of them, capotes, hooded coats reaching to our knees, made of white blanket by the tailor at the fort. the snow looked very cold to step into with only thin buckskin moccasins on our feet, and i said so. "we will remedy that," said pitamakan. he pulled off his capote, tore a couple of strips from the skirt of it, and then did the same with mine. with these we wrapped our feet, pulled our moccasins on over them, and felt that our toes were frost-proof. the snow was knee-deep. stepping into it bravely, we made our way down the slope and into the timber. there it was not so deep, for a part of the fall had lodged in the thick branches of the pines. we came upon the tracks of deer and elk, and presently saw a fine white-tail buck staring curiously at us. the sight of his rounded, fat body brought the hungry feeling back to me, and i expressed it with a plaintive "_hai-yah!_" of longing. pitamakan understood. "never mind," he said, as the animal broke away, waving its broad flag as if in derision. "never mind. we will be eating fat ribs to-morrow, perhaps; surely on the next day." that talk seemed so big to me that i said nothing, asked no question, as we went on down the hill. before reaching the river we saw several more deer, a lone bull moose and a number of elk; the valley was full of game, driven from the high mountains by the storm. the river was not frozen, nor was there any snow on the low, wet, rocky bars to hinder our search for a knife. that was what we were to look for, just as both pitamakan's and my own ancestors had searched, in prehistoric times, for sharp-edged tools in glacial drift and river wash. i was to look for flint and "looks-like-ice rock," as the blackfeet call obsidian. as i had never seen any obsidian, except in the form of very small, shiny arrow-points, it was not strange that pitamakan found a nodule of it on a bar that i had carefully gone over. it was somewhat the shape of a football, rusty black, and coated with splotches of stuff that looked like whitewash. i could not believe that it was what we sought until he cracked it open and i saw the glittering fragments. pitamakan had never seen any flint or obsidian flaked and chipped into arrow-points and knives, but he had often heard the old people tell how it was done, and now he tried to profit by the information. with a small stone for a hammer, he gently tapped one of the fragments, and succeeded in splintering it into several thin, sharp-edged flakes. carefully taking up all the fragments and putting them at the foot of a tree for future use, we went in search of material for the rest of the fire-making implements. we knew from the start that finding them would not be easy, for before the snow came, rain had thoroughly soaked the forest, and what we needed was bone-dry wood. we had hunted for an hour or more, when a half-dozen ruffed grouse flushed from under the top of a fallen tree and flew up into the branches of a big fir, where they sat and craned their necks. back came my hungry feeling; here was a chance to allay it. "come on, let's get some stones and try to kill those birds!" i cried. away we went to the shore of the river, gathered a lot of stones in the skirts of our capotes, and hurried back to the tree. the birds were still there, and we began throwing at the one lowest down. we watched the course of each whizzing stone with intense eagerness, groaning, "_ai-ya!_" when it went wide of the mark. unlike white boys, indian youths are very inexpert at throwing stones, for the reason that they constantly carry a better weapon, the bow, and begin at a very early age to hunt small game with it. i could cast the stones much more accurately than pitamakan, and soon he handed what he had left to me. although i made some near shots, and sent the stones clattering against the branches and zipping through the twigs, the bird never once moved, except to flutter a wing when a missile actually grazed it or struck the limb close to its feet. with the last stone of the lot i hit a grouse, and as it started fluttering down we made a rush for the foot of the tree, whooping wildly over our success, and frightening the rest of the covey so that they flew away. the wounded bird lodged for a moment in a lower branch, toppled out of that into another, fluttered from that down into clear space. pitamakan sprang to catch it, and grasped only the air; for the bird righted itself, sailed away and alighted in the snow, fifty yards distant. we ran after it as fast as we could. it was hurt. we could see that it had difficulty in holding up its head, and that its mouth was open. we felt certain of our meat. but no! up it got when we were about to make our pounce, and half fluttered and half sailed another fifty yards or so. again and again it rose, we hot after it, and finally it crossed the river. but that did not daunt us. the stream was wide there, running in a still sweep over a long bar; and we crossed, and in our hurry, splashed ourselves until we were wet above the waist. then, after all, the grouse rose long before we came anywhere near it, and this time flew on and on until lost to sight! our disappointment was too keen to be put into words. dripping wet and as miserable a pair of boys as ever were, we stood there in the cold snow and looked sadly at each other. "oh, well, come on," said pitamakan. "what is done is done. we will now get the wood we want and make a fire to dry ourselves." he led off, walked to a half-fallen fir, and from the under side broke off just what we were looking for--a hard, dry spike about twice the diameter of a lead-pencil and a foot or more in length. that did seem to be good luck, and our spirits rose. we went out to the shore of the river, where i was set to rounding off the base of the spike and sharpening the point, first by rubbing it on a coarse-grained rock, and then smoothing it with a flake of obsidian. i ruined the edge of the first piece by handling it too vigorously; the brittle stone had to be forced slowly and diagonally along the place to be cut. [illustration: again and again it rose] pitamakan, meanwhile, was hunting a suitable piece of wood for the drill to work in. hard wood, he had heard the old people say, was necessary for this, and here the only growth of the kind was birch. by the time i got the drill shaped, he had found none that was dry, and i was glad to help in the search, for i was nearly frozen from standing still so long in my wet clothes. up and down the river we went, and back into the forest, examining every birch that appeared to be dead. every one that we found was rotten, or only half dry. it was by the merest chance that we found the very thing: a beaver-cutting of birch, cast by the spring freshet under a projecting ledge of rock, where it was protected from the rains. it was almost a foot in diameter and several feet long. we rubbed a coarse stone against the centre of it until the place was flat and a couple of inches wide, and in that started a small hole with the obsidian. this was slow work, for the glasslike substance constantly broke under the pressure needed to make it cut into the wood. it was late in the day when the gouging was finished, and we prepared to put our tools to the test. this was an occasion for prayer. pitamakan so earnestly entreated his gods to pity us, to make our work successful, and thus save our lives, that, unsympathetic as i was with his beliefs, i could not help being moved. i wanted to be stoical; to keep up a brave appearance to the last; but this pathetic prayer to heathen gods, coming as it did when i was weak from hunger and exposure, was too much. to this day i remember the exact words of it, too long to repeat here. i can translate only the closing sentence: "also, have pity on us because of our dear people on the other side of the range, who are even now weeping in their lodges because we do not return to them." when he had finished the prayer, pitamakan took the drill in the palms of his hands and set the point of it in the small, rough hole in the birch. we had already gathered some dry birch bark, and i held some of it, shredded into a fluffy mass, close round the drill and the pole. "now, fire come!" pitamakan exclaimed, and began to twirl the drill between his hands, at the same time pressing it firmly down in the hole. but no smoke came. what was the reason? he stopped and raised the drill; we felt of it and the hole; both were very hot, and i suggested that we take turns drilling, changing about in the least possible time. we tried it, and oh, how anxiously we watched for success, drilling and drilling for our very lives, drilling turn about until our muscles were so strained that we could not give the stick another twirl! then we dropped back and stared at each other. our experiment had failed. night was coming on. our wet clothing was beginning to freeze, and there was the river between us and the shelter of our cave. the outlook seemed hopeless, and i said so. pitamakan said nothing; his eyes had a strange, vacant expression. "we can do nothing," i repeated. "right here we have to die." still he did not answer, or even look at me, and i said to myself, "he has gone mad!" chapter iv "if they will not do," pitamakan muttered, rising stiffly, while the ice on his leggings crackled, "why, i'll cut off a braid of my hair." i was now sure that our troubles had weakened his mind; no indian in his right senses would think of cutting off his hair. "pitamakan! what is the trouble with you?" i asked, looking up anxiously at him. "why, nothing is the matter," he replied. "nothing is the matter. we must now try to work the drill with a bow. if our moccasin strings are too rotten to bear the strain, i'll have to make a bow cord by cutting off some of my hair and braiding it." it was a great relief to know that he was sane enough, but i had little faith in this new plan, and followed listlessly as he went here and there, testing the branches of willow and birch. finally, he got from the river shore one stone that was large and smooth, and another that had a sharp edge. then, scraping the snow away from the base of a birch shoot a couple of inches in diameter, he laid the smooth stone at its base. next he bade me bend the shoot close down on the smooth stone, while with the sharp edge of the other he hit the strained wood fibre a few blows. in this way he easily severed the stem. cutting off the top of the sapling in the same manner, he had a bow about three feet in length; a rough, clumsy piece of wood, it is true, but resilient. as my moccasin strings were buckskin and much stronger than pitamakan's cow-leather ones, we used one of mine for the bowstring. we now carried the base stick and drill back from the creek into the thick timber, gathered a large bunch of birch bark and a pile of fine and coarse twigs, and made ready for this last attempt to save ourselves. we hesitated to begin; uncertainty as to the result was better than sure knowledge of failure, but while we waited we began to freeze. it was a solemn and anxious moment when pitamakan set the point of the drill in the hole, made one turn of the bowstring round its centre, and held it in place by pressing down with the palm of his left hand on the tip. with his right hand he grasped the bow, and waiting until i had the shredded bark in place round the hole, he once more started the coyote prayer song and began sawing the bow forth and back, precisely the motion of a cross-cut saw biting into a standing tree. the wrap of the string caused the drill to twirl with amazing rapidity, and at the third or fourth saw he gave a howl of pain and dropped the outfit. i had no need to ask why. the drill tip had burned his hand; when he held it out a blister was already puffing up. we changed places, and i gathered the skirt of my capote in a bunch to protect my hand. i began to work the bow, faster and faster, until the drill moaned intermittently, like a miniature buzz-saw. in a moment or two i thought that i saw a very faint streak of smoke stealing up between my companion's fingers. he was singing again, and did not hear my exclamation as i made sure that my eyes had not deceived me. smoke actually was rising. i sawed harder and harder; more and more smoke arose, but there was no flame. "why not?" i cried. "oh, why don't you burn?" pitamakan's eyes were glaring anxiously, greedily at the blue curling vapor. i continued to saw with all possible rapidity, but still there was no flame; instead, the smoke began to diminish in volume. a chill ran through me as i saw it fail. i was on the point of giving up, of dropping the bow and saying that this was the end of our trail, when the cause of the failure was made plain to me. pitamakan was pressing the shredded bark too tight round the drill and into the hole; there could be no fire where there was no air. "raise your fingers!" i shouted. "loosen up the bark!" i had to repeat what i said before he understood and did as he was told. instantly the bark burst into flame. "fire! fire! fire!" i cried, as i hastily snatched out the drill. "_i-puh-kwí-is! i-puh-kwí-is!_" (it burns! it burns!) pitamakan shouted. he held a big wad of bark to the tiny flame, and when it ignited, carried the blazing, sputtering mass to the pile of fuel that we had gathered and thrust it under the fine twigs. these began to crackle and snap, and we soon had a roaring fire. pitamakan raised his hands to the sky and reverently gave thanks to his gods; i silently thanked my own for the mercy extended to us. from death, at least by freezing, we were saved! the sun was setting. in the gathering dusk we collected a huge pile of dead wood, every piece in the vicinity that we had strength to lift and carry, some of them fallen saplings twenty and thirty feet long. i was for putting a pile of them on the fire and having a big blaze. i did throw on three or four large chunks, but pitamakan promptly lifted them off. "that is the way of white people!" he said. "they waste wood and stand, half freezing, away back from the big blaze. now we will have this in the way we lone people do it, and so will we get dry and warm." while i broke off boughs of feathery balsam fir and brought in huge armfuls of them, he set up the frame of a small shelter close to the fire. first, he placed a triangle of heavy sticks, so that the stubs of branches at their tops interlocked, and then he laid up numerous sticks side by side, and all slanting together at the top, so as to fill two sides of the triangle. these we shingled with the fir boughs, layer after layer, to a thickness of several feet. with the boughs, also, we made a soft bed within. we now had a fairly comfortable shelter. in shape it was roughly like the half of a hollow cone, and the open part faced the fire. creeping into it, we sat on the bed, close to the little blaze. some cold air filtered through the bough thatching and chilled our backs. pitamakan pulled off his capote and told me to do the same. spreading them out, he fastened them to the sticks of the slanting roof and shut off the draft. the heat radiating from the fire struck them, and reflecting, warmed our backs. the ice dropped from our clothes and they began to steam; we were actually comfortable. but now that the anxieties and excitement of the day were over, and i had time to think about other things than fire, back came my hunger with greater insistence than ever. i could not believe it possible for us to go without eating as long as pitamakan said his people were able to fast. worse still, i saw no possible way for us to get food. when i said as much to pitamakan, he laughed. "take courage; don't be an afraid person," he said. "say to yourself, 'i am not hungry,' and keep saying it, and soon it will be the truth to you. but we will not fast very long. why, if it were necessary, i would get meat for us this very night." i stared at him. the expression of his eyes was sane enough. i fancied that there was even a twinkle of amusement in them. if he was making a joke, although a sorry one, i could stand it; but if he really meant what he said, then there could be no doubt but that his mind wandered. "lie down and sleep," i said. "you have worked harder than i, and sleep will do you good. i will keep the fire going." at that he laughed, a clear, low laugh of amusement that was good to hear. "oh, i meant what i said. i am not crazy. now think hard. is there any possible way for us to get food this night?" "of course there isn't," i replied, after a moment's reflection. "don't joke about the bad fix we are in; that may make it all the worse for us." he looked at me pityingly. "ah, you are no different from the rest of the whites. true, they are far wiser than we lone people. but take away from them the things their powerful medicine has taught them how to make, guns and powder and ball, fire steels and sticks, knives and clothes and blankets of hair, take from them these things and they perish. yes, they die where we should live, and live comfortably." i felt that there was much truth in what he said. i doubted if any of the company's men, even the most experienced of them, would have been able to make a fire had they been stripped of everything that they possessed. but his other statement, that if necessary he could get food for us at once. "where could you find something for us to eat now?" i asked. "out there anywhere," he replied, with a wave of the hand. "haven't you noticed the trails of the rabbits, hard-packed little paths in the snow, where they travel round through the brush? yes, of course you have. well, after the middle of the night, when the moon rises and gives some light, i could go out there and set some snares in those paths, using our moccasin strings for loops, and in a short time we would have a rabbit; maybe two or three of them." how easy a thing seems, once you know how to do it! i realized instantly that the plan was perfectly feasible, and wondered at my own dullness in not having thought of it. i had been sitting up stiffly enough before the fire, anxiety over our situation keeping my nerves all a-quiver. now a pleasant sense of security came to me. i felt only tired and sleepy, and dropped back on the boughs. "pitamakan, you are very wise," i said, and in a moment was sound asleep. if he answered i never heard him. every time the fire died down the cold awoke one or both of us to put on fresh fuel; and then we slept again, and under the circumstances, passed a very restful night. soon after daylight snow began to fall again, not so heavily as in the previous storm, but with a steadiness that promised a long period of bad weather. we did not mind going out into it, now that we could come back to a fire at any time and dry ourselves. before setting forth, however, we spent some time in making two rude willow arrows. we mashed off the proper lengths with our "anvil" and cutting-stone, smoothed the ends by burning them, and then scraped the shafts and notched them with our obsidian knives. i proposed that we sharpen the points, but pitamakan said no; that blunt ones were better for bird shooting, because they smashed the wing bones. pitamakan had worked somewhat on the bow during the evening, scraping it thinner and drying it before the fire, so that now it had more spring; enough to get us meat, he thought. the great difficulty would be to shoot the unfeathered, clumsy arrows true to the mark. burying some coals deep in the ashes to make sure that they would be alive upon our return, we started out. close to camp, pitamakan set two rabbit snares, using a part of our moccasin strings for the purpose. his manner of doing this was simple. he bent a small, springy sapling over the rabbit path, and stuck the tip of it under a low branch of another tree. next he tied the buckskin string to the sapling, so that the noose end of it hung cross-wise in the rabbit path, a couple of inches above the surface of it. then he stuck several feathery balsam tips on each side of the path, to hide the sides of the noose and prevent its being blown out of place by the wind. when a passing rabbit felt the loop tighten on its neck, its struggles would release the tip of the spring-pole from under the bough, and it would be jerked up in the air and strangled. from camp, we went down the valley, looking for grouse in all the thickest clumps of young pines. several rabbits jumped up ahead of us, snow-white, big-footed and black-eyed. pitamakan let fly an arrow at one of them, but it fell short of the mark. there were game trails everywhere. the falling snow was fast filling them, so that we could not distinguish new tracks from old; but after traveling a half-mile or so, we began to see the animals themselves, elk and deer, singly, and in little bands. as we approached a tangle of red willows, a bull, a cow, and a calf moose rose from the beds they had made in them. the cow and calf trotted away, but the bull, his hair all bristling forward, walked a few steps toward us, shaking his big, broad-horned head. the old trappers' tales of their ferocity at this time of year came to my mind, and i began to look for a tree to climb; there was none near by. all had such a large circumference that i could not reach halfway round them. "let's run!" i whispered. "stand still!" pitamakan answered. "if you run, he will come after us." the bull was not more than fifty yards from us. in the dim light of the forest his eyes, wicked little pig-like eyes, glowed with a greenish fire. the very shape of him was terrifying, more like a creature of bad dreams than an actual inhabitant of the earth. his long head had a thick, drooping upper lip; a tassel of black hair swung from his lower jaw; at the withers he stood all of six feet high, and sloped back to insignificant hind quarters; his long hair was rusty gray, shading into black. all this i took in at a glance. the bull again shook his head at us and advanced another step or two. "if he starts again, run for a tree," pitamakan said. that was a trying moment. we were certainly much afraid of him, and so would the best of the company men have been had they stood there weaponless in knee-deep snow. once more he tossed his enormous horns; but just as he started to advance, a stick snapped in the direction in which the cow and calf had gone. at that he half turned and looked back, then trotted away in their trail. the instant he disappeared we started the other way, and never stopped until we came to our shelter. it was well for us that we did return just then. the falling snow was wetting the ash-heap, and the water would soon have soaked through to the buried coals. we dug them up and started another fire, and sat before it for some time before venturing out again. this experience taught us, when leaving camp thereafter, to cover the coal-heap with a roof of wood or bark. "well, come on! let's go up the valley this time, and see what will happen to us there," said pitamakan, when we had rested. not three hundred yards above camp we came to a fresh bear trail, so fresh that only a very thin coating of snow had fallen since the passing of the animal. it led us to the river, when we saw that it continued on the other side up to the timber, straight toward the cave that had sheltered us. the tracks, plainly outlined in the sand at the edge of the water, were those of a black bear. "that is he, the one that gathered the leaves and stuff we slept in, and he's going there now!" pitamakan exclaimed. "if we only had his carcass, how much more comfortable we could be!" i said. "the hide would be warm and soft to lie on, and the fat meat would last us a long time." "if he goes into the cave to stay, we'll get him," said pitamakan. "if we can't make bows and arrows to kill him, we will take strong, heavy clubs and pound him on the head." we went up the valley. trailing along behind my companion, i thought over his proposal to club the bear to death. a month, even a few days back, such a plan would have seemed foolish; but i was fast learning that necessity, starvation, will cause a man to take chances against the greatest odds. and the more i thought about it, the more i felt like facing that bear. i was about to propose that we go after it at once, when, with a whirr of wings that startled us, a large covey of blue grouse burst from a thicket close by, and alighted here and there in the pines and firs. we moved on a few steps, and stopped within short bow-shot of one. it did not seem to be alarmed at our approach, and pitamakan took his time to fit one of the clumsy arrows and fire it. _zip!_ the shaft passed a foot from its body, struck a limb above and dropped down into the snow. but the grouse never moved. anxiously i watched the fitting and aiming of the other arrow. _zip!_ i could not help letting out a loud yell when it hit fair and the bird came fluttering and tumbling down. i ran forward and fell on it the instant it struck the snow, and grasped its plump body with tense hands. "meat! see! we have meat!" i cried, holding up the fine cock. "be still! you have already scared all the other birds out of this tree!" said pitamakan. it was true. there had been three more in that fir, and now, because of my shouts, they were gone. pitamakan looked at me reproachfully as he started to pick up the fallen arrows. right there i learned a lesson in self-restraint that i never forgot. we knew that there were more grouse in near-by trees, but they sat so still and were so much the color of their surroundings that we were some time in discovering any of them. they generally chose a big limb to light on, close to the bole of the tree. finally our hungry eyes spied three in the next tree, and pitamakan began shooting at the lower one, while i recovered the arrows for him. luck was against us. it was nothing, but miss, miss, miss, and as one by one the arrows grazed the birds, they hurtled away through the forest and out of sight. we were more fortunate a little farther on, for we got two birds from a small fir. then we hurried to camp with our prizes. i was for roasting the three of them at once, and eating a big feast; but pitamakan declared that he would not have any such doings. "we'll eat one now," he said, "one in the evening, and the other in the morning." we were so hungry that we could not wait to cook the first bird thoroughly. dividing it, we half roasted the portions over the coals, and ate the partly raw flesh. although far from enough, that was the best meal i ever had. and it was not so small, either; the blue grouse is a large and heavy bird, next to the sage-hen the largest of our grouse. after eating, we went out and "rustled" a good pile of fuel. as night came on, we sat down before the blaze in a cheerful mood, and straightway began to make plans for the future, which now seemed less dark than at the beginning of the day. "with a better bow and better arrows, it is certain that we can kill enough grouse to keep us alive," i said. "not unless we have snowshoes to travel on," pitamakan objected. "in a few days the snow will be so deep that we can no longer wade in it." "we can make them of wood," i suggested, remembering the tale of a company man. "but we couldn't travel about barefooted. our moccasins will last only a day or two longer. one of mine, you see, is already ripping along the sole. brother, if we are ever to see green grass and our people again, these things must we have besides food--thread and needles, skins for moccasins, clothing and bedding, and a warm lodge. the weather is going to be terribly cold before long." at that my heart went away down. i had thought only of food, forgetting that other things were just as necessary. the list of them staggered me--thread and needles, moccasins, and all the rest! "well, then, we must die," i exclaimed, "for we can never get all those things!" "we can and we will," said pitamakan, cheerfully, "and the beginning of it all will be a better bow and some real arrows, arrows with ice-rock or flint points. we will try to make some to-morrow. hah! listen!" i barely heard the plaintive squall, but he recognized it. "come on, it's a rabbit in one of the snares!" he cried, and out we ran into the brush. he was right. a rabbit, still kicking and struggling for breath, was hanging in the farther snare. resetting the trap, we ran, happy and laughing, back to the fire with the prize. after all, we ate two grouse, instead of one, that evening, burying them under the fire, and this time letting them roast long enough so that the meat parted easily from the bones. chapter v "my grandfather told me that this is one way that it was done," said pitamakan, as taking a flake of obsidian in the palm of his left hand, he tapped it with an angular stone held in his right hand. "the other way was to heat the ice-rock in the fire, and then with a grass stem place a very small drop of water on the part to be chipped off." we had been out after flints, and finding none, had brought back the pieces of obsidian that we had placed at the foot of the tree. earlier in the morning, on visiting the snares, we had found a rabbit in each. they hung now in a tree near by, and it was good to see them there; the rabbit remaining from our first catch had been broiled for our breakfast. following my partner's example, i, too, tried to work a piece of the obsidian into an arrow-point. the result was that we spoiled much of the none too plentiful material. it would not chip where we wanted it to, and if we hit it too hard a blow it splintered. deciding now to try the fire-and-water method, we made for the purpose a pair of pincers of a green willow fork, and melted a handful of snow in a saucer-shaped fragment of rock. i was to do the heating of the obsidian and pitamakan was to do the flaking. he chose a piece about an inch and a half long, a quarter of an inch thick, and nearly triangular in shape. one edge was as sharp as a razor; the other two were almost square-faced. according to his directions, i took the fragment in the pincers by the sharp edge, so as to leave the rest free to be worked upon. gradually exposing it to the heat, i held it for a moment over some coals freshly raked from the fire, and then held it before him, while with the end of a pine needle he laid a tiny drop of water near the lower corner, about a quarter of an inch back from the squared edge. there was a faint hiss of steam, but no apparent change in the surface of the rock. we tried it again, dropping the water in the same place. _pip!_ a small scale half the size of the little finger nail snapped off and left a little trough in the square edge. we both gave cries of delight; it seemed that we had hit on the right way to do the work. a little more experimenting showed that the piece should be held slanting downward in the direction in which the flaking was to be done, for the cold water caused the rock to scale in the direction in which the drop ran. in the course of two hours the rough piece of obsidian was chipped down to a small arrow-point--one that pitamakan's grandfather would have scorned, no doubt, but a real treasure to us. we worked all that day making the points; when evening came we had five that were really serviceable. at sundown, the weather having cleared, we went to look at the rabbit-snares. as neither had been sprung, we moved them to a fresh place. this last storm had added a good deal to the depth of the snow; it was so much now above our knees that walking in it was hard work. we had now before us a task almost as difficult as making the points; that is, to find suitable material for our bows and arrows. we found none that evening, but the next morning, after visiting the snares and taking one rabbit, we stumbled on a clump of service-berry treelets, next to ash the favorite bow-wood of the blackfeet. back to the camp we went, got our "anvil" and hacking-stones, and cut two straight, limbless stems, between two and three inches in diameter. next we had a long hunt through the willows for straight arrow-shafts, found them, and got some coarse pieces of sandstone from the river to use as files. two days more were needed for making the bows and the arrow-shafts. the bows were worked down to the right size and shape only by the hardest kind of sandstone-rubbing, and by scraping and cutting with obsidian knives. but we did not dare to dry them quickly in the fire for fear of making the wood brittle, and they had not the strength of a really good weapon. we made a good job of the arrows, slitting the tips, inserting the points, and fastening them in place with rabbit-sinew wrappings. for the shafts, the grouse wings provided feathering, which was also fastened in place with the sinew. fortunately for us, the rabbit-snares kept us well supplied with meat, although we were growing tired of the diet. only one thing caused us anxiety now--the cords for our bows. we had to use for the purpose our moccasin strings, which were not only large and uneven, but weak. pitamakan spoke of cutting off a braid of his hair for a cord, but on the morning after the weapons were finished, he said that in the night his dream had warned him not to do this. that settled it. on this morning we went early to the snares and found a rabbit hanging in each. taking the nooses along with the game to camp, we slowly dried them before the fire, for they must now serve as bowstrings. after they were dry we tested one of them, and it broke. we knotted it together and twisted it with the other to make a cord for pitamakan's bow. that left me without one, and unable to string my bow until some large animal was killed that would furnish sinew for the purpose. i was by no means sure that the twisted and doubled cord was strong enough. "you'd better try it before we start out," i suggested. "no, we mustn't strain it any more than we can help," pitamakan replied; and with that he led off down the valley. although the sun shone brightly, this was the coldest day that we had yet had. had we not worn rabbit-skins, with fur side in, for socks, we could not have gone far from the fire. the trees were popping with frost, a sign that the temperature was close to zero. soon after leaving camp we struck a perfect network of game tracks, some of which afforded good walking--when they went our way. for there was no main trail parallel to the river, such as the buffalo and other game always made along the streams on the east side of the rockies. on the west side of course there were no buffalo, and probably never had been any; and to judge from the signs, the other animals wandered aimlessly in every direction. we went ahead slowly and noiselessly, for we hoped to see some of the game lying down, and to get a close shot before we were discovered. presently a covey of ruffed grouse, flying up out of the snow into the pines, afforded easy shots; but we dared not risk our arrows for fear of shattering the points against the solid wood. we determined thereafter always to carry a couple of blunt ones for bird shooting. soon after passing the grouse, i caught a glimpse of some black thing that bobbed through the snow into a balsam thicket. we went over there and came to the trail of a fisher, the largest member of the weasel family. as i had often seen the large, glossy black pelts of these animals brought into the fort by indians and company trappers, i was anxious to get a close view of one alive. i looked for it farther along in the snow; but pitamakan, who was gazing up into the trees, all at once grasped my arm and pointed at a small red-furred creature that, running to the end of a long bough, leaped into the next tree. "huh! only a squirrel!" i said. but i had barely spoken when, hot after it, jumped the fisher, the most beautiful, agile animal that i had ever seen. it was considerably larger than a house cat. we ran, or rather waddled, as fast as we could to the foot of the fir, barely in time to see the fisher spring into the next tree, still in pursuit of the squirrel. the latter, making a circle in the branches, leaped back into the tree over our heads. the fisher was gaining on it, and was only a few feet behind its prey when, seeing us, it instantly whipped round and went out of that tree into the one beyond, and from that to another, and another, until it was finally lost to sight. "oh, if we could only have got it!" i cried. "never mind, there are plenty of them here, and we'll get some before the winter is over," said my companion. although i had my doubts about that, i made no remark. pitamakan was promising lot of things that seemed impossible,--needles and thread, for instance. "let's go on," i said. "it is too cold for us to stand still." we came now to the red willow thicket where the bull moose had frightened us. there a barely perceptible trough in the new-fallen snow marked where he and his family had wandered round and retreated, quartering down the valley. "they are not far away, but i think we had better not hunt them until we have two bows," pitamakan remarked. just below the red willows we saw our first deer, a large, white-tail doe, walking toward the river, and stopping here and there to snip off tender tips of willow and birch. we stood motionless while she passed through the open timber and into a fir thicket. "she is going to lie down in there. come on," said pitamakan. he started toward the river and i followed, although i wondered why he didn't go straight to the deer trail. finally i asked him the reason, and right there i got a very important lesson in still-hunting. "all the animals of the forest lie down facing their back trail," he explained. "sometimes they do more than that; they make a circle, and coming round, lie down where they can watch their trail. if an enemy comes along on it, they lie close to the ground, ears flattened back, until he passes on; then they get up slowly and sneak quietly out of hearing, and then run far and fast. remember this: never follow a trail more than just enough to keep the direction the animal is traveling. keep looking ahead, and when you see a likely place for the animal to be lying, a rise of ground, a side hill, or a thicket, make a circle, and approach it from the further side. if the animal hasn't stopped, you will come to its trail; but if you find no trail, go ahead slowly, a step at a time." there was sound sense in what he told me, and i said so; but feeling that we were losing time, i added, "let's hurry on now." "it is because there is no hurry that i have explained this to you here," he replied. "this is a time for waiting instead of hurrying. you should always give the animal plenty of chance to lie down and get sleepy." the day was too cold, however, for longer waiting. we went on to the river, and were surprised to find that it was frozen over, except for long, narrow open places over the rapids. as there was no snow on the new-formed ice, walking on it was a great relief to our tired legs. a couple of hundred yards down stream we came to the fir thicket, and walked past it. since no fresh deer track was to be found coming from the place, we knew that the doe was somewhere in it. back we turned, and leaving the river, began to work our way in among the snow-laden trees, which stood so close together that we could see no more than twenty or thirty feet ahead. i kept well back from pitamakan, in order to give him every possible chance. it was an anxious moment. killing that deer meant supplying so many of our needs! we had sneaked into the thicket for perhaps fifty yards when, for all his care, pitamakan grazed with his shoulder a snow-laden branch of balsam, and down came the whole fluff of it. i saw the snow farther on burst up as if from the explosion of a bomb, and caught just a glimpse of the deer, whose tremendous leaps were raising the feathery cloud. it had only a few yards to go in the open; but pitamakan had seen it rise from its bed, and was quick enough to get a fair shot before it disappeared. "i hit it!" he cried. "i saw its tail drop! come on." that was a certain sign. when a deer of this variety is alarmed and runs, it invariably raises its short, white-haired tail, and keeps swaying it like the inverted pendulum of a clock; but if even slightly wounded by the hunter, it instantly claps its tail tight against its body and keeps it there. "here is blood!" pitamakan called out, pointing to some red spots on the snow. they were just a few scattering drops, but i consoled myself with thinking that an arrow does not let out blood like a rifle-ball because the shaft fills the wound. we soon came to the edge of the fir thicket. beyond, the woods were so open that we could see a long way in the direction of the deer's trail. we dropped to a walk, and went on a little less hopefully; the blood-droppings became more scattering, and soon not another red spot was to be seen--a bad sign. at last we found where the deer had ceased running, had stopped and turned round to look back. it had stood for some time, as was shown by the well-trodden snow. even here there was not one drop of blood, and worst of all, from this place the deer had gone on at its natural long stride. "it is useless for us to trail her farther," said pitamakan dolefully. "her wound is only a slight one; it smarts just enough to keep her traveling and watching that we don't get a chance for another shot." i felt bad enough, but pitamakan felt worse, because he thought that he should have made a better shot. "oh, never mind," i said, trying to cheer him. "there are plenty of deer close round here, and it is a long time until night. go ahead. we'll do better next time." "i am pretty tired," he complained. "perhaps we had better go to camp and start out rested to-morrow." i had not thought to take the lead and break trail a part of the time; of course he was tired. i proposed to do it now, and added that it would be a good plan to walk on the ice of the river and look carefully into the timber along the shores for meat of some kind. "you speak truth!" he exclaimed, his face brightening in a way that was good to see. "go ahead; let's get over there as quick as possible." in a few minutes we were back on the ice, where he took the lead again. and now for the first time since leaving camp--except for a few minutes after the shot at the deer--i felt sure that with so much game in the valley we should kill something. on the smooth, new ice, our moccasins were absolutely noiseless; we were bound to get a near shot. inside of half an hour we flushed several coveys of grouse, and saw an otter and two mink; but there were so many tracks of big game winding round on the shore and in and out of the timber that we paid no attention to the small fry. it was at the apex of a sharp point, where the river ran right at the roots of some big pines, that we saw something that sent a thrill of expectation through us; the snow on a willow suddenly tumbled, while the willow itself trembled as if something had hit it. we stopped and listened, but heard nothing. then nearer to us the snow fell from another bush; from another closer yet, and pitamakan made ready to shoot just as a big cow elk walked into plain view and stopped, broadside toward us, not fifty feet away. "oh, now it is meat, sure," i thought, and with one eye on the cow and the other on my companion, i waited breathlessly. for an instant pitamakan held the bow motionless, then suddenly drew back the cord with a mighty pull, whirled half round on the slippery ice and sat down, with the bow still held out in his left hand. from each end of it dangled a part of the cord! that was a terrible disappointment. such a fair chance to get a big fat animal lost, all because of that weak bowstring! the elk had lunged out of sight the instant pitamakan moved. he sat for a moment motionless on the ice, with bowed head, a picture of utter dejection. finally he gave a deep sigh, got up slowly and listlessly, and muttered that we had better go home. "wait! let's knot the cord together," i proposed. "that may have been the one weak place in it." he shook his head in a hopeless way and started upstream, but after a few steps halted, and said, "i have no hope, but we'll try it." the cord had been several inches longer than was necessary, and after the knot was made it was still long enough to string the bow. when it was in place again, pitamakan gave it a half pull, a harder one, then fitted an arrow and drew it slowly back; but before the head of the shaft was anywhere near the bow, _frip!_ went the cord, broken in a new place. we were done for unless we could get a new and serviceable cord! without a word pitamakan started on and i followed, my mind all a jumble of impossible plans. we followed the winding river homeward in preference to the shorter route through the deep snow. the afternoon was no more than half gone when we arrived at the little shelter, rebuilt the fire, and sat down to roast some rabbit meat. "we can't even get any more rabbits," i said. "there are so many knots in our strings that a slip-noose can't be made with them." "that is true, brother," said pitamakan, "so we have but one chance left. if there is a bear in that cave across the river we have got to kill him." "with clubs?" "yes, of course. i told you that my dream forbids the cutting of my hair, and so there is no way to make a bowstring." "come on! come on!" i said desperately. "let's go now and have it over." we ate our rabbit meat as quickly as possible, drank from the spring, and by the help of the indispensable "anvil" and our cutting-stones, we got us each a heavy, green birch club. then we hurried off to the river. although much snow had fallen since we had seen the black bear's tracks there, its trail was still traceable up through the timber toward the cave. chapter vi well, we took up the dim trail on the farther side of the river and followed it through the timber toward the cave at the foot of the cliff, but i, for my part, was not at all anxious to reach the end of it. midway up the slope i called to pitamakan to halt. "let's talk this over and plan just what we will do at the cave," i proposed. "i don't know what there is to plan," he answered, turning and facing me. "we walk up to the cave, stoop down, and shout, 'sticky-mouth, come out of there!' out he comes, terribly scared, and we stand on each side of the entrance with raised clubs, and whack him on the base of the nose as hard as we can. down he falls. we hit him a few more times, and he dies." "yes?" said i. "yes?" i was trying to remember all the bear stories that i had heard the company men and the indians tell, but i could call to mind no story of their attacking a bear with clubs. "yes? yes what? why did you stop? go on and finish what you started to say." "we may be running a big risk," i replied. "i have always heard that any animal will fight when it is cornered." "but we are not going to corner this bear. we stand on each side of the entrance; it comes out; there is the big wide slope and the thick forest before it, and plenty of room to run. we will be in great luck if, with the one blow that we each will have time for, we succeed in knocking it down. remember this: we have to hit it and hit hard with one swing of the club, for it will be going so fast that there will be no chance for a second blow." we went on. i felt somewhat reassured, and was now anxious to have the adventure over as soon as possible. all our future depended on getting the bear. i wondered whether, if we failed to stop the animal with our clubs, pitamakan would venture to defy his dream, cut off a braid of his hair, and make a bow-cord. passing the last of the trees, we began to climb the short, bare slope before the cave, when suddenly we made a discovery that was sickening. about twenty yards from the cave the trail we were following turned sharply to the left and went quartering back into the timber. we stared at it for a moment in silence. then pitamakan said, dully:-- "here ends our bear hunt! he was afraid to go to his den because our scent was still there. he has gone far off to some other place that he knows." the outlook was certainly black. there was but one chance for us now, i thought, and that was for me to persuade this red brother of mine to disregard his dream and cut off some of his hair for a bow-cord. but turning round and idly looking the other way, i saw something that instantly drove this thought from my mind. it was a dim trail along the foot of the cliff to the right of the cave. i grabbed pitamakan by the arm, yanked him round, and silently pointed at it. his quick eyes instantly discovered it, and he grinned, and danced a couple of steps. "aha! that is why this one turned and went away!" he exclaimed. "another bear was there already, had stolen his home and bed, and he was afraid to fight for them. come on! come on!" we went but a few steps, however, before he stopped short and stood in deep thought. finally he turned and looked at me queerly, as if i were a stranger and he were trying to learn by my appearance what manner of boy i was. it is not pleasant to be stared at in that way. i stood it as long as i could, and then asked, perhaps a little impatiently, why he did so. the answer i got was unexpected:-- "i am thinking that the bear there in the cave may be a grizzly. how is it? shall we go on and take the chances, or turn back to camp? if you are afraid, there is no use of our trying to do anything up there." of course i was afraid, but i was also desperate; and i felt, too, that i must be just as brave as my partner. "go on!" i said, and my voice sounded strangely hollow to me. "go on! i will be right with you." we climbed the remainder of the slope and stood before the cave. its low entrance was buried in snow, all except a narrow space in the centre, through which the bear had ploughed its way in, and which, since its passing, had partly filled. the trail was so old that we could not determine whether a black or a grizzly bear had made it. but of one thing there could be no doubt: the animal was right there in the dark hole, only a few feet from us, as was shown by the faint wisps of congealed breath floating out of it into the cold air. pitamakan, silently stationing me on the right of the entrance, took his place at the left side, and motioning me to raise my club, shouted, "_pahk-si-kwo-yi, sak-sit!_" (sticky-mouth, come out!) nothing came; nor could we hear any movement, any stir of the leaves inside. again he shouted; and again and again, without result. then, motioning me to follow, he went down the slope. "we'll have to get a pole and jab him," he said, when we came to the timber. "look round for a good one." we soon found a slender dead pine, snapped it at the base where it had rotted, and knocked off the few scrawny limbs. it was fully twenty feet long, and very light. "now i am the stronger," said pitamakan, as we went back, "so do you handle the pole, and i will stand ready to hit a big blow with my club. you keep your club in your right hand, and work the pole into the cave with your left. in that way maybe you will have time to strike, too." when we came to the cave, i found that his plan would not work. i could not force the pole through the pile of snow at the entrance with one hand, so standing the club where i could quickly reach it, i used both hands. at every thrust the pole went in deeper, and in the excitement of the moment i drove it harder and harder, with the result that it unexpectedly went clear through the obstructing snow and on, and i fell headlong. at the instant i went down something struck the far end of the pole such a rap that i could feel the jar of it clear back through the snow, and a muffled, raucous, angry yowl set all my strained nerves a-quiver. as i was gathering myself to rise, the dreadful yowl was repeated right over my head, and down the bear came on me, clawing and squirming. its sharp nails cut right into my legs. i squirmed as best i could under its weight, and no doubt went through the motions of yelling; but my face was buried in the snow, and for the moment i could make no sound. although i was sure that a grizzly was upon me and that my time had come, i continued to wiggle, and to my great surprise, i suddenly slipped free from the weight, rose up, and toppled over backward, catching, as i went, just a glimpse of pitamakan fiercely striking a blow with his club. i was on my feet in no time, and what i saw caused me to yell with delight as i sprang for my club. the bear was kicking and writhing in the snow, and my partner was showering blows on its head. i delivered a blow or two myself before it ceased to struggle. then i saw that it was not a grizzly, but a black bear of no great size. had it been a grizzly, i certainly, and probably pitamakan, too, would have been killed right there. it was some little time before we could settle down to the work in hand. pitamakan had to describe how he had stood ready, and hit the bear a terrific blow on the nose as it came leaping out, and how he had followed it up with more blows as fast as he could swing his club. then i tried to tell how i had felt, crushed under the bear and expecting every instant to be bitten and clawed to death. but words failed me, and, moreover, a stinging sensation in my legs demanded my attention; there were several gashes in them from which blood was trickling, and my trousers were badly ripped. i rubbed the wounds a bit with snow, and found that they were not so serious as they looked. [illustration: pitamakan fiercely striking a blow] the bear, a male, was very fat, and was quite too heavy for us to carry; probably it weighed two hundred pounds. but we could drag it, and taking hold of its fore paws, we started home. it was easy to pull it down the slope and across the ice, but from there to camp, across the level valley, dragging it was very hard work. night had fallen when we arrived, and cold as the air was, we were covered with perspiration. luckily, we had a good supply of wood on hand. pitamakan, opening the ash-heap, raked out a mass of live coals and started a good fire. then we rested and broiled some rabbit meat before attacking the bear. never were there two happier boys than we, as we sat before our fire in that great wilderness, munched our insipid rabbit meat and gloated over our prize. the prehistoric people no doubt considered obsidian knives most excellent tools; but to us, who were accustomed only to sharp steel, they seemed anything but excellent; they severely tried our muscles, our patience, and our temper. they proved, however, to be not such bad flaying instruments. still, we were a long time ripping the bear's skin from the tip of the jaw down along the belly to the tail, and from the tail down the inside of the legs to and round the base of the feet. there were fully two inches of fat on the carcass, and when we finally got the hide off, we looked as if we had actually wallowed in it. by that time, according to the big dipper, it was past midnight, but pitamakan would not rest until he had the back sinews safe out of the carcass and drying before the fire for early use. it is commonly believed that the indians used the leg tendons of animals for bow-cords, thread, and wrappings, but this is a mistake; the only ones they took were the back sinews. these lie like ribbons on the outside of the flesh along the backbone, and vary in length and thickness according to the size of the animal. those of a buffalo bull, for instance, are nearly three feet long, three or four inches wide, and a quarter of an inch thick. when dry, they are easily shredded into thread of any desired size. those that we now took from the bear were not two feet long, but were more than sufficient for a couple of bow-cords. as soon as we had them free, we pressed them against a smooth length of dry wood, where they stuck; and laying this well back from the fire, we began our intermittent night's sleep, for, as i have said, we had to get up frequently to replenish the fire. the next morning, expecting to have a fine feast, i broiled some of the bear meat over the coals, but it was so rank that one mouthful was more than enough; so i helped pitamakan finish the last of the rabbit meat. he would have starved rather than eat the meat of a bear, for to the blackfeet the bear is "medicine," a sacred animal, near kin to man, and therefore not to be used for food. killing a grizzly was considered as great a feat as killing a sioux, or other enemy. but the successful hunter took no part of the animal except the claws, unless he were a medicine-man. the medicine-man, with many prayers and sacrifices to the gods, would occasionally take a strip of the fur to wrap round the roll containing his sacred pipe. pitamakan himself was somewhat averse to our making any use of the black bear's hide, but when i offered to do all the work of scraping off the fat meat and of drying it, he consented to sleep on it once with me, as an experiment, and if his dreams were good, to continue to use it. i went at my task with good will, and was half the morning getting the hide clean and in shape to stretch and dry. pitamakan meanwhile made two bow-cords of the bear sinew. first he raveled them into a mass of fine threads, and then hand-spun them into a twisted cord of the desired length; and he made a very good job of it, too. when he had stretched the cords to dry before the fire, he sharpened a twig of dry birch for an awl, and with the rest of the sinew, repaired our badly ripped moccasins. at noon we started out to hunt, and on the way dragged the bear carcass back to the river and across it into the big timber, where later on we hoped to use it for bait. this day we went up the river, walking noiselessly on the ice. from the start we felt confident of success; for not only were our bow-cords as good as we could desire, but the bows were now in fine condition, having dried out and become more stiff, yet springy. since, during the latter part of the night, more snow had fallen, we could distinguish fresh game tracks from old ones. and now that there was snow on the ice, we naturally expected to see where the hoofed game had been crossing the river; they seldom venture out on smooth ice, from fear of slipping and injuring themselves. the first game we saw were a number of ruffed grouse standing in a row at the edge of a strip of open water, to take their daily drink. they walked away into the willows at our approach, and from there flew into the firs, where we knocked down four of them with our blunt-headed bird arrows. i got only one, for of course i was not so good a marksman with bow and arrow as my partner, who had used the weapon more or less since he was old enough to walk. burying the grouse in the snow at the edge of the shore, we went on, and presently came to the place where several elk had crossed to the north side of the river, browsed among a bordering patch of red willows, and then gone into the thick firs. we followed them, not nearly so excited now that we had trustworthy weapons as we had been on the previous hunt. when we came near the firs, which covered several acres of the bend in the river, pitamakan sent me round to enter the farther side and come through the patch toward him, while he took his stand close to the place where the band had entered. "you needn't come back carefully," he said to me. "make all the noise you can--the more the better; then they will come running out here on their back trail, and i'll get some good shots. you'd better give me one of your real arrows, for you will probably not get a chance even for one shot at them." that left me with only one arrow with an obsidian point, but nevertheless i determined to do my best to get an elk. as pitamakan had remarked about himself, i, too, felt the sun power strong within me that morning and looked for success. with that feeling, call it what you will,--all old hunters will understand what i mean,--i was not at all surprised, a short time after entering the firs, to see, as i was sneaking along through them, a big bull elk astride a willow bush that he had borne down in order to nip the tender tips. he was not fifty feet from me, and no doubt thought that the slight noise which he heard was made by one of his band. he could not see me at first, because of a screen of fir branches between us, and he had not looked up when i made the final step that brought me into the open. but when i raised the bow, he jerked his head sidewise and gathered himself for a jump. he was not so quick as i. the strength of a giant seemed to swell in my arms; i drew the arrow sliding back across the bow almost to the head with a lightning-like pull, and let it go, _zip!_ deep into his side through the small ribs. away he went, and i after him, yelling at the top of my voice to scare the herd toward pitamakan, if possible. i saw several of them bounding away through the firs, but my eyes were all for the red trail of the bull. and presently i came to the great animal, stretched across a snow-covered log and breathing its last; for the arrow had pierced its lungs. "_wo-ke-haí! ni-kaí-nit-ab is-stum-ik!_" (come on! i have killed a bull!) i yelled. and from the far side of the firs came the answer: "_nis-toab ni-mut-uk-stan!_" (i have also killed!) that was great news. although it was hard for me to leave my big bull even for a moment, i went to pitamakan, and found that he had killed a fine big cow. he had used three arrows, and had finally dropped her at the edge of the river. we were so much pleased and excited over our success that it was some time before we could cease telling how it all happened and settle down to work. we had several fresh obsidian flakes, but as the edges soon grew dull, we were all the rest of the day in getting the hides off the animals and going to camp with the meat of the cow. the meat of my bull was too poor to use, but his skin, sinews, brains, and liver were of the greatest value to us, as will be explained. "there is so much for us to do that it is hard to decide what to do first," said pitamakan that night. it was long after dark, and we had just gathered the last of a pile of firewood and sat ourselves down before the cheerful blaze. "the first thing is to cook a couple of grouse, some elk liver, and hang a side of elk ribs over the fire to roast for later eating," i said, and began preparing the great feast. after our long diet of rabbits, it was a feast. we finished the birds and the liver, and then sat waiting patiently for the fat ribs to roast to a crisp brown as they swung on a tripod over the fire. i was now so accustomed to eating meat without salt that i no longer craved the mineral, and of course my companion never thought of it. in those days the blackfeet used none; their very name for it, _is-tsik-si-pok-wi_ (like fire tastes), proved their dislike of the condiment. "well, let us now decide what we shall do first," pitamakan again proposed. "we need new moccasins, new leggings and snowshoes. moreover, we need a comfortable lodge. which shall be first?" "the lodge," i answered, without hesitation. "but how can we make one? what material can we get for one unless we kill twenty elk and tan the skins? that would take a long time." "this is a different kind of lodge," he explained. "when you came up the big river you saw the lodges of the earth people? yes. well, we will build one like theirs." on the voyage up the missouri with my uncle i had not only seen the lodges of the earth people (sak-wi tup-pi), as the blackfeet called the mandans, but i had been inside several of them, and noted how warm and comfortable they were. their construction was merely a matter of posts, poles, and earth. we agreed to begin one in the morning, and do no hunting until it was done. the site that we chose for the lodge was a mile below camp and close to the river, where two or three years before a fire, sweeping through a growth of "lodge-pole" pines, had killed thousands of the young, slender trees. in a grove of heavy firs close by we began the work, and as every one should know how to build a comfortable house without the aid of tools and nails, i will give some details of the construction. in place of the four heavy corner posts which the mandans cut, we used four low-crotched trees that stood about twenty feet apart in the form of a square. in the crotches on two sides of the square we laid as heavy a pole as we could carry, and bolstered up the centre with a pile of flat rocks, to keep it from sagging. on the joists, as these may be called, we laid lighter poles side by side, to form the roof. in the centre we left a space about four feet wide, the ends of which we covered with shorter poles, until we reduced it to a hole four feet square. the next task was to get the poles for the sides. these we made of the proper length by first denting them with sharp-edged stones and then snapping them off. they were slanted all round against the four sides, except for a narrow space in the south side, which we left for a doorway. next we thatched the roof and sides with a thick layer of balsam boughs, on top of which we laid a covering of earth nearly a foot deep. this earth we shoveled into an elk hide with elk shoulder blades, and then carried each load to its proper place. lastly, we constructed in the same manner a passageway six or eight feet long to the door. all this took us several days to accomplish, and was hard work. but when we had laid a ring of heavy stones directly under the square opening in the roof for a fireplace, made a thick bed of balsam boughs, and covered it with the bearskin, put up an elkskin for a door, and sat us down before a cheerful fire, we had a snug, warm house, and were vastly proud of it. "now for some adventure," said pitamakan, as we sat eating our first meal in the new house. "what say you we had best do?" "make some moccasins and snowshoes," i replied. "we can do that at night. let us----" the sentence was never finished. a terrible booming roar, seemingly right overhead, broke upon our ears. pitamakan's brown face turned an ashy gray as he sprang up, crying: "run! run! run!" chapter vii out into the snow we ran, while nearer and nearer sounded that terrific roaring and rumbling; it was as if the round world was being rent asunder. pitamakan led the way straight back from the river toward the south side of the valley, and we had run probably two hundred yards before the noise ceased as suddenly as it had begun. we were quite out of breath, and it was some time before i could ask what had happened. "why, don't you know?" he said. "that was a great piece of the ice cliff on the mountain across there. it broke off and came tearing down into the valley. trees, boulders, everything in its way were smashed and carried down. i thought that it was going to bury our lodge." pitamakan wanted to make an early start in the morning to view the path of the avalanche, but i insisted that we stay at home and work hard until the things that we needed so much were finished. i had my way. ever since the day of the elk killing, we had kept one of the big hides in the river in order to loosen the hair. in the morning we brought it into the lodge, and laying it over a smooth, hard piece of driftwood, grained it with a heavy elk rib for a graining-knife. it was very hard work. although we sharpened an edge of the rib with a piece of sandstone and kept it as sharp as possible, we had to bear down on it with all our strength, pushing it an inch or two at a time in order to separate the hair from the skin. taking turns, we were half a day in finishing the job. we cut the hide into two parts. of these, we dried one, and cut the other into webbing-strings for snowshoes--tedious work with our obsidian knives. as soon as the half hide was dry, i rubbed elk brains and liver well into it, and then, rolling it up, laid it away for a couple of days until the mixture could neutralize the large amount of glue that is in all hides. after that operation, i spent half a day in washing the hide and then rubbing and stretching it as it dried. i had then a very good piece of elk leather,--so-called "buckskin,"--enough for four pairs of moccasins. these pitamakan and i made very large, so that they would go over the rabbit-skins with which we wrapped our feet as a protection from the cold. our needle for sewing them was a sharp awl made from a piece of an elk's leg bone; the thread was of elk sinew. _o-wam_ (shape of eggs) is the blackfoot name for snowshoes. those that we made were neither shaped like an egg nor like anything else. the bows were of birch, and no two were alike, and the webbing was woven on them in a way to make a forest indian laugh. neither pitamakan's people nor the other tribes of the plains knew anything about snowshoes except in a general way, and i had never seen a pair. all things considered, however, we did a fairly good job. if the shoes were heavy and clumsy, at least they were serviceable, for they sank only a few inches in the snow when we tested them. the evening we finished this work another snowstorm came on, which lasted two nights and a day, and forced us to postpone our hunt. we employed the time in improving the interior of the lodge by building a heavier stone platform for the fire, one that would give off considerable heat after we went to sleep. in order to create a draft for the fire, we were forced to admit some air through the doorway, and this chilled us. finally, i remembered that i had seen in the mandan lodges screens several feet high, put between the doorway and the fire, in order to force the cold air upward. we made one at once of poles, backed with earth, and then, building a small fire, sat down on our bed to see how it worked; no more cold air swept across the floor, and we were absolutely comfortable. but in the night, although the stones gave out some heat, we were obliged to replenish the fire as soon as it died down. what we needed in order to have unbroken sleep was bedding. pitamakan said that one animal here, the white mountain goat, had a warmer, thicker coat of fur than the buffalo. we determined to get some of the hides and tan them into soft robes. the morning after the storm broke clear and cold, but my partner refused to go up into the high mountains after goats. "we must put it off and do something else to-day," he said. "i had a very bad dream last night--a confused dream of a bear and a goat, one biting and clawing me, and the other sticking its sharp horns into my side. now either that is a warning not to hunt goats to-day, or it is a sign that the bearskin that we are sleeping on is bad medicine. this is not the first bad dream that i have had since lying on it." "my dreams have all been good since we began sleeping on it," i said. "then use it by yourself; i shall not sleep on it again." "oh, dreams don't mean anything!" i exclaimed. "white people pay no attention to them." "that is because your gods give you different medicine from that our gods give us," he said, very seriously. "to us is given the dream; in that way our gods show us the things we may and may not do. do not speak lightly of it, lest you bring harm to me." i had sense enough to heed his wish; never afterward, either by word or look, did i cast even a shadow of doubt upon his beliefs. for that reason, largely, we got along together in perfect harmony, as all companions should. as there was in his dream nothing about other animals, we put on our snowshoes and started out to hunt and set traps in the valley. at odd moments we had been making triggers of different sizes for deadfalls, and now had fifteen ready to use. they were of the "figure " pattern; more complicated than the two-piece triggers, but more sure of action. having with the small ones set deadfalls for marten, fisher, and mink, we went on up the river to the carcasses of the bear and the bull elk. we found that both had been almost entirely eaten by wolverenes, lynxes, and mountain lions. having built at each of these places a large deadfall, we weighted the drop-bars so heavily with old logs that there could be no escape for the largest prowler once he seized the bait. by the time we had the last of the triggers baited and set up and the little pen built behind the drop-bar, night was coming on, and we hurried home. we had seen many tracks of deer, elk, and moose, but had been too busy to hunt any of them. as we neared the lodge, another snowstorm set in, but that did not disturb us; in fact, the more snow the better, for with deep snow the hoofed game of the valley would be unable to escape us. we could choose the fat does and cows for our winter's meat. the bucks and bulls were already poor, and the others would lose flesh rapidly once they were obliged to "yard," that is, to confine themselves to their hard-beaten trails in the limited area of a willow patch. it was a heavy snow that fell in the night, and the next morning snowshoeing was good. as pitamakan had had no bad dreams, and the sun was shining in a clear sky, we started out for a goat hunt. after climbing the mountain-side opposite the lodge for some time, we came to a series of ledges, whence we obtained a fine view of the country which we were living in. the mountain which we were on was high and very steep. not far below its summit was the big ice field, terminating at the edge of a cliff, from which a great mass had tumbled, and started the avalanche that had frightened us. turning to the east and pointing to the backbone of the range, pitamakan told me to notice how absolutely white it all was except the perpendicular cliffs, where snow could not lie. there was no question but that the snow was a great deal deeper up there than where we were. i thought that there was a longing in pitamakan's eyes as he gazed at the tremendous wall of rock and snow that separated us from the plains and from our people, but as he said nothing, i kept quiet. for myself, i felt that i would give anything, suffer any hardships, if i could only get once more to fort benton and my uncle. true, we now had a comfortable lodge and plenty of elk meat, weapons for killing game, snowshoes for traveling, and the outlook for more comforts was favorable. but for all that, the future was very uncertain; there were many things that might prevent our ever reaching the missouri; all nature was arrayed against us, and so was man himself. pitamakan roused me from my reverie by a tap on the shoulder. "i can see no goat signs here above us," he said, "but look over there at the ledges well up on the next mountain to the east. do you see the fresh trails?" i did. in the smooth, glittering snow they were startlingly distinct in their windings and turnings from clump to clump of the pines on the rocky ledges. none of the animals that made them were in sight, but that was not strange; as they were of practically the same color as the snow, we could not see them at that distance except when they happened to get in front of the dark pines or rock. although the distance over there was not more than a mile in a straight line, a cut gorge between the two mountains obliged us to return to the river before making the ascent, which more than doubled the distance. after striking the river, we followed it up past the mouth of the gorge, past three of the deadfalls set near the shore. the first one held a fine, large, dark-furred marten, its body nipped across the shoulders and crushed by the drop-bar. taking the little victim out, and hanging it in a tree, we reset the trap. the next deadfall was unsprung. the third, one of the big falls, was down, and we hurried as fast as we could to see what it held. "a lynx," i ventured. "a wolverene," pitamakan guessed. we were both wrong. pinned down by the neck was a big mountain lion, to us the most valuable of all the animals of the forest. the blackfeet, as well as the crows and gros ventres, prized the skins very highly for use as saddle-robes--we could get at least four horses for this one. taking such a prize made us feel rich. leaving it in the fall until our return, we turned off from the river and began the ascent of the mountain in high spirits. for a time the going was good, although increasingly difficult. after we had passed through the big timber, the mountain became more and more steep, until it was impossible for us to go farther on snowshoes. taking them off, we wallowed up through the deep snow from ledge to ledge, keeping away from the clumps of stunted pine as much as possible, for in them the snow lay deepest and was most fluffy. the weather was bitterly cold, but we were warm enough, even perspiring from our exertions. much as we needed to stop and rest at frequent intervals, it was impossible to do so, for the instant we halted we began to shiver. more than once we were on the point of giving up the hunt, but each time the thought of what a few goat hides meant to us strengthened our legs to further endeavor. i never envied a bird more than i did one that i saw that day. a clark's crow it was, raucous of voice and insolent, that kept flying a short distance ahead of us and lighting on the pines, where it pretended to pick kernels out of the big cones. if we could only fly like that, i kept thinking, within a moment's time we could be right on the goats. strange as it may seem, there was more bird life on that bleak, cold height than in the forest below. one variety of small, sweet singers, flying all round us in large flocks, was especially numerous. i wondered what they could be. long years afterward an ornithologist told me that they were gray-crowned finches--arctic birds that love the winter cold and are happiest in a snowdrift. we saw, too, many chattering flocks of bohemian waxwings, also visitors from the arctic regions. most interesting of all were the ptarmigan, small, snow-white grouse with jet-black eyes, bill, and toes. never descending to the valleys, either for food or shelter, they live on the high, bare mountains the year round. they are heavily feathered clear to the toes, so that their feet cannot freeze; and at night, and by day, too, in severe weather, instead of roosting in the dwarf pines they plunge down into soft snow, tunnel under the surface for several feet, and then tramp a chamber large enough to sit in. these birds were very tame, and often allowed us to get within fifteen or twenty feet of them before flying or running away. some were saucy and made a great fuss at our approach, cocking up their tails and cackling, and even making a feint of charging us. at last we came walking out on a ledge that ended at the side of a big gouge in the mountain, and on the far verge of it saw a goat, a big old fellow, sitting at the edge of a small cliff. it was sitting down on its haunches, just as a dog does. should you see a cow, a sheep, or any herbivorous animal do that, you would think his position extremely ludicrous. in the case of the goat, because of its strange and uncouth shape, it is more than ludicrous; it is weird. the animal has a long, broad-nosed head, set apparently right against its shoulders; a long, flowing beard hangs from its chin; its withers are extremely high, and its hams low, like those of the buffalo. its abnormally long hair flutters round its knees like a pair of embroidered pantalets, and rises eight or ten inches in length above the shoulders. the tail is short, and so heavily haired that it looks like a thick club. its round, scimitar-shaped black horns rise in a backward curve from the thick, fuzzy coat, and seem very small for the big, deep-chested animal. the goat was almost as new to pitamakan as to me. "what is the matter with it?" he exclaimed. "do you think it is sick, or hurt?" "he looks as if he felt very sad," i replied. and truly the animal did look very dejected, its head sunk on its brisket, its black eyes staring vacantly at the valley far below, as if it were burdened with all the pains and sorrows of the ages. we were so interested in watching it that at first we did not see the others, thirteen in all, scattered close round on the little ledges above him. some were standing, others lying down. one big old "billy" lay under a low-branched dwarf pine, and now and then would raise its head, bite off a mouthful of the long, coarse needles, and deliberately chew them. we had come out in plain view of the band, and now wondered that they had not seen us and run away. "let's back up step by step until we are in the shelter of the pines back there, then look out a way to get to them," pitamakan proposed. on starting to do so, we found that the goats had seen us all the time. two or three of them turned their heads and stared at us with apparent curiosity; the old billy at the edge of the cliff gave us one vacant stare, and resumed his brooding; the others paid no attention to our movements. unquestionably they had never seen man before, and did not consider us enemies because we were not four-legged, like the beasts that preyed upon them. so instead of backing cautiously, we turned and walked into the little clump of pines, and beyond them to a deep gutter, where we began the difficult task of stalking the animals. we had to climb for several hundred yards to a broad ledge, follow it for perhaps twice that distance, and then work our way, as best we could, straight down to the goats. that was a terrible climb. as the angle of the mountain was such that the climb would have been difficult on bare rock, you can imagine how hard it was to go up in the deep snow. using our snowshoes for shovels and taking the lead in turn, we fought our way through, upward, inch by inch. more than once a mass of snow gave way above our gouging, and swept us down a few feet or a few yards. once pitamakan was buried so deep in it that i was obliged to dig him out; he was gasping for breath by the time i uncovered his head. on the ledge the going was so level that we wore our snowshoes a part of the way across, and then, wading to a point directly above the goats, we began the descent. that was easy. straight ahead of us the mountain dropped in a series of little shelves, or cliffs, down which we could easily climb. stopping when we thought we were near to the goats, we strung our bows and fitted arrows to them. as i was a poor shot, i took but one arrow, to be used only in an emergency. pitamakan carried the other four. in a few moments we struck a deep and well-packed goat trail that meandered along a shelf thirty, and in places fifty feet wide. here and there were clumps of dwarf pine and juniper that prevented our seeing very far ahead, and pitamakan gave me the sign to look sharp for the game. a moment later, as we followed the trail round some pines, we came face to face with a big billy-goat. the instant that he saw us he bristled up his hair and came for us. did you ever see a wild pig prance out for a fight? well, that is the way that goat came at us--head down and prancing sidewise. i don't know whether we were more surprised or scared; probably scared. the sight of those round, sharp black horns made our flesh creep; indeed, the whole aspect of the uncouth animal was terrifying. coming at us head on, there was little chance for an arrow to do any damage to him. "run out that way!" pitamakan cried, as he gave me a push. "i'll go this way!" there was not any running about it; we waddled to one side and the other from the cañon-like trail out into the deep snow, and it was remarkable what progress we made. as i said, the goat came prancing toward us, not jumping full speed, as he might have done, so that we had plenty of time to get out of the trail. when he came opposite he seemed undecided what to do next. we did not give him time to make up his mind. pitamakan let fly an arrow, while i stood ready to shoot if need be. but pitamakan's shaft sped true; the old billy flinched and humped himself, threw up his head with a pitiful, silly expression of surprise, and dropped in his tracks. we waded back into the trail and examined our prize; such heavy, thick, long hair and fleece i had never seen on any other animal. at the base of the sharp horns were black, warty, rubber-like excrescences. "smell them!" pitamakan bade me, and i did. they gave off an exceedingly rank odor of musk. pitamakan now pulled out the arrow; it had evidently pierced the heart. he proposed that we go after the band and kill as many as possible; we needed at least four large, or six small skins for a good bed-robe. "well, come on, lead the way," i said. he held up his hand, and i could see his eyes grow big as if from fear. "what is it?" i asked. he did not answer, but stood anxiously looking this way and that, and soon i, too, heard the faint, remote droning noise that had alarmed him. we looked at the mountain above us, and at others near and far, but there was nowhere any sign of an avalanche. the droning noise became louder and deeper, filling us with dread all the more poignant because it was impossible to determine the cause. "the old medicine-men told the truth!" said pitamakan. "these mountains are no place for the blackfeet. the gods that dwell here are not our gods, and they do strange and cruel things to us plains people when they get the chance." i had nothing to say. we listened; the droning grew louder; it seemed all about us, and yet we could see nothing unusual. "come on! let's get away from here!" pitamakan cried. chapter viii "where shall we go?" i asked. "this noise seems to come from everywhere and nowhere." i looked up at the top of the mountain which we were on, and saw a long streak of snow extending eastward from it like an immense pennant. "look! it is nothing but the wind that is making that noise!" i exclaimed. "see how it is driving the snow up there!" "yes," pitamakan agreed. "but listen. the sound of its blowing does not come from there any more than from elsewhere. it comes from every direction up there in the blue." we could now see snow flying from the tops of the mountains on the opposite side of the valley. in a few moments the whole summit of the range was lost in a vast haze of drifting, flying snow. but where we were there was only a gentle breeze from the west, which did not increase in force. i remembered now that in winter, when fierce northwest winds blew across the plains, the summit of the rockies was always hidden by grayish-white clouds. it was a strange sensation to hear the drone of a terrific wind and not feel it, and i said so. "everything is strange in this country," my partner said, dully. "here wind-maker lives; and many another of the mountain and forest gods. we have to make strong medicine, brother, to escape them." this was the first of the terrific winter winds that blow across the northwest plains. many a time thereafter we heard the strange roaring sound that seemed to come from nowhere in particular; but down in the valley, and even high up on the sides of the mountains, near the lodge, there was never more than a gentle breeze. pitamakan was always depressed when we heard the strange roaring, and it made me feel nervous and apprehensive of i knew not what. we waded and slid and fell down to the next ledge, and there, working our way to the edge, we saw some of the goats right beneath us. there were seven of them,--old "nannies," two kids, and "billies" one and two years old,--all in a close bunch not more than twenty feet below us. instead of running, they stood and stared up at us vacuously, while their concave faces seemed to heighten their expression of stupid wonder. pitamakan shot one of the nannies. at the same time i drew my bow on one of the goats, but on second thought eased it, for i might waste a precious arrow. i had to use all my will power in denying myself that chance to add another animal to my list of trophies. pitamakan was not wasting any time: _zip! zip! zip!_ he sped his remaining arrows, reached out for one of mine, and shot it just as an old nannie, awaking to the fact that something was wrong with her kindred, started off to the left at a lumbering gallop, more ungainly and racking than that of a steer. here was success, indeed! i was so excited that i went aimlessly from one to another of the goats, feeling of their heavy coats and smooth, sharp horns. having dressed the animals, we dragged them from the ledges out on the steep slide, where we fastened them one to another in a novel way. making a slit down the lower joint of a hind leg, we thrust a fore leg of the next animal through it,--between tendon and bone,--then slit the fore leg in the same manner, and stuck a stick in it so that it could not slip out. we soon had all five animals fastened in line, and then taking the first one by the horns, we started down. the deep snow was now a help instead of a hindrance; for it kept our tow of game from sliding too fast down the tremendously steep incline. knowing that we were likely to start an avalanche, we kept as close to the edge of the timber as we could. even so, i had the feeling which a man has while walking on thin ice over deep water. i tried to push cautiously through the snow, and looked back anxiously whenever the game in a particularly steep place came sliding down on us by the mere pull of its own weight. pitamakan was less apprehensive. "if a slide starts, we can probably get out of it by making a rush for the timber," he said. "anyhow, what is to be will be, so don't worry." we came safe to the foot of the slide, but had time to skin only one goat before dark; it was slow work with our obsidian knives. as we could not safely leave the others unprotected from the prowlers during the night, we laid them side by side on a heap of balsam boughs, where the air could circulate all round them, and pitamakan hung his capote on a stick right over them, in order that the sight and odor of it might prevent any wandering lion, lynx, or wolverene from robbing us. to go without his capote in such cold weather was certainly a sacrifice on pitamakan's part. if i am asked why we took pains to lay the game on boughs, the answer is that, although any one would think that snow would be a natural refrigerator, the opposite is the case, for freshly killed animals will spoil in a few hours if they are buried in it. to keep from freezing, pitamakan hurried on to camp, while i followed slowly with the goatskin and head. there was not time to take the lion or marten from the deadfalls. when i got to the lodge, pitamakan had a fire burning and the last of the cow elk ribs roasting over it. we were wet to the skin, of course, but that did not matter. off came our few garments, to be hung a short time over the fire and then put on again. how cheerful and restful it was to stretch out on our balsam beds and enjoy the heat after the long day's battle with snow and precipitous mountain-sides! the next day, and for many days thereafter, we had much work to keep us busy. we skinned the goats, tanned the hides into soft robes, and sewed them together in the form of a big bag, with the fur side in. the night on which we crawled into it for the first time was a great occasion. on that night, for the very first time since leaving the blackfoot camp, we slept perfectly warm and without waking with shivers to rebuild the fire. the deadfalls also took a great deal of our time. every night some of them were sprung, and we found from one to three or four valuable fur animals under the drop-bars. it was a tedious job to skin them and properly stretch the pelts to dry, but for all that, we loved the work and were proud of the result. here and there in the lodge a few marten, fisher, wolverene, and lynx skins were always drying, and in a corner the pile of cured peltries was steadily growing. three of them were of mountain lions. during this time much more snow fell; it was fully six feet deep in the woods when the last of the elk hams was broiled and eaten. for a day or two we subsisted on goat meat, although the best of it had a slight musky odor and flavor. as pitamakan said, it was not real food. as our bows were not nearly so strong as they looked, my partner was always wishing for glue, so that we might back them with sinew. there was material enough for glue, but there was nothing to make it in. "the mandans made pots of earth," i said to him one day. "perhaps we can make one that will stand fire and water." out we went along the river to look for clay. at the first cut-bank that we came to i gouged off the snow that thinly coated its perpendicular side, and lo! there was a layer of clay six inches thick between two layers of gravel. we broke out several large flat chunks of the stuff,--it was frozen, of course,--and carried it to the lodge. there, breaking it into fine pieces and thawing it, we added a small amount of water, and worked it into a stiff paste of the right consistency, as we thought, for moulding. pitamakan, always artistic, fashioned a thin bowl like those that he had seen in the mandan village, while i made mine an inch thick, with a capacity of not more than two quarts. when we baked them in the coals, mine cracked, and pitamakan's fell to pieces. that was discouraging; evidently the clay was not of the right consistency. i worked up another portion of clay with less water, while my partner added even more water than before to his batch. we each soon had a bowl fashioned and put to bake. in a few minutes the one which pitamakan had made fell to pieces, but mine, which was thick and clumsy in shape, seemed to stand the heat well. i gradually increased the fire round it, and after keeping the blaze up for a long time, i allowed the fire at last to die out gradually. the bowl turned out fairly well; for although it had one crack in the side, it was dark red in color, and gave a substantial ring when we tapped it with a stick. however, we took no chances of a mishap by moving it. we plastered the crack with fresh clay, and then, putting into it nearly a quart of water, an elk hoof and a couple of goat hoofs, we rebuilt the fire just close enough to make the mixture simmer, and adding more water from time to time during the day, patiently awaited results. "_ai-y!_ it is real glue!" pitamakan exclaimed that evening, after dipping a stick in the mess and testing it with his fingers. we were quite excited and proud of our success. softening the four elk sinews in the hot glue, pitamakan then plastered a pair of them on each bow. the place where the ends overlapped at the centre, he bound with a sinew wrapping. of course the bows were unstrung when the backing was put on, and as soon as the work was done, we laid them away from the fire, that they might dry slowly. in the morning, the first thing, after crawling out of our fur nest, we strung and tested them, and found that the backing had more than doubled their strength and elasticity. now we were ready to hunt our winter meat, and after a hurried breakfast of musky goat steak, we started in quest of the game. not since the day of the goat hunt had we seen any tracks of moose, elk, or deer. pitamakan said that he had heard that the deer went from the high mountains down toward the lake of the flatheads to winter, and that we need not expect to see any more of them. but he added that it did not matter, for other game would yard close round the lodge. taking a zigzag course and examining every red willow patch along our route, we went down the valley. as it was a stinging cold day, we had our hands tucked up in the sleeves of our capotes, and our bows and arrows under our arms, for as yet we had no mittens. our legs suffered, too, from need of new coverings. the first game that we saw was an otter, fishing in a dark pool at the foot of a rapid. he would crawl out on the ice fringing it, sit still for a moment, sniffing the air and looking sharp for any enemy, and then make a sudden dive. we watched him until he had brought up a big trout and had begun to eat it, when we turned away without the animal seeing us. except at close range, the otter's eyesight is poor, but he has a keen nose and sharp ears. later we intended to set a deadfall for him, if by any means we could catch fish to bait it. a mile or more below the lodge we came to a deep, hard-packed trail, which wound and branched in every direction through a big red-willow thicket, which we guessed to be a moose yard. in many places the willows had been browsed off as far out from the paths as the animals could stretch their necks. here and there were large, hard-packed circular depressions in the snow where they had lain down to rest and sleep, always, i imagine, with one of their number on the watch for any prowling mountain lion. we went down through the centre of the yard, although we had some difficulty in crossing the deep trails on our snowshoes. soon we sighted the game--two cow moose, two calves, and two yearlings. the instant that they saw us the old lead cow trotted away down the trail, leading the others, and then by turning into every successive left-hand fork, tried to circle round behind us. when we headed her off, she turned and tried to circle round us in the other direction. then pitamakan and i separated, and in that way drove the little band steadily ahead of us, until it reached the lower end of the yard. there, with a tremendous leap, the old cow broke out of the yard into the fresh snow, and the way she made it fly behind her reminded me of the stern wheel of a missouri river steamboat beating up spray. all the others followed her until we came close, when all but her calf wheeled in the new path and rushed back for the yard. they were so close to us that we might almost have touched them. pitamakan shot an arrow deep between the ribs of the cow, and by a lucky aim i put my one arrow into the calf behind her. both of them fell, but the two yearlings, scrambling over their bodies, escaped into the yard. we went on in pursuit of the other cow and her calf. the strength that she displayed in breaking her way through six feet of snow was wonderful. for at least three hundred yards she went faster than we could go on our web shoes, but after that she gave out rapidly, and finally stopped altogether. when we came close to her, she plunged back past the calf and stood awaiting us, determined to protect it to the last. all the hair on her shoulders and back was ruffed and bristling forward, while her eyes blazed with anger, although there was also in them the look of terror and despair. when we got close to her, she rushed at us. we had to do some lively scrambling to keep out of her way. but she soon tired, and then while i attracted her attention, pitamakan slipped round on the other side of her. as his bow-cord twanged, she dropped her head, and the light almost instantly went out of her eyes. the poor calf met the same fate a moment later. it was cruel work, but as necessary as it was cruel; we killed that we might live. there remained the two yearlings, and i proposed that we spare them. pitamakan looked at me with surprise. "what! let them go?" he exclaimed. "and many winter moons yet before us? why, brother, you talk foolishly! of course we must kill them. even then we may not have enough meat to last until spring." so we chased them also out into deep snow, and did as he said. by the time we had one calf skinned we were obliged to go home and gather the night's wood. the next day we skinned the rest of the animals, cut up the meat, and hung it in trees, whence it could be packed home from time to time. two of the hides we put to soak in the river, preparatory to graining and tanning them. the others we stretched on frames and allowed to freeze dry, after which we laid them on our couch. during the short days we tended the deadfalls, skinned and stretched what fur was trapped in them, packed in meat and hung it beside the lodge, and tanned the two hides. having done the tanning successfully, we went into the tailoring business. pitamakan cut pieces of proper shape from the big, soft skins, but in the work of sewing i did my share. after three or four evenings' work, we were the proud wearers of new shirts, new leggings, and new mittens. our earthen pot fell to pieces the day after we had made glue in it. that was a serious loss, for we had intended to boil meat in it. roasted meat is good, but does not do so well as a steady diet. the indians of the north regard boiled meat as we regard bread, that is, as the staff of life. pitamakan, who craved it more than i, determined, now that we had plenty of hides, to use a part of one for a kettle. from one of the yearling moose hides he cut a large, round piece, soaked it in the river until it was soft, and then sewed the edge in pleats to a birch hoop about two feet in diameter, so as to make a stiff-rimmed bag about as deep as it was wide. with a strip of hide he suspended it from a pole in the lodge roof. next he set several clean stones in the fire to heat, and put some rather finely cut meat in the bag with two quarts of water. when the rocks were red-hot, he dropped them one by one into the bag, and pulled them out to reheat as fast as they cooled. in this way the meat was boiled. such was the ancient way of cooking it before the white traders brought pots and kettle into the north country. the meat was not cooked long, only long enough, in fact to change its color, and was really more nutritious than it would have been had it been stewed a long time. we enjoyed that first meal of it with keen relish, and thereafter ate more boiled than roasted meat. as the winter snows settled and hardened, we saw more and more trails of otter along the river, where they traveled from one open hole to another to do their fishing, and one day we began our campaign against them by going fishing ourselves. our tackle consisted of a sinew cord and loop several feet long, tied to a long, slender pole. in the first open pool that we looked into there were numerous trout and suckers; of course we tried first to snare the trout. we soon learned, however, that it could not be done, for they would not allow the loop to come nearer than five or six inches to their heads, but always drifted downstream from it in a tantalizing manner. next, trying the suckers, big, reddish-black fellows of two pounds' weight, we found them easy to snare. they lay as if they were half dead, their bellies close to the bottom, and never moved when the loop drifted down round their heads, thinking, no doubt, that it was but a piece of passing water-grass. when the noose was just behind the gills, we gave the pole a sharp yank, and up came the fish, wriggling and flapping, helpless in the grip of the tightened cord. after we caught three of them, we spent the rest of the morning setting a deadfall at each of three pools where the otters were working. but for some time afterward we got no otters; of all animals they are the shyest and most difficult to trap. it was not until all traces of the man scent had died out that one was finally lured by the sucker bait, and was killed by the fall-bar. as time passed, we set more and more deadfalls up and down the valley, so many that finally we could not make the round of them all in one day. one morning we would attend to those lying east of the lodge, and the next morning visit those to the west of it. the farthest one to the west was at least seven miles away, and for some unknown reason more fur came to it than to any of the others; we seldom visited it without finding a marten or a fisher. pitamakan called it the _nat-o-wap-i kyak-ach-is_--medicine-trap, as the words may be freely translated. _nat-o-wap-i_ really means "of the sun"--"sun-power." as we approached this deadfall one day, when we had taken nothing from the other traps except a marten that a passing fisher had maliciously torn to shreds, pitamakan began the coyote prayer song, because, as he said, something had to be done to bring us better luck. we soon saw the deadfall, noticed that the bar was down, and hurried eagerly forward to see what it held, while my partner sang louder than ever. on coming to it, we found a fine, black, fluffy-furred fisher; whereupon pitamakan raised his hand and began chanting a prayer of thanks to the gods. meanwhile i saw, a little farther on, a trail in the snow which excited my interest, and i impatiently waited for him to finish his devotions to call his attention to it. "look! there's the trail of a bear!" i said, although it seemed odd to me that a bear should be wandering round in the dead of winter. we hurried over to it. what we saw made us stare wildly round with fright, while we quickly strung our bows. it was the trail of a man on long, narrow web shoes--an indian, of course, and therefore an enemy. the trail was fresh, too, apparently as fresh as our own. and but a moment before, pitamakan had been singing at the top of his voice! chapter ix crossing the valley from south to north in front of us, the snowshoe trail disappeared, a hundred yards away, in a clump of pines. the indian, brushing against a branch, had relieved it of its weight of snow, and its dark green foliage stood out in sharp contrast with the prevailing white. there was a chance that he might still be in that thicket. "we must know if he is there," said pitamakan. "though he didn't hear us we must still know whence this enemy came, and why, and where he is going." we began by going cautiously round the pines. from a distance, we could see the trail coming out of them on the farther side and going on straight to the river, where the water fell in cascades over a wide series of low, broken reefs. from there the trail followed the edge of the open water down past the last of the falls, and then showed plain on the frozen river as far as we could see. venturing now to follow it to the cascades, we learned at a glance, on arriving there, why the lone traveler had come into our peaceful valley. at the edge of the water the snow was all trampled down, and the prints of bare feet in it showed that the man had been wading in the river. scattered on the packed snow were several fragments of dark green rock, one of which pitamakan picked up and examined. "this is what he came after," he said. "it is pipestone and very soft. both the kootenays and the flatheads make their pipes of it because it is so easily worked into shape." "where do you think he came from?" i asked. "from the camp of his people. these mountain indians winter down along their big lake. very little snow falls there, and horse-feed is always good." "well, if he came from down there, why do we find his trail to this place coming straight across the valley from the south?" "ah, that is so!" pitamakan exclaimed. "come on! we must find out about that." we took the man's back trail, and, passing our deadfall, paused to note how plainly it could be seen from several points along the way. it was a wonder that he had noticed neither the deadfall nor our hard-packed, snowshoe trail. "the gods were certainly good to us!" my partner exclaimed. "they caused him to look the other way as he passed." the back trail led us straight to the foot of the steep mountain rising from the valley. there, in several places, the snow was scraped away to the ground, where evidently the man had searched for the pipestone ledge that was probably exposed somewhere near. failing to find it, he had been obliged to go to the river and wade to the place where it again cropped out. his trail to the side hill came straight up the valley. we certainly had something to think and talk about now--and also to worry about. others of the enemy might come after pipestone, and there was our trail running straight to the place. going back to the deadfall, we took out the fisher, but did not reset the trap; for we determined not to go thereafter within several miles of the pipestone falls. another heavy snowfall would pretty much obliterate our trail, and we prayed that it would soon come. from that day, indeed, our sense of peace and security was gone. sitting within the lodge, we always had the feeling that the enemy might be close by, waiting to shoot us when we stepped outside. on the daily rounds of our traps we were ever watching places where a foe might be lying in wait. pitamakan said that the only thing for us to do was to make strong medicine. accordingly, he gave our bearskin to the sun; he lashed it firmly in the fork of a tree, and made a strong prayer to the shining god to guard us from being ambushed by the enemy. although we had long since lost track of the days of the week, we agreed in thinking that the discovery of the man's trail took place in "the moon before the moon when the web-feet come"; or, as the white man would say, in february. at the end of the next moon, then,--in march,--spring would come on the plains. up where we were, however, the snow would last much longer--probably until may. pitamakan said that we must leave the valley long before then, because with the first signs of spring the deer would be working back into the high mountains, and the kootenays would follow them. "how can we do that when, as you say, the pass cannot be crossed until summer?" i asked. "there is another pass to the south of us," he replied, "the two medicine pass. there is no dangerous place anywhere along it." "then we can easily get out of here!" i exclaimed. "let us start soon." he shook his head. "no," he said. "we can't go until the snow melts from the low country where the kootenays and flatheads winter. we have to go down there to make our start on the two medicine trail." "why so?" said i, in surprise. "why can't we go straight south from here until we strike it?" he laughed grimly. "between us and the trail lie many cañons and many mountains that none but the birds can cross. besides, along each stream is a trail used by these indians in their hunts up toward the backbone of the range, which is like the trail that crosses over to the two medicine. i could not recognize the right one when we came to it, and we should follow up one after another, and wear ourselves out. i remember some landmarks only where the right trail leaves the lake and enters the heavy timber, and from that place we have to start. also, we have to start from there on bare ground; for if we started on the snow, our trail would be seen and followed, and that would be the end for us." "well, then, let's go up and look at the summit of our pass," i proposed. "it may not be so bad as you think. perhaps we can find some way to cross the dangerous place." he objected that we should waste our time, but i kept urging that we must overlook no possible chance to escape to the plains, until finally i persuaded him. one bright morning we put on our snowshoes and started. as the going was good on the deep, settled snow, we were not long in covering the distance to the salt springs. up and down the mountainside, all round them, was a perfect network of goat trails in the snow, and here and there were large and small groups of the strange, uncouth animals, some lying down, some sitting and staring dejectedly off into space, while still others were cropping lichens from wind-swept, rocky walls. although several of them were less than three hundred yards away, they paid no attention to us. after watching some that were feeding on the cliff wall, where they looked as if they were pasted to it, we came to the conclusion that they could travel where a bighorn would certainly fall and be dashed to pieces. one old billy-goat was almost human in the way in which he got over difficult places. after standing on his hind legs and gathering all the lichen within reach he concluded to ascend to the next shelf. since there was not room for him to back away for a leap, he placed his forefeet over the edge, and drew himself up on to it--exactly as a man draws himself up by the sheer muscular strength of his arms. not far beyond the springs, we left the last of the timber and began the ascent of the summit proper, and soon came into the zone of terrific winds; but fortunately for us, there was scarce a breath stirring that day. the snow was so hard-packed by the wind that when we removed our snowshoes, our moccasined feet left no impressions in it. the rocky slopes facing the northwest were absolutely bare, while those pitching the other way lay buried under drifts from five to fifty feet and more in depth. late in the afternoon we came to the west end of the pass, having made twice as good time in the ascent as we had in the descent in the autumn with horses. i needed but one glance at the place to be convinced that it was impassable. the steep slide where my horse and i had so nearly been lost was buried deep in snow; towering above it were heavy, greenish, concave drifts of snow clinging to the knife-edge wall and likely to topple over at any moment. our weight might, and probably would, start an avalanche rushing down the slide and off into abysmal space. we stood in the trail of several goats, which had ventured out on the slide for a few yards, abruptly turned and retraced their steps. "even they feared to cross," said pitamakan. "come on! let's go home." i was so disappointed that i had not a word to say on the way down. we reached the lodge late in the night, made sure that no one had been near it during our absence, and after building a good fire and eating some roast meat, crawled into our fur bag, nearly worn out. it had been a long, hard day. at this time our catch of fur began to decrease rapidly. it is my belief that the predatory as well as the herbivorous animals never stray very far from the place where they are born. a case in point is that of an old grizzly bear, whose trail could not be mistaken because he had lost a toe from his left front foot. every three weeks he crossed the outlet of the upper st. mary's lake, wandered up into the red eagle valley, swung round northward along the back-bone of the rockies to the swift current waters, and thence down across the outlet again. observation of other animals also leads me to believe that they all have their habitual rounds. if this is so, it explains why it was that our deadfalls held fewer and fewer prizes for us, until finally three or four days would pass without our finding even a marten to reward us for our long, weary tramps. the days now grew noticeably longer and warmer, until finally snow-shoeing was impossible after nine or ten o'clock in the morning. the warm sun turned the snow into large, loose, water-saturated grains which would give way every few steps and let us down clear to the ground, often in places where the snow was so deep that we stood, so to speak, in a greenish well from which we had to look straight up to see the sky. it was very difficult to get out of such places. toward the end of our stay we did most of our tramping in the early morning, when the snow was covered with so hard a crust by the night's frost that it would hold us up without snowshoes. one evening we heard the distant cry of wild geese. that was our signal for departure. we made a last round of the deadfalls, sprung each one that was set, and the next day made up two bundles of the peltries that we were to take with us. there were in all sixty-one marten, ten fisher, seventeen mink, five wolverene, one mountain-lion, eight lynx, and two otter skins. fortunately, there was little weight in all that number, and we bound them so compactly that there was little bulk. a quantity of moose meat, cut into thin sheets and dried, made up the rest of our pack. nor did we forget the fire-drill and a small, hard piece of birch wood that had been seasoning by the fire all the winter for a drill base. the goatskin sleeping-bag was too heavy to take along; it would have added much to our comfort, of course, but there was now no night cold enough to be very disagreeable so long as we could have fire, and of that we were assured. however, pitamakan did not intend that the bag should be wasted; almost the last thing that he did was to make an offering of it to the sun. lashing the bundle in a tree, he prayed that we might survive all perils by the way, and soon reach the lodges of our people. at sundown we ate our last meal in the lodge and enjoyed for the last time its cheerful shelter. somehow, as we sat by the fire, we did not feel like talking. to go away and leave the little home to the elements and the prowlers of the night was like parting forever from some near and dear friend. we waited several hours, until the frost hardened the snow; then putting on the snowshoes and slinging the packs, we started away down the valley. there was certainly a lump in my throat as i turned for a last look at the lodge, with the smoke of its fire curling up from it and beckoning us back to rest and sleep. until midnight the stiffening crust occasionally broke and let us down; but after that time it became so hard that, taking off our snowshoes and slinging them to the packs, we made remarkable time down the valley. after passing the pipestone falls, we entered country new to us, where the valley became much wider. every mile or two a branch came into the river, which we were obliged to ford, for the ice had gone out of the streams. it was no fun to remove moccasins and leggings, wade through the icy water, and then put them on in the snow on the other side. for several weeks avalanches had been thundering down the mountain-sides all round us, and this night they seemed more frequent than ever. once one tore its way to the valley just behind us. not an hour later, pitamakan's pack-thong broke, and let his bundle down into the snow. as we stopped to retie it, there came the rumbling of an avalanche, apparently right over our heads. i thought that it would strike the valley not far below us. "come! get up!" i cried. "let's run back as fast as we can!" "not so! we must run the other way. can't you hear? it is going to strike either where we are, or close behind us," pitamakan answered; and grasping my arm, he tried to make me go forward with him. "can't you hear it there?" i shouted, taking hold of him in my turn and pulling the other way. "it is coming down right where we stand, or not far below here!" and thus we stood while the dreadful noise increased, until it seemed as if the world was being rent wide open. there was a confusion of thunderous sound--the grinding of rocks and ice, the crashing and snapping of great trees. the avalanche came nearer with terrific speed, until finally it filled all the region round with such a deafening noise that it was impossible even to guess where it would sweep down into the valley. we ran a few steps upstream, then as many more back, and finally stood trembling, quite uncertain which way to fly. but only for a moment; just ahead of us the great forest trees began to leap out and downward from the steep mountain-side, and then the mass of the avalanche burst into the flat and piled up a hundred feet deep before us--a dirty ridge of wrecked mountain-side that extended away across the valley to the river. there was a last rumble and cracking of branches as it settled, and then all was still. "you see that i was right," i said. "it did strike below us." "yes, you heard better than i did," my partner admitted, "but that is not what saved us. i am sure that the gods caused the pack-thong to break and stop us; otherwise we should have been right in the path of the slide." re-slinging our packs, we climbed the rough mass of the slide, round and over big boulders, ice blocks, and tree trunks, through piles of brush and broken branches. at the apex of the heap pitamakan reached down, pulled something from the earth-stained snow, and passed it to me. it was the head and neck of a mountain goat, crushed almost flat, the flesh of which was still warm. [illustration: the avalanche burst into the flat] "you see what would have happened to us if my pack-thong had not broken," he said grimly. "it must be that many goats perish in this way," i remarked. "yes, and also many bighorn," he said. "i have heard the old hunters say that the bears, when they first come out in the spring, get their living from these slides. they travel from one to another, and paw round in search of the dead animals buried in them." at daylight we entered an open park where we could see back toward the summit. there was no doubt that we had traveled a long way during the night, for the mountain opposite our abandoned lodge looked twenty miles distant. the valley here was fully a mile wide, and the mountains bordering it were covered with pines clear to the summit. they were not more than a thousand feet high, and the western rim of them seemed not more than fifteen miles away. we believed that from where they ended the distance could not be great to the lake of the flatheads. down here the snow was only about four feet deep, less than half the depth of it where we had wintered. the air became warm much earlier in the morning than it did up there. using the snowshoes now, as the crust was getting weak, we kept going, although very tired. during the two hours that we were able to travel after sunrise, we passed great numbers of elk, and not a few moose, and when, finally, the snow grew spongy and obliged us to stop for the day, we were plainly within the deer range, for both white-tail and mule-deer were as plentiful as jack-rabbits are in certain parts of the plains. we stopped for our much-needed rest on a bare sandbar of the river, and with bow and drill started a little fire and roasted some dry meat. the sun shone warm there, and after eating, we lay down on the sand and slept until almost night. starting on again as soon as the snow crusted, we traveled the rest of the night without any trouble, and soon after daybreak suddenly passed the snow-line and stepped into green-sprouting grass. the summer birds had come, and were singing all round us. a meadow-lark, on a bush close by, was especially tuneful, and pitamakan mocked it: "_kit-ah-kim ai-siks-is-to-ki!_" (your sister is dark-complexioned!) he cried gleefully. "oh, no, little yellow-breast, you make a mistake. i have no sister." we were in the edge of a fine prairie dotted with groves of pine and cottonwood. the land sloped gently to the west. i thought that it could not be far in that direction to the big lake, but pitamakan said that it was way off to the southwest, perhaps two days' journey from where we were. suddenly he fell on his knees and began with feverish haste to dig up a slender, green-leaved plant. "it is camass!" he cried, holding it up and wiping the earth from the white, onion-shaped root. "dig! dig! see, there are plenty of them all round. eat plenty of them. they are good." so they were; crisp, starchy, and rather sweet. after our winter-long diet of meat, they were exactly what our appetites craved and our systems needed. we made a meal of them right there. for once hunger got the better of our caution. laying down our pack and snowshoes, we dug up root after root, all the time moving out into prairie farther and farther from the edge of the timber. "come on! let's get our packs and hide somewhere for the day," i said finally. "i am filled with these things to the neck." "oh, wait a little; i want a few more," my partner answered. just then a band of deer burst out of a cottonwood grove about five hundred yards to the west of us, and as we sat staring and wondering what had startled them, three indians came riding like the wind round one side of the grove, and four more appeared on the other side, in swift pursuit of the animals. chapter x "don't you move!" pitamakan exclaimed. he spoke just in time, for i was on the point of springing up and running for the timber. the game--they were mule-deer, which are not fleet runners, like the white-tail--came bouncing awkwardly toward us, while the indians gained on them perceptibly. never before had i felt that i was a giant; but as i sat there in the short grass of the open prairie, i felt as if my body was actually towering into the sky. i instinctively tried to make myself of smaller size. all my muscles quivered and contracted so tensely that the feeling was painful. "oh, come!" i cried. "can't you see that they--" "be still!" pitamakan broke in. "the wind is from us to them. the deer will soon turn. our one chance is to sit motionless. they haven't seen us yet." the deer came steadily toward us, jumping awkwardly and high. they were now less than four hundred yards away, and although the wind was increasing, they gave no sign of having scented us. "they must turn soon," pitamakan said. "but if they don't, and you see that the indians are coming for us, string your bow. let us fight our best until our end comes." that had been my thought. i had two of our five obsidian-pointed arrows. if worse came to worst, i hoped that i should be able to speed them swift and true. now the deer were less than three hundred yards from us, and i gave up all hope that they would turn. to me the indians seemed to be staring straight at us instead of at the animals. i had started to reach for my bow and arrows, which lay on the ground beside me, when the deer did turn, suddenly and sharply to the right. the pursuers, turning also, almost at the same time, gained considerably on them. i realized that we had not been discovered. the leading hunter now raised his gun and fired. the hornless old buck at the head of the band sharply shook his head, and holding it askew as if the bullet had stung it, swerved to the right again, directly away from us. the herd followed him, while the hunters again made a short cut toward them and began shooting. their backs were now to us. "run! run for the timber!" my partner commanded; and grabbing my bow and arrows, i followed him, faster, probably, than i had ever run before. it was a hundred yards or more to the timber. as we neared it, i began to hope that we should get into its shelter unseen. behind us the hunters kept shooting at the deer, but neither of us took time to look back until we came to our packs, and paused to lift them and the snowshoes. at that very moment the war-cry of the enemy was raised, and we knew that they had discovered us. we looked, and saw that they were coming our way as fast as their horses could lope. and how they did yell! there was menace in those shrill staccato yelps. "we must leave the furs. just take your snowshoes and come on," said pitamakan, and i grabbed them up and followed him. it was only a few yards back in the timber to the snow-line. upon reaching it, i threw down my shoes, stuck my toes into the loops, and was starting on without fastening the ankle-thongs, when my partner ordered me to tie them properly. it seemed to me that my fingers had never been so clumsy. we stepped up on the snow, and found that the crust was still strong enough to bear our weight, although it cracked and gave slightly where the centre of the poor webbing sagged under our feet. at the edge of the prairie the timber was scattering; but back a short distance there were several dense thickets, and back of them again was the line of the heavy pine forest. we made for the nearest thicket, while the yells of the enemy sounded nearer and louder at every step we took. it was easy to guess when they came to the fur packs, for there was a momentary stop in the war-cries as they loudly disputed over the possession of them. then, abandoning their horses, they began shooting at us as they advanced into the snow, through which they broke and floundered at almost every step. the advantage was now all with us, provided we were not hit. once i stopped behind a tree for an instant and looked back. three of the men had not tried to come on over the snow, but standing at the edge of it, loaded and fired as fast as possible. the others were doing their best to advance over the crust, and had our plight not been so desperate, i should have laughed to see them. they stepped gingerly, teetering along with open mouths and arms outspread, and sometimes the crust would bear their weight for three or four paces, and so increase their confidence that they would quicken their speed, only to break through and sink waist-deep. [illustration: i grabbed them up and followed him] i pushed a flap of my old capote out from the tree as far as i could with the bow, in the hope of drawing their fire; but, finding that they were not to be caught by any such ruse, i hurried on. then several bullets came so close to me that i could feel the wind from them; one struck a tree which i was passing, and flicked off bits of bark, which stung my left cheek and cut the lobe of my left ear. when the enemy saw me raise my hand to my face, they yelled with triumph, and pitamakan turned to see what had happened. "go on! it is nothing!" i called out. at that instant another shot was fired, and i thought that i heard my partner give a little cry of pain; but he did not flinch, and continued on as rapidly as before. when i came where he had been, however, i saw that his trail was bloody, and i feared the worst, for i well knew that even with a death-wound he would keep on bravely to the very end. the rest of the run to the thicket was like some terrible dream to me, for i expected that every step he made would be his last. but finally he passed into the screen of young evergreens, and a moment later i was beside him, asking how badly he was hurt. "it is only a flesh-wound here," he answered, gripping the inner part of his left thigh. "come on, we mustn't stop." as the enemy could no longer see us, we made our way to the line of big timber without fear of their bullets. they gave a few last yells as we went into the thicket, and shouted some words at us, which of course we could not understand. and then all was still. without a word, pitamakan went on and on up the steep mountain-side, and i sadly followed him. soon, coming to an opening in the timber, we stepped out into it, until we could get a good view of the plain below. the indians were riding back to where they had chased the deer. soon they dismounted and began skinning two that they had killed. we removed our snowshoes and sat down on them. pitamakan let down his legging and washed his wound with snow; the bullet had split open the skin for a length of several inches, but fortunately, had not torn the muscles. as soon as the wound was washed and dry, i went over to a balsam fir and gathered the contents of three or four blisters, which he smeared all over the raw place. in a few minutes he said that the pungent, sticky stuff had stopped the burning of the wound. we were two sad boys that morning. the loss of the furs, for which we had worked so hard all winter, was not easy to bear. every few minutes pitamakan would cry out to his gods to punish the thieves, and my heart was as sore against them as his. with the fur packs we had lost also our fire-drill and socket piece. "but that doesn't matter," pitamakan said. "we have good bows and can make a drill at any time. perhaps we shall never again have any use for one!" "how so? are we never to eat again? shall we not need fire of nights to keep us warm?" i asked. "maybe we shall and maybe not," pitamakan replied. "it is not likely that those hunters will go home without trying to take our scalps with them; we'll soon know about that." we watched the men in silence for some little time. four of them were round one deer, and three were at work skinning the other. soon, however, one man left each group and began cutting willows. soon afterward we saw that those remaining had got the deer hides off and were cutting them into strips. "i thought that they would do that," said my partner. "they are going to make snowshoes and follow us. hurry now, and fasten on your shoes!" i did as i was told and asked no questions. pitamakan limped badly when he started off, but made light of his lameness and insisted that he felt no pain. by this time the sun was fast weakening the crust; in a short time neither we nor our enemy would be able to travel, and i told my partner that while they were making their shoes, we ought to get so far ahead that they never would be able to overtake us. "they are seven, we only two," he said. "they will break trail by turns when the snow gets soft. our chance to escape is to get back to the dry prairie while they are climbing the mountain on our trail." that was a plan that had never entered my head, but i instantly saw its possibilities. left to my own resources, i should only have struggled on and on into the mountains, eventually to be captured. for an hour or more, just as long as the crust would hold, we kept along the side of the mountain parallel with the river; then, when the crust at last broke with us at every step, we took off our snowshoes and floundered down the tremendously steep slope to the stream, and turning with it, walked and ran along the gravelly and sandy shore. so, not later than mid-afternoon, we came again to the foot of the mountain, and walking to the edge of the timber bordering the river, looked out on the prairie from which we had been driven in the morning. "_sum-is! sum-is!_" pitamakan cried, pointing away south to the place of the deer chase. "_i-kit-si-kum! sap-un-is-tsim!_" (seven! the whole number!) i exclaimed. the horses of the enemy were picketed out there and quietly grazing, but not one of the hunters was to be seen. it seemed too good to be true. we stood still for some time, while we searched the prairie and the mountain-side for sign of the enemy. "they seem all to have taken our trail," said pitamakan, at last, "and maybe that is the way of it. if one has remained to watch the horses, he must be lying in that little pine grove near them. let's go down the river a little farther, then swing round and sneak into the grove from the other side." we hurried on in the river-bottom for half a mile, and then swung out across the open ground. our hearts throbbed with hope, and with fear, too, as we approached the one place where a guard might be stationed. stealing into the little grove as silently as shadows, we moved through it so slowly that a red squirrel digging in the needle-covered earth near by never noted our passing. there was not more than an acre of the young trees, and they covered a space twice as long as wide, so we were able to see every foot of it as we passed along. when we were nearing the farther end, a coyote gave us a terrible scare; as he rose up behind a thin screen of low boughs, we could not see at first just what it was. i have heard of people turning cold from fear; maybe they do, but fear does not affect me in that way. a flash of heat swept through me; my mouth grew dry. my sense of being perfectly helpless, my expectation that a bullet would come tearing into me, was something that i shall never forget. this time the suspense was short; the coyote walked boldly off in the direction in which we were going, and since the wind was in our faces, we instantly realized that no man was concealed out there ahead of him. still, pitamakan was cautious and, in spite of my urgent signs, kept on as stealthily as before. but when we came to the edge of the grove, we saw the coyote was walking jauntily round among the feeding horses. off to the right, near one of the deer carcasses, lay the hunters' saddles, saddle-blankets and other stuff. we found also a litter of willow cuttings and short strips of deer hide where the hunters had made their snowshoes. the saddles were all home-made, but better than none. we each selected one and the best of the blankets, and began saddling the two most sturdy and swift-looking of the seven animals. that done, we turned the remaining five loose, after removing their lariats and throwing them away. then we got into the saddle and started to gather up the loose stock, when i suddenly thought of something that we had entirely forgotten in our excitement. "pitamakan! our furs! where can they be?" i asked. "there! there!" he answered, pointing to where the other deer carcass lay. and sure enough, there the two packs were, just as we had bound them. here was more luck! we lost no time in riding over to the place and picking them up; then, driving the other horses ahead of us, we rode away to the southwest as fast as possible. somewhere on the big, timbered mountain behind us, the enemy were worming along on our trail; or, what is more likely, completely exhausted from struggling in the soft snow, they were waiting for the night freeze, to enable them to go on. the loose horses trotted ahead of us most willingly--suspiciously so; and in the course of half an hour, on our coming to a strip of timber, the reason for such unusual conduct was plain. here was a broad, hard trail that led, no doubt, directly to the camp which they had come from in the morning. of course they were willing to be driven back to their mates! and now, as we pushed along this highway, one and another of them began to nicker, a sure sign that the camp was not far distant. there were only three or four hundred yards of the timber, and then another big prairie; and at the farther end of this, a couple of miles away, smoke was rising from another patch of timber, near which many horses were grazing. "there! there is the camp of the enemy!" pitamakan cried. "already they may have seen us! let's get back into the timber as quick as we can." that was not easy to do; the loose stock wanted to keep right on toward their mates, and it required hard riding to head them off and turn them back. and then when we did accomplish it, they were very restless; it was only by the greatest vigilance that we kept them from breaking back. while the sun slowly sank toward the horizon, we waited in suspense, for there was a chance that the party of seven, or some other party, might appear at any moment. the thought that, after our great success of the day, we might lose everything, and our lives also, kept us keyed up to an intense pitch of excitement. toward sunset there was a commotion among the horse herds at the farther end of the prairie, and two riders came loping straight toward us. at first we were not much alarmed, for we thought that they were only looking for some stray animal from the bands; but they kept coming straight on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and it was soon plain, either that they had seen us and were going to have a look at our outfit, or that they were going to take the trail through the timber, in search, probably, of the missing hunters whose horses we had rounded up. there was but one thing for us to do--hustle the animals as far from the trail as possible; and going at it in a whirl of excitement, we hissed at them, flicked them with our bridle-ropes, and struck them with dead limbs that we snatched from the trees. never were horses so obstinate; they simply ducked their heads to the missiles and milled round and round among the trees and underbrush. we had got them no more than a bow-shot away from the trail, when, looking out into the open, we saw that the riders had almost reached the thin belt of timber that screened us. "get off your horse and try to hold him still there behind that brush!" my partner called out; and off i slid and grasped the animal by the nose and one ear. we could plainly hear now the thud of the oncoming horses. if one of the seven animals we had should nicker, we were lost. presently the two riders entered the timber, and we could see them plainly as they sped along the trail. tall, heavy men they were, with long, flying hair and grim faces. each carried a long gun. when they came in sight, my animal pricked up his ears and began to prance and toss his head, but i hung to him desperately, although i was hoisted more than once clear off the ground. as i swung and bobbed in the air, i got flashing glimpses of the enemy, of pitamakan struggling with his animal, and of the loose stock looking curiously at the scene. i expected every instant that one of them would whinny, but not one of them did! the two men passed swiftly along the trail out of sight, and the beat of their horses' hoofs died slowly away. then once more we took hope. the sun was down and darkness was stealing over the land. faint from this last narrow escape, we got into the saddle once more, and leaving the loose stock to stray whither they would, rode out into the open and took a course down the prairie that would leave the big camp far to our right. passing it a little later, we could see the dim, yellow glow of the lodge fires, and hear the people singing, and the dogs barking now and then in answer to the mocking yelps of the coyotes. we traveled on through the night in a partly timbered country, and, by god's mercy, safely forded some streams that were raging spring torrents. it was between midnight and dawn that we finally gave out, and, picketing our animals, lay down and slept. but the first peep of the sun roused us. staggering to our feet, stiff and sore, we saddled, and rode on again in a half stupor. it was past noon when, from the edge of a sloping plain, we saw the big lake of the flatheads. pitamakan knew the place at once. "down there by the shore was the big camp the time we were here," he said, "and over there by the side of that little river runs the trail to buffalo land." we came to it a little later, a broad, well-worn trail that had been used for countless years for summer travel by the mountain tribes. there were no tracks in it now save those of the wolf and the deer. dismounting beside it to rest the horses, we took a few bites of dry meat, while they greedily cropped the tender spring grass. we did not remain there long. behind us stretched the trail of our horses, plain enough in the young green grass, a trail that could be easily followed from where we had first taken the animals. we went on all through the afternoon eastward into the mountains. here the mountains were low, and in the still lower pass there was no snow to block us. indeed, two medicine pass is so low that you cannot tell when you pass the summit except by the changed course of the streamlets. late the next afternoon we caught a glimpse of the great plains, stretching green from the foot of the mountains away eastward to the far horizon; and at sight of them we both shouted, and pitamakan gave thanks to his gods. down at the foot of the mountains we saw a little later four buffalo bulls, and gave greeting to them as if they were our brothers. but not appreciating our feelings, they ran lumbering away. two days afterward we came to the edge of the hill overlooking fort benton and the missouri, our stream of streams. the sight of it, and of our own people walking here and there outside the fort and along the river, brought tears to our eyes and great joy and peace to our hearts. we urged our weary horses down the hill and across the bottom. an indian boy, hunting horses, met us while we were yet some distance out, gave one look at our faces, and fled straight to the blackfeet camp by the fort. the people instantly poured out of the lodges and came running to greet us. surrounded by several hundred of them, all talking at once and asking a thousand questions, we rode into the great courtyard. there, foremost of the company folk who came out to see what was the cause of all the noise, were my uncle and his wife. they fairly tore me from my horse, smothered and crushed me with kisses and embraces, and were for leading me straight to our quarters; but i would not budge an inch until i had secured my precious pack of furs from the saddle and had given the worn animal into the keeping of one of pitamakan's relatives. by that time the factor himself had come from his office, and i had then and there to tell the story of our winter and our hardships in the great mountains. how the people hung upon my words, how they applauded and cheered! without doubt those were the proudest moments of my life. for a mere boy to hold those seasoned old voyageurs and plainsmen spellbound was something of a feat, you may be sure. but at last it was all over, and once more i entered our little house and sat down on my own soft couch of buffalo-robes. as the evening was chilly, a cheerful fire was blazing in the hearth. tsis-tsak-ki bustled round, and while cooking the supper, managed to get out clean clothes for me, and get ready a tub of water, soap, and towels. never before had i seen my uncle wesley so excited; he could not sit still. every few moments he would come over and pinch my arm, or slap me on my back, just to make sure, as he explained, that i was really with them once more. so ended my first great adventure on the frontier that was, and is no more. the end the riverside press cambridge . massachusetts u . s . a trails through western woods [illustration: lake angus mcdonald] trails through western woods by helen fitzgerald sanders _illustrations from photographs by the author_ new york & seattle the alice harriman company copyright, , by the alice harriman company _published, july , _ the premier press new york _dedication_ _to the west that is passing; to the days that are no more and to the brave, free life of the wilderness that lives only in the memory of those who mourn its loss_ preface the writing of this book has been primarily a labour of love, undertaken in the hope that through the harmonious mingling of indian tradition and descriptions of the region--too little known--where the lessening tribes still dwell, there may be a fuller understanding both of the indians and of the poetical west. a wealth of folk-lore will pass with the passing of the flathead reservation, therefore it is well to stop and listen before the light is quite vanished from the hill-tops, while still the streams sing the songs of old and the trees murmur regretfully of things lost forever and a time that will come no more. we of the workaday world are too prone to believe that our own country is lacking in myth and tradition, in hero-tale and romance; yet here in our midst is a legended region where every landmark is a symbol in the great, natural record book of a folk whose day is done and whose song is but an echo. it would not be fitting to close these few introductory words without grateful acknowledgment to those who have aided me toward the accomplishment of my purpose. indeed, every page brings a pleasant recollection of a friendly spirit and a helping hand. mr. duncan mcdonald, son of angus, and mr. henri matt, my indian friends, have told me by word of mouth, many of the myths and chronicles set forth in the following chapters. mr. edward morgan, the faithful and just agent at the flathead reservation, has given me priceless information which i could never have obtained save through his kindly interest. he secured for me the legend of the flint, the last tale told by charlot and rendered into english by michel rivais, the blind interpreter who has served in that capacity for thirty years. chief charlot died after this book was finished and he lies in the land of his exile, out of the home of his fathers where he had hoped to rest. from mr. morgan also i received the account of charlot's meeting with joseph at the lolo pass, the facts of which were given him by the little white boy since grown to manhood, mr. david whaley, who rode with charlot and his band to the hostile camp. the late charles aubrey, pioneer and plainsman, furnished me valuable data concerning the buffalo. madame leonie de mers and her hospitable relatives, the de mers of arlee, were instrumental in winning for me the confidence of the selish people. mrs. l. mabel hight, the artist, who has caught the spirit of the mountains with her brush, has added to this book by making the peaks live again in their colours. in conclusion i would express my everlasting gratitude to mr. thomas h. scott, of lake mcdonald, soldier, mountain-lover and woodsman, who, with unfailing courage and patience, has guided me safely over many and difficult trails. for the benefit of students i must add that the authorities i have followed in my historical references are: long's (james') "_expedition to the rocky mountains, - _," maximilian's "_travels in north america_," father de smet's "_oregon missions_," major ronan's "_history of the flathead indians_," bradbury's "_travels_," father l. b. palladino's "_indian and white in the northwest_," and the _reports_ of the bureau of ethnology. helen fitzgerald sanders. _butte, montana, april , ._ contents i. the gentle selish ii. enchanted waters iii. lake angus mcdonald iv. some indian missions of the northwest v. the people of the leaves vi. the passing buffalo vii. lake mcdonald and its trails viii. above the clouds ix. the little st. mary's x. the track of the avalanche xi. indian summer list of illustrations lake angus mcdonald _frontispiece_ facing page joe la mousse abraham isaac and michel kaiser lake mcdonald from mcdonald creek francois glacier camp gem lake on the trail to mt. lincoln _the gentle selish_ trails through western woods chapter i the gentle selish i when lewis and clark took their way through the western wilderness in , they came upon a fair valley, watered by pleasant streams, bounded by snowy mountain crests, and starred, in the springtime, by a strangely beautiful flower with silvery-rose fringed petals called the bitter root, whence the valley took its name. in the mild enclosure of this land lived a gentle folk differing as much from the hostile people around them as the place of their nativity differed from the stern, mountainous country of long winters and lofty altitudes surrounding it. these early adventurers, confusing this tribe with the nations dwelling about the mouth of the columbia river, spoke of them as the flatheads. it is one of those curious historical anomalies that the chinooks who flattened the heads of their children, should never have been designated as flatheads, while the selish, among whom the practice was unknown, have borne the undeserved title until their own proper and euphonious name is unused and all but forgotten. the selish proper, living in the bitter root valley, were one branch of a group composed of several nations collectively known as the selish family. these kindred tribes were the selish, or flatheads, the pend d'oreilles, the coeur d'alenes, the colvilles, the spokanes and the pisquouse. the nez percés of the clearwater were also counted as tribal kin through inter-marriage. lewis and clark were received with great kindness and much wonder by the selish. there was current among them a story of a hunting party that came back after a long absence east of the rocky mountains, bearing strange tidings of a pale-faced race whom they had met,--probably the adventurous sieur de la vérendrye and his cavaliers who set out from montreal to find a highway to the pacific sea. but it was only a memory with a few, a curious legend to the many, and these men of white skin and blue eyes came to them as a revelation. the traders who followed in the footsteps of the first trail-blazers found the natives at their pursuits of hunting, roving over the bitter root valley and into the contested region east of the main range of the rocky mountains, where both they, and their enemies, the blackfeet, claimed hereditary right to hunt the buffalo. they were at all times friendly to the white men who came among them, and these visitors described them as simple, straight-forward people, the women distinguished for their virtue, and the men for their bravery in the battle and the chase. they were cleanly in their habits and honorable in their dealings with each other. if a man lost his horse, his bow or other valuable, the one who found it delivered it to the chief, or great father, and he caused it to be hung in a place where it might be seen by all. then when the owner came seeking his goods, the chief restored it to him. they were also charitable. if a man were hungry no one said him nay and he was welcome even at the board of the head men to share the best of their fare. this spirit of kindliness they extended to all save their foes and the prisoners taken in war whom they tortured after the manner of more hostile tribes. in appearance they were "comparatively very fair and their complexions a shade lighter than the palest new copper after being freshly rubbed." they were well formed, lithe and tall, a characteristic that still prevails with the pure bloods, as does something of the detail of their ancient dress. they preserve the custom of handing down by word of mouth, from generation to generation, their myths, traditions and history. some of these chronicles celebrate events which are estimated to have happened two hundred years or more ago. of the origin of the selish nothing is known save the legend of their coming out of the mountains; and perhaps we are none the poorer, for no bald historical record of dates and migrations could be as suggestively charming as this story of the people, themselves, colored by their own fancy and reflecting their inner life. indeed, a nation's history and tradition bear much the same relation to each other as the conventional public existence of a man compared with that intangible part of him which we call imagination, but which is in reality the sum-total of his mental inheritance: the hidden treasure of his spiritual wealth. let us look then, through the medium of the indian's poetic imagery, into a past rose-hued with the sunrise of the new day. coyote, the hero of this legend, figures in many of the myths of the selish; but they do not profess to know if he were a great brave bearing that name or if he were the animal itself, living in the legendary age when beasts and birds spoke the tongue of man. likely he was a dual personality such as the white buffalo of numerous fables, who was at will a beautiful maiden or one among the vast herds of the plains. possibly there was, indeed, such a mighty warrior in ages gone by about whose glorified memory has gathered the half-chimerical hero-tales which are the first step toward the ancestor-worship of primitive peoples. in all of the myths given here in which his name is mentioned, except that one of coyote and the flint, we shall consider him as an ideal embodying the indians' highest conception of valor and achievement. long, long ago the jocko was inhabited by a man-eating monster who lured the tribes from the hills into his domain and then sucked their blood. coyote determined to deliver the people, so he challenged the monster to a mortal combat. the monster accepted the challenge, and coyote went into the mountains and got the poison spider from the rocks and bade him sting his enemy, but even the venom of the spider could not penetrate the monster's hide. coyote took counsel of the fox, his friend, and prepared himself for the fray. he got a stout leather thong and bound it around his body, then tied it fast to a huge pine tree. the monster appeared with dripping fangs and gaping jaws, approached coyote, who retreated farther and farther away, until the thong stretched taut and the pine curved like a bow. suddenly, the tree, strained to its utmost limit, sprang back, felling the monster with a mortal stroke. coyote was triumphant and the woodpecker of the forest cut the pine and sharpened its trunk to a point which coyote drove through the dead monster's breast, impaling it to the earth. thus, the jocko was rid of the man-eater, and the selish, fearing him no more, came down from the hills into the valley where they lived in plenty and content. the following story of coyote and the flint is of exceptional interest because it is from the lips of the dying charlot--charlot the unbending, the silent chieftain. no word of english ever profaned his tongue, so this myth, told in the impressive selish language, was translated word for word by michel rivais, the blind interpreter at the flathead agency, who has served faithfully and well for a period of thirty years. "in the old times the animals had tribes just like the indians. the coyote had his tipi. he was hungry and had nothing to eat. he had bark to shoot his arrow with and the arrow did not go through the deer. he was that way a long time when he heard there was flint coming on the road that gave a piece of flint to the fox and he could shoot a deer and kill it, but the coyote did not know that and used the bark. they did not give the coyote anything. they only gave some to the fox. next day the fox put a piece of meat on the end of a stick and took it to the fire. the fox had the piece of meat cooking there and the coyote was looking at the meat and when it was cooked the coyote jumped and got the piece of meat and took a bite and in it was the flint, and he bit the flint and asked why they did not tell him how to kill a deer with flint. "'why didn't you tell me?' the coyote asked his friend, the fox. 'when did the flint go by here?' "the fox said three days it went by here. "the coyote took his blanket and his things and started after the flint and kept on his track all day and evening and said, 'here is where the flint camped,' and he stayed there all night himself, and next day he travelled to where the flint camped, and he said, 'here is where the flint camped last night,' and he stayed there, and the next day he went farther and found where the flint camped and he said, 'the flint started from here this morning.' he followed the track next morning and went not very far, and he saw the flint going on the road, and he went 'way out that way and went ahead of the flint and stayed there for the flint to come. when the flint met him there the coyote told him: "'come here. now, i want to have a fight with you to-day.' "and the flint said: "'come on. we will fight.' "the flint went to him and the coyote took the thing he had in his hand and struck him three or four times and the flint broke all to pieces and the coyote had his blanket there and put the pieces in the blanket and after they were through fighting and he had the pieces of flint in his blanket he packed the flint on his back and went to all the tribes and gave them some flint and said: "'here is some flint for you to kill deer and things with.' "and he went to another tribe and did the same thing and to other tribes and did the same until he came to flint creek and then from that time they used the flint to put in their arrows and kill deer and elk. "that is the story of the flint." * * * * * coyote was the chosen one to whom the great spirit revealed the disaster which reduced the selish from goodly multitudes of warriors to a handful of wretched, plague-stricken invalids. old women are still fond of relating the story which they received from their mothers and their mothers' mothers even to the third and fourth generation. coyote laid down to rest and dreamed that the voice of the great spirit sounded in his ears, saying that unless the daughter of the chief became his bride a scourge would fall upon the people. when morning broke he sought out the chief and told him of the words of the voice, but the chief, who was a haughty man, would not heed coyote and coldly denied him the hand of his daughter in marriage. coyote returned to his lodge and soon there resounded through the forests the piercing cry of one in distress. coyote rushed forth and beheld a man covered with sores across the river. this man related to coyote how he was the last survivor of a war party that had come upon a village once occupied by the enemy whom they sought, but as they approached they saw no smoke arising from the tipis and no sign of life. they came forward very cautiously, but all was silent and deserted. from lodge to lodge they passed, and finally they came upon an old woman, pitted and scabbed, lying alone and dying. with her last breath she told them of a scourge which had fallen upon the village, consuming brave and child alike, until she, of all the lodges, was left to mourn the rest. then one by one the war party which had ridden so gallantly to conquest and glory, felt an awful heat as of fire run through their veins. burning and distraught they leaped into the cold waters of a river and died. such was the story of the man whom coyote met in the woods. he alone remained, disfigured, diseased, doomed. so coyote brought him into the village and quenched his thirst that he might pass more easily to the happy hunting ground. but as the great spirit had revealed to coyote while he slept, the scourge fell upon the people and laid them low, scarcely enough grief-stricken survivors remaining to weep for their lost dead. * * * * * besides this legendary narrative of the visitation of smallpox there are other authenticated instances of the plague wreaking its vengeance upon the selish and depleting their villages to desolation. in this wise the tribe was thinned again and again and as early as , mr. cox of the northwest fur company, told in his "adventures" that once the selish were more powerful by far in number than in the day of his coming amongst them. there was also another cause for the nation's decline quite as destructive as the plague;--the unequal hostility continuing generation after generation, without capitulation or truce, with the blackfeet. the country of the selish abounded in game but it was a part of the tribal code of honour to hunt the buffalo in the fields where their ancestors had hunted. all of the deadly animosity between the two peoples, all of the bloodshed of their cruel wars, was for no other purpose than to maintain the right to seek the beloved herds in the favoured fields which they believed their forefathers had won. the jealousy with which this privilege of the chase was guarded and preserved even to the death explains many national peculiarities, forms, indeed, the keynote to their life of freedom on the plains. it is possible that the selish would have been annihilated had not the establishment of new trading-posts enabled them to get fire-arms which the blackfeet had long possessed. this means of defence gave them fresh strength and thereafter the odds against them were not as great. the annals of the tribe, so full of tragedy and joy, of fact and fancy, of folk-lore and wood-lore, contain many stories of war glory reminiscent of the days of struggle. even now there stands, near ravalli in the jocko, a rock resembling a man, called by the indians the stone sentinel, which touchingly attests the fidelity and bravery of a nameless hero. the story is that one of the runners who had gone in advance of a war-party after the indian custom, was surprised while keeping watch and killed by the blackfeet. the body remained erect and was turned to stone, a monument of devotion to duty so strong that not even death could break his everlasting vigil. notwithstanding their love of glory on the war-path and hunting-field, they were a peaceable people. the most beautiful of their traditions are based upon religious themes out of which grew a poetical symbolism, half devotional, half fantastic. and even to-day, in spite of their profession of christianity, there lives in the heart of the indian the old paganism, not unlike that of the greeks, which spiritualizes every object of the woods and waters. they thought that in the beginning the good spirit came up out of the east and the evil spirit out of the west, and then began the struggle, typified by light and darkness, which has gone on ever since. from this central idea they have drawn the rainbow spirit-fancy which arches their dream-sky from horizon to horizon. they consider some trees and rocks sacred; again they hold a lake or stream in superstitious dread and shun it as a habitation of the evil one. thus, a cave in the neighbouring hills where rattlesnakes sleep in winter, they avoided in the past, not on account of the common snakes, but because within the damp, dark recesses of that subterranean den, the king of snakes, a huge, horned reptile dwelt, appearing occasionally in all his venomous, scaled beauty, striking terror wherever he was seen. a clear spring bubbled near the cave but not even the cold purity of the water could tempt the indians to that accursed vicinity until by some revelation they learned that the king snake had migrated to other fastnesses. he is still seen, so they say, gliding stealthily amongst deserted wastes, his crest reared evily, and death in his poison tail. in contrast to this cave of darkness is the spiritual legend of the sacred pine. upon those same gentle hills of the jocko it grows, lifting its lessening cone of green toward heaven. it has been there past the memory of the great-grand-fathers of the present generation and from time immemorial it has been held sacred by the selish tribe. high upon its venerable branches hangs the horn of a bighorn sheep, fixed there so firmly by an unknown hand, before even the tradition of the selish had shaped its ghostly form out of the mists of the past, that the blizzard has not been strong enough to wrench it from its place, nor the frost to gnaw it away. no one knows whence the ram's horn came nor what it signifies, but the tree is considered holy and the indians believe that it possesses supernatural powers. hence, offerings are made to it of moccasins, beads, weasel skins, and such little treasures of wearing apparel or handiwork as they most esteem, and at certain seasons, beneath the cool, sweet shadow of its generous boughs the devoted worshippers, going back through the little superficialities of recent civilization to the magnetic pole of their own true blood and beliefs, assemble to dance with religious fervor around its base upon the green. the missionary fathers discourage such idolatrous practices; but the poor children of the woods play truant, nevertheless, and wander back through the cycle of the centuries to do honour to the old, sweet object of their devotion in the primitive, pagan way. and surely the great spirit who watches over white and red man impartially, can scarcely be jealous of this tribute of love to a tree,--the instinctive, race-old festival of a woodland tribe. there is another pine near ravalli revered because it recalls the days of the chase. it stands upon the face of a mountain somewhat apart from its brethren of the forest, and there the bighorn sheep used to take refuge when pursued. if driven to bay, the leader, followed by his band, leaped to death from this eminence. it is known as the pine of the bighorn sheep. thus, it will be seen there lives among the selish a symbolism, making objects which they love chapters in the great unwritten book, wherein is celebrated the heroic past. he who has the key to that volume of tribe-lore, may learn lessons of valour and achievement, of patience and sacrifice. and colouring the whole story, making beautiful its least phase, is the sentiment of the people, even as the haze is the poetry of the hills. ii as heroic or disastrous events are celebrated in verbal chronicles it follows that the home of the selish is storied ground. before the pressure of civilization, encroaching in ever-narrowing circles upon the hunting-ground of the indians, cramping and crowding them within a smaller space, driving them inch by inch to the confinement which is their death, the selish wandered at will over a stretch of country beautiful alike in the reality of its landscape and in the richness of myth and legend which hang over every peak and transfigure every lake and stream. to know this country and the people it has sheltered through past centuries one must first glean something of that ephemeral story-charm which records in crag, in mist, in singing stream and spreading tree the dreams made almost real by the thousands of souls who have treasured them, and given them, lip to lip, from old to young, since the forests were first green upon the hills. the land of the selish extended eastward to that portion of the main range of the rocky mountains known to them as _sin-yal-min_, or the "mountains of the surrounded," from the fact that once a hunting party surrounded and killed a herd of elk by a stream upon those heights; another time a war-party surrounded and slew a company of blackfeet within the woods upon the mountain side. though this range marked the eastern boundary of their territory, they hunted buffalo, as we have seen, still east of its mighty peaks,--a region made bloody by battles between the selish and the blackfeet tribes. westward, they wandered over the fertile valley of sin-yal-min, where they, in common with the pend d'oreilles, kootanais and nez percés enjoyed its fruits and fields of grain. this valley is bounded to the north by the great flathead lake, a body of water vast in its sweep, winding through narrow channels among wooded shores ever unfolding new and unexposed vistas as one traverses it. on a calm summer day, when the sun's rays are softened by gossamer veils of haze, the water, the mountain-peaks and sky are faintly traced in shades of grey and faded rose as in mother-of-pearl. and on such days as this, at rare intervals, a strange phenomenon occurs,--_the reflection of a reflection_. looking over the rail of a steamer within the semi-circular curve of the swell at its stern, one may see, first the reflection of the shore line, the mountains and trees appearing upside down, then a second shore line perfectly wrought in the mirroring waters right side up, pine-crest touching pine-crest, peak poised against peak. this lake was the selish's conception of the greatest of waters, for their wandering never took them to the atlantic or pacific seas, and in such small craft as they used to travel over the forty miles of water among serpentining shores, the distance must have seemed immense. many islands rise from the lake, the largest of them, wild horse island, is timbered and mountainous, and so big as to appear like an arm of the main land. this wild horse island, where in olden days bands of wild horses were found, possesses a peculiar interest. upon its steep cliffs are hieroglyphics traced in pigments unknown to-day, telling the forgotten story of a lost race. the same strange figures appear upon the sheer escarpments of the mainland shore. these rock-walls are moss-grown and colored by the lichen, chrome yellow, burnt orange, russet-brown and varying shades of bronze-green like autumn leaves, and upon them broods a shadow as darkly impenetrable as the mystery which they hold. still, it is easy to distinguish upon the heroic tablets of stone, crude figures of horses and some incomprehensible marks. these writings have been variously interpreted or guessed at. some declare them to be ancient war signals of the selish, others suggest that they were records of hunting parties left behind for the guidance and information of the tribe; but they, themselves, deny all knowledge of them, saying that to them as to us, the pictured rocks are a wonder and a riddle, the silent evidence of foot-falls so remote that not even an echo has come down to us through the centuries. such are the valley of sin-yal-min and the lake of the flathead where the selish hunted. but their real home, the seat of their fathers, was the bitter root valley, where one branch of the tribe, headed by charlot, the son of victor, lived until the recent exodus. therefore, the bitter root valley was particularly dear to the hearts of these indians. it was there the bond between the kindred tribes, the nez percés and the selish, was broken; there the pioneer fathers came to build the first mission and plant the first cross among these docile children of the wood. it was there they clung together like frightened sheep until they were driven forth to seek new homes in the valley of the jocko, which was to be merely a station in their enforced retreat. eastward and southward from the bitter root, the jocko and the range of sin-yal-min in the contested country, is a cañon called the hell gate, because within its narrow limits, the blackfeet wreaked vengeance upon their less warlike foes. flowing through the cañon is a river, _in-mis-sou-let-ka_, corrupted into missoula, which bears one of the most beautiful of the selish legends. * * * * * coyote was taking his way through a pass in the mountains during the ancient days, when there came to him, out of the closed lip of silence, the echo of a sound. he stopped to listen, in doubt if it were the singing of waters or human voices that he heard, and as he listened the echo grew into a reality and the strains of wondrous, weirdly sweet music greeted his ear. he followed the illusive melody, attracted as by magic, and at last he saw upon the flower-sown green a circle of young women, dancing around and around, hand clasped in hand, forming a chain and singing as they danced. they beckoned to coyote and called unto him, saying: "thou art beautiful, o warrior! and strong as is the sun. come dance with us and we will sing to thee." coyote, like one who walks in his sleep, obeyed them and joined the enchanted circle. then he perceived that as they danced and sang they drew him closer and closer to a great river that lashed itself into a blind, white fury of foam upon the rocks. coyote became afraid like a woman. he noted with dread the water-weed in the maidens' hair and the evil beauty of their eyes. he strove to break away but he was powerless to resist them and he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer the roaring torrent, until at last the waters closed over him in whirlpools and he knew no more. * * * * * the fox, who was wise and crafty, passed along the shore and there he found, among the water-weeds and grasses the lifeless body of coyote which had been cast up by the waters, even as they had engulfed him. the fox was grieved for he loved coyote, so he bent over the corpse and brought it back to life. coyote opened his eyes and saw his friend, but the chill of the water was in his blood and he was numb. then above the roar of the river, echoed the magical measure of a weird-sweet song and through a green glade came the dancers who had lured coyote to his death. he rose at the sound of the bewitching melody and strained forward to listen. "it was they who led me to the river," he cried. "aye, truly. they are the water sirens and thou must destroy them," replied the fox. at those words coyote's heart became inflamed with ire; he grew strong with purpose and crept forward, noiseless as a snake, unobserved by the water-maidens. they were dancing like a flock of white butterflies upon a stretch of grass yellowed and seared by the heat of the sun. swiftly and silently coyote set fire to the grass, imprisoning them in a ring of flame. they saw the wall of fire leap up around them and their singing was changed to cries. they turned hither and thither and sought to fly to the water but the way was barred by the hot red-gold embrace of the fire. when the flames had passed, coyote went to the spot where the sirens had danced, and there upon the blackened ground he found a heap of great, white shells. he took these, the remains of the water-maidens, and cast them into the river, saying as he did so: "i call thee _in-mis-sou-let-ka_ and thou shalt forever bear that name!" thus it was that the river flowing through the hell gate came by the title of in-mis-sou-let-ka, which men render into english by the inadequate words of "_the river of awe_." * * * * * through the length and breadth of the country are story-bearing land-marks. there is a rock in the jocko, small of size but of weight so mighty that no indian, however strong, can move it; there is a mountain which roars and growls like an angry monster; there is a cliff where a brave of the legendary age of heroes battled hand to hand with a grizzly bear, and a thousand other spots, each hallowed by a memory. so, through peak and lowland, rivers and forests one can find the faery-spell of romance, lending the commonest stone individuality and interest. and the most prosaic pilgrim wandering along haunted streams, cooling in the shadow of storied woods and upon the shores of enchanted lakes, must feel the spell of poesy upon him; must look with altered vision upon the whispering trees, listen with quickened hearing to the articulate murmur of the rivers, knowing for a time at least, the subtle fellowship with the woodland which is in the heart of the indian. such is the legended land of the selish, a land fit for gentle, poetic folk to dwell in, a land worthy for brave and devoted men to lay down their lives to save. iii within the bitter root valley dwelt charlot, _slem-hak-kah_, "little claw of a grizzly bear," son of the great chief victor, "the lodge pole," and therefore by hereditary right head chief of the selish tribe. that valley is perhaps the most favoured land of the region. the snow melts earlier within its mountain-bound heart, the blizzard drives less fiercely over its slopes and the spring comes there sooner, sprinkling the grass with the rose stars of the bitter root. under the guidance of the missionary fathers the indians learned to till the soil and the bounty of their toil was sufficient, for the rich earth yielded fine crops of grain and fruit. the indians who sowed and plowed their small garden-spots, and the kindly fathers who watched over their prosperity, little dreamed that in the free gift of the earth and the mild beauty of the land lay the cause which should wreak the red man's ruin. this land was dear to the hearts of the people. victor, their brave guardian, had saved it for them at the treaty of the hell gate when they were called upon to give up part of their territory to the increasing demands of the whites. those of the dominant race kept coming into the bitter root and they were welcomed by the indians. thus, bit by bit the valley was taken up, its fame spread and it became a region so desirable that the government determined to move the selish tribe out of the land of their fathers. charlot was a courageous and honest man, a leader worthy of his trust. it was he who met the nez percés as they descended into the bitter root, headed by chief joseph, hot with the lust for the white man's scalp. there are few more dramatic incidents in western history than charlot's visit to chief joseph on the lolo trail and the ultimatum which he delivered to the leader of the nez percé hosts. he rode forth accompanied by joe la mousse and a small war-party, carrying with him a little white boy. about his arm he had tied a snowy handkerchief in token of the peaceful character of his errand. when the two chiefs, charlot and joseph faced each other, charlot spoke these words, slowly, defiantly as one who has made a great decision: "joseph, i have something to say to you. it will be in a few words. "you know i am not afraid of you. "you know i can whip you. "if you are going through the valley you must not hurt any of the whites. if you do you will have me and my people to fight. "you may camp at my place to-night but to-morrow you must pass on." and it was as charlot decreed. joseph the brave, intractable warrior who did battle with the army of the united states and kept the cleverest of our generals guessing at his strategies, bent to the iron will of charlot. the nez percés passed peacefully through the valley and never a soul was harmed. in the long, cruel struggle that followed, when chief joseph and his braves struck terror to the settlers, leaving death and ruin in their path, charlot remained staunch and true. indeed, the boast of the selish is that they, as a nation, were never guilty of taking a white man's life. meantime, while they lived in peace and plenty, the fates had sealed their doom. there is no use reiterating the long, painful story of the treaty between the selish and the government, ceding to the latter the land where the tribal ancestors lived and died. charlot declared he did not sign away the birth-right of his people and he was an honourable man. he and his friends went farther and said that his mark was forged. on the other hand some of those who were witnesses for the united states maintain that the name charlot was written like that of arlee and others, with a blank space left for the mark, or signature of each chief. they further state that charlot never affixed his mark to the document nor was it forged as he asserted to the end. this is at best mere evasion. one of two things happened: a fraudulent signature was put upon the face of the treaty to deceive the government, or charlot, as head chief, was overridden and ignored. whatever the means employed the outcome was the same. it was an unhappy day for the indians. they had no recourse but to submit, so most of them headed by arlee, the war chief, struck their tipis, abandoned the toil-won fields where they had laboured so long and so patiently, left the shadow of the cross where they were baptized, and went forth into the jocko to begin again the struggle which should never be more than a beginning. [illustration: joe la mousse] but charlot the royal-blooded, son of a long line of fighting chiefs, was not to be moved by the master-hand like a pawn in a game of chess. he haughtily refused to leave the bitter root valley, telling his people that those of them who wished to go should follow arlee, but he with a few of the faithful, would lie down to his repose in the land of his fathers beneath peaks that mingle with the sky. with impassive dignity he and a party of his loyal band went to washington at the bidding of the great father to listen to the justice of the white man's claim. charlot proudly declined to accept pension and authority bought at the price of his exile. he wished only the "poor privilege" of dwelling in the valley where his fathers had dwelt; of resting at last, where they had lain so long. he wanted neither money nor land,--simply permission to live in the home of his childhood, his manhood and old age. he added that he would never be taken alive to the jocko reservation. the powers saw no merit in the sentiment of the old chief. he had dared to oppose their will and they determined to break his spirit. he might remain in the bitter root the all-wise decreed, but in remaining he relinquished every right. more crushing to him than poverty and exile was the final blow to his pride. in a sense he was king of his tribe. the title of great chief descended from father to son, even as the crowns of empires are handed down. the war chiefs, on the other hand, were elected to command the warriors for a year and at the end of their service they became simple braves again. the government, ignoring the canons of the selish, put charlot aside, and arlee, the red night, last of the war chiefs, took precedence over him and became head chief of his nation. charlot was stripped of his title, his honours, his privileges of land grant and pension; in other words, he was reduced from great chief to pauper. thus charlot, who with his braves had defied his kinsfolk, the nez percés, to protect the weak colony of settlers in their bitter root home was driven forth by these same strangers within his gates, and he, the bravest and best of his kind, shorn of the dignities his forebears and he, himself, had won;--robbed, cast out, was held up to contumely as an unruly savage and spurned by the people his mercy had spared. from the bitter root, the poor wanderers took their way into the jocko, a region also fair, where some of their tribe already dwelt, and made for themselves new homes. they accepted the change uncomplainingly and set to work to sow and reap in this adopted land. charlot and his band of nearly two hundred lingered in the bitter root until , when driven by hunger and suffering they followed their tribesmen into the jocko. he had said he would never be _taken alive_ to the new reservation, nor was he. clad in his war dress, mounted on his best horse, surrounded by his young men in full war regalia, he rode into exile, proud, unbending as a triumphant chief entering dominions won by conquest. no expression of pain crossed his bronze-stern face; no hint of humility or subjection softened the majesty of his mien. he and his braves were met by the selish who had gone before, with great ostentation and ceremony. charlot never forgot nor forgave. he had been cast out, betrayed, but not conquered. the selish have learned to love the soft, yellow-green of the jocko hills, the free sweep of its prairies, where sun flowers flow in a sea of gold beneath the rushing tide of the summer wind, and the prettily boisterous little jocko river laughs and plays over its rocky bed between a veritable jungle of trees and vines and flowers. in these woods bordering the stream, the most luscious wild gooseberries, strawberries and bright scarlet brew berries grow--this last, dear to the indian, is picked by the squaws and made into a sparkling draught. there the trees are hung with dense tapestries of blossoming vines, thick moss deadens the footstep and birds call shrilly from the twilight of the trees. but the jocko and sin-yal-min are beautiful and fertile, and wherever there is beauty and fertility there comes the master saying: "_this is mine by right of might! go forth again o indian! there are lean hills and deserts left for thee!_" and the indian, grown used to such things, folds his tipi and takes his way into the charity of the lessening wilderness. not long ago a strange thing came to pass. one evening the sun set in a passion of red and gold. the tide of light pulsed through the skies, the air throbbed and shimmered with it, and every lake and pool reflected its ruddy splendour until they seemed to be filled with blood. the indians gazed at the spectacle in silent awe. groups of them on horseback, dark figures silhouetted against the bright sky, stared curiously at the awful glory of the heavens and earth, whispered in low tones together and were afraid. was the great spirit revealing something to his children? some there were who thought that the crimson banners in the west foretold a disaster and verily it was true. the end was near. the sun was setting forever upon their freedom. once more the children of the old time would be driven to another camping ground where they might halt for a little space and rest their weary heads before they take up the march upon their endless retreat. iv during the summer at the time when the sun reached his greatest strength, according to the ancient custom, the selish gathered together to dance. in this celebration is embodied the spirit of the people, their pride, their hates and loves. but this dance had a peculiar significance. it was, perhaps, the last that the tribe will celebrate. another year the white man will occupy the land, and the free, roving life and its habits will be gone. it was a scene never to be forgotten. overhead a sky deeply azure at its zenith which mellowed toward the west into a tide of ruddy gold flowing between the blue heavens and the green earth; far, far away, dim, amethyst mountains dreaming in the haze; and through that rose-gold flood of light, sharply outlined against the intense blue above and the tender green below, silent figures on horseback, gay with blankets, beads and buckskins, rode out of the filmy distance into the splendour of the setting sun, and noiselessly took their places around the musicians on the grass. there were among them the most distinguished men of the tribe. joe la mousse, once a warrior of fame, grown to an honored old age, watched the younger generation with the simple dignity which becomes one of his years and rank. he possessed the richest war dress of all, strung with elks' teeth and resplendent with the feathers of the war-eagle. it was he, who with charlot, met the nez percés and repudiated their bloody campaign; he, whose valiant ancestor, ignace la mousse, the iroquois, helped to make glorious the name of his adopted people. _françois_ and _kai-kai-she_, the judge, both honoured patriarchs, and chief antoine moise, _callup-squal-she_, "crane with a ring around his neck," who followed charlot to washington on his mission of protest, moved and mingled in the bright patchwork of groups upon the green. there was none more imbued with the spirit of festivity than old françois with white hair falling to his bowed shoulders. these and many more there were whose prime had known happier days. chief moise's wife, a handsome squaw, rode in with her lord, and conspicuous among the women was a slim wisp of a girl with an oval face, buckskin-colored complexion, and great, dusky, twilight eyes. a pale gray-green blanket was wrapped about her head and body, hanging to her moccasined feet. she was the wife of michel kaiser, the young leader of the braves. but towering above the rest of the assembly, regal to the point of austerity, was a man aged but still erect, as though his strength of pride would never let his shoulders stoop beneath the conquering years. he wore his blanket folded closely around him and fanned himself with an eagle's wing, the emblem of the warrior. one eye was hidden beneath a white film which had shut out its sight forever, but the other, coal-black and piercing, met the stranger gaze for gaze, never flinching, never turning aside. it was charlot. though an exile, his head was still unbent, his spirit unbroken. sometimes we see in the aged, the placid melancholy which comes with the foreknowledge of death, so in the serenely sad faces of the aged indians, we recognize that greater melancholy which is born of the foreshadowing of racial death. they cherish, too, a more personal grief in that they shall live to see the passing of the old life. patiently they submitted to the expulsion from the bitter root, but now in the darkness of gathering years once more they must strike their tipis to make room for the invading hosts. the setting sun streamed through the leaves and touched the venerable faces with false youth. wagon and pony discharged their human loads who sat passively, listening to the admonition of the tom-tom and the chant: "_come, o! ye people! come and dance!_" after this preliminary measure had lasted hours, not an indian professed to know whether the people would be moved to dance or not. a race characteristic is that impulse must quicken them to action. it was strange how the tidings had spread. the tipis and lodges are scattered over many miles, but the indians kept coming as though called up by magic from their hiding places in the hills. beneath a clump of cottonwood trees around the tom-tom, a drum made of deer hide stretched over a hollowed section of green tree, sat the four musicians beating the time of the chant with sticks bound in strips of cloth. of these players one was blind, another aged, and the remaining two, in holiday attire, with painted lips and cheeks, were braves. one of these, seated a trifle higher than his companions, leaned indolently over the tom-tom plying his sticks with careless grace. he possessed a peculiar magnetism which marked him a leader. occasionally his whole body thrilled with sudden animation, his voice rose into a strident cry, then he relapsed into the languid posture and the bee-like drone. of all that gathering he was the one perfect, full-blood specimen of a brave in the height of his prime. the dandy, victor vanderberg, was handsomer perhaps, and little jerome had the beauty of a head of raphael, but this michel kaiser was a type apart. his face and slim, nimble hands were the colour of bronze. his nose curved sharply as a hawk's beak, his mouth was compressed in a hard, cold line over his white teeth, his cheek bones were high and prominent, his brows straight, sable strokes above small, bright-black eyes that gleamed keen as arrow darts. his hair was made into two thick braids wrapped around with brown fur, his arms were decorated with bracelets and from his neck hung string upon string of beads falling to his waist. it was he who with suppressed energy flung back his head as he gave the shrill cry and quickened the beat of the tom-tom until louder and louder, faster and faster swelled the chant: "_come, o! ye people! come and dance!_" then out into the open on the green stepped a girl-child scarcely three years of age, who threw herself into rhythmic motion, swaying her small body to the time of the music and bearing in her quavering treble the burden of the chant. the impressive faces of the spectators melted into smiles. she was the pet of the tribe, the orphan granddaughter of joe la mousse and his venerable wife. loving hands had made for her a war dress which she wore with the grave complaisance of one favoured above her peers. she scorned the sedate dances of the squaws and chose the quicker action of the war dance, and she would not yield her possession of the field without a struggle which showed that the spirit of her fighting fathers still lived in her. suddenly a brave painted grotesquely, dressed in splendid colours with a curious contrivance fastened about his waist and standing out behind like a tail, bounded into the ring, his hurrying feet beating to the tintinnabulation of sleigh bells attached to his legs. michel kaiser and the young man who sat beside him at the tom-tom gave up their places to others, and after disappearing for a moment came forth freed from encumbering blankets, transformed with paint and ornament. a fourth dancer joined them and the awe-begetting war dance began. the movement was one of restrained force. with bent heads and bodies inclined forward, one arm hanging limp and the other resting easily at the back, they tripped along until a war-whoop like an electric shock, sent them springing into the air with faces turned upward and clenched fists uplifted toward the sky. it was now that michel stood revealed in all his physical beauty. in colour and form he was like a perfectly wrought bronze statue. he was tall and slender. his arms and legs, metal-hard, were fleet and strong and his every motion expressed agility and grace. he was clad in the full war-dress of the selish, somewhat the same as that which his ancestors had worn before the coming of the white man. upon his head was a bonnet of skunk tails that quivered with the slightest motion of his sinewy body. he wore, besides, a shirt, long, fringed buckskin leggins and beaded moccasins. he was decorated with broad anklets and little bells that tinkled as he moved. of the four dancers michel sprang highest, swung in most perfect rhythm, spent in that wild carnival most energy and force. supple and lean as a panther he curvetted and darted; light as the wind his moccasined feet skimmed over the green, scarcely seeming to crush a spear of grass. as he went through that terrible pantomime practiced by his fathers before they set out to kill or die, the fire flashing in his lynx-eyes, his slim arm poised over his head, his whole willow-lithe body swaying to the impulse of the war-lust, it was easy to fancy how that play might become a reality and he who danced to perpetuate an ancient form might turn relentless demon if the intoxication of the war-path once kindled in his veins. [illustration: abraham isaac and michel kaiser] this war dance explained many things. it was a portrayal of the glorious deeds of the warriors, a recitation of victorious achievement, a picture of battle, of striking the body of the fallen enemy--one of the great tests of valor. the act of striking was considered a far more gallant feat than the taking of a scalp. after a foe was shot and had fallen, a brave seeking distinction, dashed forth from his own band into the open field and under the deadly rain of the enemy's arrows, struck with his hand the body of the dead or wounded warrior. in doing this he not only courted the desperate danger of that present moment, but brought upon his head the relentless vengeance of the family, the followers and the tribe of the fallen foe,--vengeance of a kind that can wait for years without growing cold. by such inspiring examples the young men were stirred to emulation. the dance showed, too, how in the past the storm-clouds of war gathered slowly until, with lightning flash and thunder-blast, the warriors lashed themselves to the white-heat of frenzy at which they mocked death. the whole thing seemed to be a marshalling of the passions, a blood-fire as irresistible and sweeping as those floods of flame which lay the forests low. the warriors ceased their mad career. the sweat streamed from their brows and down their cheeks as they sat beneath the shade trees in repose. still the tom-tom beat and the chant continued: "_come, o! ye people! come and dance!_" they needed no urging now. what did they care for vespers and sermons when the ghostly voices of warrior-ancestors, of forest dwellers and huntsmen came echoing from the lips of the past? their spirit was aroused and the festival would last until the passion was quenched and their veins were cooled. the next dance was started by a squaw. it was called the "choosing dance," from the fact that either a man or a woman chose a partner for the figure. the ceremony of invitation was simple. the one who desired to invite another, grasped the individual's arm and said briefly: "dance!" the couples formed two circles around the tom-tom, one within the other, then slowly the two rings moved 'round and 'round, with a kind of short, springing step, droning the never-varying chant. at the end of the dance the one who had chosen his partner presented him with a gift. in some cases a horse or a cow was bestowed and not infrequently blankets and the most cherished bead-work belts and hat-bands. custom makes the acceptance of these favours compulsory. even the alien visitors were asked to take part and the indians laughed like pleased children to welcome them to the dance. one very old squaw, mrs. "nine pipes," took her blanket from her body and her 'kerchief from her head to give to her white partner, and a brave, having chosen a pale-faced lady for the figure, and being depleted in fortune by his generosity at a former festival, borrowed fifty cents from a richer companion to bestow upon her. it was all done in the best of faith and friendliness, with child-like good will and pleasure in the doing. when the next number was called, those who had been honoured with invitations and gifts returned the compliment. after this was done, the master of the dance, michel kaiser, stepped into the center of the circle, saying in the deep gutturals of the selish tongue, with all the pomp of one who makes a proclamation, something which may be broadly rendered into these english words: "this brave, jerome, chose for his partner, mary, and gave to her a belt of beads, and mary chose for her partner, jerome, and gave to him a silken scarf." around the circumference of the great ring he moved, crying aloud the names of the braves and maids who had joined together in the dance, and holding up to view the presents they had exchanged. the next in order was a dance of the chase by the four young men who had performed the war dance. in this the hunter and the beast he pursued were impersonated and the pantomime carried out every detail of the fleeing prey and the crafty huntsmen who relentlessly drove him to earth. the fourth measure was the scalp dance given by the squaws, a rite anciently practiced by the female members of families whose lords had returned victorious from battle, bearing as trophies the scalps of enemies they had slain. it was considered an indignity and a matter of just reproach to her husband or brother, if a squaw were unable to take part in this dance. the scalps captured in war were first displayed outside the lodges of the warriors whose spoil they were, and after a time, when they began to mortify or "break down," as the indians say, the triumphant squaws gathered them together, threw them into the dust and stamped on them, heaping upon them every insult and in the weird ceremony of that ghoulish dance, consigning them to eternal darkness, for no brave without his scalp could enter the happy hunting ground. the chant changed in this figure. the voices of the women rose in a piercing falsetto, broken by a rapid utterance of the single syllable "la, la" repeated an incredible length of time. the effect was singularly savage and strange, emphasizing the barbarous joy of the vengeful women. as the war dance was the call to battle, this was the aftermath. in pleasing contrast to this cruel rite was the marriage dance, celebrated by both belles and braves. the young squaws, in their gayest attire, ornamented with the best samples of their bead work and painted bright vermillion about the lips and cheeks, formed a chain around the tom-tom, singing shrilly. then a brave with a party of his friends stepped within the circle, bearing in his hand a stick, generally a small branch of pine or other native tree. he approached the object of his love and laid the branch on her shoulder. if she rejected his suit she pushed the branch aside and he, with his followers, retired in humiliation and chagrin. it often happened that more than one youth desired the hand of the same maiden, and the place of the rejected lover was taken immediately by a rival who made his prayer. if the maid looked with favor upon him she inclined her head, laying her cheek upon the branch. this was at once the betrothal and the marriage. at the close of the festivities the lover bore her to his lodge and they were considered man and wife. * * * * * the sun set mellow rose behind the hills which swam in seas of deepening blue. twilight unfolded shadows that climbed from the valleys to the peaks and touched them with deadening gray chill, until the warm glow died in the bosom of the night. still the tom-tom beat, the chant rose and fell, the dancers wheeled on madly, singing as they danced. the darkness thickened. the stars wrote midnight in the sky. papooses had fallen asleep and women sat mute and tired with watching. by the flare of a camp fire, running in uneven lights over the hurrying figures, one might see four braves leaping and swaying in the war dance. the night wore on. a heavy silence was upon the hills which echoed back the war cry, the tom-tom's throb and the chant. one, then another, then a third dropped out. still the quivering, sweat-burnished bronze body of michel writhed and twisted, bent and sprang. the lines of his face had hardened, the vermillion ran down his cheeks in rivulets, as of blood, and the corners of his mouth were drawn like the curves of a bow. the camp fire glowed low. the gray of the dawn came up out of the east with a little shuddering wind and the faint stars burned out. the tom-tom pulsed slower, the chant was broken. suddenly a wild cry thrilled through the pallid morn. the figure of michel darted upward like a rocket in a final brilliant gush of life, then fell senseless upon the ground. the embers grayed to ashes. the last spark was dead. the dance was done. the mists of morning rolled up from the valleys and unfurled their pale shrouds along the peaks, and the indians, mere shadow-shapes, like phantoms in a dream, stole silently away and vanished with the night. _enchanted waters_ chapter ii enchanted waters i there is a lake in the cloistered fastnesses of sin-yal-min, named by the jesuit priests st. mary's, but called by the indians the waters of the forgiven. it is a small body of water overshadowed by abrupt mountains, fed by a beautiful fall and for some reason, impossible to explain, it is haunted by an atmosphere at once ghostly and sad. so potent is this intangible dread, this fear of something unseen, this melancholy begotten of a cause unknown, that every visitor is conscious of it. most of all, the indians, impressionable and fanciful as children, feel the weird spell and cherish a legend of it as nebulous as the mists that flutter in pale wraith-shapes across its enchanted depths. the story goes that once, long ago, someone was killed upon the lake and the troubled spirit returns to haunt the scene of its mortal passing, but the murderer, smitten with remorse and repenting of his crime was finally forgiven by the great spirit, and the lake became known as the waters of the forgiven. the shadow of that crime has never lifted and it broods forever over the lake's dark face and upon the mountains that hold it in their cup of stone. there the echo is multiplied. if one calls aloud, a chorus of fantastic, mocking voices takes up the sound and it goes crying through the solitude like lost souls in purgatory. the waters of the forgiven exhale their eternal sigh, their pensive gloom, even when the sun rides high in the blue, but to feel the fullness of its spectral melancholy, one must seek it out in the secrecy of night. then, as the mellow moon rises over the mountain tops laying the pale fingers of its rays suggestively on rock and tree, touching them with magical illusion and transforming them to goblin shapes, one palpitates with strange fear, is impressed with impending disaster. as the moonlight flows in misty streams, sealing ravine and lake-deep in shadow the more intense for the contrast of white, discriminating light that runs quicksilver-like upon the ripples of the water and the quivering needles of the pine, the silence is broken by dismal howls. it is the lean, gray timber wolves. their mournful cry is flung back again by the ghostly pack that no eye sees and no foot can track. mountain lions yell shrilly and are answered by distant ones of their kind and inevitably that other lesser cry comes back again and again as though the phantom chorus could never forget nor leave off the burden of that lament. out of the pregnant darkness into the spectral moonlight shadowy creatures come to the shore to drink. the deer, the bear, sometimes the mountain lion and the elk stalk forth and quench their thirst. these things are strange enough, savage enough to inspire fear, but it is not they, nor the grisly mountains that create the terror which is a phantasm, the dread which is not of flesh nor earth. no indian, however brave, pitches his tipi by this lake nor crosses its waters, for among the tangle of weeds in its black, mysterious bosom, water sirens are believed to dwell. ever watchful of human prey they gaze upward from their mossy couches and if a boatman venture out in his frail canoe, they rise, entwining their strangling, white arms about him, pressing him with kisses poisonous as the serpent's sting, breathing upon him their blighting, deadly-sweet breath that dulls his senses into the oblivion of eternal sleep. ii the jocko or spotted lakes are enchanted waters also. they lie high up in the crown of the continent--the main range of the rocky mountains. to reach them the traveller needs patience and strength of body and soul, for the trail is long and tortuous, winding along the rim of sickening-steep ravines, across treacherous swamps, amid mighty forests to great altitudes. there are three lakes in this group, one above the other, the last being sometimes called the clearwater lake because it is within the borders of that terrible wilderness whose savage fastnesses have claimed their prey of lost wanderers. the first lake is inexpressibly ghostly. the flanks of the mountains rise sheer and frown down on murky waters, leaving scarcely any shore, and around their margin, gray-white drift-wood lies scattered like unburied bones. it is a spectral spot, unearthly, colourless as a moth, preyed upon by a lamentable sadness which broods unbroken in the solitude. there the fox-fire kindles in the darkness, the owl wheels in his midnight flight and pale shades of mist unwind their shroud-like scarfs. it is a pool of the dead, a region of lost hopes and throttling despair. from this lake the trail bears upward through dense jungles and morasses, venomously beautiful with huge, brilliantly coloured flowers growing to the height of a man. their scarlet and yellow disks exhale an overpowering fragrance, insidious, almost narcotic in its strength. beneath rank stalk and leaf, rearing blossom and entangling vine, creeping things with mortal sting dwell in the dank, sultry-sweet shadow. one is dazzled with the colour and the scent; charmed and repelled; tempted on into treacherous sinkholes by a wild extravagance of beauty too wanton to be good. at length the second lake unfolds itself from the living screen of tree and wooded steep. a point of land, stained blood-red, juts out into the water and over it tumbles and cascades a foam-whitened fall. this stain of crimson is a thick-spun carpet of indian paint brush interwoven with lush grass. the mountains show traces of orange and green, apparently a mineral wash hinting of undiscovered treasure. looking into the depths of the lake one is impressed with its freckled appearance. a blotch of milky white, then one of dull yellow mottles the water and even as one watches, a shadow darkens the surface, concentrating, scattering in kaleidoscopic variety, then disappearing as mysteriously as it came. there is no cloud in the sky, nor overhanging tree, nor passing bird to cause that shade without substance. at first it seems inexplicable and the indians, finding no natural reason for its being, believe it to be the forms of water sirens gliding to and fro. on this account, here as at the waters of the forgiven no indian dares to come alone and even with human company he fears the sirens' spell. for as the victim sleeps they come, drawing closer and breathing his breath until he dies. if one watches patiently he may see that the dark shadows are made by shoals of fish, gathering and dispersing, and in so doing, accentuating and lessening the sable spots. the lake is as uneven in temperature as it is in colour. it has hot pools and icy shallows, so it is probably fed by springs as well as by the torrent which falls from the peaks. a strong, sulphurous odour taints the air; the water is unpleasant to the taste and the sedgy weeds which grow about the shores are stained. and as the waters recede during the summer heat, along the banks, in uneven streaks a mineral deposit traces their retreat. towards the end of july or august a curious thing may be seen in this lake of the jocko. a current eddies around and around in a gigantic whirlpool, transforming it into a mighty funnel with an underground vent. at a considerable distance below a stream bursts forth from the mountain side with terrific energy of pressure and plunges downward in a foaming torrent. it is the jocko river,--the gentle, merry-voiced jocko of the prairie which winds its course among lines of friendly trees and blossoms. who would guess that it drew its nurture from the lake of the jocko, siren-haunted, poison-breathed, which careful indians avoid as a region of the accursed? still it is so and the menace of that mysterious lake becomes the blessing of the plains. * * * * * such are the waters of the forgiven and the jocko, secure in their solitude, guarded more potently by their spell of evil than by wall of stone or armed hosts, holding within their deep, dark bosoms the charm of the water sirens whose sad, sweet song quavers in the music of fall and stream, whose pallid, white faces flash lily-like from the depths, whose entangling tresses spread in flowing masses of sedgy green. and of the strange things which have happened on those shores, of the braves lured to the death-sleep on couches of moss and pillows of lily pad, scarcely an echo shrills down from the white-shrouded peaks to give warning to the adventurers who would seek out the awful beauty of those enchanted waters. _lake angus mcdonald_ chapter iii lake angus mcdonald and the man for whom it was named within the range of sin-yal-min, which rises abruptly from the valley of the flathead to altitudes of perpetual snow, in a ravine sunk deep into the heart of the mountains, is lake angus mcdonald. though but a few miles distant the bells of saint ignatius mission gather the children of the soil to prayer, no hand has marred the untamed beauty of this lake and its surrounding mountain steeps where the eagle builds his nest in security and the mountain goat and bighorn sheep play unmolested and unafraid. the prospect is a magnificent one as the roadway uncoils its irregular, tawny length from rolling hills into the level sea of green where only a year or two ago the buffalo grazed in peace. beyond, the jagged summits of sin-yal-min toss their crests against the sky, their own impalpable blue a shade more intense than the summer heavens, their silvered pinnacles one with the drifting cloud. a delicate, shimmering thread like the gossamer tissue of a spider's web spins its length from the ethereal brow of the mountains to the lifted arms of the foothills below. the yellow road runs through the valley, passes the emerald patch around the mission and thence onward to blue shadows of peaks where gorges flow like purple seas and distant trees are points of azure. the swelling foothills bear one up, the valley melts away far beneath and sweet-breathed woods sigh their balsam on the breeze. the pass becomes more difficult, the growth thickens. among the trees broad-leafed thimble berry, brew berry and goose berry blossom and bear; wild clematis builds pyramids of green and white over the bushes; syringa bursts into pale-starred flower, and a shrub, feathery, delicate, sends forth long, tender stems which break into an intangible mist of bloom. suddenly out of the tangled forests, a sheet of water, smooth and clear, appears, spreading its quicksilver depths among peaks that still bear their burden of the glacial age. and in the polished mirror of those waters is reflected the perfect image of its mountain crown. first, the purplish green of timbered slopes, then the naked, beetling crags and deep crevasse with its heart of ice. a heavy silence broods here, broken only by the wildly lonesome cry of the raven quavering in lessening undulations of tone through the recesses of the crags. two indians near the shore flit away among the leaves, timid as deer in their native haunts. such is lake angus mcdonald, and yonder, presiding over all, shouldering its perpetual burden of ice, is mcdonald's peak. strangely beautiful are these living monuments to the name and fame of a man, and one naturally asks who was this angus mcdonald that his memory should endure in the eternal mountains within the crystal cup of this snow-fed lake? the question is worth the answering. angus mcdonald was a highland scotchman, sent out into the western wilderness by the hudson bay company. there must have lurked in his robust blood the mastering love of freedom and adventure which led the scions of the house of mcdonald to such strange and varied destinies; which made such characters in the scottish hills as rob roy and clothed the kilted clans with a romantic colour totally wanting in their stolid brethren of the lowlands. in any event, it is certain that angus mcdonald, once within the magic of the wild, flung aside the ties that bound him to the outer world and became in dress, in manner of life and in heart, an indian. he took unto himself an indian wife, begot sons who were indians in colour and form and like his adopted people, he hunted upon the heights, moved his tipi from valley to mountain as capricious notion prompted, and finally made for himself and his family a home in the valley of sin-yal-min not far below that lake and peak which do honor to his memory. physically he was a man of towering stature, standing over six feet in his moccasins; his shoulders were broad and he was very erect. his leonine head was clad with a heavy shock of hair, and his beard, during his later years, snow white, hung to his waist. his complexion was ruddy, his eyes, clear, blue and penetrating. a picturesque figure he must have been, clad in full buckskin leggins and shirt with a blanket wrapped around him. he was known among the indians and whites through the length and breadth of the country about, and no more strange or striking character quickened the adventure-bearing epoch which we call the early days. as he was free to the point of lightness in his nature, trampling down and discarding every shackle of conventionality, he was likewise bound but nominally by the christian creed. he believed in reincarnation and his one desire was that in the hereafter, when his soul should be sent to tenant the new body, he might be re-born in the form of a wild, white horse, with proud, arched neck and earth-scorning hoofs, dashing wind-swift over the broad prairies into the sheltering hills. so it seems fitting that mcdonald's peak and lake should remain untamed even as their namesake; that the eddying whirlpool of life should pass them by and that in their embrace the native creatures should live and range as of yore. and may it be that within those shadowy gorges, remote from the sight and hearing of man, a wild, white horse goes bounding through the night? _some indian missions_ chapter iv some indian missions of the northwest more than a century after the spanish francescans planted the cross upon the pacific shores, the french, belgian and italian jesuits or _robes noires_, took their way into the northwestern wilderness in response to a cry from the people who lived within its solitudes. civilization follows the highways of intercourse with the outer world, so the western coast had passed through the struggle of its beginnings and entered into a period of prosperity and peace, while that territory with the rocky mountains as its general center, was still as primeval as when the galleons of juan de fuca sailed into puget sound. the mellowness of old romance, the warmth of latin colour, hang over the missions of california. the pilgrim lingers reverently in their cloistered recesses, breathing the scent of orange blossoms, reposing in the shade of palm and pepper trees. with the song of the sea in his ears and its sapphire glint in his eye he re-lives the olden days, weaves for himself out of imagination's threads, a picture as harmonious in its tones of faded rose and gray as an ancient tapestry. how much the architectural beauty of these missions has brought them within the affectionate regard of the people it is hard to say, but undoubtedly it has had an influence. the graceful lines of arch and pillar, the low, broad sweep of roof and corridor, the delicate, yellowish-white of the adobe outlined against a sky of royal blue, stir the sleeping sense of beauty in our hearts and make us pause to worship at such favoured shrines. it is for precisely the opposite reason that we are drawn to the missions of the northwest. austere, ascetic in form, they make their appeal because of their unadorned simplicity. they were originally the plainest structures of logs, added to as occasion demanded and always constructed of such homely materials as the surrounding country could yield. hands unaccustomed to other labours than telling the rosary or making the sign of the cross, hewed forest trees and wrought in wood the symbol of their teaching. no wonder, then, that the buildings were small and crude, but their lack of grandeur was the best testimony to the sacrifice and noble purpose of which they were the emblems. overlooked, isolated they stand, passed by and all but unknown. yet they are monuments of heroic achievement and devotion; brave men risked their lives willingly to lay these foundation stones of the faith; bitter struggles were fought and won in their consecrated shadows and upon them is the glamour of thrilling episode. during the seventeenth century a little band of french missionaries of the order of st. ignatius journeyed from their native france to canadian territory with the purpose of spreading the word of god amongst the savages of that benighted land. one of them, father ignace jogues, became the apostle of the iroquois and died at their hands, a martyr. strangely enough, his teachings lived after him and were preserved in a measure, at least, by those who had murdered him because of the message he brought. years afterwards, about , a small party of iroquois took their way from the mission of caughnawaga, in the neighbourhood of sault st. louis, on the banks of the saint lawrence river, and proceeded, probably in quest of furs, into the little known and perilous ascents of the rocky mountains. this party was headed by one ignace la mousse, his given name being by a curious coincidence, the same as that of the martyred disciple of the gospel. he was a man of lordly stature and puissance indomitable. upon their wanderings they came to _spetlemen_, "the place of the bitter root," a mild, fair valley where dwelt a folk kindly in their natures, who called themselves the selish. these people welcomed the iroquois, made them at home in their lodges and shared with them the sports of the chase until the visiting indians were visitors no more and claimed no other land than this. from the lips of old ignace, as he was known, the selish heard of a mysterious faith symbolized by a cross, a greater medicine than that of any of the tribes, and of pale-faced, sable-robed priests, who, in the olden time, taught that faith and died happily in the teaching. the selish practiced a simple, spontaneous kind of paganism. they believed in a good and evil spirit who were constantly at war. these two powers were symbolized by light and darkness and their heroic battle was pictured in the alternate triumph of day and night. if buffalo came in plenty, if elk and moose were slain and the season's yield were rich, then, according to their notion, the good spirit was in the ascendency; but if, on the other hand, winter rode down from the mountains while their larder was low, if fish would not bite and game could not be caught, the influence of the evil spirit prevailed. they believed also, in a future existence, happy or miserable according to the merit or demerit of the soul during its mortal life. the worthy shade passed into eternal summer time, to a land watered by fair streams and green with meadows; in these streams were countless fishes and in the meadows bands of wild horses and endless herds of the beloved buffalo. there the spirit, united with its family, would ride through all eternity, hunting amongst the ghostly flocks in the summer sun of happy souls. but those who had violated the tenets of the tribe, who had been liars, cowards or otherwise dishonourable, and those negative offenders who had been lacking in love for their wives, husbands and children, had sealed for themselves a bitter fate. these outcasts went to an arctic region of everlasting snow where false fires were kindled to torment their frozen limbs with the mocking promise of warmth. phantom streams offered their parched lips drink, but as they hastened to the banks to quench their thirst, the elusive waters were ever farther and farther away. so ever and anon, through the years that never seemed to die, the shades were doomed to hurry onward through the night and cold of winter that knows no spring, in misery as dark as the shadow engulfing them. the lands of good and evil were separated by savage woods, inhabited by hungry wolves, lithe wild cats and serpents coiled to strike. the wretched sinner in his prison of ice, might after a period of penance, short or long, according to the measure of his offense, expiate his sins and join his brethren in the happy hunting ground. besides this general belief held in common by the tribe, they cherished countless myths such as those of the creation and many lesser fanciful legends which formed a part of their religion. although these indians were sincere in this simple, half-poetical mythology, they listened very willingly, like eager children, to old ignace, and from him learned to make the sacred sign and repeat the white man's prayer. after knowing something of their mysticism it is not surprising that the greater mysticism of the catholic church should appeal to them; that once having heard the story of a faith much in accord with many of their elementary, pre-conceived ideas, they should pursue it tirelessly until they gained that which they most desired. time upon time at the councils, the chiefs discussed a means of getting a black robe to come to them. at last, in a mighty assembly, old ignace arose and proposed that a delegation be sent to st. louis to pray that an apostle of the church might come to shed the light of the new faith upon the darkness of the western woods. a stir of approval ran through the attentive people, for it was a great and daring thing to think of. but who would go? the journey of about two thousand miles lay over barriers of mountains, rushing torrents, virgin forests where the sun never shone, and worst of all, penetrated the country of their hereditary enemies, the sioux. in spite of these perils, in the breathless quiet of expectation that had hushed the tribe, four braves came forward and volunteered to undertake the quest. the knights of the olden days, who went forth sheathed in armour, in goodly cavalcades, to the land of the saracen in search of the holy grail, have gathered about their memory the white light of heroism, but if their daring and that of these four were weighed impartially, the indians would rise higher in the scale of glory. alone, afoot, armed only with such weapons as their skill could contrive, they started out in the spring of , and in spite of the death that lurked around them, reached their journey's end with the autumn. the tragical aftermath of that heroic adventure followed quickly. the dangers overcome, the goal won, they failed. not one among them could speak a word of french or english. they sought out general clark who had penetrated into their lands, but what brought them from across the rocky mountains, through the teeth of perdition to st. louis, not even he could guess. picture the tragedy of being within reach of the treasure and unable to point it out! through general clark the four emissaries were conducted to the catholic church. monseigneur, the bishop, was absent--he whom they had travelled six moons to see. very soon thereafter, two of the number fell ill as a result of exposure. in their sickness, doomed to die in a strange land far, far from the pleasant glades of their native valley, they made the sign of the cross and other feeble gestures which some priests who visited them interpreted rightly to be an appeal for baptism and the last rites of the church. the priests accordingly gave them the consolation they prayed for and placed in the hands of each a little crucifix. so rigidly did they press these symbols to their breasts, that they retained them even in death. still in their final agonies not one word could they tell of that mission for which they were even then yielding up their lives. they died christened narcisse and paul and were buried in a catholic cemetery in the city of st. louis. the two survivors, nameless shadows, flitted back into the wild and were lost forever in the darkness. no tidings of them ever reached the waiting tribe, so they, too, sacrificed themselves to a fruitless cause. after these things had happened a canadian, familiar with the indians, informed the good fathers who these children of the forest were and of their devotion to a faith, the merest glimmering of which had penetrated to their remote and isolated valley. then a priest of the cathedral offered to go with one companion to these zealous indians when the spring should make possible the desperate trip. meantime, the selish waited long and anxiously for word from their delegation. michel insula, or red feather, "little chief and great warrior," small of stature but mighty of spirit, always distinguished by the red feather he wore, hearing that some missionaries were travelling westward, fought his way through the hostile country and arrived at the green river rendezvous where indians, trappers and some protestant ministers were assembled. insula was dissatisfied with the ministers because they had wives, wore no black gowns such as old ignace described, and carried no crucifix. the symbolism of the catholic church had impressed him deeply and he would have no other faith, so he and his band returned to their people to tell them that the _robes noires_ were not yet come and their brave messengers had perished with their mission unfulfilled. they were resolute men, these indians, and never faltering, they determined to send another party upon the same sacred quest. this time old ignace, he who had first broached the adventure to the council, arose among the chiefs and warriors and offered to go. he took with him his two young sons. the summer was already well spent, but he and the lads started out undaunted, and after a terrible period of ceaseless travelling, smitten with cold and hunger, they reached st. louis, and ignace more favoured than the preceding delegation, made known the wants of his adopted tribe to the bishop, who listened to him kindly and promised to send a priest among his people. ignace and his sons returned safely to the bitter root valley and brought the glad tidings to the selish. but eighteen moons waxed and waned and though the watchful eyes of the indians scanned the east, never a pale-faced father in robes of black came out of the land of the sunrise. the chiefs took counsel again. a third time they determined to make their appeal. once more ignace la mousse led the way and in his charge were three selish and one nez percé brave. they fell in with a little party of white people near fort laramie, and uniting forces for greater safety, took up the march together. they journeyed onward unmolested until they came to ash hollow in the land of the warlike sioux. in that fateful place three hundred of the hostile tribe surrounded them. the sioux, wishing only the scalps of the selish and nez percé, ordered the white men and old ignace who was dressed in the garb of civilization, to stand apart. the whites obeyed, but ignace la mousse, scorning favour or mercy at the enemy's hands, joined his adopted tribal brethren and fought with them until they all lay dead upon the plains. so ended the third expedition. once more news of the bloody death of their heroes reached the selish. a fourth and last party volunteered to undertake that which now seemed a hopeless charge. two iroquois, young ignace la mousse, so called to distinguish him from the elder of the name, whose memory was held honourable by the tribe, and pierre gaucher, "left handed peter," set out, joining a party of the hudson bay fur company's men and making the trip in canoes. they finished the journey in safety and obtained from monseigneur, the bishop, the pledge that in the spring he would send a missionary to the valley of the bitter root. young ignace waited at the mouth of bear river through the winter in order to be ready to guide the priest to the selish with the coming of the spring. pierre gaucher returned hot-footed, in triumph, conveying to the tribe the glad tidings that their prayer had been answered; that the great black robe was sending them a disciple to preach the holy word. at last, after eight years of waiting, the selish were to have granted them their hearts' desire. from out of the east the pale-faced, black robed father would come bearing with him the cross illuminated by the rising sun, casting the benediction of its shadow upon the people and their land. when the selish learned from pierre gaucher that the _robe noire_ was in reality travelling towards their country even then, the great chief assembled his braves and it was decided that the tribe should march forward to meet and welcome their missionary. accordingly they started in good season and on their way met groups of kalispehlms, nez percés and pend d'oreilles, who joined them, swelling their number to about sixteen hundred souls. the ever increasing cavalcade moved on over pass and valley, peak and ford, clad in rich furs, war-eagle feathers and buckskins bright with beads--a gaily coloured column filing through the woods. finally, in the pierre hole valley they came upon him who was henceforth to be their teacher and guide, father de smet, whose memory is held in reverence by the indians of the present generation. there was great rejoicing among the selish, the nez percés, the pend d'oreilles and the kalispehlms. they burst into wild shouts of delight, swarming around the pale priest, shaking his hand and bowing down before him. they conducted him to the lodge of the great chief, called the "big face," whom father de smet has described as one "who had the appearance of a patriarch." the chief made father de smet welcome in these words: "'this day the great spirit has accomplished our wishes and our hearts are swelled with joy. our desire to be instructed was so great that four times had we deputed our people to the great black robe in st. louis to obtain priests. now, father, speak and we will comply with all that you will tell us. show us the way we have to take to go to the home of the great spirit.'" thus spake the big face, chief of all the selish, and there before the assembled peoples of the kindred tribes, he offered to the priest his hereditary honours as ruler. his renunciation was sincere, but father de smet replied that he had come merely to teach, not to govern them. that night in the deepening shadow, the children of the forest gathered together around their new leader and chanted a song of praise. strange music swelling from untutored lips and awakening hearts into the wild silence which had echoed only the howl of native beasts and the war cry of battle and death! yet even in that hymn of thanksgiving there was an undertone of unconscious sadness. it was the beginning of a new epoch. the old, poetical wood-myth and paganism were gone; the free range over mountain and plain in the exhilarating chase would slowly give place to the pursuits of husbandry. and this new, shapeless compound of civilization and religion was bringing with its blessings, a burden of obligation and pain. the indians did not know, the priest himself could not understand, that he was the channel through which these simple, happy folk should embark upon dangerous, devouring seas. * * * * * [illustration: lake mcdonald from mcdonald creek] father de smet was a belgian and he had spent some time with the pottowatamies, in kansas. he understood the indians well and what was most important, he loved them. he remained among the selish long enough to be assured of their docile nature and sincerity of purpose, then returned to st. louis to urge the establishment of a permanent mission and to ask for assistance to carry on his work. monseigneur, the bishop, listened favourably to his appeal and consequently, in the spring of , father de smet, reinforced with two italian priests, three lay brothers and some other man, started for the rocky mountains. the selish had promised to meet the party at a given place at the base of the wind river mountains, on the first day of july. the indians waited until they were driven by hunger to hunt in more likely fields. the fathers, learning of this, sent a messenger to recall them, and they hastened back to greet their apostle and his followers. and of that little band there were charles and françois, the sons of old ignace, the iroquois, simon, the oldest of the tribe, and young ignace of great fame, who, we are told, journeyed for four long days and nights having neither food nor drink, in his haste to make good his promise to meet the _robes noires_. so far was the season advanced that the selish had started on their buffalo hunt. therefore, the priests whose supplies were exhausted, with their indian friends, went on to fort hall, procured provisions there, and then proceeded to the beaverhead river to join the tribe. the priests stayed only a few days among the indians who were absorbed in the chase, and again took up their journey with the bitter root valley as the chosen place of permanent rest. there they had determined to build the mission, "the house of the great spirit," and there the selish promised to join them after the hunt was over in the fall. along the course of the hell gate river they took their way and at last came safely within the green refuge of the valley to lay down their burden and build their church. they selected a fair spot near the present site of stevensville and laboured long to fashion the pioneer home of the faith which they called the mission of st. mary's. the good priests went farther still and re-named the valley, the river watering it and the highest peak, st. mary's, so anxious were they in their zeal to eradicate every trace of the old, pagan beliefs of their converts, even to the names of the valleys, lakes and hills! the element of incongruity and pity in this, the zealous fathers did not appreciate. that a jagged, beetling crest, the home of the thunder cloud, the womb whence issues glacier and roaring stream, fit to be jove's dwelling, should bear the mild title of st. mary's, did not shock their notions of the eternal fitness of things. happily, the valley with its rose-starred brocade of flowers, is still the bitter root and a re-awakening interest is calling the old names from their long oblivion to take their places once again, vesting peak and stream and grassy vale with a significance of meaning totally wanting in the artificial foreign titles forced on them by those who neither knew nor cared for their tradition and sentiment. and even the ancient gods and spirits are no longer despised as evils antagonistic to the salvation of the soul. lafcadio hearn expressed pity for the cast-off shinto gods whose places were usurped by the deities of the buddhist creed. likewise, the best christian amongst us, if he looks beneath the surface into the heart of things, must be conscious of a vague regret for the quaint, mythical lore which cast its glamour over the wilderness; for the poor, vanished phantoms of the wood and the gods who have fallen from their thrones. sometimes in the remotest mountain solitudes we dare to acknowledge thoughts we would not harbour elsewhere. under the pensive appeal of the still forests, the heaven-reaching peaks and stream-songs, we wonder if upon the heights, in deep-bosomed caverns, those sad exiles dwell, casting over the cloistered groves a subtle melancholy, evasive as the shadow of a cloud, fleeting as the sigh of the summer wind. but the good fathers of st. mary's had no such thought for the ancient paganism and its symbols. they were busy planting the cross, building a chapel, the best that their strength and skill could erect, and other structures necessary for their protection and comfort. it was a labour of love, as much a religious rite as the saying of the mass, and verily, the ring of the hammers must have seemed in the ears of those devoted men, endless _aves_ and _pater nosters_. finally the work was done. a comfortable log cabin, large enough to hold nearly the assembled tribe, stood in the valley, and when the indians returned from the hunt, they were joyful in this, their reward, for all those brave attempts to bring the light into the wilderness. the mission completed, father de smet travelled to fort colville in washington, a journey of more than three hundred miles, to procure seeds and roots, and on his way he stopped among the kalispehlms, the pend d'oreilles and the coeur d'alenes, all of whom welcomed him and listened attentively to the message he brought. he took back to his selish charges at st. mary's "a few bushels of oats, wheat and potatoes" which he and his brethren sowed. the indians, like children, watched with wonder, the planting, sprouting, ripening and reaping of the crop, a thing hitherto unknown to them, though husbandry on a small scale had been practiced at an earlier date by some of the eastern tribes. but however truly the indians loved their new teachers, the _robes noires_, and however sincerely they accepted the tenets of their faith, they still persisted in buffalo hunts, which twice a year took them into the contested country, and upon these expeditions, fired with excitement, alive with all the heritage of passion inspired by the chase, the war path and the intoxication of glory handed down to them through an ancestry so ancient as to be lost in the dimness of beginnings, they forgot for a time, at least, the life of order, industry and religion they had pledged themselves to lead. therefore, one of the new priests, father point, accompanied them on the hunt, but in the abandon of those days when every sense was strained to find the prey, and every nerve was as tense as the bow-string 'ere it speeds the arrow to its mark, it was impossible to preach to them the gentle word of christianity, so the fathers gave up these attempts and remained at the mission awaiting the return of their straying converts, a situation which was to result sadly for st. mary's. meantime the work was growing. the pend d'oreilles and coeur d'alenes had asked for missionary priests and father de smet needed more helpers in the new land. from st. mary's, the mother mission, father point and brother huet went forth to minister to the coeur d'alenes, where they established the mission of the sacred heart. a third mission, st. ignatius, was founded amongst the kalispehlms on the pend d'oreille river. with these two offshoots from the parent stem of st. mary's, it was necessary for father de smet to seek re-inforcement abroad, but before he sailed he started westward three new recruits from st. louis. it must have been an inspiring sight when this humble priest, fresh from the western woods, the scent of the pines exhaling from him, the breadth of vast distances in his vision, the simplicity of the indians' racial childhood reflected in his own nature, stood before his august holiness, pope gregory xvi., in the grandeur of the vatican at rome, and there, amidst the pomp and ostentation, the wealth and luxury of the headwaters of that church which sends its streams to the utmost corners of the earth, pled the cause of the lowly indian. more imposing still, it must have been, when his holiness arose from his throne and embraced this apostle from the great, new world. the pope sought to make the priest a bishop, but father de smet chose to remain as he was, and certainly in the eyes of unprejudiced laymen, he gained in simple dignity more than he foreswore in ecclesiastical honors. this trip of father de smet to europe has a peculiar interest in that it was the means of bringing into the west, besides numbers of pioneer sisters, and clergy, a man so beloved, so revered that his name--father ravalli--is known by catholic and protestant, indian and white alike, through the whole of the rocky mountain region. those who knew the gentle old man loved him not only for his spirituality, but for his human sweetness. he possessed that breadth of sympathy which sheds mercy on good and bad equally, commiserating the fallen, pitying the weak. he was a native of ferrara, italy, and at a very early age decided to become a missionary priest. that he might be most useful materially as well as religiously, he fitted himself for his work. he graduated in _belles lettres_, philosophy, the natural sciences, and became a teacher in these branches of learning, in several cities of italy. under a skilled physician of rome he studied medicine; in a mechanic's shop he learned the use of tools; finally, in a studio, he practiced the rudiments of art which he always loved. so he came to the indians bringing with him great human kindliness, and the knowledge of crafts and homely pursuits that made their lives more easy and independent. it was he who devised the first crude mill, the means of giving the people flour and bread, he who by a hundred ingenious devices lightened the burden of their toil. but most of all was his practice of medicine a mercy. to stricken infancy or old age he was alike attentive; to dying christians he bent with ready ear and alleviating touch, or as compassionately eased the last throes of highwaymen, heretic or murderer. over the bleak, snowy passes of the mountains, heedless of hardship or danger, he hurried in answer to the appeal of the sick, no matter who they were or where they dwelt. and though often those who went before or came after him were robbed, he was never molested. the most desperate of the "road agents" respected him and suffered him to pass in peace on his way. gently brave, like the good bishop in _les miserables_, his very trustfulness was his safeguard. perhaps as striking an example of his forethought as we can find is the fact that he trained a squaw to give intelligent care to women in the throes of childbirth. there is no record of the mothers and babes spared thus, but there were many, and even the letter of the monkish law never stayed his helping hand or curbed his humane devotion. the more ascetic brethren who lived in colder spiritual altitudes, looked doubtfully upon father ravalli's impartial ministry; the more astute financiers who held the keys to the church's coffers, frowned upon his unrewarded toil, and there comes a whisper through the years that there were times when he was an object of charity because he never asked reward for the surcease of suffering his patient vigils brought. he travelled from one to another of the northwestern missions and even to santa clara, california, but he is known best and loved most as the apostle of the selish at st. mary's. indeed, looking back through the perspective of time at the plain, little mission crowned as with an aureole, one figure stands out clearly among the pious priests, who, in turn, presided at its altar, and this figure is father ravalli. his grave, marked by a shaft of stone, is within the shadow of the church in the valley of the bitter root, and it was fitting he should lie down to rest where he had laboured so long and lovingly. a generation hence, when the hallowed places of the west become shrines about which pilgrims shall gather reverently, this mountain-tomb of the gentle old priest will be visited and written of. meantime, he sleeps as sweetly for the solitude, and those whose lives he made more beautiful by his presence think of him at peace as they turn their eyes heavenward to the infinite rosary of the stars. in spite of the progress of the beneficent work and the fresh blood that had infused new strength into the cause, dark days were to cast their shadow upon the little mission of st. mary's. no power could restrain the selish from the chase, and during their absence twice a year, the colony left behind, consisting only of the priest and those too aged or sick to follow the tribe, were menaced by the blackfeet and bannock indians. the old feud was fanned red hot by the selish killing two blackfeet warriors who invaded the very boundaries of the mission with hostile intent. the threats from the blackfeet became more terrible. they lurked in the thick timber and brush around the stockade which enclosed the mission, and, finally, while the tribe was absent on a buffalo hunt, a rumour reached the anxious watchers that the hostiles would descend in a great war party upon the defenseless community. and indeed, they were roused by war whoop and savage yell to see swarming around their weak barricade, the dreaded enemy. father ravalli was in charge of the mission at that time and he and his companions prepared themselves for the death which seemed inevitable. but the blackfeet, probably seeing that only a man stricken with years, two young boys and a few aged women and little children were all of their hated foe who remained at st. mary's, retreated to the brush. one of the two boys ventured to the gate to make sure the blackfeet were gone and was shot dead. this tragical incident and the more awful menace it carried with it to those who were left at the mercy of the invading tribes, and another reason we shall now consider, led to the temporary abandonment of st. mary's. in those early days, the missions being the only habitations within many hundreds of miles, became the refuge and abiding place during bitter weather, of french-canadian and mixed breed trappers, who in milder seasons ranged over the mountains and plains in pursuit of furs. these half-savage men were undoubtedly a picturesque part of the old, woodland life and their uncouth figures lent animation and colour to the quiet monotone of the religious communities. in the first quarter of the last century we find mention of french-canadians employed by the missouri fur company, appearing on new year's eve, clad in bison robes, painted like indians, dancing _la gignolee_ to the music of tinkling bells fastened to their dress, for gifts of meat and drink. these trappers were, in the day of st. mary's mission, a licentious, roistering band with easy morals, consciences long since gone to sleep, who did not hesitate to debauch the indians, and who feared neither man nor devil. they went to st. mary's as to other shrines, and under the pretext of practicing their religion, lived on the missionaries' scanty stores and filled the idle hours with illicit pastimes. it is said that they became revengeful because of the coolness of their reception by the priests, and maliciously set about to poison the selish against the beloved _robes noires_. however this may be, whether the wayward, capricious children strayed or not, it is certain that they would not sacrifice the buffalo hunt for priest nor promise of salvation, so the mission was dismantled and leased; its poor effects packed and the apostles of the faith started out again to seek refuge in new fields. at hell's gate, the inferno of the blackfeet, they parted; father ravalli to wend his way to the mission of the sacred heart among the coeur d'alenes; the rest, under the escort and protection of victor, the lodge pole, great chief of the selish and father of charlot, followed the coriacan defile to the jocko river and finally arrived at st. ignatius, the mission of the kalispehlms. for a time we leave st. mary's in the sad oblivion of desertion, while those who had tended its altar, poor pilgrims, toiled over diverse trails toward different destinations. it is not necessary to follow the varying fortunes of the few, small missions in the northwestern wilderness, included then within the vast territory called oregon. each has its pathetic story of privation and danger, which may be found complete and detailed in ecclesiastical histories written by priests of the order. we shall pass on to the mission of st. ignatius, whither the party from st. mary's sought refuge, which, in the course of time absorbed some of the lesser institutions and became, as we shall see, the religious center of several tribes. the mission of st. ignatius was the same founded by father point on the banks of the pend d'oreille river among the kalispehlms in the year . the original location proved undesirable, so ten years later the mission was moved to a site chosen by the advice of alexander, chief of the tribe. a wonderful revelation it must have been when the indian guide, leading the priests through a pass in the mountains, the secret of his people, showed them the vast sea of flowing green--the valley of sin-yal-min--barred to the east by the range of the same name. there ever-changing shades of violet and lights of gold altered the mien of these mountains whose jagged peaks showed white with snow, from whose deep bosoms burst a water-fall plunging from mighty altitudes into the emerald bowl of the valley. this was veritably a kingdom in itself, and no white man had trodden the thick embroidery of wild flowers and grass. it had been a gathering place for many tribes. within its luxuriantly fruitful limits, berries and roots grew in plenty and game abounded in the neighbouring hills. in the very palm of sin-yal-min the new mission of st. ignatius was builded. there could scarcely have been a more ideal spot for church and school, forming the nucleus of an agricultural community. there gathered parties of the upper and lower kalisphelms, upper kootenais, flat bowes, pend d'oreilles and selish, to pitch their tipis in the shadow of the mission cross. many of these indians made for themselves little farms where they laboured and lived. entire families of selish moved from the bitter root valley to be near the _robes noires_ they loved. st. ignatius possessed an advantage that bound the indians to it by permanent ties and that was its schools. four pioneer sisters travelling into the rocky mountain region under the guidance of two priests and two laymen, from their home mission in montreal, founded at st. ignatius the first girls' school among the indians of the territory. not long thereafter the priests established a similar school for boys, where they taught not only the french and english languages and the rudiments of a simple education, but also such handicrafts as seemed most necessary to the development of industry. in saddle-making particularly, the boys excelled, and wonderful specimens of leather work have gone forth from the mission shops. thus, largely through its practical industry st. ignatius grew into a powerful institution. building after building was added to the group until a beautiful village sprang up, half hidden among clumps of trees and generous vines. on the outskirts of this community rows of tiny, low, thatch-roofed log cabins were built by the indians to shelter them when they assembled to celebrate such feasts as christmas, good friday and that of st. ignatius, their patron saint. the fates favoured st. ignatius. in the year of its removal the hell's gate treaty was signed wherein the bounds of the reservation were re-adjusted, making the new mission the center of that rich dominion. the treaty of the hell gate, participated in by the selish, the pend d'oreilles and some of the kootenais, was the same, it may be remembered, wherein victor, the father of charlot, insisted upon retaining possession of the bitter root valley "above the lolo fork" for himself and his people, unless after a fair survey by the united states, the president should deem it best to move the tribe to the jocko. this agreement was entered into in . seventeen years went by. the indians declare that no survey was ever made during that time nor were they furnished with school teachers, skilled artisans and agriculturalists to instruct them, as had been promised on the part of the government. summarily the selish were called upon to sign a second agreement, the garfield treaty, which deprived them of their ancestral home and drove them forth to share the jocko reservation in common with the allied tribes. this was at once an impetus to the fortunes of st. ignatius and a mortal blow to st. mary's. that pioneer shrine, abandoned on account of the depredations of the blackfeet, remained dark and silent for sixteen years. the selish mourned the loss of their friends and teachers, the _robes noires_. in spite of the absence of the church's influence, save such intermittent inspiration as the occasional visit of a priest, the selish prayed and waited. and surely, poor, impulsive children that they were, if they had been misled by tale-bearing, mixed breed trappers, their digression was dearly expiated. during those sixteen years they remained faithful to the cause which four delegations of their number had braved danger, privation and death to win. in the meantime the west was changing. the first stern, ascetic days were passing when the best of men's characters was called into active existence to cope with immediate hardship; when every nerve rang true, tuned to the highest bravery and that magnificent indifference to death which makes heroes. the cry of gold ran through the length and breadth of the land and the headlong rush of adventurers, good and bad, from the four corners of the earth, all bent on wealth, changed the spirit of the western world. in that mad stampede, men, spurred by the lust of gain, pushed and crowded each other, and with such competition, who thought of or cared for the indian? his day was done; the accomplishment of his ruin was merely a matter of years. moreover, the lower element of the reckless, pillaging crew of gold seekers brought with it the vices of civilization--drink and the game. change the ideal which inspires a deed and the deed itself is changed. that first, stern west which taught men not to fear by surrounding them with danger, made heroes of them because they had braved the unknown for some noble purpose, religion, the simple love of nature or another reason as good; but in these altered conditions where debauching gain was the one object of their quest, though they spurned death as the pathfinders had done, their bravery sank to bravado and dare-deviltry because their purpose was sordid. with this invasion of the wilderness the whole aspect of the mission work underwent a change. the masked man on horseback stalked the trails; the bizarre glamour of the dance hall flaunted its coarse gaiety in the mushroom camps' thronged streets; the saloon and gaming house brought temptation to the indian, and generally he fell. it was also true that in more than one instance the precedent of bloodshed was set by brigand whites, sowing the seeds which were later to bear a red harvest of war. so, when st. mary's opened her doors in , it was upon a period of transition. if the placid image of our lady, looking through half closed eyelids, could have seen and understood the metamorphosis what a shock would have smitten her sainted soul! the painted, war-bent blackfeet were gone far back into their fastnesses, but here and there, thick and fast, came the white settler, peaceful, cold, inevitable, overwhelming, bringing ruin to the old life and its people--the beginning of the end. and that calm, just mother of mankind would have seen the timid shadow-shapes of the selish melting into the gathering twilight, at once welcoming the stranger to the land and relinquishing it to him, retiring step by step before the great, white inundation. it is useless to prolong the story. the climax had to come, and come it did, swiftly, cruelly, with a dark hint of treachery that we, of the superior race are too willing to excuse and condone. by the garfield treaty, which, by a curious anomaly, never very lucidly explained, bears the sign of charlot, son of victor, hereditary chief of the selish, that he, a man in his sane senses swears he never signed, the tribe renounced all claim to the land of their fathers and consented to betake themselves to the jocko reservation. during the twenty-two years of the existence of st. mary's as an indian mission, after its second opening, the fathers, among them father ravalli, watched over and tended their decreasing charge. the numbers of the red hosts dwindled; the falling off of the people through new and unnatural conditions thinned their ranks, but surer still, was the admixture of the white strain, so corrupting in most cases to the unfortunate in whom the two race strains commingle. but in spite of the garfield treaty, notwithstanding the exodus of the main body of the selish, st. mary's faithful to the end, drew to her little altar the last, failing remnant of the tribe--the splendidly defiant charlot and his band. at last, in , they accepted the inevitable and rode away to the land of their exile resigning to the conquering race their blood-right to the bitter root. this was the death of st. mary's. it remained standing, a church of the whites, but an indian mission no more. in looking back through the years, their mercies and their cruelties, it is a sorrowfully sweet thing to remember that father ravalli, guardian spirit of the selish, lay down to rest before the ultimate change, the final expulsion, while the first light of the wilderness from the altar of st. mary's still shone, however faintly, to show the way. the sequel of st. ignatius is, happily, less pathetic in its unfolding. the life that ebbed from st. mary's flowed amply into the newer mission's growing strength and to-day it stands, substantial and prosperous in the valley of sin-yal-min. though the same tragedy is about to be enacted, the expulsion, less summary, leaving to the individual indian his garden patch, st. ignatius remains a beacon to the dusky hosts, poor frightened children who cling to this last hope, promising as it does a happiness born of suffering, an ultimate reward which not even the white man can take away. a handsome new church, frescoed by an italian brother, does service instead of the old chapel, venerable with age that hides behind the sheltering trees. in front of the modern church stands the great, wooden cross erected by the early fathers, which the indians kneel to kiss before they go to mass. and to the right, covered with wild grass, and that neglect of which such vagrant growths are the emblem, is the old cemetery where so many weary pilgrims who travelled long and painfully over difficult trails, have sought peace past the power of dreams to disturb. here, as we have seen, upon feast days the indians come, the scattered bands gathering from mountain and valley, clad in gala attire. their ranks are thinning fast. the once populous nation of the selish is shrunk to between three and four hundred souls, still the little village often holds a thousand indians all told, from the different neighbouring tribes. and sometimes, bands from far away, distinguished by diversified language, curious basketry and articles of handicraft, come as spectators to the feasts. until a few years ago these religious festivals were preceded by solemn rites of expiation. a kind of open air court was held, the chiefs sitting in judgment upon all offenders and acting in the capacity of judges. the whole tribe assembled to watch with impassive gravity the austere spectacle of the accusation, sentence and chastisement of those who had broken the law. all malefactors were either brought before the chiefs, or spurred by conscience, they came forward voluntarily, confessed their guilt and prayed to be expurgated of sin through the sting of the lash. when the accusations and confessions were finished, the multitude dropped upon their knees and prayed. then those arraigned were examined and such of them as the chiefs decreed guilty, were sentenced and immediately suffered the penalty. a blanket was spread upon the earth and the offender lay on this, his back exposed to the raw-hide lash which marked in welt-raising strokes the degree of his transgression. even while he smarted, never wincing under this ordeal, the spectators at the bidding of the chiefs, prayed once again for the culprit's reformation and forgiveness. such was the practice of the selish handed down from the earliest days. the time and place of the chastisement were regulated in these later years by the catholic festivals, but public punishment with the lash was a custom of the tribe before the missionaries penetrated the west. the confession, the judgment and the whipping they believed to be a complete expiation; having suffered, the sin-soiled were made clean, and thus purified, they met and mingled with the best of their brethren on equal terms, without further reproach. this was a simple and summary form of justice, suited to the people whom it controlled,--was in fact the natural outgrowth of their moral and ethical code--and it is a pity that the ancient law, together with much besides that was desirable in the pristine life of the indian, has been stamped out beneath the master's iron heel. one cannot take leave of the missions of the northwest without looking back upon father de smet, their founder, and the work which he began. through his devotion missions were established among many different nations, even the unyielding blackfeet falling under the spell of gentleness. and he who lived most of his life either in the wilderness or labouring elsewhere for what he believed to be the salvation of its benighted children, died at last at st. louis in , after meditative and reminiscent years spent in recording his travels and his triumphs. there are some subtle questions crying out of the silence which are not to be pushed back unspoken, even though we can find no answer to their riddle. how far have the missionaries succeeded? if completely, why does the christian indian still dance to the sun? and did those fathers in their errand of mercy blindly pass to the people they would fain have saved from annihilation the fate they strove to spare them from? who can say? the indians were probably in their racial infancy when the maturer ranks marched in and absorbed, or otherwise destroyed them. it would seem that with them it is a case of arrested development. if left to themselves, through centuries they might have brought forth a civilization diametrically opposite to our own. that they never could nor can assimilate or profit by our social and educational methods has been sufficiently proved. their race instincts are essentially as foreign to ours as those of the hindu, and their evolution must have necessarily proceeded along totally different lines. the indians were decreed to work out their own salvation or die, and the latter thing has come to pass. one might go on painting mental pictures of what would have been the result if the free, forest-born red race had thrived and grown into maturity. certainly in their decadence, their spirit-broken second childhood, we find the germ of an original moral sense, of tradition and poetry, even of religion, which might have borne rich fruit. the oriental is to us an enigma, and we recognize in his makeup psychic qualities but slightly hinted of in ourselves. so in the indian we must acknowledge a race of distinct and separate values that we can never wholly know or understand. the races are products of countless centuries begotten of habit and environment; we cannot put aside these growth-accumulations builded like the rings of the pine, nor can we take that which the creator made and re-create it to suit our finite ends. therefore, instead of helping the indian we are merely killing him, kindly perhaps, with comforts, colleges and sacraments, but none the less surely striking at his life. and though they are still amongst us, picturesque figures which we value chiefly as relics of a gaily-coloured past, the indians are the mystery of our continent. they speak to us, they smile at us, they sit within our churches and use our tongue, but for all that they remain forever strangers. what pagan beliefs vibrating through the chain of unrecorded ancestry, what hates, loves, aspirations and bitter griefs, separate from our comprehension as the poles, thrill out of the darkness of yesterday and die unspoken, unformed, beneath those calm, bronze brows? they are a problem to be studied, never solved; a riddle one with the sphinx, the cliff dwellers and the aztec ruins. for, after all is said, what do even the good fathers, with candle, crucifix and creed, know of their primal souls, of the unsounded depths of their hearts? _the people of the leaves_ [illustration: francois] chapter v the people of the leaves among the early canadian french the sioux were known as the _gens des feuilles_, or people of the leaves. this poetical title seems very obscure in its meaning, at first, but it may have originated in a legend of the creation which is as follows: in the ultimate beginning, the great spirit made the world. under his potent, life-giving heat the seeds within the soil burst into bloom and the earth was peopled with trees--trees of many kinds and forms, the regal pine and cedar in evergreen beauty and the other hosts whose leaves bud with the spring, change with the autumn and die with the winter's snow. these trees were all possessed of souls and some of them yearned to be free. the great spirit, from his throne in the blue skies, penetrating the slightest shadow of a leaf, divining the least unfolding of a bud with his all-seeing, omnipotently sensitive beams radiating like nerves from his golden heart, perceived the sorrow of the sighing forests and mourned with tears of rain at their discontent. then he knew that a world of trees, however beautiful, was not complete and he loosed the souls from their prisons of bark and limb and re-created them in the form of indians, who lived in the shelter of the woods, knit to them by the eternal kinship of primal soul-source--verily the people of the leaves. * * * * * it is not strange that among a nation which adored the sun, the chief ceremony should have been the sun dance, at once a propitiatory offering to the great spirit and a public test of metal before a young man could become a brave. the custom was an ancient one, as ancient, perhaps, as the legend of the leaves, and in the accounts of the earliest explorers and missionaries we read of this dance to the sun; of the physical heroism which was the fruit of the torture and filled the ranks of soldiery with men spartan in fine scorn of pain and contempt of death. it is interesting to trace similar practices in races widely separate in origin, habits and beliefs, and it seems curious that this rite of initiation into the honourable host of the braves, however dissimilar in outer form, was not totally unlike in spirit the test of knighthood for the hallowed circle of the table round. the festival of the sun dance was celebrated every year in the month of july, when the omnipotent orb reached his greatest strength, is, indeed, still celebrated, but without the torture which was its reason for being. a pole was driven deep and solid in the ground and from the top, somewhat after the manner of a may-pole, long, stout thongs depended. after incantations by the medicine men, the youths desiring to distinguish themselves came forward in the presence of the assembled multitude, to receive the torture which should condemn them as squaw men or entitle them to fold their blankets as braves. with a scalping knife the skin was slit over each breast and raised so a thong from the pole could pass beneath and be fastened to the strip of flesh. when all were bound thus, the dance began to the time of a tom-tom and the chant. goaded by pride into a kind of frenzy the novices danced faster, more wildly, leaping higher, bending lower, until they tore the cords loose from their bleeding bosoms and were free. if, during the ordeal, one fainted or yielded in any way to the agony, he was disgraced before his tribe, cast out as a white-hearted squaw man until the next year's festival, when he might try to wipe out the stain and enter the band of the brave. if, on the other hand, all the young men bore the torture without flinching, their spirits rising superior to all bodily pain, they were received as warriors and earned the right to wear the medicine bag. often one of greater puissance than his fellows wished further to distinguish himself by a test extraordinary and submitted to a second torture more heroic than the first. he suffered the skin over his shoulder blades to be slit as his breast had been and through these gashes thongs were drawn and fastened as before, but this time the ends were attached to a sacred bison's skull, kept for the purpose, which the brave dragged over rough, rocky ground and through underbrush, until his strained flesh gave way and freed him of his burden. this feat entitled him to additional honors and he was respected and held worthy by the great men of the tribe. after the torture, when a youth was declared a brave he retired to the wilderness, there in solitude to await the message of the great spirit which would reveal to him his medicine, or charm. this "making medicine" as it was called, was a rite of most solemn sacredness and secrecy and therefore shrouded in mystery. from the lips of one who, in days past, when the ancient customs were rigidly preserved, followed and watched a newly made brave, the ensuing narrative was gleaned. after dark the young indian took his way cautiously far off into silent, unpeopled places where sharp escarpments cut like cameos against the sky. there, poised upon the cliffs, his slim figure silhouetted against the moonlit clouds, he remained rigid as a statue through long hours, waiting for the voice from above by whose revelation he should learn wherein his power lay. then lifting his arms towards the heavens he made strange signs to the watchful stars. so he remained 'till dawn paled from the east, when, having received his message, he went forth to seek the animal which should hereafter be his manitou, or guardian spirit. sometimes it was the bison, the elk, the beaver, the weasel or other beast of his native wild. into his bag he put a tooth or claw and some fur of the chosen creature, with herbs which might be propitious. such was his charm, his medicine-bag, the source of his valour and safety, to be worn sleeping and waking, in peace and in war; to be guarded with his life and to go with him in death back to the great spirit by whom it was ordained. if a warrior lost his medicine-bag in battle, he became an outcast among his people and his disgrace was not to be wiped out until he slew and took from an enemy's body the medicine-bag which replaced his own and thus retrieved his honour. of all the quaint ceremonies connected with the old wood-worship and sun-worship, combining the idea of beginning and end, of pre-existence and after-existence, none are more interesting than the rites attending the burial of the dead. as the indians sprang from the forest trees, according to the myth of the leaves, lived in the shadow of the pleasant woods, so at last, they were received into the strong, embracing branches that tossed over them in wild gestures when the great spirit spoke in anger from the sky; that tempered the summer's heat into cooling shadow for their repose; that shed their gift of crimson leaves upon the indians' devoted heads even as they, themselves, must shed the garb of flesh before the blast of death. or, sometimes, the dead were exalted upon a naked rock, rising above earth's levels toward the sun. wherever his resting place might be, the dead man sat upright, if a brave, dressed in his full war regalia, surrounded by his most prized possessions and if he owned a horse, it was shot so its shade might bear his spirit on the long, dark, devious way to the happy hunting ground. no mournful ghost who met his death in darkness could ever bask in the celestial light of endless summer-time; he was doomed to become a phantom living in perpetual night. that is the reason none but forced battles were fought after dark; the bravest of the braves feared the curse of everlasting shadow. they believed, too, that no warrior who lost his scalp could enter the fields of the glorious; hence the taking of an enemy's scalp at once killed and damned him. the suicide was likewise barred from paradise. * * * * * years ago, when the feuds of the hostile tribes still broke into the red vengeance of the war-path, the sioux and cheyennes did battle with the gros ventres at squaw butte, and by some mischance a medicine man of the sioux, not engaged in the combat, whose generalship lay in marshalling the manitous to the aid of his people, was killed. a traveller, journeying alone in the mountains, found him high upon a cliff with his blanket and war dress tumbling about his bleaching bones, his medicine-bag and all the emblems of his magic preserved intact. in the bag was a grizzly bear's claw, an elk's tooth, and among other trinkets, a small, smooth brass button of the kind worn by the rivermen trading up and down the missouri river between the east and the savage west. it would be interesting to trace the migrations and transfiguration of that little button from its existence as an humble article of dress to the dignity of a charm in the medicine-bag of the old magician on that isolated cliff. and the master of magic himself; he of prophetic powers and knowledge born of intercourse with the gods; there he sat, an arrow through his skull, his blind, eyeless sockets uplifted to the sun, his necromancy unavailing, his wisdom but a dream! in that remote home which his devoted tribesmen chose for him, no irreverent hand had disturbed his watch, and he is probably still sitting, sitting with blind eyes toward the sun while eagles circle overhead and gray wolves howl to the moon. the years pass on unheeded, the face of the land has changed, is changing, will change, and the rustling, swirling leaves of autumn fall thick and fast. mayhap, after all, the old magic master, keeping his eternal vigil, may see from beyond the flesh the thinning woods and the dead leaves dropping from the trees; hear their weary rustle--poor ghosts, as they flutter before the wintry wind. and among the lessening trees, also driven by the northern blast, does he see also, a gaunt and silent troop of phantoms--mere autumn leaves--whirling away before the storm? _the passing buffalo_ chapter vi the passing buffalo i it was summertime in the mountains--that short, passionate burst of warm life between the long seasons of the snow. the world lay panting in the white light of the sun, over gorge and pine-clad hill floated streamers of haze, and along the ground slanted thin, blue shadows. the sky pulsed in ether waves and the distant peaks, azure also, with traceries of silver, were as dim as the memory of a dream. in this untrodden wilderness the passing years have left no record save in the gradual growth of forest trees, and in its rugged beauty it is the same as a century ago. therefore time itself seems arrested, and it is scarcely strange to come upon a buffalo skull naked and bleached by sun and rain, and close by, half hidden in the loose rocks, an arrow head of pure, black obsidian. this, then, was once the scene of a brave chase when wind-swift indians pursued mad, hurtling herds over mountain slope and plain. these empty fastnesses thrilled to the shock of thousands of beating hoofs, these hills flung back the echo to the brooding silence as the black tide flowed on, pressed by deadly huntsmen armed with barb and bow. and even then, far over the horizon, unseen by hunted and hunters, silent as the shadow of a cloud, inevitable as destiny, came the white race, moving swifter than either one, driving them unawares toward the great abyss where they should vanish forever into the happy hunting ground, lighted by perpetual summer and peopled by immortal herds and tribes. ii in such a remote and deserted place as this, no great effort of the imagination is needed to call up the shades of those who once inhabited it, to react their part in the tragedy of progress. let us fancy that a riper, richer glow is upon the mountains, that the white light of the sun has deepened into an amber flood which quivers between the arch of lapis-lazuli sky and the warm, balsam-scented earth that sighs forth the life of the woods. already the trees not of the evergreen kind are hung with bewilderingly gorgeous leaves of scarlet, russet-brown and yellowing green; the haze has grown denser and its ghostly presence insinuates itself among the very needles of the pines. it is autumn. the gush of life has reached its climax and is ebbing. high on the steepled mountains is a wreath of filmy white that trails low in the ravines. it seems as fragile as a bridal veil, but it is the foreword of winter which will soon descend with driving blast and piping gale, lancing sleet and enshrouding snow to chill the last red ember-glow of the brilliant autumnal days. it was at this time that the indian's blood ran hot with longing for the hunt. lodges were abandoned and only those too weak to stand the hardship of the march were left behind. chiefs and braves, women and children struck out for the haunts of the buffalo where the fat herds grazed before the impending cold. these children of the forest sought their prey with the woodcraft handed down from old to young through unnumbered generations. indeed, it was necessary for them to outwit the game by strategy in the early days before the wealthy and progressive nez percé kayuses, who were first to break the wild horses of the western plains, brought the domesticated pony among them. in passing, it is interesting to know that the term "cayuse" applied to all indian horses, had its origin with this tribe, since the chief article of trade of the kayuses was the horse, the horse of indian commerce became known as a "cayuse." the selish used the method of the stockade. after the march into the buffalo country, they camped in a spot where they could easily fashion an enclosed park by means of barricades built among the trees. a great council of the chiefs and warriors was held and this august body appointed a company of braves to guard the camp and prevent any person from leaving its boundaries lest in so doing the wily buffalo should become alarmed and quit the neighbouring hills. the council proclaimed anew the ancient laws of the chase, and then began the building of the pen. this was a kind of communal work in which the entire tribe engaged, and as all contributed labor so all should benefit alike from its fruits. there within the mock park, whose pleasant green fringe of trees was in reality a prison wall, would be trapped and killed the food for the sterile winter months, when, but for that bounty, starvation would stalk gaunt among them and lay the strongest warrior as low as a new born babe or the feebly old who totter on the threshold of death. the place chosen for the pen was a level glade and the enclosure was built with a single opening facing a cleft in the surrounding hills. from this opening, an avenue also cunningly fenced and gradually widening towards the hills, was constructed, so that the animals driven thither, could escape neither to the right nor the left, but must needs plunge into the imprisoning park. next came the election of the master of ceremonies, the lord of the pen. he was a man seasoned with experience, mighty with the knowledge of occult things--one of the _wah-kon_, medicine men or jugglers, who possessed the power of communicating with the great spirit. this high functionary determined the crucial moment when the hunt should begin, and when the buffalo, roused from the inertia of grazing, should be driven into the snare. in the center of the clearing he posted the "medicine-mast," made potent by three charms, "a streamer of scarlet cloth two or three yards long, a piece of tobacco and a buffalo horn," which were supposed to entice the animals to their doom. it was he who, in the early dawn, aroused the sleeping camp with the beating of his drum and the chanting of incantations; who conferred with the great manitous of the buffalo to divine when the time for the chase had come. under the grand master were four swift runners who penetrated into the surrounding country to find where the buffalo were browsing and to assist by material observation the promptings of the spirits of the hunt. they were provided by the grand master with a _wah-kon_ ball of skin stuffed with hair, and when the herds were found in a favourable spot and the wind blew from the direction of the animals to the pen, one of the runners, breathless with haste, bearing in his hand the magic ball, appeared before the grand master and proclaimed the joyful news. there was a mighty beating of the grand master's drum, and out of the lodges ran the excited people, all bent with concentrated energy upon the approaching sport. every horseman mounted, and those less fortunate armed themselves and took their positions in two lines extending from the entrance to the enclosure toward the open, separating more widely as the distance from the pen increased, thus forming a v shape with but a narrow gateway where the lines converged. then through the silent, human barricade rode the bravest of the braves, astride the fleetest horse and he went unarmed, always against the wind, enveloped in a buffalo skin which hung down over his mount. all was quiet. only the light autumn wind flowing through the trees carried the curious, crisp, cropping noise of thousands of iron-strong jaws tearing the lush, green grass. and as the rider came upon the crest of the hill and looked at the panorama of waving verdure peopled by multitudes of bison stretching far away across the meadows and over the rolling ground beyond, it must have been a sight to quicken the pulses and stir the blood. suddenly there sounded a prolonged and distressing cry--the cry of a buffalo calf which wailed shrilly for a moment, then ceased. it came from the brave alone in the open, shrouded in the buffalo hide. there was a movement in the herd. every heavily maned head rose, and quivering nostrils snuffed the running wind. at first the buffalo advanced slowly, as if in doubt; gradually their pace quickened to a trot, a gallop, then lo! the whole vast band came hurtling and lurching in its furious career like the swells of a tempestuous, black sea, breaking into angry waves at every shock. and from those deep throats came a mighty roar, ponderous and resonant as the thunder of the surf. still the cry of the calf reverberated and re-echoed, and the single horseman crouching beneath his masquerade, led the herd on and on, eluding their onslaught, luring them forward between the lines of his companions who stood silent, trembling with eagerness for the sport. then pell-mell the mounted hunters rushed out from cover and the wide extremes of the v shaped line closed in so that the horsemen were behind the herd. this done, the wind blowing toward the corral, took the scent of the indians to the buffalo. pandemonium reigned. men, women and children on foot, leaped out from their hiding places with demoniac yells, brandishing spears, hurling stones and shooting arrows from their bows. the stampeded animals, surrounded save for the one loophole ahead, plunged into the pen. the chase was over and the slaughter began. the tribe would live well that winter-time! * * * * * among the omawhaws of the first part of the last century, the hunt was preceded by much preparation and ceremony. generally by the month of june their stores of jerked buffalo meat were well-nigh exhausted, and the little crops of maize, pumpkins, beans and water-melons, with the yield of the small hunting parties pursuing beaver, otter, elk, deer and other game, were scarcely sufficient to fill the wants of the tribe. so, after the harvesting and trading were done, the chiefs called a council and ordered a feast to be held in the lodge of one of the most distinguished of their number, to which all hunters, warriors and chiefs should be invited. accordingly the squaws of the chosen host were commanded by him to make ready the choicest maize and the plumpest dog for the ceremonial board. when all was in readiness the host called two or three venerable criers to his lodge. he smoked the calumet with them, then whispered that they should go through the village proclaiming the feast and bidding the guests whom he named. he instructed the criers to "speak in a loud voice and tell them to bring their bowls and spoons." they sallied forth singing among the lodges, calling to the distinguished personages to come to the banquet. after these summons the criers went back to the lodge of the host, quickly followed by the guests who were seated according to their rank. the ceremony of smoking was performed first, then the head chief arose, thanked his braves for coming and explained to them the object of the assembly, which was the selection of a hunting ground and the appointment of a time to start. after him the others spoke, each giving his opinion frankly, but always careful to be respectful of the opinions of others. neither squaws nor children were suffered to be present. the criers tended the kettle and when the speech-making was done, one dipped out a ladle of soup, held it toward the north, south, east and west, and cast it into the ashes of the fire. he also flung a bit of the best part of the meat into the flame as a sacrifice to _wahconda_, the great spirit. the guests then received their portions, the excellence of which depended upon their rank. the feast closed as it began, with the smoking of the calumet and at its conclusion the criers went forth again, chanting loud songs in praise of the generosity of the host, enumerating the chiefs and warriors who partook of his bounty, finally proclaiming the decision of the council and announcing the time and place of the hunt. this was an occasion of great rejoicing. the squaws at once began to mend the clothing and the weapons of their lords and pack their goods; and the young braves, gay with paint and bright raiment, beguiled the hours with gaming and dancing in the presence of the chiefs. when the day of the journey arrived the whole community departed, the chiefs and wealthy warriors on horseback, the poorer folk afoot. sometimes the quest of the buffalo was prolonged over weary weeks, and a meager diet of _pomme blanche_ or ground-apple, was insufficient to stay the pangs of hunger that assailed the tribe. the hunters preceded the main body, carefully reconnoitering the country for bison or foes. when at length herds were discovered, the hunters threw up their robes as a signal, the tribe halted and the advance party returned to report. they were received with pomp and dignity by the chiefs and medicine men who sat before the people solemnly smoking and offering articulate thanks to _wahconda_. in a low voice the hunters informed the dignitaries of the presence of buffalo. these mighty personages, in turn, questioned the huntsmen as to the numbers and respective distances of the herds, and they replied by illustrating with small sticks the relative positions of the bands. an old man of high standing then addressed the people, telling them that the coveted game at length was nigh, and that on the morrow they would be rewarded for the long fast and fatigue. that night a council was held and a corps of stout warriors elected to keep order. these officers painted themselves black, wore the _crow_ and were armed with war-clubs in order that they might enforce the mandates of the council and preserve due decorum among the excited tribe folk. early in the morning the hunters on horseback, carrying only bows and arrows and the warriors provided with war-clubs, led by the pipe-bearer who bore the sacred calumet, advanced on foot. once in view of the splendid, living masses covering the green plains as with a giant sable robe, they halted for the pipe-bearer, the representative of the magi, to perform the propitiatory rite of smoking. he lighted his calumet of red, baked clay, bowed his head in silence, then held the stem in the direction of the herds. after this he smoked, exhaling the aromatic clouds towards the buffalo, the heavens, the earth and the four points of the compass, called by them the "sunrise, sunset, cold country and warm country," or by the collective term of the "four winds." at the completion of this ceremony the head chief gave the signal and the huntsmen charged upon their prey. from this point their methods were somewhat the same as those of the selish, except that instead of building a stockade, they, themselves, enclosed the herd in a living circle, pressing closer and closer upon it until the killing was complete. this surrounding hunt was called _ta-wan-a-sa_. the chase was the grand event, the test of horsemanship, of archery, of fine game-craft and often the opportunity for glory on the war-path as well--for where the buffalo abounded there lurked the hidden enemy, also seeking the coveted herds, and an encounter meant battle to the death. both ponies and hunters were trained to the ultimate perfection of skill and the favoured buffalo horse served no other purpose than to bear his master in the chase. as the cavalcade descended upon the startled game, the rider caressed his faithful steed, called him "father," "brother," "uncle," conjured him not to fear the angry beasts yet not to be too bold lest he be hurt by goring horns and stamping hoofs, and urged him with honeyed speech to the full fruit of his strength and cunning. and the horse, responding, flew with wingéd stride, unguided by reins to the edge of the compact, fleeing band, never hesitating, never halting until the shoulder of the animal pursued, was exposed to the death-dealing shot. it was just behind the shoulder blade that the huntsman sought to strike. the inclination of his body in one direction or another was sufficient to send the horse speeding after fresh prey. the hunters, themselves, scorned danger and knew not fear. if they were uncertain how deep the arrow had penetrated they rode close to the infuriated brute to examine the nature of the shot, and if necessary to shoot again. and even though in the grand _melée_, a single animal was often pierced with many arrows, there were seldom quarrels as to whom the quarry belonged, so nicely could they reckon the value of the different shots and determine which had dealt the most speedy death. onward and onward they sped, circling and advancing at once, like a whirlwind on the face of the prairie. at length, the darting riders were seen more and more vividly as they compressed their line about the routed band, until finally, only a heap of carcasses lay where the herd had been. then the tribe came upon the scene. the squaws cut and packed the meat. if a hunter were unfortunate and killed no game, he helped dissect the buffalo of a lucky rival. on completion of his task he stuck his knife in the portion of the meat he desired and it was given to him as compensation for his labor. someone, either by order of the chief or of his own free will, presented his kill to the medicine for a feast. there was great revelry and joy, dancing and eating of marrow bones, to celebrate the aftermath of the royal sport. iii although the meat of the buffalo was the indians' chief article of food, this was by no means the only bond between the red man and the aboriginal herds of the plains. besides the almost innumerable utilitarian purposes for which the different parts of the animals were used, there was scarcely a phase of life or a ceremony in which they did not figure. in the dance, a rite of the first importance, in the practice of the _wah-kon_, or medicine, in the legends of the creation and the after-death, the buffalo had his place. such lore might make a quaint and curious volume, but we shall consider only the more striking uses and traditions of the bison in their relation to the life of the early west. the buffalo was, in truth, the great political factor among the tribes; nearly all of the bitter warfare between nation and nation was for no other purpose than to maintain or gain the right to hunt in favourable fields. thus the judith basin, the region of the musselshell and many other haunts of the herds, became also battle fields of bloodshed and death. not only did the bison cause hostilities among the nations, but they were likewise the reason of internal strife. it is said that the assiniboines, or sioux of the mountains, separated from the main body of the tribe on account of a dispute between the wives of two rival chiefs, each of whom persisted in having for her portion the entire heart of a fine bison slain in the chase. this was the beginning of a feud which split the nation into independent, antagonistic tribes. the utmost economy was generally observed by the early indians in the use of the buffalo. each part of the animal served some particular purpose. the tongue, the hump and the marrow bones of the thighs were considered the greatest delicacies. the animals killed for meat were almost always cows, for the flesh of buffalo bulls could be eaten only during the months of may and june. among the omawhaws of nearly two centuries ago, all the meat save the hump and chosen parts reserved for immediate use, was cut into "large, thin slices" and either dried by the heat of the sun or "jerked over a slow fire on a low scaffold." after being thoroughly cured it was compressed into "quadrangular packages" of a convenient size to carry on a pack saddle. the small intestines were carefully cleaned and turned inside out to preserve the outer coating of fat, then dried and woven into a kind of mat. these mats were packed into parcels of the same shape and size as the meat. even the muscular coating of the stomach was preserved. the large intestines were stuffed with flesh and used without delay. the vertebrae were pulverized with a stone axe after which the crushed bone was boiled. the very rich grease that arose to the surface was skimmed and preserved in bladders for future use. the stomach and bladder were filled with this and other sorts of fat, or converted into water bottles. all of the cured meat was _cached_, in french-canadian phrase, until hunger drove the indians to draw upon these stores. the pemmican of song and history was a kind of hash made by toasting buffalo meat, then pulverizing it to a fine consistency with a stone hammer. mr. james mooney in the _fourteenth annual report of the bureau of ethnology_, describes the process as follows; "in the old times a hole was dug in the ground and a buffalo hide was staked over so as to form a skin dish, into which the meat was thrown to be pounded. the hide was that from the neck of the buffalo, the toughest part of the skin, the same used for shields, and the only part which would stand the wear and tear of the hammers. in the meantime the marrow bones are split up and boiled in water until all the grease and oil comes to the top, when it is skimmed off and poured over the pounded beef. as soon as the mixture cools, it is sewed up into skin bags (not the ordinary painted parfléche cases) and laid away until needed. it was sometimes buried or otherwise cached. pemmican thus prepared will keep indefinitely. when prepared for immediate use, it is usually sweetened with sugar, mesquite pods, or some wild fruit mixed and beaten up with it in the pounding. it is extremely nourishing, and has a very agreeable taste to one accustomed to it. on the march it was to the prairie indian what parched corn was to the hunter of the timber tribes, and has been found so valuable as a condensed nutriment that it is extensively used by arctic travellers and explorers. a similar preparation is used upon the pampas of south america and in the desert region of south africa, while the canned beef of commerce is an adaptation from the indian idea. the name comes from the cree language, and indicates something mixed with grease or fat. (lacombe.)" among the sioux at pine ridge and rosebud, in the ceremony of the ghost dance, pemmican was celebrated in the sacred songs. mr. mooney gives the translation of one of them: _"give me my knife,_ _give me my knife,_ _i shall hang up the meat to dry--ye'ye'!_ _i shall hang up the meat to dry--ye'ye'!_ _says grandmother--yo'yo'!_ _says grandmother--yo'yo'!_ _when it is dry i shall make pemmican,_ _when it is dry i shall make pemmican,_ _says grandmother--yo'yo'!_ _says grandmother--yo'yo'!"_ * * * * * though at first the main object for which the buffalo was hunted was the flesh, next in importance and afterwards foremost, was the hide made into the buffalo robe of commerce. since these robes played such an important part in the early traffic and were partly responsible for the annihilation of the bison, it is worth while to consider how they were procured and treated. the skins to be dressed were taken in the early spring while the fur was long, thick and luxuriant. those obtained in the autumn called "summer skins" were used only in the making of lodges, clothing, and for other domestic purposes. to the squaws was assigned the preparation of the hides as well as the cutting and curing of the meat. immediately after the hunt while in the "green" state the skins were stretched and dried. after this, they were taken to the village and subjected to a process of curing which was carried on during the leisure of the women. the hide was nearly always cut down the center of the back so that it could be more easily manipulated. the two parts were then spread upon the ground and scraped with a tool like an adze until every particle of flesh was removed. in this way all unnecessary thickness was obviated and the hide was made light and pliable. when the skin had been reduced to the proper thinness a dressing made of the liver and brains of the animal were spread over it. this mixture was allowed to dry and the same process was repeated save that in the second instance while the hide was wet it was stretched in a frame, carefully scraped with pumice stone, sharp-edged rocks or a kind of hoe, until it was dry. to make it as flexible as possible, it was then drawn back and forth over twisted sinew. the parts were sewed together with sinew and the buffalo robe was ready for the trader's hands. as early as these robes were in great demand and one trader reported that in a single year he shipped fifteen thousand to st. louis. in the everyday life of the indians the products of the buffalo yielded nearly every comfort and necessity. the hides were used not only for robes and portable lodges which furnished shelter on the march, but they were made into battle shields; upon their tanned surface the primitive artist traced his painted record of the chase, the fray, or the mystic medicine. they were laid upon the earth for the young braves to play their endless games of chance upon, and the wounded were taken from the field on stretchers of buffalo hides swung between a pair of ponies. from them two kinds of boats were made. one, described by james in his account of the journey of his party in - is as follows: "our heavy baggage was ferried across in a portable canoe, consisting of a single bison hide, which we carried constantly with us. its construction was extremely simple; the margin of the hide being pierced with several small holes, admits a cord, by which it is drawn into the form of a shallow basin. this is placed upon the water, and is kept sufficiently distended by the baggage which it receives; it is then towed or pushed across. a canoe of this kind will carry from four to five hundred pounds." the second variety, known as a "bull-boat," was made of willows woven into a round basket and lined with buffalo hide. the grease of these beasts was used to anoint the indians' bodies and to season the maize or corn. from the horns were made spoons, sometimes holding half a pint, and often ornamented upon the handles with curious carving. the shoulder blade fastened to a stick served for a hoe or a plow. from the hide of unborn buffalo calves bags were made to contain the war-paint of braves. it would be at once possible and profitable to continue enumerating the practical uses of the buffalo, but far more interesting than these facts were the ceremonies, superstitions and traditions in which they were bound up. perhaps, first among the rites in sacred significance and solemn dignity was the smoking of the calumet. this was supposed to be not only an expression of peace among men and nations, but a propitiatory offering to the manitous, or guardian spirits, and to the master of life. according to colonel mallory in the _tenth annual report of the bureau of ethnology_, the sioux believed that this supreme emblem of good will was brought to them by a white buffalo cow, in the old days when the different bands of the nation were torn with internal strife. during this period of hostility a beautiful white buffalo cow appeared, bearing a pipe and four grains of corn, each of a different colour. from the milk which dripped from her body, sprang the living corn, so from the beginning the grain and the buffalo meat were decreed to be the food of the indians. she gave to the rival factions, the pipe which was the sacred calumet, instructing them that it was the symbol of peace among men and he who smoked it with his fellows, by that act sealed the bond of brotherhood. after staying for awhile among the grateful people, and teaching them to call her "grandmother," which is a term of affectionate reverence among the indians, she led them to plentiful herds of her own kind and vanished into the spiritland whence she came. the odour of the buffalo was believed to be agreeable to the great spirit so that the tobacco or kinnikinick of the calumet was flavoured with animal's excrement in order that the aroma wafted upward might be most pleasing. this custom of flavouring the pipe with the scent of the buffalo was carefully observed by the pawnee loups of the olden time, a tribe which claimed descent from the ancient mexicans, in the awful ceremonies preceding a human sacrifice to venus, the "great star." upon this austere occasion four great buffalo skulls were placed within the lodge where the celebration was held and they were offered the sacred _nawishkaro_ or calumet. the bodies of their chiefs or those who died gloriously in war were robed in buffalo skins, furnished with food and weapons, and placed sitting upright, in a little lodge near a route of travel or a camp in order that the passers by might see that they had met their death with honour. the pawnees also used bison skulls as signals, and we find in james' _travels_ this interesting account: "at a little distance in front of the entrance of this breastwork, was a semi-circular row of sixteen bison skulls, with their noses pointing down the river. near the center of the circle which this row would describe if continued, was another skull marked with a number of red lines. "our interpreter informed us that this arrangement of skulls and other marks here discovered, were designed to communicate the following information, namely, that the camp had been occupied by a war party of the pawnee loup indians, who had lately come from an excursion against the cumancias, tetans or some of the western tribes. the number of red lines traced on the painted skull indicated the number of the party to have been thirty-six; the position in which the skulls were placed, that they were on their return to their own country. two small rods stuck in the ground, with a few hairs tied in two parcels to the end of each signified that four scalps had been taken." there are many other similar instances recorded by different adventurers who braved the early west, yet this was but one of numerous uses of buffalo skulls and heads. among the aricaras upon each lodge was a trophy of the war path or the chase composed of strangely painted buffalo heads topped with all kinds of weapons. there was a curious belief among the minitarees that the bones of the buffalo killed in the chase became rehabilitated with flesh and lived again, to be hunted the following year. in support of this superstition they had a legend that once upon a time on a great hunt a boy of the tribe was lost. his people gave him up for dead but the succeeding season a huge bison was slain and when the body was opened the boy stepped out alive and well. he related to his dumbfounded companions, how the year before, he had become separated from them as he pursued a splendid bull. he felled his game with an arrow, but so far had he gone that it was too late to overtake and rejoin the tribe before nightfall. therefore, he cut into the bison's body, removed a portion of the intestines and feeling the keen frost of evening upon his unsheltered body, sought warmth within the carcass. but, lo! when the boy awakened the buffalo was whole again and he was a prisoner within his whilom prey! the gros ventres, in the day of lewis and clark, thought that if the head of the slain buffalo were treated well, the living herd would come in plentiful numbers to yield an abundance of meat. of the many bands into which the omawhaw nation was divided there were two, the _ta-pa-eta-je_ and the _ta-sin-da_, bison tail, which had the buffalo for their medicine. the first of these were sworn to abstain from touching buffalo heads, and the second were forbidden the flesh of the calves until the young animals were more than one year old. if these vows were broken by a member of the band and the sacred pledge so violated, a judgment such as blindness, white hair or disease was believed to be sent upon the offender. even should one innocently transgress the law, a visitation of sickness was accounted his condign portion and not only he but his family were included in the wrath and punishment of the outraged manitous. the crow indians, up-sa-ro-ka, or absaroka, used the buffalo as a part of their great medicine. an early traveller, dougherty, describes an extraordinary "arrangement of the magi." in his own words, "the upper portion of a cottonwood tree was emplanted with its base in the earth, and around it was a sweat house, the upper part of the top of the tree arising through the roof. a _gray_ bison skin, extended with oziers on the inside so as to exhibit a natural appearance, was suspended above the house, and on the branches were attached several pairs of children's moccasins and leggings, and from one limb of the tree, a very large fan made of war-eagles' feathers was dependent." this leads to an interesting superstition of the indians, which was that any variation in the usual colour of the buffalo was caused by the special interference of the master of life, and a beast so distinguished from his kind was venerated religiously, much as the ancient egyptians worshipped the sacred bull. once a "grayish-white" bison was seen and upon another occasion a calf with white forefeet and a white frontal mark. an early traveller once saw in an indian lodge, the head of a buffalo perfectly preserved, which was marked by a white star. the man to whom it belonged treasured it as his medicine, nor would he part with it at any price. "'the herds come every season,' he said, 'into the vicinity to seek their white-faced companion!'" maximilian, in his _travels in north america_, gives an interesting description of the martial and sacred significance of the robes of white buffalo cows among the mandans and minitarees. he says that the brave who has never possessed this emblem is without honour, and the merest youth who has obtained it ranks above the most venerable patriarch who has never owned the precious hide. indeed, "of all the distinctions of any man the white buffalo hide" was supreme. as the white buffalo were extremely rare it was seldom a hunter killed one for himself. the robes were brought by other tribes, often from far distant parts of the country, to the mandans who traded from ten to fifteen horses for a perfect specimen. it was necessary for the hide to be that of a young cow not more than two years old, and it had to be cured "with the horns, nose, hoofs and tail" complete, in maximilian's words: "the mandans have peculiar ceremonies at the dedication of the hide. as soon as they have obtained it they engage an eminent medicine man, who must throw it over him; he then walks around the village in the apparent direction of the sun's course, and sings a medicine song. when the owner, after collecting articles of value for three or four years, desires to offer his treasure to the lord of life, or to the first man, he rolls it up, after adding some wormwood or a head of maize, and the skin then remains suspended on a high pole till it rots away. at the time of my visit there was such an offering at _mih-tutta-hang-kush_, near the stages for the dead without the village. sometimes, when the ceremony of dedication is finished, the hide is cut into small strips, and the members of the family wear parts of it tied over the head, or across the forehead, when they are in full dress. if a mandan kills a young white buffalo cow it is accounted to him as more than an exploit, or having killed an enemy. he does not cut up the animal himself, but employs another man, to whom he gives a horse for his trouble. he alone who has killed such an animal is allowed to wear a narrow strip of the skin in his ears. the whole robe is not ornamented, being esteemed superior to any other dress, however fine. the traders have, sometimes, sold such hides to the indians, who gave them as many as sixty other robes in exchange. buffalo skins with white spots are likewise highly valued by the mandans; but there is a race of these animals with very soft, silky hair, which has a beautiful gold lustre when in the sunshine; these are, likewise, highly prized." there are numerous myths of a white buffalo cow, who at will, assumed the form of a beautiful maiden. the sioux in common with the aricaras and the minitarees observed the custom of fasting before going to war or upon the hunt. they had a "medicine lodge," where a buffalo robe was spread and a red painted post was planted. upon the top of the lodge was tied a buffalo calf skin holding various sacred objects. after preliminary rites they tortured themselves, one favorite method being to make a gash under their shoulder blades, run cords through the wounds and drag two large bison heads to a hill about a mile distant from their village, where they danced until they fell fainting with exhaustion. some of the tribes performed the _ta-nuguh-wat-che_, or bison dance. the participants were painted black, wore a head dress made of the skin of a buffalo head which was cut after the fashion of a cap. it was adjusted in a manner to resemble a live animal, and extending from this head dress, over the half-naked and blackened bodies of the dancers, depended a long strip of hide from the back of the buffalo which hung down like a tail. the omawhaws believed that the great wahconda appeared sometimes in the shape of a bison bull and they, like other tribes, cherished legends of a fabulous age when animals spoke together, did battle and possessed intelligence equal to that of men. the following myth of the bison bull, the ant and the tortoise, related by james, is an interesting example of these fables: once upon a time an ant, a tortoise and a buffalo bull formed themselves into a war party and determined to attack the village of an enemy in the vicinity. they decided in council that the tortoise being sluggish and slow of movement, should start in advance and the ant and bull should time their departure so as to overtake him on the way. this plan was adopted and the awkward tortoise floundered forth on his hostile mission alone. in due time the bison bull took the ant upon his back, lest on account of his minuteness he be lost, and together they set out for the enemy's country. at length they came to a treacherous bog where they found the poor tortoise struggling vainly to free himself. this caused the ant and the bull much merriment as they crossed safely to solid ground. but the tortoise, scorning to ask the aid of his brothers in war, replied cheerfully to their taunts and insisted that he would meet them at the hostile village. the ant and the bison advanced with noise and bravado and the watchful enemy perceiving them, issued from their lodges and wounded both, driving them to headlong, inglorious retreat. finally the tortoise with sore travail, reached his destination to find his companions flown, and because he could not flee also, he fell into the hands of the foe--a prisoner. these cruel people decided to put him to death at once. they threatened him with slow roasting in red coals of fire, with boiling and many awful tortures, but the astute tortoise expressed his willingness to suffer any of these penalties. therefore the enemy consulted together again and held over his head the fate of drowning. against this he protested with such frenzied vehemence that his captors immediately executed the sentence, and bearing him to a deep part of the river which flowed through their country, flung him in. thus restored to his native element he plunged to the bottom of the stream, then arose to the surface to see his enemies gaping from the bank in expectation of his agony. he grabbed several of them, dragged them down and killed them, and appeared once more triumphantly displaying their scalps to the bewildered multitude of thwarted warriors who were helpless to avenge their brethren. the tortoise, satisfied with his achievement, returned to his home where he found the ant and the bull prone upon the floor of the lodge, wounded, humbled and fordone. * * * * * finally, the minitarees and other tribes had a curious legend of their origin. they believed that their forefathers once dwelt in dark, subterranean caverns, beyond a great, swift-running river. two youths disappeared from amongst them and after a short absence returned to proclaim that they had found a land lighted by an orb which warmed the earth to fecundity, where deep waters shimmered crystal white and countless herds of bison covered grass and flower-decked plains. so the youths led the people up out of the primal darkness into the pleasant valleys where they dwelt evermore. and as the bison were celebrated in this child-like tradition of the beginning, so likewise, did they figure in the primitive conception of the hereafter. that region of summer where the good indian should find repose, was pictured as an ideal country, fair with verdure and rich with herds of buffalo which the good spirits would go seeking through the golden vistas of eternity. iv when the first explorers penetrated the fastnesses of the new world the buffalo was lord of the continent. coronado on his march northward from mexico saw hordes of these unknown beasts which a chronicler of described naïvely as "crooked-backed oxen." the mighty herds roamed through the blue grass of kentucky, the carolinas, that region now the state of new york, and probably every favorable portion of north america. very gradually they were pushed farther and farther westward to the vicinity of the rocky mountains, which was for many years their refuge and retreat. in the official expedition sent by john c. calhoun to examine the rocky mountains, their tribes, animal and plant life, found the buffalo reduced in numbers, though in the wild stretches of country lying south along the arkansas, they were seen in countless hordes. the report says: "during these few days past, the bisons have occurred in vast and almost continuous herds, and in such infinite numbers as seemed to indicate the great bend of the arkansas as their chief and general rendezvous." the account continues to narrate how the scent of the white men borne to the farthest animal, a distance of two miles, started the multitudes speeding away, and yet so limitless were those millions, that, day after day, they flowed past like a sea until their presence became as a part of the landscape, and by night their thunderous bellow echoed through the savage wastes. in bradbury's _travels_ there is a description of a fight among buffalo bulls. he says: "on my return to the boats, as the wind had in some degree abated, we proceeded and had not gone more than five or six miles before we were surprised by a dull, hollow sound, the cause of which we could not possibly imagine. it seemed to be one or two miles below us; but as our descent was rapid, it increased every moment in loudness, and before we had proceeded far, our ears were able to catch some distinct tones, like the bellowing of buffaloes. when opposite to the place from whence it proceeded, we landed, ascended the bank, and entered a small skirting of trees and shrubs, that separated the river from an extensive plain. on gaining a view of it, such a scene opened to us as will fall to the lot of few travellers to witness. this plain was literally covered with buffaloes as far as we could see, and we soon discovered that it consisted in part of females. the males were fighting in every direction, with a fury which i have never seen paralleled, each having singled out his antagonist. we judged that the number must have amounted to some thousands, and that there were many hundreds of these battles going on at the same time, some not eighty yards from us. the noise occasioned by the trampling and bellowing was far beyond description." at that time the bison paths were like well trodden roadways and served as such to the explorers. these paths always led by most direct routes to fresh water, and therefore were of the greatest assistance to travellers unacquainted with the undiscovered lands. such were the legions of the plains even when the east had refused them shelter. and although it was roughly estimated that the tribes dwelling along the missouri river killed yearly , for food, saddle covers and clothes, this did not appreciably lessen their hosts. not until the white tide flowed faster and faster over the wilds was the doom of the buffalo sounded, together with that of the forests which sheltered them, and the indians who were at once their foes and their friends. then the destruction was swift beyond belief. the royal game which coronado saw in , which lewis and clark in their adventurous journey into the unknown west encountered at every turn, was nearly gone. they endured in such numbers that as late as father de smet said: "the scene realized in some sort the ancient tradition of the holy scriptures, speaking of the vast pastoral countries of the orient, and of the cattle upon a thousand hills." it was inconceivable to the indians that civilization should wreak such utter desolation. they could not comprehend the passing of the mighty herds any more than they could appreciate the destruction of the forests or their own decline. they did not know that the railroad which traversed the highway of the plains between the east and west ran through miles upon miles of country whitened with buffalo bones; that veritably the prairies which had been the pasture of the herds were now become their graveyard--a graveyard of unburied dead. they did not know that armies of workingmen and settlers had drawn upon the buffalo for food and warmth, that the beasts had been harried and hunted north, south, east and west, sometimes legitimately, but too often in cruel, wanton sport, until, at last, it became an evident fact that they were visibly nearing their end. a kind of stampede possessed the terrified beasts. their old haunts were usurped. where the fostering forests had given them shelter, towns arose. baffled and dismayed they fled, hither and thither, only to crash headlong within the range of the huntsman's gun. so they charged at random, ever pressed closer and closer to bay by the encroaching life which was their death. about the year of it was known that the last thinned and vagrant remnant of the buffalo was virtually gone. maddened into desperate bewilderment they had done an unprecedented thing. instead of going northward as their habit had been since man first observed their kind, they turned and fled south. this was their end. the half-breeds of the red river, the sioux of the missouri, and most relentless of all, the white hide-hunter, beset the wild, retreating band. their greed spared neither beast that tottered with age, nor calf fresh from its mother's womb. all fell prey to the mastering greed of the lords of the great free land. upon the shores of the cannonball river, so-called from the heaps of round stones upon its banks, on the edge of the dakotas, the buffalo made their last stand. driven to bay they stood and fell together, the latest offspring of a vanished race. but the poor indian, he who had shared the freedom of the continent with his horned friend, could not yet understand that the buffalo were gone--gone as the sheltering woods were going, even as he, himself, must go. evolution is cruel as well as beneficent and there is a pang for each poor, lesser existence crushed out in the race, as there is joy in the survival of the strongest and best. and those who are superior to-day must themselves be superseded to-morrow and fall into the abysmal yesterday, mere stepping stones toward the infinite. the indians, knowing none of these things, became troubled and perplexed. in vain they sought the herds on their old-time hunting grounds, but only stark, bleached bones were there and they went back to their lodges, hungry, gaunt and wan. in years past the buffalo had disappeared at intervals to unknown pastures, then returned multiplied and reinforced. was it not possible that they had gone upon such a journey, perhaps to the ultimate north where the old man dwelt, to seek refuge in a mighty polar cave under his benign protection? so from their meager stores the indians offered sacrifices of horses and other of their most valued possessions, to the old man, that he might drive the buffalo back to the deserted pasture lands near the rocky mountains. "they are tired," said long tree of the sioux, "with much running. they have had no rest. they have been chased and chased over the rocks and gravel of the prairie and their feet are sore, worn down, like those of a tender-footed horse. when the buffalo have rested and their feet have grown out again, they will return to us in larger numbers, stronger, with better robes and fatter than they ever were." still the years passed and the buffalo came not, and some there were who said that if the old man, the great spirit of the north, loved his children of the forest, he would not have left them to suffer so painfully and long. then out of dumb despair came sudden hope; out of the bitter silence sounded a voice and a prophet came "preaching through the wilderness," even as john the baptist had come, centuries ago, bringing a message of peace and the promise of salvation. this prophet was _wovoka_, founder of the ghost dance religion, who arose in "the land of the setting sun," in the shadow of the sierras. he told the wrapt people that when "the sun died" he went to heaven where he saw god, the spirits of those long dead and vast herds of revivified buffalo feeding in the pastures of the skies. heaven would not be perfect to the indian without the buffalo, and the red man, less jealous than ourselves of his paradise, was willing to share the bliss of immortality with his old-time companions of the plains. the tenets of the new creed were gentle, teaching peace, truth, honesty and universal brotherhood. under the thrall of the ghost dance, devotees dropped to earth insensible and had visions of the spirit-world. wovoka prophesied that at the appointed time the ghostly legions, led by a spirit captain, would descend from heaven, striking down the unbelievers and restoring to the indians and the buffalo dominion over the earth. with the awful desperation of a last hope the indians leaped high into the night surrounding them to grasp at a star--a star, alas! which proved to be but a will-o'-the-wisp set over a quagmire of death. nothing seemed impossible to their excited fancy. had not the white race killed the christ upon a cross of torture, and would he not come to earth again as an indian, to gather his children together in everlasting happiness when the grass should be green with the spring? meantime they must dance, dance through the weary days and nights in order that the prophesy might be fulfilled. an alarm spread through the country. what meant this frenzied dance of circling, whirling mystics who strained with wide eyes to look beyond the skies? an order came that the dance must cease. this decree was but human, the one which bade them dance they believed to be divine. and dance they did, wildly, madly, to the sharp time of musketry until the hurrying feet were stilled and the dancers lay cold and stark on the field of wounded knee. in all the annals of the indians' tragic tale there is nothing more pitiful than this dance of death. the poor victims, together with the last hope of a despairing race, were buried at wounded knee, and the white man wrought his will. slowly and steadily the woods were laid low, inevitably the indians retreated farther and farther back, closer pressed, routed as the buffalo had been. all hope of the return of the beloved herds left their hearts and they knew at last that they would find them only in those elysian fields of perpetual summertime--the happy hunting ground. v the sun set red behind the mountains. the shadows stole down, gray and mystical as ghosts. from afar the coyote's dolorous cry plained through the silence and the owl hooted dismally as he awakened at the approach of night. there in the pallid dusk lay the bleached skull and the arrowhead of black obsidian, mute reliques of the past. the royal buffalo is no more, the hunter that hurled the bolt is gone. we may find the inferior offspring of the one in city parks, of the other on ever-lessening reservations, but degeneracy is more pitiful than death, and the old, free herds that ranged the continent are past as the fleet-footed, strong-hearted tribes have vanished from the plains. so the story of the two fallen races is told eloquently by this whitened skull on the hillside and the jet-black arrow head flung by the stilled red hand. _lake mcdonald & its trail_ chapter vii lake mcdonald and its trail in the northern part of montana, towards the canadian border, the main range of the rocky mountains has been rent and carved by glacial action during ages gone by, until the peaks, like tusks, stand separate and distinct in a mighty, serrated line. no one of these reaches so great a height as shasta, rainier or hood, but here the huge, horned spine rises almost sheer from the sweep of tawny prairie, and not one, but hosts of pinnacles, sharp as lances, stand clean cut against the sky. approaching the range from the east, in the saffron glow of sunset, one might fancy it was wrought of amethyst, so intense and pure is the colour, so clear and true the minutest detail of the grandly sculptured outline. within the ice-locked barriers of those heights live glaciers still grind their passages through channels of stone; down in shadowy ravines, voiceful with silver-tongued falls, lie fair lakes in the embrace of over-shadowing altitudes. the largest of these lakes, mcdonald, is the heart of a vast and marvelous country, the center of many trails. the road to lake mcdonald winds along the shores of the flathead river for half a mile or more, skirting the swift current now churned into white foam by rapids, then calm and transparent, revealing the least stone and tress of moss in its bed, in shades of limpid emerald. leaving the river, the way lies through dense forests of pine and tamarack, cedar and spruce, and so closely do the spreading boughs interlace that the sun falls but slightly, in quivering, pale gold splashes upon the pads of moss and the fragrant damp mold which bursts into brilliant orange-coloured fungus and viciously bright toadstools. each fallen log, each boulder wrested from its place and hurled down by glacier or avalanche, is dressed in a faery garb of moss and tiny, fragrant shell-pink bells called twinflowers, because two blossoms, perfect twins, always hang pendent from a single stem as slender as spun glass, and these small bells scent the air with an odour as sweet as heliotrope. within the forest dim with perpetual twilight, one feels the vastness of great spaces, the silence of great solitudes. suddenly there bursts upon one, with all the up-bearing exhilaration of a first sight of the sea, a scene which, once engraved upon the heart, will remain forever. the trees part like a curtain drawn aside and the distance opens magnificently. the intense blue of the cloudless sky arches overhead, the royal waters of the lake flow blue and green with the colours of a peacock's tail or the variegated beauty of an abalone shell; sweeping upward from the shores are tall, timbered hills, so thickly sown with pine that each tree seems but a spear of grass and the whole forest but a lawn, and towering beyond, yet seeming very near in the pure, white light, is a host of peaks silvered with the benediction of the clouds--the deathless snow. the haze that tints their base is of a shade one sometimes finds in violets, in amethysts, in dreams. indeed, these mountains seem to descend from heaven to earth rather than to soar from earth towards heaven, so great is their sublimity. as one floats away on the lake the view changes. new vistas open and close, new peaks appear above and beyond as though their legion would never come to an end. straight ahead two irregular, rugged mountains with roots of stone emplanted in the water, rise like a mighty portal, and between the two, seeming to bridge them, is a ridge called the "garden wall." the detail of the more immediate steeps grows distinct and we see from their naked crests down their timbered sides, deep furrows, the tracks of avalanches which have rushed from the snow fields of winter, uprooting trees and crushing them in the fury of the mad descent. a long, comparatively level stretch, not unlike a gun sight set among the bristling, craggy summits, is the "gunsight pass," the difficult way to the great st. mary's lakes, the blackfeet glacier and the wonderful, remote region on the eastern slope of the range. huge, white patches mark glaciers and snow fields, for it is within these same mountains that the piegan (sperry) and many others lie. and as we drift on and on across the smooth expanse of water, the magic of it steals upon our souls. for there is about the lake a charm apart from the beauty of the waters and the glory of the peaks; of spirit rather than substance; of soul-essence rather than earthly form. that mysterious force, whatever it may be, rising from the water and the forest solitudes and descending from the mountain tops, flows into our veins with the amber sunshine and we feel the sweeping uplift of altitudes heaven-aspiring that take us back through infinite ages to the source which is nature and god. [illustration: glacier camp] the good old captain of the little craft weaves fact and fancy into wonderful yarns as he steers his launch straight for the long, purplish-green point which is the landing. to him no ocean greyhound is more seaworthy than his boat, and he likes to tell of timid tender-feet entreating him to keep to shore when the lake was tumultuous with storm, and how he, spurning danger, guided them all safely through the trough of the waves. he keeps a little log wherein each passenger is asked to write his name. the poor old man has a maimed hand, his eyes are filmy with years and his gums are all but toothless, but it would seem that nature has compensated him for his afflictions by concentrating his whole strength in his tongue. he knows each landmark well, and gravely points out to the credulous traveller, the highest mountain in the world; calls attention to the , fathoms of lake depth whence no drowned man ever rises, and other marvels, each the greatest of its kind upon the circumference of the globe. there came a day soon after when the lake chafed beneath a lashing gale and the little craft and her gallant captain were dumped ingloriously upon the beach. but accidents happen to the best of seamen, and the launch, after a furious expulsion of steam, and much hiccoughing, was dragged once more into her place upon the wave. although there is evidence that lake mcdonald was long ago frequented by some of the indian tribes, it was not known to the world until comparatively recent times. there are two stories of its discovery and naming, both of which have a foundation of truth. the first is that sir john mcdonald, the famous canadian politician, riding across the border with a party, cut a trail through the pathless woods and happening to penetrate to the lake, blazed his name upon a tree to commemorate the event, thus linking his fame with the newly found natural treasure. the old trail remains--probably the virgin way into the wilderness. the second story--which is from the lips of duncan mcdonald, son of angus, runs thus: he and a little band of selish were crossing from their own land of the jocko into the country of the blackfeet which lies east of the main range, to recover some ponies stolen by the latter tribe, when they came in view of this lake hitherto unknown to them. duncan mcdonald, who was the leader or _partizan_, as the french-canadians say, blazed the name "mcdonald" upon some pines along the shore. it matters little who was actually the first to set foot on these unpeopled banks, but it is a strange coincidence that the two pathfinders should have borne the same name. the purplish-green point draws nearer, log cabins appear among the trees, each one decorated with a bear skin hung near its door. this is a fur trading center as well as a resort of nature lovers, and upon the broad porch of the club house is a heap of pelts of silver tip, black and brown bear, mountain lion and lynx, and from the walls within, bighorn sheep and mountain goats' heads peer down. the trappers themselves, quaint, old hunters of the wilderness, come out of their retreats to trade. but even now their day is passing. with the advent of outside life these characters, scarcely less shy than the game they seek, move farther back into uncontaminated solitudes. they are the last, lingering fragment of that old west which is so nearly a sad, sweet memory, a loving regret. each hour of the day traces its lapse in light and shadow on the lake, until the sunset flowing in a copper tide, draws aureoles of golden cloud over the white-browed peaks, transforming their huge and rugged bulk into luminous light-giving bodies of faded roses and lavender. as the evening wanes the mountains burn out in ashes of roses, still lightened here and there upon their ultimate heights, with a glow as faint as the memory of a dead love, and the living halo of the clouds deepens into coral crowns. then the lake becomes a vast opal, kindling with fires that flash and die in the growing dusk. the dark forests that cloak the lake shores, are threaded with trails each leading to some treasure store of nature far off in the secrecy of the hills. one of great beauty starts from the head of the lake, beneath the shadow of the mountains, and overhangs the boisterous, rock-rent torrent of mcdonald's creek. the narrow way is padded thick with pine needles ground into sweet, brown powder which deadens the least intrusive footfall, as though the whole wood were harkening to the singing of the waters through the silence of the trees. along the trail are mosses of multitudinous kinds. the delicate star moss unfolds its feathery points of green; a strange variety with thick, mottled leaves grows like a full blown rose around decayed trees, and a small, pale, gray-green trumpet-shaped moss rears hosts of elfin horns. only a skilled botanist could classify these rich carpets which nature has spread over the dead royalty of her forests, so that even in their death there is resurrection; even in their decay, new life. bluebells and twinflowers, those delicate faery-bells of pink, sweet grass, pigeon berry and many another blossom beautiful in its strangeness, weave their colour into gay patterns on the green; blend their fragrance with the balsam sweetness of the woods. and all around, the stately pine trees grow bearded with long, gray moss which marks their antiquity and foretells their doom. the stream below, flowing between steep banks that it has cut during centuries of ceaseless washing, raises its song to a roar as it flings its swift current over a parapet of stone in a banner of shimmering, white foam. above, the water breaks in whirling rapids and farther still is another fall. towering in the distance is an exalted peak, the father of this stream, whose snowy gift pours down its perennial blessing into the clear tide of the lake. so it is, the streams that issue from the glaciers yield their pure tribute to lake mcdonald, and all the trails, uncoiling their devious and dizzy ways over the mountains, bring us back to these shores. and every time that we return it breaks upon us with renewed freshness of mood. it may be ridden by a wind that lashes it into running waves of purple and wine colour, marked with the white foot-prints of the gale. it may be still as the first thought of love, holding in its broad mirror the bending sky and mountains peering into its secrecy. it may be ephemeral with mist that dims the mountains into pale, shadowy ghosts; or it may be like a voluptuous beauty glittering with jewels and clad in robes of silken sheen; again, it may be quakerish in its pallid monotone. the changing cycle of the day and night each brings its different gift of beauty, and likewise, the passing seasons deck the mountains and the waters with a glory all their own, until, with martial hosts of cloud, with banners streaming silver and emblazoned with lightning-gleam, winter spreads its garment of white upon the mystery of the wild. perhaps the lake is never so exquisite as then. at least it seems so, as with closed eyes and passive soul, a memory undimmed arises out of the past. it is night in the dead of winter. the silence of deep sleep and isolation is on the world. the snow has fallen like a flock of white birds and the air has cleared to the degree of scintillating brilliance that mocks the diamond's flash. the full moon is beneath a cloud and its veiled light, filtering through the vapor, shows dimly the shadowy waters and the wan peaks fainting far away. then the cloud passes. the moon leaps into the heavens and a flood of white light illumines the water, the sky and the mountains, transforming the whole into a faery scene of arctic splendour. it is as though the last breath of life had vanished in that chaste frozen atmosphere, and the earth had become a palace of dreams. and though that palace of dreams vanishes as dreams must, like a melting snow crystal or a frosty sigh upon the night, there remains in our hearts a yearning which shall bear us back to the reality of beauty that rewards each pilgrim who returns to the deathless glory of the mountain-married lake. _above the clouds_ chapter viii above the clouds of all the trails in the mcdonald country, there is none more travelled, or more worthy of the toil than that which leads to the piegan glacier. from the moment we stand in expectant readiness in the little clearing behind the log cabins comprising the hotel, a new phase of existence has begun for us. so strange are the place and the conditions that it seems we must have stepped back fifty years or more, into that west whose glamour lives in story and song. strong, tanned, sinewy guides who wear cartridge belts and six-shooters, load grunting pack-horses and "throw" diamond-hitches in businesslike silence. when at last all is ready, the riders mount the indian ponies or "cayuses"--allie sand, the yellow cow pony; babe, the slumbrous; bunchie, but recently subdued, and baldy, nicknamed "foolish" because of the musical pack of kettles, camp stoves and sundries that jingle and jump up and down upon his back, lightening the way with merriment for those who follow. with a quickened beating of the heart, the good cheer and godspeed of friendly voices ringing in our ears, we take leave of the last haunt of civilization and strike out into the virgin solitude of heaven-aspiring peaks. as the feeling of remoteness smites the spirit when we pass beyond the railway station of belton and follow in creaking wagons the shadow-curtained road to the lake, so now it returns with stronger impulse, calling to life new emotions begotten of the wild. the world-rush calms into the great stillness of untrodden places, the world-voices sigh out in the murmuring breeze, the petty traffic of the cities is forgotten in the soulful silence of the trees. and out of this newly found affinity with the nature forces, the love of adventure thrills into being, together with the fine scorn of danger and the resolve to do that which we set out to do no matter what the cost or the peril. here the "white feather" is the greatest badge of dishonour, and he who fails through cowardice to win his goal is a man among men no more. this spirit is the faint, far-off echo of the hero-bearing days of the early west. our guide is a stocky, little man of soldierly bearing, clad in khaki suit and cow-boy hat, whom his fellows call "scotty." he is brown with exposure, smoothly shaven, and his keen, blue eyes are slightly contracted at the corners from the strain of peering through vast distances--a characteristic of men who follow woodcraft and hunting. he rides ahead silently but for a rebuke to the slumbrous "babe," such as, "go on, you lazy coyote," or a familiar, half-caressing remark to bunchie, the ex-outlaw, who is his favourite. indeed, he, like most men who have ridden the range, has the habit of talking to the ponies as though they knew and understood. and who can be sure they do not? the forests begin as soon as the bit of clearing is passed, then single file the little cavalcade moves on through huckleberry fields, purplish-black with luscious, ripe berries, where bears come to feed and fatten, where, also, thirsty wayfarers stop to eat the juicy fruit. the pines clasp branches overhead in a lacy, broken roof whose pattern of needle and burr shows in dark traceries against patches of blue sky remote and far beyond. a thick, sweet shadow dappled now and again with splashes of yellow sun tempers the air which presses its cool touch upon our brows. on either hand a dense, even lawn of tender green fern and mist-maiden covers the earth and through the silence sounds the merry clamour of a stream. it ripples gaily along between wooded banks, breaking into little crests of foam upon the rocks, showing through the glassy medium of its waters, every stone and pebble of its speckled bed polished and rounded by ceaseless flowing. the horses splash through the creek and upon the opposite side begins anew the delicate lawn of mist-maiden and fern, so freshly, tenderly green with the pale greenness of things that live away from the sun, so ephemerally exquisite as to embarrass coarse, mortal presence. it is a spot fit for fairies to dance upon; fit for wood-nymphs and white hinds to make merry in; fit for the flute-like melody of pan to awake to dancing echoes as he calls the forest sprites unto high revelry. a forest ranger joins us. he is tramping to the gunsight pass with his axe upon his shoulder and his kit upon his back, to repair the trail to the great st. mary's lakes. the shades of brown and green, the shadow threaded with an occasional strand of gold, are livened by crimson patches of indian paint brush, bluebells, white starry lilies called queen's cups, trembling feathers of coral pink, sun-yellow and white syringa. beneath the overhanging verdure, around and upon the mossy rocks, the ever-present twinflowers open their delicate petals and sweeten the air, and from clumps of coarse grass rise cones of minute white blossoms, the bear-grass, one of the most curious of the mountain flowers. this ranger knows the common names of nearly all the plants, and at every turn new varieties spring up. he stops to gather each kind of bloom until we have a great bouquet--a _potpourri_ of all the floral beauty of the multitudes that people our path. the way is very fair, ministering to the senses; troops of new, forest forms and colours pass before the eye, the mingled sweets of the flowers, the pungent mould and balsam of spruce and pine breathe sensuously into the nostrils, and the fingers of the wind caress and soothe as they pass. through the voiceful silence, sounds that are on the borderland between fancy and reality, thrill for a moment, then are lost in the grand chorus of trees and rushing rivers. a stream of volume and velocity flowing through a deep gorge falls twice in its downward rush. these two falls, the wynona and minneopa, flash great, white plumes among steeps of green forest. with sharp descent and stubborn climb, the trail, that seems the merest thread, untangles its skein and leads, at length, into a small basin partly enclosed within sheer, naked rock-walls, whence three delicate silver streams trickle down and join the creek that waters a little park. beyond, the peaks loom up masterfully, sheathing their icy lances in the clouds. high over the lip of the mighty rock-wall, rising like the giant counterpart of an ancient battlement, lies the glacier. up that precipitous, overhanging parapet we must make our way, but where the footing or how the ascent is to be won, fancy cannot fathom, for it would seem no living thing save a mountain goat, a bighorn sheep or an eagle could scale this stronghold of nature. across the basin, where there is a gentler slope, the mountain side is dotted with groups of tall, spire-like pines. the level meadow is grassy and shaded with small spruce of the size of christmas trees. and in this peaceful spot, girt with grim, challenging steeps, the tinkle of the stream sounds pastorally sweet, while the more distant and powerful roar of the three tumbling streams chants a solemn undertone to the merry lilt. here the camp is made. a fire crackles gaily and our tents are pitched beneath the trees. suddenly a shadow falls,--dimly, almost imperceptibly. the sun has gone. it is only six o'clock in mid-summer, but so lofty are the barrier-heights that even now we are in a world of shade,--shade of a strangely luminous kind, hinting of ruddy lights that are obscured but not quenched. through the quiet, echo the whistle of the marmot, the metallic whirr of contentious squirrels going off like small alarm clocks, and the mellow, drowsy note of bells ringing to the rhythmic crop of browsing ponies. so the long beautiful twilight settles over the mountains until the sounds are stilled save the tinkling bells and the water-voices singing their ceaseless song. the forest sleeps. long, mystical fancy-bearing moments and tens of moments pass, and something of awe closes down with the gloaming. then through the dim, monkish grey shadow pulses a red-gold stream of light that runs in long, uneven streamers across the face of the grim, dark walls, transfiguring them into radiant shapes of living golden-rose. in that effulgence of glory, lost peaks gleam for a second out of the dusk and vanish into nothingness again, snowy diadems flash into being and fade like a dream. the life-blood of the day ebbs and flows, sending out long, slender fingers to trace its fleeting message on the rocks, then with a deepening, crimson glow it flickers and is fled. night settles fast and the flare of the camp fire, shedding its spark-spangles in brilliant showers, reclaims one little spot from the devouring blackness. it is a magical thing--this campfire, and the living ring around it is an enchanted circle. perhaps its warmth penetrates even to the heart, or perhaps the bond of human fellowship asserts itself more strongly when only the precarious, flamboyant fire-light, leaping and waning, throwing forth a rain of sparks, or searing grey with sudden decline, separates our little group from utter desolation. whatever the charm may be, it falls upon us all, and with eyes fixed on the ember-pictures or raised to the starry skies, we listen to tales of the long ago and of a present as unfamiliar as the past. the reserve of our guide is quite broken and he tells in a low, reminiscent voice, of wonder-spots in the range,--for he knows its every peak and gorge,--of the animals that dwell in its solitary recesses and of how the piegan glacier got its name. the piegan indians are a branch of the blackfeet tribe, and in the early days they were almost as noted horse raiders as the absarokes who flourished near the three tetons, in the country of the yellowstone. back and forth across the passes they came and went in their nefarious traffic, secure from pursuit among the horns of these lonely heights. the vicinity of the eternal ice-fields, probably this little basin itself, sheltered the shadowy bands, and thus the glacier became known by their name. still, you may look in vain on the maps for piegan glacier; you will find it called sperry instead. the old name was discarded for that of a professor who spent some weeks exploring its crevasses and under whose supervision a corps of college students spent a part of one summer's vacation, building the glacier trail. yet there are those who love the old names as they love the traditions for which they stand, and to them the glacier will forever bear the time-honoured title of these indians who have long since disappeared from its solitudes. as the hours pass we draw from our guide and story-teller something of himself. little by little, in fragmentary allusions and always incidentally, during that even-tide and the days following, we learn thus much of his life. he was born in those troublous days of indian fighting on the frontier, shortly after his father, an army officer, was ordered out on campaign against the sioux. when he was but a few weeks old word came to his mother that her husband had been killed, and she, sick and heart-broken, died, leaving besides this infant one other boy. the two children were left to the care of the officers at fort kehoe, but they were separated while both were so young that they did not realize the parting nor remember each other. our guide became the ward of a lieutenant who had been a friend of his father. he played among the soldiers and indian scouts at the fort until he came to the age when he felt the desire to learn, then he went east to school, afterwards to college, always returning in the summer to ride the range or to lose himself in the mountains. and when the college days were done that old cry of the west, that old craving for the life that knows no restraint nor hindering bonds, beckoned him back inevitably as fate. again and again he had gone forth on the world's highway, once to serve in cuba in the war with spain, where in a yellow-fever hospital he met for the first time his older brother, who even then was dying of the pestilence, but always he returned to the freedom of the wilderness. he is a type in himself, who belongs to the time of lewis and clark, rather than to this century--a man who lives too late. and there is about him, for all his carefree indifference to the world, something of indefinable pathos. he is quite alone--he has no kinsfolk and few friends. he is a man without a home but the forests, who has renounced human companionship for the solitudes, without a love but the mountains, to whom the greatest sorrow would be the knowledge that he might never look upon them again. * * * * * a cloud, heavy with rain, drifts across the sky, and big, cool drops splash with a hissing noise in the fire, upon our upturned faces, upon the warm, flower-sown earth which exhales, like incense, the odours of sun-heated soil and summer shower. the bright flames deepen to a blood-red glow and ashes gather like hoar frost on the cooling logs and boughs. the circle around the fire disperses to seek the narcotic gift breathed by the pines, sung as a lullaby by the voices of trees and streams. the start for the glacier is made while the day is young. pack horses and camp are left behind and with the guide leading the way, the tortuous climb is begun. sheer as those rock-walls seemed to be, there is a footing for the careful ponies, as from narrow ledge to ledge they turn and zigzag up the mountain-face; and naked as those steeps appeared, they are animated with frisking conies and marmots, and hidden among the stones are rarely exquisite flowers. here the mountain lilies grow, blossoms with brown eyes in each of their three white petals, covered with soft, silvery fur which makes them seem of the texture of velvet. these lilies are somewhat similar to the mariposa lily of the california sierras. the ground-cedar, a minute and delicate plant; strange varieties of fern and moss, and everchanging, unfamiliar flowers appear as we ascend, until, wheeling dizzily hundreds of feet above the basin upon the slight and slippery trail, with things beneath dwarfed by distance into a pigmy world and things above looming formidably, the increasing altitude shears the rocks and leaves them bare and grim. the air grows sharp with icy chill, great billowy, low-trailing clouds drag over the mountain-tops, down the ravines and float in detached banners in free spaces below. broad stretches of snow lie ahead. the painstaking ponies pick their way across them, for it is fifteen feet down to solid ground. sluggish streams creep between banks crusty with old ice, and pretty falls, broken into lacy meshes of foam, cascade down a parapet of rock and baptize us as we pass. in this spot the stone wall has been worn into a grotto where the water plays as in a fountain. from every little fissure ferns dart their long green lances and feathery fronds, and the rocks are grown over with moss. from our eyrie we look down into a small lake called peary's, sunk within dark and desolate cliffs, shattered and ground down into fantastic forms. it is but partly thawed and its cold, blue-green centre is enclosed in opaque, greenish-white ice and drifts of snow. indeed snow is everywhere in broken drifts--in the furrowed mountain-combs and along the level in smooth white stretches. close to the margin of the ice-sealed shores is a grotesque, sapless, scrubby vegetation, as strange in its way as the brilliant-hued waters or the rocks that impress us with huge antiquity and elemental crudeness, as though we stood face to face with earth's infancy, close in the wake of ebbing, primeval seas. but for all the savage roughness and arctic chill this is a scene to cherish and remember--the blue cup of heaven, flecked with a thistledown of clouds, the black menace of shivered rock-crests, the dazzle of the snow and the darkly beautiful waters that are neither blue nor green yet seemingly of both colours, held fast in the circle of cold, pale ice. above this lake, down an overhanging wall, are more little falls, indeed the whole country is interlaced with them as though the life-blood of the mountains flowed in silver veins upon the surface. within the hollow over the stone barrier lies nansen's lake, even more frigid in its ice-sheath, more palely green in the little patch of water which the sun has laid bare. and although the mountains soar tremendously, yet ever and anon the course lies upward over the frowning brows, over the very crowns of the range, until the high peaks, stripped of atmospheric illusion, stand stark and naked to the gaze. there is in this sudden intimacy with the fellows of the clouds, the veiled lords of upper air, an awe which we feel before powers incomprehensible. at last the trail ceases; overhead are cliffs no horse could climb. the guide ties the ponies, and with a stout rope clambers ahead up a smoothly sculptured parapet. we follow him and find ourselves on a bleak waste which leads to a small basin, strewn with great boulders and lesser rocks, dark and of the colour of slate. growing upon these rock-heaps are masses of flowering moss starred by tiny pink buds and blossoms, or white spattered with the crimson of heart's blood. and now the guide begins to whistle--a long, plaintive note which is answered presently by a similar sound and a shrill, infantile treble, cheeping, cheeping among the stones. then from the security of her home a ptarmigan, or arctic grouse, hops into the open with her family of five chicks jumping on her patient back, and tumbling, the merest puff-balls, at her feet. she chirps softly to them, proud and dignified in her maternity, ever watchful of her pretty little brood. she is dressed in quakerish summer-garb of mottled grey, the feathers covering her to the utmost extremity of her toes. once the winter snows descend, these birds become as white as the frigid regions which they inhabit. ordinarily they are very wild, but this little mother, knowing only friendliness from human visitors, comes forth trustfully with her beloved young, suffers them to be handled and caressed and she, herself, with wings dropped in the semblance of a pretty courtesy, jumps into the hand of the guide, and from that perch feeds daintily on the pink and white buds of the moss, as fragilely lovely as the snowflakes to which they appear strangely akin. indeed, the bird, the flowers and the environing snow all seem more of the cloud-land than of the earth. but there is a sequel to the story of this little grouse, which is, unhappily, a tragedy. not long after she greeted us, giving an air of friendliness to the forbidding, wind-swept rocks, a tyrolese came hunting through the mountains. he made his camp near the home of the ptarmigan and her little ones, and one day when the guide came calling to her there was no answer but the empty whistling of the wind. he called again and again; he searched among the crags and the rock-heaps, then he came upon the ashes of a camp-fire and the mottled feathers and silken down of the ptarmigan and her chicks. she had been betrayed at last by her trustfulness, and she and her brood had been cruelly sacrificed to the blood-lust and appetite of that enemy of poor dumb things--the man with the gun. * * * * * from the mossy basin of the ptarmigan we climb with ropes up a broken escarpment and there upon the very lip of the glacier are blossoms so unearthly in form and colour as to seem the merest ghosts of flowers. one is a dark, ocean-blue bell and another an ashen-green thing furred over with a beard as soft and colorless as a moth's wing. from this eminence a stormy, wind-tossed little lake, the gem, flashes angrily-bright waters beneath snow splashed, wonderfully stratified peaks, and there, through a gateway in the mountains, spreading out in a vast plateau of white, lies the glacier, undulating in frozen waves like a polar sea. even under its shroud of snow one can trace its course by the seams and wrinkles of a congealed current. it is flanked on all sides by the savage, beetling peaks marshalled in endless ranks like the spears and unsheathed lances of war-gods in their domain midway between earth and heaven. out across the death-white pallor of snow, in the death-chill of the ice-fields, we strike out slowly, cautiously, for the surface of the ice, now hidden by snow, is cleft by crevasses even to the mountain's core, and a misstep, a fall into their depths would be doom. far away over the white stretches, a gaunt, spectral coyote watches our painful progress. on and on we go by a tusk-like peak, the "little matterhorn," and ever on to a point where the giant panorama unfolds its mountain-multitudes, its barricaded lakes, and the echo breaks into a chorus that peals out as though each separate crest were possessed of a brazen tongue. these grimly naked heights, split and rent with elemental shocks and the resistance to huge forces, are the cradle of the lightning and the thunder-bolt, the citadel whence the storm-hosts ride down on blackwinged clouds upon the world. and even now phantom troops of clouds come gliding up out of the moist laps of the valleys, out of lakes and streams, passing in shifting wraith-shapes over the mountains, spreading their filmy scarfs across the sky until the livid expanse of snow, showing colourlessly in the grey light, brings to one a vivid picture of the ice-age, of a frozen world and the cold, pitiless illumination of a burnt-out sun. [illustration: gem lake] fine, pricking points of snow cut with the sharpness of needle-thrusts; the wind whips through the bleak gaps in the range and over the glacier, gathering cold and speed as it comes. a chilling numbness deadens our feet and hands. so, wind-buffeted, storm-driven, with the trumpeting gale in our ears, we turn back from the kingdom where winter is unbroken, and descend through alternate shadow and sun into the blooming beauty, into the golden summer that swims in the world below, whence snow and cold are only hinted of in a white-breasted, mountain-kissing cloud. _the little saint mary's_ chapter ix the little saint mary's perhaps the most sublime sweep of view within the entire range is gained from the summit of mount lincoln. to accomplish this ascent it is necessary to leave the tortuous "switch-back" trail in full view of gunsight pass and strike out over a trackless mass of shattered rock, upward toward the peak. the way is steep and difficult, the footing slippery and insecure. the muscles strain to quivering tension, the breath comes in gusty sighs and still the mighty heap of dull rose and green rock rears its jagged crest against the throbbing sky. but even if the climb were tenfold longer and the goal tenfold harder to win, it would be a faint-hearted seeker after the beautiful who would hesitate to make the sacrifice of toil for the magnificent reward that awaits him. the rugged pedestal of stone that crowns the peak, drops almost precipitately three thousand six hundred feet, and directly below, in a gorge formed by this and a second chain of lofty mountains, lie two jade-green lakes, the little saint mary's, joined by a slender, far-leaping waterfall. so immense is the distance, that this fall, spanning the seventeen hundred feet between the upper and lower lakes, does not break the brooding quiet with the whisper of an echo. the slim, white column parts upon the rocks into a diamond shape, and when, happily, the sunshine catches in its spray, it becomes a tangle of rainbows. but now, it unfolds its silver scarf silently, colourlessly as a ghost, and the green lake, so far below, receives the pouring tide with never a ripple to mar its smooth surface. the shadow gathers in the gorge and along the mountains, the pines are darkly green and in sharp contrast, the unmelted snow fields lie pale and gray-white to the very rim of the lakes forming a setting as of old silver. after the first shock of that sublimity has left the senses free of its thrall, a vast panorama unfolds, dominated by the majesty of mountain-lords flanked and crowded by range upon range of others, rising in lessening undulations to the horizon's rim, as though a sea whose giant billows strove to smite the sky in the throes of an awful storm, were suddenly transformed to stone. in the crushing might of these great spaces, peering over the brink of the mountain top into the bosom of the smooth, still lakes as coldly beautiful as an emerald's heart, that half-mad idea of self-annihilation clutches at the mind. perhaps it is the exhilarating leap of the waterfall that tempts one, or perhaps the hypnotic charm of the deep-set, jewel-bright pools, or perhaps some unguessed secret of gravity which impels the tottering atom into the depths of life-absorbing space. it is the same terrible, savage joy, the magnetism of elemental force which we feel as we stand on the brink of the grand cañon of the yellowstone, with the glorious, brave call to death crying from the water voices, while the whisper of life sounds sweetly from the vocal winds of heaven. and even as we gaze, the sun's light dies and the world is ashen pale. suddenly over the distant ranges, storm clouds come trooping in black hosts. a heavy silence falls, broken now and again by the boom of thunder and the frightened cry of shelter-seeking birds. perched upon a point of rock, silhouetted against the sky, a bighorn sheep watches the gathering tempest, unmindful of the muttering thunder and the ominous glow of lightning kindling in the sable-winged array. there is something noble about him as he turns his crest upward to bear the onslaught of the blast. the purple of the mountains overhanging the lake deepens to black--the blue-black of a clear, night sky--and the snow filling the ravines lies passionless and white as death. beneath the driving storm-banners, a luridly vivid light casts its reflection upon the earth in a gilded path, revealing the smallest detail of valley and height before the darkness wraps them in its mantle. the kootenais for one brief instant shine like towers of brass and a pallid mist overhanging an arm of the remote flathead lake becomes a golden fleece, then the garish glare passes and mystery and shadow settle down. violet tongues of lightning dart from the trailing clouds, the martial fifing of the wind makes shrill music through the bleak cairns and empty wastes, and great, splashes of rain fall fragrantly, refreshingly upon the warm ground. but in all the tumult, the cold, jade-green lakes lie unshaken, calm. so truly are they the mountains' brides, held securely in their embrace of stone, that not even the wild riding of the gale nor the shivering thunderbolt disturbs their untroubled depths, while their champions, the peaks, in helmets of pale ice do battle with the elements. the deafening cannonade becomes fainter, the sword-thrust of lightning strikes at other quarry, and the storm, with torn banners dragging low down the mountain sides, like routed hosts in retreat, follow the wake of the thunder, the lightning and the tempest-ridden wind. and as the sun shines forth from the heavens a transformation beams like a blessing from every crag and rock. still wet with the summer rain, they take on strangely beautiful hues of sparkling rose colour, and green like that of the mother ocean, and the naked, glacier-ground escarpments reveal the exquisite illuminations wrought in flowing, multi-colored bands, in subtle shade and wordless rune, of the record book wherein is writ the history of æons. through the dazzle of the sun the sea of mountains re-appears, a flowing tide of purple billows growing more ethereally blue in the distance until they seem but the azure shadow of heaven. and far beneath in the deep, dark gorge, cool with perpetual shade, flanked by mighty mountain walls, are the polished jade-green lakes and the fall, spinning its endless silver skein into the untroubled waters below. _track of the avalanche_ chapter x the track of the avalanche the trail to avalanche basin starts from the shores of lake mcdonald and plunges almost immediately into forests mysterious with primeval grandeur. perhaps their denseness is the reason for the wealth of rank-growing weed and shrub that forms one vast screen beneath the spreading branches of pine, tamarack and kingly cedar trees. whether this is the cause or not, the trail is richer in vegetation than any other that lays open the secrets of the forest's heart. tall, juicy-stalked bear-weed, devil's walking cane, prickly with venomous thorns, slim, graceful stems of wild hollyhock crowned with pale, lavender blossoms, and broad-leafed thimble berry, bearing fragile, crapy-petalled flowers, weave their verdure into a tangled mass. an occasional path crushed down freshly shows where a bear has lately been, for these lavish brakes are a haunt of the three varieties that dwell in the surrounding mountains--the black, the brown and the silver tip, or grizzly. strange sounds come up out of the silence, borne through dim, dark vistas where shy things peep and dry twigs snap under careful, stealthy tread. a woodpecker drums resonantly on the bole of a tree; shrill, elfin music quavers with reedy sweetness from the security of dense thickets. a haunting spell steals over the heart and turns the mind to thoughts of sirens, water sprites, and piping pan, for in spite of generations of culture, somewhat of that ancient worship of the wild is revived in us when we are in the virgin woods. the hypnotic charm of the great silence and solitude possesses us and there comes a feeling as of memory of half-forgotten things lived in a dream,--or was it reality? the inarticulate voices of the past come calling in sylvan melody out of the closed lips of the centuries, re-awakening the life of our forebears and revealing to us a fleeting glimpse of something which we cannot define or understand. in this spell of the wilderness we not only feel the emotion of young world-life and race-childhood, but that of our own more personal childhood when the pursuit of a butterfly or a flower winged our feet and warmed our hearts. it may be the scent of a familiar shrub, the flight of a bird, or even the shimmer of dew that brings us afresh, for a moment, that gaily painted memory which the years may dim but never quite obliterate. the trail is dark with shadow,--the awe of the woods,--roofed with boughs and so still that we seem to hear the breathing of the trees. a sudden turn unfolds a little lake, bright with a living pattern of lily-pads, bursting buds and golden water-lilies. through a rift in the pines the distant mountains appear; then the green tide of branches flows together and there is nothing but silence and shadow and the forest. the woods deepen. low, bushy maples grow among the pines, colorado spruce sheds its silver sheen amidst the more somber foliage, and towering high above the loftiest pines and tamaracks, of magnificent circumference and sweep of limb, are the cedars, the lords of the forest. off to one side of the trail, among the thick-sown trees, is a giant boulder completely covered with moss, a throne fit for pan. the pines around it are of goodly size, yet they sprang and grew, perhaps centuries after that huge stone came hurtling downward in a great avalanche, or was borne from the mountain tops by the slow progress of a glacier. again the forest pageant changes. there are groves of pine stricken with hoary age, bearded like patriarchs with long, pendent streamers of colourless moss; then comes a young growth of pine, fore-doomed to early death which already shows in the bronze of premature decay. it is a beautiful spot, nevertheless, balsam-sweet and strewn with needles that nurture violets of yellow and purple, twin flowers and queen's cups. there is a sound like wind among the trees though not a branch stirs, and presently there bursts into view a sight of wild, exhilarating grandeur. a swift, tumultuous stream rushing down a steep, narrow channel, clean-cut as a sabre stroke, dashes headlong into a rainbow-ridden fall. the volume of water is churned into a passion of swirling foam that flings its light mist heavenward to descend again in rain. ferny, mist-fed, moss-grown banks slope gently to the declivity and over smooth, emerald cushions, lacy leaf and trailing boughs, tiny, crystal drops, glinting prismatic hues, tremble and pass away. the air is very sweet with a new and unfamiliar fragrance, and amidst the moss, half hidden beneath grosser leaf and protruding root, is a flower, the loveliest of all the lovely woodland host. it is a small, snowy blossom of five petals and a golden heart, growing on a slender stem from a cluster of glossy, earth-clinging leaves, and as though to hide its chaste, shy beauty, the modest flower turns its face downward towards the ground. its scent is strong and heavy like that of the magnolia. the guide, who travels the mountains over from the earliest budding to the ultimate passing of the flowers, has never seen this stranger blossom before, and we find it on no other trail. it was unknown, unnamed, so we call it the star of the mountains and leave it blooming in the secrecy of that elfin dell. above the thunder of the fall sounds a slight, shrill bird note and through the clouds of spray darts a little brown bird, dipping almost into the boiling current, rising upward with a graceful swell and a wild, free lilt, perching finally on a tiny point of rock just over the shock and roar of the flood. this strange little winged sprite is a water-ouzel who makes her home and raises her young upon these insecure, spray-drenched walls, with the water-challenge pealing its menace and breathing its chill on her nest. she and her kind haunt the lonely mountain creeks and rivers, seeking some fall or cataract that flings its spray and sings its song to the silent, ice-imprisoned world. once the mating season is over and the young are fledged, each bird takes its solitary flight and becomes a veritable spirit of the woodland streams. the dense forests become broken and sheer cliffs rise to stupendous heights. upon their sharp and slender pinnacles wild goat and bighorn sheep dwell, and in passing we see a goat so far away on those dizzy steeps that he seems the merest patch of white. through this gorge, between the mountains, are deep hewn furrows where year after year, century after century, the burden of ice from the peaks descends in avalanches. in the spring when the first thaw begins, a deafening roar like a cannonade heralds the furious onslaught of ice and snow. at such times the avalanche trail is a dangerous way to travel, and even now a distant booming reminds us that the mountain forces are never idle, that in their serenity there is force, in their mystery there is still the energy of creation. through this narrow passage between overhanging crags, the trail continues until, bearing upward, it suddenly crosses a pretty, milky-hued stream, and thence to a hill-side overlooking a sheet of water opaque and pearly white, in a setting of dark-browed woods. it is avalanche lake. the water is perfectly calm, not a breath of air rustles the slightest leaf, but there is no reflection of throbbing, blue sky, of green woods or purple mountains--it does not thrill to the passion of the summer, flash back azure and gold and picture in its responsive heart the glories of earth and heaven. because of this, it is different from all the other lakes of these mountains and the shell-like whiteness of its surface, pallidly beautiful as a great pearl, has a peculiar beauty none the less striking for its strangeness. the cause of the milkiness of these waters seems at first without satisfactory explanation, but as we examine them more closely we see that they are charged with infinite multitudes of tiny air bubbles, and every stream that feeds the lake, having fallen from enormous heights, is likewise full of infinitesimal air beads. on the other hand, some contend that the water, pouring down from the glacier is white with particles of finely pulverized rock. pushing straight past the lake, through almost impenetrable thickets of whipping willows that fight like live things to guard from vandal footsteps what lies beyond, the journey reaches its climax in avalanche basin. there, in that vast amphitheatre sculptured from the living rock by glaciers, carved and scarred by innumerable avalanches descending through the ages, overhung by the piegan ice fields, six silver streams leap the full height of the great rock walls. the falls seem to melt away before they touch the reality of earth, veritable spirits, born of the snowdrift and the sun; white ghosts spending themselves in spray to reascend into the clouds. [illustration: on the trail to mt. lincoln] a rich growth of green grass, coloured with broad splashes of indian paint brush, covers the sloping floor of the basin. standing on its extreme elevation upon a platform of rock, and thence overlooking the country that lies ahead, the scene is one of uplifting majesty. below, within the sombre circle of the pines, is the lake, palely fair as a white sea shell or a milk opal whose latent colours never quite shine forth from its cloudy depths. farther still, is the gorge, opening like a gateway into the region of the avalanche, and farther still, is heaven's peak, mingling with the cloudless sky. the strata on these mountains laid bare as though but yesterday they were rent asunder, flow in undulating ribbons of colour varying from red-violet to dull, antique gold. but between the quivering sky of summer and the warm, flower-sown earth, is a ghostly tide of purple haze, an amethystine shadow which touches every rock and tree and peak with magical illusion. and through that veil, as through enchantment, each rock, each tree, each peak is transfigured and for a brief hour is given a semblance of the divine. the gorge is filled with flowing purple, the glorified gateway might be heaven's gate, even as the dominant mountain, royal in the thickening blue distance, is heaven's peak. here the sordid world seems to melt away; the sunshine has got into our blood and the transfiguring haze has penetrated even to our hearts. we seem so intimately a part of this mighty, primeval place where the infinity of the past and the infinity of the future are married in one great mystery, that we dare to listen for secrets of the one from the chant of the falls; to lift the veil of circumventing blue and peer into the other. so, standing upon that rock platform, from the reality of the present we speed our souls into the ideality of time's poles. though the song of the water-voices that have sung æons, rings in our ears, and the living letter of the world-book is shown in the mountain's open page, we may not know the portent of either message. and though we gaze with seeking vision through the shadow into the ultimate blue above, the haze draws its protecting garment thicker, closer about the treasure-house of nature, and the sun darts amber lances earthward to blind aspiring eyes. so we pass humbly upon our way, the water-voices singing in our ears, the arch of heaven trailing its garment over earth, still guarding the riddle of the future in its azure keep. _indian summer_ chapter xi indian summer after the summer's ripe maturity has vanished with the first autumnal storm, there steals over the world a magical presence. it has no place in the almanac; it comes with a flooding of amber light and a deepening of amethyst haze; it plays like a passing smile on the face of the universe and like one, vanishes with the stern rebuff of the wintry blast. what jugglery the sun and earth and the four winds of heaven have wrought no mortal man can tell, but certainly by some divine alchemy the deadening blight is turned into gold, and upon the lap of the world there lies, instead of the appointed fall, a changeling season, the faery-child of nature, illusive, fleeting as a flock of yellow butterflies, a shimmer of radiant wings--the indian summer! the whole earth is under the spell of the mad, sweet witchery. the forests are decked in a gay masquerade, too glorious to be real, and our own sober senses are half-mastered by the delusion that the dead summer is come to life again. in open places where the fingers of the sun still warm the moist ground, absent-minded bluebells, strawberries and yellow violets bloom on forgetful that they should already be taking their winter's rest. and it is strange with what pleasure we seize upon these fragile blossom-friends; with what childish joy we caress their pale petals so soon to be laid low. yet in the warm air lurks a hidden sting, the bittersweet of sun and frost; in the very effulgence of life is the foreshadowing of death. already on the heights streamers of cloud gather, leaving in their wake the dazzle of fresh snow. and beneath these low-streaming clouds, slanting earthward in broad, down-pouring rays, is a pure white light upon the mountains. the light on the mountains! what a revelation it is! the windows of heaven are flung open and the celestial beams of paradise illumine god's cathedral domes, the peaks, for a brief space before sky-wrought vestments of snow cover the altar of his sanctuaries. the trails of yesterday are barred. for prudence sake we must keep to the low country or risk the fate of being "snowed in." therefore we choose the kintla road and camas creek, where a large band of moose roams in the forest solitudes, hoping to reach quartz lakes near the canadian line before we shall be driven back by the cold. the pine-sweet air fills us with the very spirit of the woods as we strike out over the gilded trail through forests transfigured into a welter of gorgeous hues, past deep-cleft ravines purple as the heart of a violet, to dim lilac mountains that melt into the blue. what is it that is mystical, spiritual, if you will, in this colour of violet? it is not like the robust, tangible green of the trees, the definite reality of the flowers' multi-coloured petals. we cannot lay our hands upon it any more than we can grasp a sunbeam, for like hope deferred, it lies forever beyond our reach. we see it unwind its royal haze through gorge and forest; we watch it fade into pale lavender on the ultimate pinnacles of the range, but if we follow it what do we find? mere yawning cleft or greenwood grove or jagged strata of dull rock. where is the subtle violet, the dim dream lavender? fled as subtly as the shadow of a wing! perhaps it _is_ a shadow of the divine, the soul-essence common to man and the flower at his feet, the dumb, stone mountains, the living air and the heaven that embraces all in its enduring keep. we pass into the deep, unbroken shadow of virgin woods where bushes burn with crimson rosehips, the thimbleberry shines in its autumn garb of yellow, the tamarack gleams golden among its somber brethren, the pines, and strange, bright shrubs set us forever guessing. we emerge into a billowing field of wild hay, fringed with trees, above which we can see the metallic sharpness of the mountains. shining over all impartially, shedding its glory upon our souls, is the dominant sun whose broad rays break into a mist of ruddy gold. again we dip into eternal shadow, the horses' hoofs sound with a dull cluck as they sink in and are lifted from the soft mold. often we are startled by the sudden whirr of wings as frightened grouse fly to shelter. fungus thrusts evil, flame-coloured tongues from the damp, sweet soil and a marvelous variety of moss and lichen trace their patterns on logs, tree stumps and upon the wind-thrown forest trees that toss their gnarled roots high above our heads in an agony of everlasting despair. we splash through dutch creek, camas creek and many another, and as we pause to eat a frugal midday meal on the banks of one of these, we find upon a trailing limb, a dying butterfly. poor little sprite of yesterday! its bright wings palpitate feebly and it suffers us to take it in our hands without making an effort to escape. the last of its gay brethren, the blossom-lovers, its hour is come and with its final strength it has fluttered to this friendly leaf to die. so, very gently we put it back upon its chosen resting place, leaving it to join ghostly bright winged flocks in the sunshine of some immortal arcady. from a high ridge which falls away abruptly into a water-hewn declivity, we look through broad, open vistas far below at the north fork of the flathead river. the stream takes its way between banks of fine gray pebbles, parting now over a sandy bar in slender green ribbons, then uniting in one broad current, again separating to curl in white foam-frills around a boulder or little island. mild and limpid as the river now appears there is evidence of its flood-tide fury in uprooted trees and livid scars along its banks. working silently and secretly near the water's edge is a beaver. we can scarcely distinguish him as he toils patiently, bringing to our minds the old selish legend that the beavers are a fallen tribe of indians, doomed by the great spirit to expiate an ancient wrong by constant labor in their present shape. but some day after the appointed penance, the indians believe that the beavers will resume the form of men and come into their own again. for two days we ride farther and farther into the wilderness, camping by night and taking up the trail with the early dawn. and as we penetrate deeper into the wild the pageant changes only to become more sublime. clumps of slenderly graceful silver poplars with gray, satin-smooth boles and branches that burst into a shower of golden leaves, shed glory upon our way. dense woods of yellow pine whose giant trunks hold all the shades of faded rose, and silvery-green colorado spruce overshadow us and once we find ourselves in a grove of yellow tamarack hung with streamers of black moss. years upon years ago a forest fire whose fury was nearly spent had scorched these trees with its hot breath, changing the feathery moss into flowing streamers of black--veritable mourning weeds--which contrast sharply with the golden foliage. even now it is easy to fancy that the fire still burns and each tall tamarack is a pillar of living flame. the nights are no less wonderful than the days. the melon-coloured harvest moon floats high in the blue-black heavens, touching the priestly trees with its white rays. we sit beside our camp fire listening to the crackle of dry twigs beneath a cautious tread, the occasional whistle of a stag and the ominous note of an owl hooting among the pines. sometimes we fancy that green and amber eyes burn the darkness, and we cling close, close to the primal birthright of the race--the flaming brand--which raises its bright barrier now as in the age of stone, between mankind and the predatory beasts of the wild. the wooded hosts seem to press down with stifling persistence upon us and an indefinable terror creeps into our hearts, the inherent fear of man, the atom, of nature, the fathomless, the unknown. as these nights wear on and we lie upon our couches of fragrant cedar boughs, up out of the gulf of silence the lean-flanked coyotes howl to the moon, and later still, when the pale disc dips beneath the horizon and the shrouded secrecy of before-dawn steals, like a timid ghost, out of the infinite, the trees find tongue and murmur together though there is no wind and the stream sings with a music as of hidden bells. strange, elfin sounds, the merest echo of a whisper thrill out of the quiet and sigh into silence again. a faint patter-patter as of falling thistledown is heard constantly, insistently, inevitably. can it be the beat of gossamer wings, the trip of faery feet as the woodland sprites hang the grass, the leaves, the finest-spun thread of cobweb with beads of dew, and trim the dark pines, like christmas trees, with tinsel frost? truly the pale morning light breaks upon a transformed and enchanted world. silver filigree adorns the most commonplace limb and twig. each pine needle twinkles with a gem giving forth rainbow-hued rays beneath the first steel-cold beams of the sun. the thorn-apple, whose wine-red branches are furred with a white beard, is etherealized into delicate pastel shades of lavender and mauve by a film of hoar frost. ragged streamers of fantastic mist-shapes rise and float heavily through the moist air, obscuring, then revealing stretches of stream-laced woods and finally rolling away in lessening vapour into the lingering dusk of ravines. there is a mighty scene-shifting of nature in progress. the night phantoms, the colourless dawn-shapes are hurried off, while the sun, riding high in the deepening blue, touches stream and tree and peak with the illumination of the new day. as we wander about breathing the balsam sweetness of the pine-breath of the new dawn, we make curiously interesting discoveries. by an unfortunate accident we roll a hollow log over and uncover a squirrel's winter larder of small pine cones, and at the same time we hear above our heads, in trees so lofty that we cannot penetrate the dense canopy of interlocked limb, the domestic troubles of a pair of these contentious little forest folk. in high treble voices they quarrel and dispute in a perfect hysteria of rage. upon the damp trail near camp we find large, cloven hoof prints too big for those of a deer, so probably our mysterious visitor of the evening before was no less a personage than a lordly moose. we linger on heedlessly, much the same as the absent-minded flowers, clinging as desperately to the woodland as the dying butterfly, deceiving ourselves into the half-belief that winter is far away. the air is still warm and the light shines on the mountains. and that light lures us on by its thrall to higher altitudes. down the gorges the snow gathers in deepening drifts and the utmost peaks are white as carven ivory. still we resolve to make one brave dash for the quartz lakes, set one above the other in a chain among sheltering cañons and flanking cliffs. under the inspiration of the camp fire we discuss the morrow's journey. how splendid it will be to race with the sun; to dare the sudden blizzard that might cut off our retreat, for one brief glimpse of that upper world we have grown to love with a passion akin to madness. but even as we speak a shadow falls, and looking upward we see that a gray moth-wing of cloud hides the moon. surely it is a passing vapour, the merest mist-breath exhaled by the languid night. but no! darker and heavier it unrolls. wraith shapes glide out from the black mass until the stars are dead and the deep blue dome of heaven is shrouded by an impenetrable pall. that night the heavy rain drops beat a tattoo on the tent and the mournful pines weep the sorrow of ages. undaunted we take up the trail, assuring ourselves that soon the fickle weather will be fair again. occasionally a patch of clear blue shows through the broken flock of hurrying clouds and a wan sun ray steals down for a moment to kiss the woods goodbye. the forests are already drenched and each bough that strikes us pours upon us a little flood of rain. the trees line up in somber walls and as the storm settles into a steady downpour, between their dark fringes flows a narrow, ashen stream of sky. through the brooding shadow tamaracks kindle, silver poplars huddle together with quivering aureoles of gold, and the austere dusk beneath their boughs is lighted with yellow-leafed thimbleberry, glowing like sunbeams. it seems as though the foliage of those receptive trees and shrubs has absorbed the summer sun to give it forth again when the world should be cloaked in shadow. so complete is the illusion that oftentimes, as a shaft of light gleams through the tree tops, we cry exultantly: "the sun is shining!" in another second we see that it is but the tamaracks burning like tall, yellow candles through the autumnal gloom, shedding their blessed gift of light to cheer us on our way. when we gain the lower quartz lake, a deep green sheet of water bordered by wooded shores, the heavy clouds drag low and a rainbow arches the lake. we halt, uncertain, raising our eyes questioningly to the heights beyond that frown blackly through the tattered tapestry of the clouds. the mountains are angry! very reluctantly, sorrowfully, we turn to retrace our steps, thinking of future seasons of sun and warmth and other quests of the sublime that shall end in triumph. at each gust the shearing wind despoils the silver poplars of their crowns until the naked branches leap wildly in a fantastic dance of death. the changeling season, the faery-child of nature has fled as mysteriously as it came--fled like a flock of yellow butterflies into some ethereal region to await its perennial resurrection. dull autumn settles drab as a moth upon the saddened world and the light has died from the mountains. transcriber's notes: simple typographical errors were corrected. punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. this book uses both "leggins" and "leggings". reference to page in the list of illustrations should be to page . page : "complete, in maximilian's" is printed with a comma in the book and unchanged here.