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Les diagrammes suivants iliustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 i 1 32 X 1 2 3 4 5 6 1^ SSlda*'^"^ Bibhotheque Rationale or L-anada du Canada r^. ^Presented to The Stmient's Ubrarv 2o"^ i BRET HARTE I A WAIF OF THE PLAINS SUSY UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME ''"st.AR'fx^^J^.'j^^U^^ AT BLAZING CRESSY (I Vol.) ^"^^OF ThTC^]^^ ^F^^'S •• A PHYLLIS REDWOOD /aI'^^^ ^ ^'^'PT FROM OF La"p"o'r^^'?,^o1 ,«^NTLKMAN ^'^^ROARINr^''^-¥jn™E LUCK OP SKPTruSc '-^^^^ AND OTHER fi vJl" ' i^OHEMIAN PAPERS A FIRST FAMILY OF TASAJ ARA (i Vol.) 'I 1 BRET HARTE A WAIF OF THE PLAINS SUSY TORONTO THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY LIMITED LuBU- CONTENT3 I A WAIF OF THE PLAINS SUSY I III a (KElaif of tlje piainief* CHAPTER 1. A LONG level of dull grey that further away became a faint blue, with here and there darker patches that looked like water. At times an open space, blackened and burnt in an irregular circle, with a shred of newspaper, an old rag, or broken tin can lying in the ashes. Beyond these always a low dark line that seemed to sink into the ground at night, and rose again in the morning with the first light, but never otherwise changed its height and distance. A sense of always moving with some indefinite purpose, but of always returning at night to the same place— with the same sur- roundings, the same people, the same bedclothes, and the same awful black canopy dropped down from above. A chalky taste of dust on the mouth and lips, a gritty sense of earth on the fingers, and an all-pervading heat and smell of cattle. Tliis was "The Great Plains" as they seemed to two children from the hooded depth of an emigrant waggon above the swaying heads of toiling oxen, in the summer of 1852. It had appeared so to them for two weeks, always the same, and always without the least sense to them of wonder or monotony. When they viewed it from the road, walking beside the waggon, there was only the team itself added to the unvarying picture. One of the waggons bore on its canvas oood the inscription, in large black letters, *' Off to California I " on the other " Root Hog, or Die," but neither B A Waif of ike Plains. of them awoke in the minds of the children the faintest idea of playfulness or jocularity. Perhaps it was difficult to connect the serious men, who occasionally walked beside them and seemed to grow more taciturn and depressed as the day wore on, with this past effusive pleasantry Yet the impressions of the two children differed slightly The eldest, a boy of eleven, was apparently new to the domestic habits and customs of a life to which the younger a girl of seven, was evidently native and familiar The food was coarse, and less skilfully prepared than that to which he had been accustomed. There was a certain freedom and roughness in their intercourse; a simplicity that bordered almost on rudeness in their domestic arrange- ments, and a speech that was at times almost untranslatable to him. He slept in his clothes, wrapped up in blankets- he was conscious that in the matter of cleanliness he was left to himself to overcome the difficulties of finding water and towels. But it is doubtful if in his youthfulness it affected him more than a novelty. He ate and slept well and found his life amusing. Only at times the rudeness of his companions, or, worse, an indifference that made him feel his dependency upon them, awoke a vague sense of some wrong that had been done to him which, while it was voiceless to all others, and even uneasily put aside by him- self, was still always slumbering in his childish conscious- ness. To the party he was known as an orphan put on the train at "St. Jo» by some relative of his stepmother, to be delivered to another relative at Sacramento. As his stepmother had not even taken leave of him, but had entrusted his departure to the relative with whom he had been lately living, it was considered as an act of "rid- dance" and accepted as such by her party, and even vaguely acquiesced in by the boy himself. What con- sideration had been offered for his passage he did not know; he only remembered that he had been told "to le faintest idea IS difficult to tvaliied beside depressed as ntry. ifered slightly. new to tiie I the younger, imiliar. The than that to as a certain a simplicity estic arrange- intranslatable in blankets; iness he was inding water uthfulness it d slept well, I rudeness of t made him ;ue sense of while it was side by him- 1 conscious- put on the Dmother, to to. As his n, but had cm he had :t of "rid- and even What con- e did not 1 told "to A Waif of the Plains. I .il: make hm.se f handy." This he had done cheerfully, if at times with the unskilfulness of a novice; but it was not a peculiar or a menial task in a company where all ook part in manual labour, and where existence seemed to him to bear the charm of a prolonged picnic. NeTher was he subjected to any difference of affection o/ ea men from Mrs Silsbee, the mother of his little compan on and he wife of the leader of the train. Prematurely olS' of Ill-health, and harassed with cares, she had no time to waste m discriminating maternal tenderness for heJ daughter, but treated the children with equal and un biassed querulousness. ^ The rear waggon creaked, swayed, and rolled on slowly and heavily The hoofs of the draught oxen, occasionaUy s rik.ng ,n the dust with a dull report, sent little puffs 1 I smoke on either side of the track. Within, the children were playmg "keeping store." The little girl, a an opulent and extravagant customer, was purchasing of the boy, who sat behmd a counter improvised from a nail ke! and the front seat, most of the available contents of thi waggon either under their own names or an imag nl one as the moment suggested, and paying for them in the easy and hberal currency of dried beans a'nd bits of ler Change was given by the expeditious method of tearing he paper into smaller fragments. The diminution of stock was remedied by buying the same article over again under a different name. Nevertheless, in spite of the e favourable commercial conditions, the market seemed du Uan show you a fine quality of sheeting at four cents a yard, double width," said the boy, rising and lean ng on his fingers on the counter as he had'seenL shopn n do A wool and will wash," he added with easy gravity I can buy it cheaper at Jackson's," said the girl with the intuitive duplicity of her bargaining sex ^ ' Very well," said the boy. ««I won't play any more." ^^ ho cares ? " said the girl indifferently. A Waif of Ihe Plains. W The boy here promptly upset the counter : the rolled up blanket, which had deceitfully represented Th/n able sheeting, falling on the ^..^J^^^Vl^^, suggested a new idea to the former salesman ^^-Tsi lets play 'damaged stock.' See, I'll tumble all the th n.s thaTco:" "''^ °" ^°^ ' ''' °^^-' -^ -" '-^ ^or lefs The girl looked up. The suggestion was bold bad and momentarily attractive. But she only said ''No ' apparently from habit, picked up her doll and th.K clambered to the front of the waa^on Th. , ^ episode terminated at once'liirC pe'r ttTr^S^ ness, indifference, and irresponsibility common to aU founi S: at L^f^^^-^^^h- flown'away or bou d d finally at that moment, they would have done so with squirT Thr" '" ^T""""^^^ ^^^-'^ ^han a bird or squirrel. The waggon rolled steadily on. The boy could see that one of their teamsters had climed up on tl tai, board of the preceding vehicle. The other seemed to be walking in a dusty sleep. accmea to De "Kla'uns," said the girl. The b without turning his head, responded "Susy." Wot are you going to be ? " said the girl. ^ "Gom to be?" repeated Clarence. "When you is growed," exclaimed Susy to h.?"'' ^""''"'"^- ^'' ^^"'^^ determination had been to become a pirate, merciless yet discrimino^Jn S reading in a bethumbed "Guide to the PlTn"' S n ;ng of Fort Laramie and Kit Carson t hid" ec ded T/on" the career of a "scout," as being more accessible .nH quiring less water. Yet, out o'f compassbn for Susv's' possible Ignorance he said neither, and respond dwh f :-^— qS rSL^-^-;- :f-^^ ht-dsoSead^^ ''-'-' oidUir^rti;:^ ■i 1 « ; the rolled- i the desir- ■t apparently I. "I say! II tlie things 'em for less bold, bad, said "No," id the boy incomplete t forgetful- o all young ounded off e so with a bird or boy could n the tail- med to be "Susy." had been ng. But lat niorn- led upon ■ and re- )r Susy's ied with esident." and had th their A Waif of the Plains. '% 'i i 4 "I'm goin' to be a parson's wife," said Susy, "and keep hens, and have things giv' to me. Baby clothes, and apples and apple sass— and melasses I and more baby clothes! and pork when you kill." She had thrown herself at the bottom of the waggon with her back towards him and her doll in her lap. He could see the curve of her curly head, and bevond her bare dimpled knees which were raised, and over'wliich she was trymg to fold the hem of her brief skirt. "I wouldn't be a President's wife," she said presently. " You couldn't ! " "Could if I wanted to!" "Couldn't!" " Could now ! " " Couldn't ! " "Why?" Findmg it difficult to explain his convictions of her inehgibdity, Clarence thought it equally crushing not to give any. There was a long silence. It was very hot and dusty. The waggon scarcely seemed to move. Clarence gazed at the vignette of the track behind them formed by the hood of the rear. Presently he rose and walked past her to the tail-board. "Coin' to get down," he said. putting his legs over. " Maw says ' No,' " said Susy. Clarence did not reply, but dropped to the ground beside the slowly turning wheels. Without quickening his pace he could easily keep his hand on the tail-board. "Kla'uns." He looked up. " Take me." She had already clapped on her sun-bonnet, and was standing at the edge of the tail-board, her little arms extended in such perfect confidence of being caught that the boy could not resist. He caught her cleverh^ They halted a moment and let the lumbering vehicle move away ill 6 A Waif of the Plains. from them as it swayed from side to side as if labouring in a heavy sea. They remained motionless until it had reached nearly a hundred yards, and then with a sudden half real, half assumed, but altogether delightful trepidation, ran forward and caught up with it ngain. This they repeated two or three times until both themselves and the excitement were exhausted, and they again plodded on hand in hand. Presently Clarence uttered a cry. " My ! Susy— look there ! " The rear waggon had once more slipped away from them a considerable distance. Between it and them, crossing its track, a most extraordinary creature had halted. At first glance it seemed a dog— a discomfited, shame- less, ownerless, outcast of streets and byways, rather than an honest estray of some drover's train. It was so gaunt, so dusty, so greasy, so slouching and so lazy ! But as they looked at it more intently they saw that the greyish hair of its back had a bristly ridge, and there were great poison- ous-looking dark blotches on its flanks, and that the slouch of its haunches was a peculiarity of its figure, and not the cowering of fear. As it lifted its suspicious head towards them they could see that its thin lips, too short to cover its white teeth, were curled in a perpetual sneer. " Here, doggie ! " said Clarence excitedly. " Good dog ! Come." Susy burst into a triumphant laugh. " Et taint no dog, silly ; it's er coyote." Clarence blushed. It wasn't the first time the pioneer's daughter had shown her superior knowledge. He said quickly, to hide his discomfiture, "I'll ketch him anyway, he's nothin' mor'n a ki yi." "Ye kant, tho," said Susy, shaking her sun-bonnet. " He's faster nor a hoss ! " Nevertheless Clarence ran towards him, followed by Susy. When they had come within twenty feet of him, the lazy creature, without apparently the least effort, took two or > ! A Waif of the Plains. i labouring ntil it had I a sudden :repidation, ;y repeated excitement d in hand. from them :rossing its ed, shame- ather than s so gaunt, 3ut as they reyish hair 2at poison- the slouch id not the id towards 3 cover its jood dog ! It no dog, ! pioneer's He said a anyway, ,n-bonnet. 1 by Susy. , the lazy )k two 01 three limping bounds to one side and remained at the same distance as before. They repeated this onset three or four times with more or less excitement and hilarity, the animal evading them to one side, but never actually retreating before them. Finally, it occurred to them both that although they were not catching him they were not driving him away. The consequences of that thought were put into shape by Susy with round-eyed significance. " Kla'uns, he bites." Clarence picked up a hard sun-baked clod, and, running forward, threw it at the coyote. It was a clever shot, and struck him on his slouching haunches. He snapped and gave a short snarling yelp and vanished. Clarence re- turned with a victorious air to his companion. But she was gazing intently in the opposite direction, and for the first time he discovered that the coyote had been leading them half round a circle. "Kla'uns," says Susy, with an hysterical little laugh. "Well?" *' The waggon's gone." Clarence started. It was true. Not only their waggon, but the whole train of oxen and teamsters had utterly dis- appeared, vanishing as completely as if they had been caught up in a whirlwind or engulfed in the earth. Even the low cloud of dust that usually marked their distant course by day was nowhere to be seen. The long level plain stretched before them to the setting sun, without a sign or trace of moving life or animation. That great blue crystal bowl, filled with dust and fire by day, with stars and darkness by night, which had always seemed to drop its rim round them everywhere and shut them in, seemed to them now to have been lifted to let the train pass out, and then closed down upon them for ever. 8 A Waif of the Plains. m m CHAPTER II. Their first sensation was one of purely animal freedom I rhey looked at each other with sparkling eye. and lon^ .n breaths. But this spontaneous outburst of saZl nature soori passed. Susy's little hand presently reachfd forward and clutched Clarence's jacket. The boy under sood It, and said quickly--. They ain't gone far and they'll stop as soon as they find us gone " evel' darand'th" ? 'T '"'" ' ''^ ^"" ^^^^ ''^ ^°"°-d Ru des [he k. f vvaggon-tracks being their unfailing !f ha 'n 1 V '°? '"■ °^ '^' P'^'"^> ^^^^'"g the placf of that al-pervadrng dust and smell of the perspiring oxen invigorating them with its breath. ^ ' I' We ain't skeered a bit, are we?" said Susy. He In ' '° ^u '''■^''^ °'^" ^^'d Clarence scornfully He said this none the less strongly because h<^ cH^ , remembered that they had been oLn leralone n'The waggon for hours without being looked after, and tha tthei absence might not be noticed until the train stopped o en camp at dusk, two hours later He was pointing to a light cloud of dust in the fir off hon.on, from which the black hullc of a waggon eUl! for a moment and was lost But even as th y g^"d ?h track returned. They d.d not know that this seemingly flat and level plam was really undulatory, and that the vanished am had s,mply dipped below their view on some fZhet slope even as rt had once before. Bu, thev knew they me M. 1 reedom I is and lonor : of savage tly reached boy under- ^ far, and d followed r unfailing the place iring oxen, scornfully, suddenly le in the that their ed to en- hey were nner, for Clarence le far-off emerged azed the h again, retching ingly flat vanished further ley were A Waif of the Plains. 9 disaj)pointed, and that disappointment revealed to them the fact that they had concealed it from each other. The girl was the first to succumb, and burst into a quick spasm of angry tears. That sin-le act of weakness called out the boy's pride ar.d strength. There was no longer an equality of suffering; he had become her protector; he felt himself resi)onsible for both. Considering her no longer his equal, he was no longer frank with her. "There's nothin' to boo-hoo for," he said, with a half- affected brusqueness. "So quit now! They'll stop in a minit and send some one back for us. Shouldn't wonder if they're doin' it now." But Susy, with feminine discrimination detecting the hollow ring in his voice, here threw herself upon him and began to beat him violently with her little fists. "They ain't !^^ They ain't I They ain't ! You know it ! How dare you?" Then, exhausted with her struggles, she suddenly threw herself flat on the dry grass, shut her eyes tightly, and clutched at the stubble. " Get up," said the boy, with a pale, determined face that seemed to have got much older. «' You leave me be ! " said Susy. "Do you want me to go away and leave you?" asked the boy. Susan opened one blue eye furtively in the secure depths of her sun-bonnet and gazed at his changed face "Ye-e-s." He pretended to turn away, but really to look at the height of the sinking sun. " Kla'uns ! " "Well?" " Take me." She was holding up her hands. He lifted her gently in his arms, dropping her head over his shoulder, " Now," he said cheerfully, "you keep a good look-out that way, and I this, and we'll soon be there." 10 A Waif of the Plains. The idea moments, Clarence had see seemed Jtumbled on for a f anything, Kla'uns?" "Not yet." "No more don't I." This equality of perception in rammg eyes A. ,i„,es it seemed ,o impede s cas"; ™n tn. 1T\ ""■* '"""'' «'"'• 'ike duplicates of the sun, Entered back from the dull surface if the plains wTa hS r," X '™,' "° "'"'^ ""'" "= '>"^ "»'"d re u'rn of ?h '"" "'"^^ "'"' "■" '•™<^ '«ult, the return of the empty, unending plains; the disc growine ttl irl-"' '""'™"' '"^ «'= " '=™=d to\i 2 as u sank, but nothing more ! Staggering under his burden, he tried to distract himself mad^^'H: 'rf,,^'---y of their absence ^oulT aboutthfw rl'^' ''''''''' half-querulous discussion about the locality that regularly pervaded the nightly camp He heard the discontented voice of Jake Silsbee as h ' halted beside their waggon and said, "Come, out o'tha now, you two, and mighty quick about it." He heard he command harshly repeated. He saw thr \Tt h- r-ed" ,'"^'^^.'^ ^"^^>-"-^^^ facrtht filed h.s hurried glance into the empty waggon. H.. ,-.. , he query "What's gone o' them limbs now?" hand d ft;om waggon to waggon. He heard a few oaths .Ms Silsbee s high, rasping voice, abuse of himself, the hurded ^.d discontented detachment of a search arty, S^S ' tv- , 'i '^% ^''l^ "^f "' ^"d vociferation and blame ^^^>^. aiway.. for himself, the elder, who might have r^o. .an.y either puy cr commiseration. Perhaps the IJIarence had ' Do you see rception ap- limp in his touched the dazzled and le his eager pots floated cates of the the plains, ad counted result, the sc growing d to kindle act himself would be discussion htly camp. 3ee as he >ut o' tliat He heard z look of fo'dowed ^'a; T.-aij ' handed tis ; Mrs. e hurried y, Silsbee d blame, jht have he could haps the A Waif of the Plains. n <-A thought upheld his pride ; under the prospect of sympathy he might iiave broken down. At la^t h" stumbled, and stopped to keep himself from falling forward on his face. He could go no further; his breath was spent; he was dripping with perspiration; his legs were trcmblin^^ under him; there was a roaring in his ears; round red discs of the sun were scattered everywhere around him like spots of blood. To the right of the trail there seemed to be a slight mound where he could rest awhile and yet keep his watchful survey of the horizon. But on reaching it he found that it was only a tangle of taller mesquite grass, into which he sank with his burden. Nevertheless, if useless as a point of vantage, it afforded a soft couch for Susy, who seemed to have fallen quite naturally into her usual afternoon siesta, and in a measure it shielded her from a cold breeze that had sprung up from the west. Utterly exhausted himself, but not daring to yield to the torpor that seemed to be creeping over him, Clarence half sat, half knelt down beside her, supporting himself with one hand, and, partly hidden in the long grass, kept his straining eyes fixed on the lonely track. The red disc was sinking lower. It seemed to have already crumbled away a part of the distance with its eating fires. As it sank still lower, it shot out long Inriinous rays, diverging fan-like across the plain as if, in the boy's excited fancy, it too were searching, with parted and extended fingers, for the lost estrays. And as one long beam seemed to linger over his hiding-place, he even thought that it might serve as a guide to Silsbee and the other seekers, and was constrained to stagger to his feet, erect in its light. But it soon sank, and with it Clarence dropped back again to his crouching watch. Yet he knew that the daylight was still good for an hour, and with the withdrawal of that -stic sunset glory, objects became even more distinct and •a i 12 A U'^aif of the Plains. to have waved betwLnh ^^"""\««'°^d which seemed eyesa,read;V:?.aEedr:Her' ^'^ ^^"^'^^^^ ^-'"' ^^^ CHAPTER III. he could detect the hi r^ , u '"' ^"'' "'=" f^"':''^^ oppressive hu h o'llltS °F„'Ah™H" •;"" '" '^« always been accompanied by tlTe m„L^' ■"""" ""=■ of wheels and axles/and even . e „™r7,hr "?''"« campmen, bad been always more or e L hr„w "'I' ?' movement of nnquiet sleepers on ,h! \ '"' "'' the breathing of ^he ca.t ^ B„ he* .hTtf ""-"^'^"^ sound nor motion. Susy's pran e 'L "T "' " of his own voice, would' iJvelX , 178 ' T' spell. But it wa y tattered' banket that scarcely covered the two parted gs w h eemed clothed in soiled yellow hose. In one hand it h d a gun; the other was bent above its eyes in eager sc utinv tlTlH 'T P""^ '^^°"' ^"^ ^-^ °f the'spo wh"e the children lay concealed. Presently, with a do^en qdck ncseless strides of the pony's legs, the apparition moved ' horizon. There was no mistaking it now ! The painted Hebraic face, the large curved nose, the bony cheek e broad mouth, the shadowed eyes, the straight Ion' Lattd locks : It was an Indian ! Not the picturesque cr?at" e of Clarence's imagination, but still an Indian I The bov was uneasy suspicious, antagonistic ; but not afraid. He looked at the heavy animal face with the superiority of intelligence at the half-naked figure with the conscious supiLmacv 'f dress, at the lower individuality with the contempt of a higher race. Yet a moment after, when the figure whee ed and disappeared towards the undulating west, a stran'e ctu crept over him. Yet he did not know that in tin' fueri e pt"ed hi^br ""' ''''''' ''' ''''-' "^-^-'^ '^'^^ " Mamma ! " hnn' T ^T^'f r"'"' ''"^SS'ing into consciousness. Per- sudden fLs '"'"'"'^ ^°""'°"^ °^ ^^^ ^^y^ inst the still luman figure, 3 mean and e outcome of but so ludi- trode, whose .-athless halt, some vulgar '■ brimless, a ey's feather, irty tattered legs, which hand it held ger scrutiny spot where loien quick n moved to part of the 'he painted cheek, the 3ng matted creature of le boy was He looked Jtelligence, iremacy of mpt of a e wheeled range chill lis puerile death had iss. Per- the boy's A Waif oj the Plains. 15 "Hush!" He had just turned to the objective point of the Indian's gaze. There was something! A dark line was moving along with the gathering darkness. For a moment he hardly dared to voice his thoughts even to himself. It was a following train overtaking them from the rear ! And from the rapidity of its movements a train with horses, hurrying forward to evening camp. He had never dreamt of help from that quarter. And this was what the Indian's keener eyes had been watching, and why he had so pre- cipitately fled. The strange train was now coming up at a round trot. It was evidently well appointed, with five or six large waggons and several outriders. In half-an-hour it would be here. Yet he restrained from waking Susy, who had fallen asleep again; his old superstition of securing her safety first being still uppermost. He took off his jacket to cover her shoulders, and rearranged her nest. Then he glanced again at the coming train. But for some unac- countable reason it had changed its direction, and instead of following the track that should have brought it to his side, it had turned off to the left ! In ten minutes it would pass abreast of him a mile and a half away ! If he woke Susy now he knew she would be helpless in her terror, and he could not carry her half that distance. He might rush to the train himself and return with help, but he would never leave her alone— in the darkness. Never ! If she woke she would die of fright perhaps, or wander blindly and amilessly away. No ! The train would pass, and with it that hope of rescue. Something was in his throat, but he gulped it down and was quiet again, albeit he shivered in the night wind. The train was nearly abreast of him now. He ran out of the tall grass, waving his straw hat above his head in the faint hope of attracting attention. But he did not go far, for he found, to his alarm, that when he turned back i6 A Waif of the Plains. his departing hope. Suddenly it apneareH 1 I u three of the outriders who were p ecedTrth. I ^"' '^^' had changed their shine %^ P''^'^'"^ ^he first waggon the sky He continued .o wa^ Ws Z' /""n St grow taller and narrower. He under tood , now .!,» .hree .a„sfcrn,ed blocks were ,he outriderrco™Lrtow;:d: This is what he had seen— ■.■ ■ This is what he saw now J ! ! -hough She had^^oved^sH^hti;; H^rr rt^ aJ\ ° wu'""' ^'^ apparently halted. What were thev doing ? Why wouldn't they come on ? ^ Suddenly a blinding flash of light seemed to burst from one of them Away over his head something whisded ik^ a rushmg bird, and sped off invisible. They had fi ed a ^un they were signalling to him, Clarence, hke'a grown up m^ He would ave given his life at that momenf to have hTd J gun. But he could only wave his hat frantically One of the figures here bore aw..y and impetuously A Waif of the Plains. distinguishable question of his I returned with n in this deuo- nechanically — up and down last farewell to 1 to him that e first waggon longer sharp, t had become ind narrower, points against ■ continued to it now — the ming towards or his foolish ;tronger ihan still sleeping, to the front t were they burst from -whistled like fired a gun ; vn-up man ! have had a mpctuously 17 darted forward again. He was coming nearer, powerful gigantic, formidable as he loomed through the darkness. All at once he threw up his arm with a wild gesture to the others ; and his voice, manly, frank, and assuring, came ringing before him. " Hold up ! Don't fire 1 It's no Injin— it's a child ! " In another moment he had reined up beside Clarence and leaned over him, bearded, handsome, all-encompassing and protecting. " Hallo 1 What's all this ? What are you doing here ? " " Lost from Mr. Silsbee's train," said Clarence, pointing to the now darkened west. " Lost ! How long ? " "About three hours. I thought they'd come back for us," said Clarence apologetically to this big kindly man. " And you kalkilated to wait here for 'em ? " '* Yes, yes— I did— till I saw you." *' Then why in thunder didn't you light out straight for us, instead of hanging round here and drawing us out ? " The boy hung his head. He knew his reasons were unchanged, but all at once they seemed very foolish and unmanly to speak out. " Only that we were on the keen jump for Injins," con- tinued the stranger, "we wouldn't have seen you at all, and might hev shot you "vhen we did. What possessed you to stay here ? " The boy was still silent. " Kla'uns," said a faint, sleepy voice from the mesquite, "take me." The rifle shot had awakened Susy. The stranger turned quickly towards the sound. Clarence started and recalled himself. "There," he said bitterly, "you've dore it now, you've wakened her 1 Thafs why I stayed. I couldn't carry her over there to you ! I couldn't let her walk, for she'd be frightened. I wouldn't wake her up, for she'd be frightened, and I mightn't find her again. There!" He had made c 18 A Waif of the Plains. i| ;■ !! The men glanced at each other. " Then » said fh. spokesman quietly, ''you didn't strike out fo us'on a coun^ of your sister ? " account « iIm^^ ^',"'' f/,'^^^^^'" said Clarence quickly. « She's old man, and take your chances with &r rather han run rechan:::';f^r« °' '^"'"« »er-thougHi:r;:r "Come here." The boy came doggedly forward. The man nushed z!^^t^ he tu,„e. hi. rtj;* th^r„s, z "Suthin'ofapup, eh?" "You bet," they responded. The voice was not unkindly, although the sneaker 1,=.^ thrown his lower jaw forward n. f^ ^ ^^ "Dun" whh , V. ^o'^ward as to pronounce the word pup ^Mth a humorous suggestion of a mastiff. Before Clarence could make up his mind if the epithet was h'sul >ng or not, the man put out his stirruped foot and wkh J gesture of invitation, said, "Jump up " ' ^ "But Susy " said Clarence, drawing back. 1.00k ; she's making up to Phil already " .nf '>?? ^°"''' u ^"^y ^^^ ^^^^'^^d °" 'of the mesquite and with her s.n-bonnet hanging down her back,^er cu^s A Waif of the Plains. kless now that len," said the us on account ckly. " She's We were in I helped her y round him, eir hands on "Then," said to stay here, ther than run h it was your eeble, grown- man pushed e's forehead is hand still i others, and speaker had :e the word iff. Before : was insult- and, with a 3 rnesquite, c, her curls 19 I tossed around her face still flushed with sleep, and Clarence's jacket over her shoulders, was gazing up with grave satis- faction in the laughing eyes of one of the men who was, with outstretched hands, bending over her. Could he be- lieve his senses? The terror-stricken, wilful, unmanage- able Susy, whom he would have translated unconsciously to safety without this terrible ordeal of being awakened to the loss of her home and parents, at any sacrifice to himself —this ingenuous infant was absolutely throwing herself, with every appearance of forgetfulness, into the arms of the first new-comer ! Yet his perception of this fact was accompanied by no sense of ingratitude. For her sake he felt relieved, and with a boyish smile of satisfaction and encouragement vaulted into the saddle before the stranger. CHAPTER IV. The dash forward to the train, securely held in the saddle by the arms of their deliverers, was a secret joy to the children that seemed only too quickly over. The resistless gallop of the fiery mustangs, the rush of the night wind, the gathering darkness in which the distant waggons, now halted and facing them, looked like domed huts in the horizon— all then seemed but a delightful and fitting climax to the events of the day. In the sublime forget- fulness of youth, all they had gone through had left no embarrassing record behind it ; they were willing to repeat their experiences, on the morrow, confident of some equally happy end. And when Clarence, timidly reaching his hand towards the horse-hair reins lightly held by his com- panion, had them playfully yielded up to him by that bold and confident rider, the boy felt himself indeed a man. But a greater surprise was in store for them. As they neared the waggons, now formed into a circle with a certain 20 A IVaif of the Plains. HI jh nents of Ihe strange party were larger and .nore libera tl.an etr own or, indeed anytlnng .l.e^ had ever kn w„ of t " kind Forty or filty horses were tethered within the circle and the camp fires were already blazing. BeLe one of them a large tent was erected, and through the patted fla,°s Wa"1.a'sZ,l't'' actually spread with a w'hlte clo was It a school.feast, or was th.s their ordinary household arrangements Clarence and Susy thought of S own d.nners usually laid on bare boards betreath he sky o^ Tm , f. K " ™ "''>' """''y l">"«d and were ifted from their horses, and passed one waggon fitted uo a a bedrootn and another as a kitchen, thefcould only nud.e each other with silent appreciation. But here a.' ^^1 t1 e twrchdr ' "'''k'" *•= ^"^'"^ °' "-= sensaCs of he two children was observable. Both were equally and agreeab y surprised. But Susy's wonder was meJefy the sense of novelty and inexperience, and a sli-hTdi be ,ef .n the actual necessity of what she saw; whk (>e ce whet.,er from some previous general exper ence or pecul L; teinperament had the conviction that what he saw toe w s the usual custom, and what he had known with the Si sbees was the novelty. The feeling was attended with a slight sense of wounded pride for Susy, as if her enthu!i sm had exposed her to ridicule. eninususm The man who had carried hlra, and seemed to be the bead of the party, had already preceded them to the tent and presently reappeared with a lady with whnm ,. l ^' exchanged a do^en hurried words. Tl ey se med tt r fer to htm and Susy; but Clarence was ,00 much " eo^ d rumpled and ^^^ ^rlTn'^^rrrwl":: w "™s sa.?T:d' T "f *'°'" °" "■ '° "-" '" wnat was said. And when she ran eagerly forward, and lat the appoint- 3re liberal than ■ known of the thin the circle, Before one of le parted flaps a white cloth, ary household of their own h the sky, or weather, and d were lifted itted up as a d only nudge -■re again the sensations of equally and > merely the ght disbelief ile Clarence, : or peculiar le saw here »n with the nded with a • enthusiasm i to be the to the tent, om he had ied to refer ireoccupied lotiies were dy and not I it was as o listen to -ward, and A Waif of the Plains. 21 with a fascinating smile lifted the astonished Susy in her arms, Clarence, in his delight for his young charge, quite forgot that she had not noticed him. The bearded man who seemed to be the lady's husband, evidently pointed ou[ the omission, with some additions that Clarence could not catch, for after saying, with a pretty pout, "Well why shouldn't he?" she came forward with the same dazzlin' smile, and laid her small and clean white hand upon his shoulder. "And so you took good care of the dear little thimr? She s such an angel, isn't she? and you must love her very much." ' Clarence coloured with delight. It was true it had never occurred to him to look at Susy in the light of a celestial visitant, and I fear he was just then more struck with the fair comphmenter than the compliment to his companion but he was pleased for her sake. He was not yet old enough to be conscious of the sex's belief in its irresistible domination over mankind at all ages— that "Johnny" in his check apron would be always a hopeless conquest of Jeannette in her pinafore, and that he ought to have been in love with Susy. Howbeit, the lady suddenly whisked her away to the re- cesses of her own waggon, to reappear later, washed, curled, and beribboned like a new doll, and Clarence was left alone with the hu.=band and another of the party. "Well, my boy, you haven't told me your name yet." Clarence, sir." "So Susy calls you— but what else?" "Clarence Brant." "Any relation to Colonel Brant?" asked the second man carelessly. faint ™'' «^y/^^her," said the boy, brightening unde; this taint prospect of recognition in his loneliness 'Ilie two n n glanced at each other. The leader looked at the boy curiously and said 22 A Waif of the Plains. " Are yen the son of Colonel Brant of Louisville ? " " Yes, sir," said the boy, with a dim stirring of uneasiness in his heart. " But he's dead now," he added finally. "Ah, when did he die?" said the man quickly. "Oh, a long time ago. I don't remember him much. I was very little," said the boy, half apologetically. "Ah, you don't remember him?" '• No," said Clarence shortly. He was beginning to all back upon that certain dogged repetition which in seusi-ive children arises from their hopeless inability to express their deeper feelings. He also had an instinctive consciousness that this want of a knowledge of his father was part of that vague wrong that had been done him. It did not help his uneasiness that he could see that one of the two men who turned away with a half laugh misunderstood or did not believe him. "How did you come with the Silsbees?" asked the first man. Clarence repeated mechanically, with a child's distaste of practical details, how he had lived with an aunt of St. Jo., how his stepmother had procured his passage with the Silsbees to California, where he was to meet his cousin. All this with a lack of interest and abstraction that he was miserably conscious told against him, but he was yet help- less to resist. The first man remained thoughtful, and then glanced at Clarence's sunburnt hands. Presently his large good- humoured smile returned. "Well, I suppose you are hungry?" " Yes," said Clarence shyly. " But " "But what?" "I should like to wash myself a little," he returned hesitatingly, thinking of the clean tent, the clean lady and Susy's ribbons. " Certainly," said his friend with a pleased look. " Come with me." Instead of leading Clarence to the battered tin A Waif of the Plai?is. 23 Liisville?" g of unrasiness :d finally, ickly. him much. I illy. ginning to (HU ch in seiisiuve 3 express their consciousness IS part of that d not help liis two men who Dd or did not *" asked the hild's distaste 1 an aunt of ! passage with iet his cousin. 1 that he was was yet help- then glanced s large good- he returned clean lady, ok. "Come battered tin basin and bar of yellow soap which had formed the toilet service of the Silsbee party, he brought the boy into one of the waggons, where there was a wash-stand, a china basin, and a cake of scented soap. Standing beside Clarence, he watched him perform his ablutions with an approving air which rather embarrassed his protege. Presently he said, almost abruptly — " Do you remember your father's house at Louisville ? " " Yes, sir ; but it was a long time ago." Clarence remembered it as being very different from his home at St. Joseph's, but from some iunate feeling of difiSdence he would have shrunk from describing it in that way. He, however, said he thought it was a large house. Yet the modest answer only made his new friend look at him the more keenly. •' Your father was Colonel Hamilton Brant of Louisville, wasn't he?" he said half confidentially. " Yes," said Clarence hopelessly. "Well," said his friend cheerfully, as if dismissing an abstruse problem from his mind, " let's go to supper." When they reached the tent again, Clarence noticed that the supper was laid only for his host and wife and the second nian— who was familiarly called " Harry," but who spoke of the former always as " Mr. and Mrs. Peyton" — while the remainder of the party, a dozen men, were at the second camp-fire, and evidently enjoying themselves in a picturesque fashion. Had the boy been allowed to choose he would have joined them, partly because it seemed more "manly," and partly that he dreaded a renewal of the questioning. But here Susy, sitting bolt upright on an extemporised high stool, happily diverted his attention by pointing to the empty chair beside her. " Kla'uns," she said suddenly, with her usual clear and appalling frankness, " they is chickens and hamanaigs and hot biksquits, and lasses, and Mister Peyton says I kin have 'em all." 24 A Waif of the Plains. Ill Clarence, who had begun suddenly to feci tint hi. was respons,ble for Susy's deportmentf and wa b iluy consaous that she was holding her plated fork n r chubby fist by ,ts middle, and, from his previous know idS, 1 r ',"" '''''' '' -ny n^oment to'plunge i T mo a dish before her, said softly— "Ilushl" " Yes, you shall, dear," says Mrs. Peyton, with tenderly- beanung assurance to Susy, and a halLpoachful glance at the boy. '< Eat what you like, darling." ^ Its a fork," whispered the still uneasy Clarence as " t::;:; n:rK;'"'""' ." ^^'^ '-' ^°^' or^mnk Th -t." But Ms p: ^ ' u ' °"y " ^P''^ ^P°°"'" «^i^^ Susy, note of the.!' '/"-^^ ''^' -^'"•-tion, took smJl forlettl ho. "'•'="'^'"'\'^^' P'y'"g ^he child with food, Hf b k the fn ."""' '"' ^^^^^ ^'°PP^"g ^^ ^'-^ to Mr Pej ton looked on gravely and contentedly. Suddenly the eyes of husband and wife met. ouuaeniy Mr?Peln''n A''"/'"'^ '' °^^ ^^ ^^^'^' J^^n," said xvirs. reyfon, m a famt voice. eylstl7nZu"^'l^ ""'^"^ ^P^^^^"^' ^"^ ^--d his To fnn/n K ^"'''"''"S ^^^^"^^^- The man "Harry" also looked abstractedly at his nlat^ nc if h^ ^ pnr^ ri^.ov, , , P ^^ " "^ was saying g ace Clarence wondered who "she" was, and why two S and' tr'/"" ''"• ^^^^°"'« ^-hes uno Su /s n^ilk and whether Susy might not violently object to it on y ch^; ::d%"'' ^n^ '''' ^'^ Peytons'had^ost the^ only ch Id, and Susy comfortably drained this mingled cud of a mother's grief and tenderness without suspicion ^ I suppose we'll come up with their train earlv to morrow, ^f some of them don't find us to! iglu " 'said A Waif of the Plains. 25 > feci that he d was balefully !ti fork in her :jrevious know- plunge it into , with tenderly, oachful glance y Clarence, as 'milk with it. )n," said Susy, n, took small Id with food, ig at times to y's shoulders, ly. Suddenly !, John," said id turned his nan "Harry" 2 was saj'ing and why two s into Susy's object to it ad lost their mingled cup licion. in early to- night," said 1 glance at for a little Mr. Peyton travel with them, even for company's sake ; and," he added in a lower and graver voico, " it's rather odd the search party hasn't come upon us yet, though I'm keeping Pete and Hank patrolling the trail to meet them." "It's heartless — so it is" said Mrs. Peyton, with sudden indignation. " It would be all very well if it was only this boy — who can take care of himself — but to be so careless of a mere baby like this, it's shameful ! " For the first time Clarence tasted the cruelty of dis- crimination. All the more keenly that he was beginning to worship — after his boyish fashion — this sweet-faced, clean, and tender-hearted woman. Perhaps Mr. Peyton noticed it, for he came quietly to his aid. " Maybe they know better than we in what careful hands they had left her," he said, with a cheerful nod towards Clarence. " And, again, they may have been fooled as we were by Injin signs and left the straight road." This suggestion instantly recalled to Clarence his vision in the mesquite. Should he dare tell them ? Would they believe him, or would they laugh at him before her? He hesitated, and at last resolved to tell it privately to the husband. When the meal was ended, and he was made happy by Mrs. Peyton's laughing acceptance of his offer to help her clear the table and wash the dishes, they all gathered comfortably in front of the tent before the large camp-fire. At the other fire the rest of the party were playing cards and laughing, but Clarence no longer cared to join them. He was tjuite tranquil in the maternal propinquity of his hostess, albeit a little uneasy as to his reticence about the Indian. " Kla'uns," said Susy, relieving a momentary pause, in her highest voice, " knows how to speak. Speak, Kla'uns ! " It appearing from Clarence's blushing explanation that this gift was not the ordinary faculty of speech, but a capacity to recite verse, he was politely pressed by the company for a performance. 26 ill- i li! (h ■4 J; ! 11 n A Waif of the Plums. "Speak 'em, Kla'urx! fh^ u burnin' deck and sai^ 7,fe k^' f'' ^^°°^ ""^° ^he said Susy, comfortably 'jvin/rj' ' f^"'^ ^^^ ^e?'" and contemplating her ba e knt • °\ ^"^ ^^^^""'^ ^^P a boy," she addfd confid n rto 'M''^'"• " ^^'^ '^^"^ f^^ther wouldn't never never f ^''' ^'>'^°"' "^^ose ship,thoughhesaid"strf tl 7/' '^" °" ^ ^-"-' With this clear lucid oi' f^^'^^"'" ^° "^"^h." nation of Mrs Hema s's "rfK^'''^ ^^'^^^^^'^^ ^^P'- Un^ortunately his irarrend'^erfn'Tf"^^ ^^^^T '^'- performance was more an effort f ' P°P"^^^ «<=hool else, and was illustrated bvT '"""'^'^ ^^^" ^"y^hing a Western schoolmaster had tan' Hr^'" ^"'"^^^ ^^ich the flames that ''roared around f' »?• ^^ ^^^^"bed bis hand a perfect circle of'hich'h ' "f ^^'"^ ^"^ adjured his father, the late A^ , ^ ""^^ ^^^ ^^^^ = be ing bis hands befo e h s cl n 'sT ''''^■'"^^' '^ ^^^^P" ;n an attitude which he was' mf . k,"'"^ '° ""' "^^"^^^^d like anything to himself he had ^^^. f°"'''°"^ ^^' ""- he described that f^her »Ln? '7 f ' °^ ^^^" before; % on high," with one stgle" ot'^' ^elow," and ''the that the verses had kindled nht : ^^' ^°"^^^bing perhaps than an illust^ fon o th?"^ '"^^^'-"' -thef t'n^es brightened his greTeves h. '''''' ^bemselves, at youthful voice, and I fear ocro' • T' '"''""^^"^ '" bis bps- At time , when no^ro ^^ ^ ^coherent on his plain and all U3on it seemed r?r °/ ''r^^^^'^^ -^' '^e n^gbt, the blazing cample aT hT f^^'' "'^^ '"^° '^e a fateful glory, and a vague devlof '" "^'^ ''"^ '" knew not what-so possessed M^ . ° something-he •t. and probably some o hif o ''^ <^ommunicated travagant voice, to htheare s T/^f^'"^ ^^^^'^ht in ex- a glowing face, he was su'Ssed ^ ^^"^ ""^ ''''''' ^^'^ players had deserted their cam^. "f '^"^ *^^ ^^^d- the tent "' camp-fires and gathered round stood unto the lere was he?'" ■s. Peyton's lap 'ir. " It's 'bout eyton, "whose 1 on a burnin' so much." sfactory expla- larence began, popular school than anything gestures which He described idicating with the axis : he nca, by clasp- be manacled ious was un- seen before; <' and " the -t something ation, rather emselves, at ulous in his irent on his -ted art, the 'ay into the fap him in ething—he imunicated 'jght in ex- -ased, with the card- red round A Waif of the Plains. 27 CHAPTER V. "You didn't say 'stay, father, stay,' enough, Kla'uns," said Susy critically. Then suddenly starting upright in Mrs. Peyton's lap, she continued rapidly : " I kin dance. And sing. I kin dance High Jambooree." " What's High Jambooree, dear ? " asked Mrs. Peyton. " You'll see. Lemnie down." And Susy slipped to the ground. The dance of High Jambooree, evidently of remote mystical African origin, appeared to consist of three small skips to the right and then to the left, accompanied by the holding up of very short skirts, incessant " teetering " on the toes of small feet, the exhibition of much bare knee and stocking, and a gurgling accompaniment of childish laughter. Vehemently applauded, it left the little performer breathless, but invincible and ready for fresh conquest. "I kin sing too," she gasped hurriedly, as if unwilling that the applause should lapse. " I kin sing. Oh dear ! Klar'uns" (piteously), ^^what is it I sing?" " ' Ben Bolt,' " suggested Clarence. "Oh, yes. 'Oh, don't you remember sweet Alers Ben Bolt?'" began Susy, in the same breath and the wrong key. " ' Sweet Alers, with hair so brown, who wept with delight when you giv'd her a smile, and ' " with knitted brows and appealing recitative, "what's er rest of it, Kla'uns?" "'Who trembled with fear at your frown?'" prompted Clarence. " ' Who trembled with fear at my frown ? ' " shrilled Susy " I forget er rest. Wait ! I kin sing " " ' Praise God,' " suggested Clarence. "Yes." Here Susy, a regular attendant in camp and prayer-meetings, was on firmer ground. 28 f, I Mi A ^V^if of the Plain,, Promptly iifii|,„ I , . , acquired delibera,fo„, she £',';'? 1'"' "■'"' ^ cer,„„ »» blessings flo„.." l.the enrf /''"f °°''' ''""" «'1'°« "Wspering and knghtngcea ed K, '"°"' ""^ ">= "ght, that of the chamnron nnt. , "^ ™''^'= '» ">= the swell of the third Se He ! ? T' T'"''™'^ ™^^ ™ dozen ringing voices, and by the iTe Th ' f """"^ ^^ ^ reached it was given with a f„ I !.., '"" ""= ™ chant ofteamsters and drivers rl„'^7\'" "'"<='' "'^ ''"H Mrs. Peyton and SnsyVcSh tref I' "". *= =°P""° »' was repeated, with forgetM fs T^\ ,*'«™ '"'' ^S"'" " and falling with .he n,^h.l„da„d°; "''''' ''"=''■ "™S the camp-fires, and fadh,. Zh, l.v k "P ""<* S'^''™ °f able mystery of the darke'Xiain '" *' '"'"'^''™^- •he;:rt;txtgV"'trurM"%'''" '°"°-''« '-• Susy after offering IhechM toVf'' ^'^'™ 'firing with "good-nigh. .. Itisf, an unu 1 ° :edTnl 'V ,''"^™«°'^ ~ed them hot, and C J^etS htstflTrr _^^;;j.hinVsuidC,arencetimid,y,..i,awanI„J,„,„. wh^e?'^hr"u ^;"' ''''™ '°«t'V^."'' '° '"'Pa« with felt, and which to his fronTie fn-f '"''^"' ''^''^ ^e had fulness. Peyton .„ „ d IbmnM "'""'='''<' "' '™th tnrned with Harry and another mln""^' ""' "'^^^"^ - .. ]::: 2'"" " *'^ ' " '^'•' '•=^'»». "alf encouragingly. A Waif of the Plains. with a certain God, from whom second line the P voice to the uddenly rose on 'y followed by a 2 last line was which the dull the soprano of ain and again it ■ed faces, rising • and gleam of the immeasur- allowed at last I retiring with a perfunctory ich somewhat iself near Mr. an Injin to- An Injin — of doubting ence's name oken. But ! statement. ion, he was impart with ich he had d its truth- resently re- ouragingly. 29 "As sure as you are that your father is Colonel Brant and is dead ? " said Harry, with a light laugh. Tears sprang into the boy's lowering eyes. «'I don't lie," he said doggedly. " I believe you, Clarence," said Peyton quietly. " But why didn't you say it before ? " " I didn't like to say it before Susy and— her I " stammered the boy. "Her?" "Yes— sir— Mrs. Peyton " said Clarence blushingly. " Oh," said Harry sarcastically, " how blessed polite we are ! " "That'll do. Let up on him, will you," said Peyton roughly, to his subordinate; "the boy knows what he's about. But," he continued, addressing Clarence, "how was it the Injin didn't see you?" " I was very still on account of not waking Susy," said Clarence, " and " He hesitnted. " And what ? " " He seemed more keen watching what you were doing," said the boy boldly. "That's so," broke in the second man, who happened to be experienced ; " and as he was to wind'ard o' the boy he was off his scent and bearings. He was one of their rear scouts ; the rest o' them's ahead crossing our track to cut us off. Ye didn't see anything else . " " I saw a coyote first," said Clarence, greatly encouraged. " Hold on I " said the expert, as Harry turned away with a sneer. " That's a sign, too. Wolf don't go where wolf hez been, and coyote don't foUer Injins— there's no pickins! How long afore did you see the coyote ? " " Just after we left the waggon," said Clarence. " That's it," said the man thoughtfully. " He was driven on ahead, or hanging on their flanks. These Injins are betwixt us and that ar train, or following it." Peyton made a hurried gesture of warning, as if reminding 30 A IVaif of the Plains. .he three „,en took a Tower .on .. ^r^r""™ "' d,s;,„«,. Heard .„e conCudin, o "^i^^^'r^ f "-"« ^ e.poi7 °sjro?.rir^™?/r'rv°"'^ ^'^ ™'^ to-nigh,. And you do™ Ch.^- - "' ''"P "«''" "■e might hev gone on and w,ll.. • ? ' children, trap of those devil^ T^ P''°'P '"'° =""•= ^"'^^d luck, and wTh a gtd ,™ch Ind"":"' "f "i ^'"' ■" "^8" to be fixed where we b^Sdayitb"^. ""'"" "''= ^" "«"' to.n,orrow, „" Ly! ^ S Tj^teTt*: rL°: '"v ''"' rst^";h7„rr;';- ^^ i --' ■» ^ "^" * ' -S He led he . V t'o , / ""■"' '""'* y"" »"*." c itu me way to a second wajio-on— Hmwr. „,. k ■■, Of clean" whi,:Xt'"p"',rLe; T^a' '^"'^ ^re:ii::s::Lt'i=£r- oTrbat:ar:^d£r-„-r^^ merchant or a lawyer and Tf ? V ''^'' ''"^^ ^ tK^ ^,u . • "^^> ^"d " this tram sod things tn ^t^H**^-.. ts. gesture which the e conversation of "gh Clarence as the expert, 'd you'd be only 'akin' camp agin ain't us they're the straight road er lost children, tito some cursed ' just in nigger 1 we're all right I Clarence with :k of your train now. I've put e in the saddle le you much." iwn up beside retired— which a writing-table •ntaining some ige, had been wonted luxury • soft matting ^. which, Mr. gs to prevent ere of lightly- canvas frame ^vith a glazed r. Clarence med at home office like a Id things to "■s, to towns ling to sell, A Waif of the Plains. 31 and the other waggons were filled with only the goods required by the party. He would have liked to ask Mr. Peyton who he was, and have questioned him as freely I as he himself had been questioned. But as the average I adult man never takes into consideration the injustice of I denying to the natural and even necessary curiosity of ;. childhood that questioning which he himself is so apt to I assume without right, and almost always without delicacy, [ Clarence had no recourse Yet the boy, like all children, was conscious that if he had been afterwards questioned about this inexplicable experience, he would have been blamed for his ignorance concerning it. Left to himself presently, and ensconced between the sheets, he lay for some moments staring about him. The unwonted comfort of his couch, so different from the stuffy blanket in the hard waggon bed which he had shared with one of the teamsters, and the novelty, order, and cleanliness of his surroundings, while they were grateful to his instincts, began in some vague way to depress him. To his loyal nature it seemed a tacit infidelity to his former rough companions to be lying here ; he had a dim idea that he had lost that independence which equal discomfort and equal pleasure among them had given him. There seemed a sense of servitude in accepting this luxury which was not his. This set him endeavouring to remember something of his father's house, of the large rooms, draughty staircases, and far-off ceilings, and the cold formality of a life that seemed made up of strange faces; some stranger— his parents j some kinder— the servants ; particularly the black nurse 'ho had him in charge. Why did Mr. Peyton ask him a)out it? Why, if it were so important to strangers, had not his mother told him more of it ? And why was she not like this good woman with the gentle voice who was so kind to — to Susy ? And what did they mean by making him so miserable? Something rose in his throat, but with an effort he choked it back, and, creeping from the lounge, went softly to the 32 A Waif of the Plains. { Wi I!.' (I Window opened it to see if it «• would work," and looked out. Ihe shrouded camp-fires, the stars that glittered but gave no hght, the dim moving bulk of a patrol beyond the circle, all seemed to intensify the darkness, and chanc^ed the current of his thoughts. He remembered what Mr Feyton had said of him when they first met. "Suthin of nol7V,'"'*J^'^" ^^''^' '^''' '"^^"^ ^""^^'hing that was not bad ! He crept back to the couch again. Lymg there, still awake, he reflected that he wouldn't be a scout when he grew up, but would be something like Mr leyton, and have a train like this, and invite the Silsbees and Susy to accompany him. For th^s purpose he and busy, early to-morrow morning, would get permission to come m here and play at that game. This would familiarise h.m with the details, so that he would be able at any time to take charge of it. He was already an authority on the subject of Indians ! He had once been fired at-as an Indian He would always carry a rifle like that h^nginc from the hooks at the end of the waggon before him, and would eventually slay many Indians and keep an account of them ma big book like that on the desk. Susy would help him, havmg grown up a lady, and they would both to- gether issue provisions and rations from the door of the waggon to the gathered crowds. He would be known as the |<^Viute Chief," his Indian name being "Sulhin of a pup. He would have a circus van attached to the train m which he would occasionally perform. He would also have artillery for protection. There would be a terrific engagement, and he would rush into the waggon, heated and blackened with gunpowder, and Susy would put down an account of it in a book, and Mrs. Peyton-for she would be there m some vague capacity-would say, "Really, now I don t see but what we were very lucky in having such a boy as Clarence with us. I begin to understand him better." M , ^ '/"'P^'P^'^'^^^'g"^ poetical retaliation, would also drop m at that moment, would mutter and say d ns, work," and looked J that glittered but patrol beyond the less, and changed mbered what Mr. met. "Suthin of :)mething that was ^lin. at he wouldn't be )inething like Mr. invite the Silsbees purpose he and et permission to 1 would familiarise able at any time authority on the fired at— as an ike that hanging before him, and keep an account ?sk. Susy would y would both to- the door of the lid be known as ng "Sulhin of a led to the train, He would also Id be a terrific waggon, heated would put down 1 — for she would h " Really, now, aving such a boy nd him better." tical retaliation, mutter and say, A Waif of the Plains. 33 " He is certainly the son of Colonel lirant ; dear me ! " and apologise. And his motlier would come in also, in her coldest and most indifferent manner, in a white bail dress, and start and say, " Good gracious, how that boy has grown 1 I am sorry I did not see more of him when he was young." Yet even in the midst of this came a confusing numbness, and then the side of the waggon seemed to melt away, and he drifted out again alone into the empty desolate plain from which even the sleeping Susy had vanished, and he was left deserted and forgotten. Then all was quiet in the waggon, and only the night wind moving round it. But lo I the lashes of the sleeping White Chief— the dauntless leader, the ruthless destroyer of Indians— were wet with glittering tears 1 Yet it seemed only a moment afterwards that he awoke with a faint consciousness of some arrested motion. To his utter consternation, the sun, three hours high, was shining in the waggon, already hot and stifling in its beams. There was the familiar smell and taste of the dirty road in the air about him. There was a faint creeking of boards and springs, a slight oscillation, and beyond the audible rattle of harness as if the train had been under way, the waggon moving, and then there had been a sudden halt. They had probably come up with the Silsbee train ; in a few moments the change would be effected and all of his strange experience would be Over. He must get up now. Yet, with the morning laziness of the healthy young animal, he curled up a moment longer in his luxurious couch. How quiet it was I There were far-off voices, but they seemed suppressed and hurried. Through the window he saw one of the teamsters run rapidly past him with a strange, breathless, preoccupied face, halt a moment at one of the following waggons, and then run back again to the front. Then two of the voices came nearer, with the dull beating of hoofs in the dust. " Rout out the boy and ask him," said a half-suppressed, 34 A Waif of the Plains. impatient voice, which Clarence at once recognised as the man Harry's. ^ " Hold on till Peyton comes up," said the second voice m a low tone ; "leave it to him." ' ^- Better find out what they were like, at once," grumbled "Wait-stand back," said Peyton's voice, joining the others ; " /'// ask him." ^ Clarence looked wonderingly at the door. It opened on Mr. Peyton, dusty and dismounted, with a strange abstracted look in his face. ^ ' "How many waggons are in your train, Clarence?" "Three, sir." " Any marks on them ? " o IT? fC''''^ Clarence eagerly; ««Off to California,' and «Root, Hog, or Die.'" Mr. Peyton's eye seemed to leap up and hold Clarence's wi h a sudden, strange significance, and then looked down How many were you in all ? " he continued. "Five, and there was Mrs. Silsbee." " No other woman ? " "No." "Get up and dress yourself," he said gravely, "and wait here nil I come back. Keep cool and have your wits about you. He dropped his voice slightly. "Perhaps some- thmgs happened that you'll have to show yourself a little man agam for, Clarence I " The door closed, and the boy heard the same muffled hoofs and voices die away towards the front. He began to dress himself mechanically, almost vacantly, yet conscious men heh^H fi'\' ?"^^^^""^"^ °^" shrilling excitement. When he had finished he waited almost breathlessly, feeling the same beating of his heart that he had felt when he was following the vanished train the day before. At last he could stand the suspense no longer, and opened the door. Everything was still in the motionless caravan, except-ft recognised as the ;he second voice, once," grumbled lice, joining the oor. It opened with a strange, Clarence ? " Of to California,' hold Clarence's :n looked down, ued. vely, "and wait your wits about Perhaps some- courself a little I same muffled He began to yet conscious ig excitement, hiessly, feeling It when he was . At last he ined the door, an, except — it A Waif of the Plains, 35 struck him oddly even then — the unconcerned prattling voice of Susy from one of the nearer waggons. Perhaps a sudden feeling that this was something that concerned her, perhaps an irresistible impulse overcame him, but the next moment he had leaped to the ground, faced about, and was running feverishly to the front. The first thing that met his eyes was the helpless anJ desolate bulk of one of the Silsbee waggons a hundred rods away, bereft of oxen and pole, standing alone and motion- less against the dazzling sky ! Near it was the broken frame of another waggon, its fore-wheels and axles gone, pitched forward on its knees like an ox under the butcher's sledge. Not far away there were the burnt and blackened ruins of a third, around which tlie whole party on foot and horseback seemed to be gathered. As the boy ran violently on, the group opened to make way for two men carrying some helpless but awful object between them. A terrible instinct made Clarence swerve from it in his headlong course, but he was at the same moment discovered by the others, and a cry arose of " Go back ! " " Stop 1 " « Keep him back." Heeding it no more than the wind that whistled by him, Clarence made directly for the foremost waggon — the one in which he and Susy had played. A powerful hand caught his shoulder ; it was Mr. Peyton's. " Mrs. Silsbee's waggon," said the boy, with white lips, pointing to it. «' Where is she ? " "She's missing," said Peyton, "and one other— the rest are dead." " She must be there," said the boy, struggling, and point- ing to the waggon, " let me go." " Clarence," said Peyton sternly, accenting his grasp upon the boy's arm, «« be a man 1 Look around you. Try and tell us who these are." There seemed to be one or two heaps of old clothes lying on the ground, and further on, where the men at a command from Peyton had laid down their burden, another. In those i i| 36 A IVaif of the Plains. I ■, ' ■ I ,■1 ! .1 \ ,.t : i ' ■ ■^ ,i was ignoble and ^o.tr;.; Ce^e/ Xtr'' Th^ "'" nothing terrible in thi^ i ^L k ^"^'"^ ^^^ fear of then, that a moment befor. hi ' °'"P<>«rmg him as suddenly. Hr;:, ed W herTrh'™ '^'^ recognising them by certain marksTn si.ns and „V^ ""' ing name after mm« -ru * ' ^"" mention- he was con cTousTh;^ h ^'°"^" ='^^^ ^' ^^"^ ^""^^^'x; les. r/c ^^ '''^'^^'y understood himself stil less the same quiet Durnn<;p fV.of « , , . ' ^"" the furthest waggon '"'^' ^'"^ ^"^'^ '^^^^ds "There's nothing: there" qfliVi P.»„*^» « . tha?h haTey'r :S tTh" ' K '; ''°-^'"^' ^""^ ='°-'y tumbled witrSor „; 1 fscarj-d "°" •''^^''='' ^"^ e.e3j:|t^s:ngrstr ' -^'^ -- wagJot"^ *"'• '"^"^^^ <='--" '■^ "-0. -d leapt into the It was the yellowish, waxen face of Mr, <;il=i, ' .,. had been uncovered B„i- ,„ ,C1 ' *''^''^' 'hat changed; the od fami a 1 „!, ? °' '"^ ""^ " "ad querulousnesshadgivenwav oa,„°LT'' ""' "'"' and statue-like repoL. HeVd often velneTlnT aggresstvelife; he was touched with remorse a "ecdd" pa».o„.ess apathy now, and pressed timi*; fo4 d' t •f A Waif of the Plains. 37 11 the majesty of 1 out, only what eft. There was slowly towards e overpowering ■rcome him left e to the Liner, i, and mention- him curiously ; 'd himself, still m turn towards t'eVe searched 1 his way, and ', and slovenly »w heaped and ©visions, pots, lion of a dns^. e boy's quick leapt into the instant later digging and ti uttered a 3us eyes up- ]. Silsbee that boy it had care, and iiiote peacf her in her t her cold, y forward. Even as he did so, the man, with a quick but warning gesture, hurriedly threw his handkerchief over the matted locks, as if to shut out something awful from his view. Clarence felt himself drawn back ; but not before the white lips of a bystander had whispered a single word — '•Scalped, too! by God 1" CHAPTER VI. Then followed days and weeks that seemed to Clarence as a dream. At iii3t an interval of hushed and awed restraint, when he and Susy were kept apart— a strange and artificial interest taker, little note of by him, but afterwards remem- bered when others had forgotten it; the burial of Mrs. Silsbee beneath a cairn of stones, with some ceremonies that, simple though they were, seemed to usurp the sacred rights of grief from him and Susy, and leave them cold and frightened; days of frequent and incoherent childish outbursts from Susy — growing fainter and rarer as time went on, until they ceased, he knew not when ; the haunt- ing by night of that morning vision of the three or four heaps of ragged clothes upon the ground, and a half regret that he had not examined them more closely; a recollec- tion of the awful loneliness and desolation of the broken and abandoned waggon left behind on its knees as if pray- ing mutely when the train went on and left it ; the trund- ling behind of the fateful waggon in which Mrs. Silsbee's body had been found — superstitiously shunned by every one — and when at last turned over to the authorities at an outpost garrison, seeming to drop the last link from the dragging chain of the past. The revelation to the children of a new experience in that brief glimpse of the frontier garrison ; the handsome officer in uniform and belted sword —an heroic, vengeful figure to be admired and imitated iii ^ ilij 38 A Waif of the Plains, ^Zl^^VJ^^T^'^^'' importance and respect given to fn7and?'HT''''' "survivors;" the sympathetic q'^Itio 2rT^^^^I exaggerations of their experiences-qui^klv waras, seemed to have passed in a dream. tr^n^f/r !r"^' '""^ ''^'°"^^y ^° 'hem seemed the real trans tions they noted from the moving train HnJ 1 mornmg they missed the changeless, m'otlre'ssjowda k hne along the horizon, and before noon found hemselv s among rocks and trees and a swiftly-rushing river How there suddenly appeared beside them a few da3s later I cTnv n'c'e'd' ^^^^t^"^' ^''^^ °^ rnountains^hft ey we, convmced was that same dark line that they had seeHo th^ L. f.°" 'i' '"'^ ^'"^'^^^ ^' 'hem. and said that for the last three days they had been crossing that dark in/ 1 l^whicf rn^'/V'^ ''^^' grUloudtd'r^e How I ..^' , K ,•' ^'^ "'^"^^ hidden from their view How Susy firmly believed that these changes took pla^rn her sleep when she always "kinder felt they were c a.'in" UF^ and how Chrence, in the happy depreciation of ereme aT ;ir?Tot .h ^°"^'f- 'hat they " wer.^'t a bit high ! !L! *^^ ^^^^^'^' hecame cold, though it was stv and"r'' '''"' ^' "'^'^ "^^ ^^-P-fi^^ was a Le More real were the persons who composed the oinv whon, they seemed to have always known -and who^^L x-eyton, who, they now knew, owned the tnin on.i -.u was so rich that he "needn't go to Ca.tr rj he didn't aed V.' ."! '^"'■"^ '° ''"^ ^ Sreat deal of it 1 he liked ,t, and who was also a lawyer and "policeman" -whtch was Susy's rendering o< " politician Cndtl >' wi'h,and retaint^gti^: ^n;:,-? S^ml d " T^ courage and skill. Bound «L 5 ? ' n that, when '/(? of reckless nd while the interest and m Hooker" perceptions. an Indian ice, dashing the waggon itely at the run away t dauntless went, the irrup near i it seemed ircnce sat yet a few of the other teamsters laughed. Then the voice of Mr. Peyton, from the window of his car, said quietly — " There, that will do, Jim. Quit it ! " The furious horse and rider instantly disappeared. A few moments after, the bewildered Clarence saw the redoubtable horseman trotting along quietly in the dust of the rear on the same fiery steed, who in that prosaic light bore an astounding resemblance to an ordinary team horse. Later in the day he sought an explanation from the rider. "You see," answered Jim gloomily, "thar ain't a galoot in this yer crowd ez knows jist whafs in that boss I And them ez suspecks daren't say ! It wouldn't do for to hev it let out that the Judge hez a Morgan- Mexican plug that's killed two men afore he got him, and is bound to kill another afore he gets through 1 Why, ony the week afore we kem up to you that thar hoss bolted with me at camping! Bucked and throwd me, but I kept my holt o' the stirrups with my foot — so! Dragged me a matter of two miles, head down, and me keepin' away rocks with my hand —so ! " "Why didn't you loose your foot and let go?" asked Clarence breathlessly. " You might," said Jim, with deep scorn j "that ain't my style. I just laid low till we kem to a steep-pitched hill, and goin' down, when the hoss was, so i^ speak, kinder below me, I just turned a hand spring so, aud that landed me onter his back again." This action, though vividly illustrated by Jim's throwing his hands down like feet beneath him and indicating the parabola of a spring in the air, proving altogether too much for Clarence's mind to grasp, he timidly turned to a less difficult detail. "What made the horse bolt first, Mr. Hooker?" "Smelt InjinsI" said Jim, carelessly expectorating tobacco-juice in a curving jet from the side of his mouth i • ii \''\, if M ■nrvi 42 A Waif of the Plains. —a singularly fascinating accomplishment, peculiarly his own. "'n likely ^'^^rlnjins." "But," argued Clarence hesitatingly, ««you said it was a week before— and "- — "Er Mexican plug can smell Injins fifty, yes, a hundred miles away," said Jim, with scornful deliberation ; « 'n if Judge Peyton had took my advice, and hadn't been so mighty feared about the character of his boss gettin' out. he'd hev ^played roots on them Injins afore they tetched ye. But," he added, with gloomy dejection, "thar ain't no sand in this yer crowd, thar ain't no vim; thar ain't nothin'; and thar kant be ez long ez thar's women and babies, and women and baby fixins mixed up with it. I'd hev cut the whole blamed gang ef et weren't for one or two things," he added darkly. Clarence, impressed by Jim's mysterious manner, for the moment forgot his contemptuous allusion to Mr. Peyton and the evident implication of Susy and himself, and asked hurriedly, '« What things ? " Jim, as if brgetful of the boy's presence in his fitful mood, abstiactedly half drew a glittering bowie-knife from his boot-leg, and then slowly put it back again. "Thar's one or two old scores," he continued, in a low voice, although no one was in hearing distance of them; "one or two private accounts," he went on tragically, averting his eyes as if watched by some one, "that hev to be wiped out with blood afore / leave. Thar's one or two men too many alive and breathin' in this yer crowd. Mebbee it's Gus Gildersleeve ; mebbee it's Harry Benham; mebbee," he added, with dark, yet noble disinterestedness, "it's me» " Oh, no," said Clarence, with polite deprecation. Far from placating the gloomy Jim, this seemed only to awaken his suspicions. "Mebbee," he said, dancing sud- denly away from Clarence, "mebbee you think I'm lyin'. Mebbee you think because you're Colonel Brant's son yer kin run m with this yer train. Mebbee," he continued. 1 I, nMu..,^., ^BSSmi A Waif of the Plains. 43 :uliarly his aid it was a hundred Dn; «'n if t been so gettin' out. jy tetched ■thar ain't thar ain't 3men and th it. I'd >ne or two er, for the •. Peyton, md asked his fitful ;nife from "Thar's >w voice, 11 ; "one averting be wiped • men too ibbee it's nebbee," it's vie:' I. I only to ing sud- 'm lyin'. son yer ntinued, \ dancing violently back again, "ye kalkilate because ye run off 'n stampeded a baby, ye kin tote me round too, sonny. Mebbee," he went on, executing a double shuffle in the dust, and alternately striking his hands on the sides of his boots, "mebbee you're spyin' round and reportin' to the Judge." Firmly convinced that Jim was working himself up by an Indian war-dance to some desperate assault on himself, but resenting the last unjust accusation, Clarence had re- course to one of his old dogged silences. Happily, at this moment, an authoritative voice called out, " Now then, you Jim Hooker ! " and the desperate Hooker, as usual, vanished instantly. Never''' " Vso, he appeared an hour or two later beside the wagg< vhich Susy and Clarence were seated with an expresL.^/; oi satiated vengeance and remorseful bloodguiltiness in his face, and his hair combed Indian fashion over his eyes. As he generously contented him- self with only passing a gloomy and disparaging criticism on the game of cards that the children were playing, it struck Clarence for the first time that a great deal of his real wickedness resided in his hair. This set him to thinking that it was strange that Mr. Peyton did not try to reform .him with a pair of scissors, but not until Clarence himself had for at least four days attempted to imitate Jim by combing his own hair in that fashion. A few days later Jim again casually favoured him with a confidential interview. Clarence had been allowed to be- stride one of the team-leaders postillion-wise, and was corre- spondingly elevated when Jim joined him on the Mexican plug, which appeared— no doubt a part of its wicked art— heavily docile, and even slightly lame. « How much," said Jim, in a tone of gloomy confidence, "how much did you reckon to make by stealin' that gal- baby, sonny?" p t,„ „ "Nothing," replied Clarence, with a smile. Perhaps it was an evidence of the marked influence that Jim was ' i i i; \V[ u J}' I fiii i i „ %'\i ^ii lli ■mi v>v. 44 A Waif of the Plains. beginning to exert over him that he already did not attempt to resent this fascinating i„.pHcat,on of grownup JiJlTdn^ ^ '"' ^'^^ '' '' ^^^' --S^'" -tinued ;; No, it wasn't revenge," said Clarence hurriedly, .f I ^J^ kalkilated ter get er hundred dollars reward Lsted luck .hT T^ 'f ^''"- " "^^^^'^ y°"^ blamed dod- gasted luck, eh ! Enyhow, you'll make Mrs. Peyton plank down suthm' if she adopts the babby. Look yer" youn! felle," he sa>d, starting suddenly and throwing his facf forward, glanng fiendishly through his matted sidelocks "A what?" said Clarence. huZ' M^'"" '° f ^"-'^ ^"^ ^°"^^^^"1 how gratuitously husky his voice became at this moment-" d'ye mean te tell ... ye didn't set on them Injins to wipe ouHhe Silsbees, so that ye could hev an out an-out gaUr/I on hand fer Mrs. Peyton to adopt-eh ? " ^ But here Clarence was forced to DrnfP<:f ^t,^ . although Ji„ co„.emp.„ous„ ign^eir'l.Dot tt me. he repeated mysteriously ; "I'm flv T>,„ T) fel. We-re cahoots in this 'thing ?" ?„d t"h te T! suggestion of being in possession ff C Jnce" t^se" he departed m t me to elude fhf> n..noi ^k- ■ ' superior, "Phil," the head .ean,ste? "''"«'''°" °' "'' Nor was his baleful fascination exercised entirely on ca^e cLnc"e-;T °' ''"■ ^'^'°"'» i"'°-'yaS„at: care, Clarences frequent companionship, and the little circle of admiring courtiers that always surrounded Susl ■t becar^e evident that .his small Eve had been secre W approached and tempted by the satanic Jim She ^ found one day to have a few heron's fitl ers in Z possession w„h which she adorned her curls, and a" anothe A Waif of the Plains. 45 idy did not of grown-up ," continued dly. liars reward helped afore lamed dod- iyton plank yer, young ig his face I sidelocks, game— the gratuitously d'ye mean pe out the l1 orfen on i strongly, n't lie ter irk, young this artful ilty secret, ion of his itirely on fectionate the little led Susy, I secretly She was s in her t another time was discovered to have rubbed her face and arms with yellow and red ochre, confessedly the free gift of Jim Hooker. It was to Clarence alone that she admitted the significance and purport of these offerings. "Jim gived 'em to me," she said, "and Jim's a kind of Injin hisself that won't hurt me, and when bad Injins come they'll think I'm his Injin baby and run away. And Jim said if I'd just told the Injins when they came to kill papa and mamma that I b'longed to him they'd hev runned away." " But," said the practical Clarence, " you could not ; you know you were with Mrs. Peyton all the time." "Kla'uns," said Susy, shaking her head and fixing her round blue eyes with calm mendacity on the boy, " don't you tell me. / was there ! " Clarence started back and nearly fell over the waggon in hopeless dismay at this dreadful revelation of Susy's powers of exaggeration. "But," he gasped, "you know, Susy, you and me left before " " Kla'uns," said Susy calmly, making a litde pleat in the skirt of her dress with her small thumb and fingers, " don't you talk to me. I was there. I se a seriver / I'he men at the fort said so I The serivers is alius, alius there, and alius, alius knows everythin'." Clarence was too dumbfounded to reply. He had a vague recollection of having noticed before that Susy was very much fascinated by the reputation given to her at Fort Ridge as a " survivor, " and was trying in an infantile way to live up to it. This the wicked Jim had evidently encouraged. For n day or two Clarence felt a little afraid of her, and more lonely than ever. It was in this state, and while he was doggedly con- scious that his association with Jim did not prepossess Mrs. Peyton or her brother in his favour, and ^hat the former even believed him responsible for Susy's unhallowed acquaintance with Jim, that he drifted into one of those \k \Hi\ V ^ , -s ''i^. i^\'¥ y it'' If < w tfiiS' , * I 5 il \l 1 % :!:l U iSK<' r 1 1 1 ! ^ ^^E • H ^ (lit m %n B^ ; 1 ] i| ' ll ' Mk . •'l *l^^^^l !1 1 : 1 M 46 A Waif of the Plains. youthful escapades on which elders are apt to sit in severe but not always considerate judgment. Believing, like many other children, that nobody cared particularly for him, except to restrain him; discovering, as children do, much sooner than we complacently imagine, that love and preference have no logical connection with desert or character, Clarence became boyishly reckless. But when one day it was rumoured that a herd of buffalo was in the vicinity, and that the train would be delayed the next morning in order that a hunt might be organised by Gilder- sleeve, Benham, and a few others, Clarence listened willingly to Jim's proposition that they should secretly follow it. To effect their unhallowed purpose required boldness and duplicity. It was arranged that shortly after the departure of the hunting-party Clarence should ask per- mission to mount and exercise one of the team horses a favour that had been frequently granted him. That in the outskirts of the camp he should pretend that the horse ran away with him, and Jim would start in pursuit. The absence of the shooting-party with so large a contingent of horses and men would preclude any further detachment from the camp to assist them. Once clear, they would follow the track of the hunters, and, if discovered by them, would offer the same excuse, with the addition that they had lost their way to the camp. The plan was successful. The details were carried out with almost too perfect effect ; as it appeared that Jim, in order to give dramatic intensity to the fractiousness of Clarence's horse, had inserted a thorn- apple under the neck of his saddle, which Clarence only discovered in time to prevent himself from being unseated. Urged forward by ostentatious " Whoas 1 " and surreptitious cuts in the rear from Jim, pursuer and pursued presently found themselves safely beyond the half-dry stream and fringe of alder-bushes that skirted the camp. They were not followed. Whether the teamsters suspected and winked at this design or believing that the boys could take care of A Waif of the Plains. 47 t in severe eving, like cularly for lildren do, that love I desert or But when alo was in d the next by Gilder- ;d willingly DW it. 1 boldness after the i ask per- 1 horses — m. That i that the in pursuit, contingent etachment ley would by them, that they successful, ect effect ; : intensity id a thorn- ence only unseated, rreptitious presently ream and ^'hey were id winked ke care of themselves, and ran no risk of being lost in the proximity of the hunting-party, there was no general alarm. Thus reassured, and having a general idea of the direc- tion of the hunt, the boys pushed hilariously forward. Before them opened a vast expanse of bottom-land, slightly sloping on the righc to a distant half-filled lagoon formed by the main river overflow, or. whose tributary they had encamped. The lagoon was partly hidden by straggling timber and " brush," and beyond that again stretched the unlimitable plains — the pasture of their mighty game. Hither Jim hoarsely informed his companion the buffaloes came to water. A few rods further on, he started dramati- cally, and alighting, proceeded to slowly examine the round. It seemed to be scattered over with half-circular patches, which he pointed out mysteriously as "buffalo chip." To Clarence's inexperienced perception the plain bore a singular resemblance to the surface of an ordinary unromantic cattle pasture that somewhat chilled his heroic fancy. However, the two companions halted and professionally examined their arms and equipments. These, I grieve to say, though varied, were scarcely full or satisfactory. The necessities of their flight had restricted Jim to an old double-barrelled fowling-piece, which he usually carried slung across his shoulders ; an old-fashioned " six-shooter " — whose barrels revolved occasionally and un- expectedly — known as "Allen's Pepper Box," on account of its culinary resemblance, and a bowie-knife ! Clarence carried an Indian bow and arrow with which he had been exercising, and a hatchet which be had concealed under the flanks of his saddle. To this Jim generously added the six-shooter, taking the hatchet in exchange — a transfer that at first delighted Clarence, until, seeing the warlike and picturesque effect of the hatchet in Jim's belt, he regretted the transfer. The gun, Jim meantime explained, "extry charged," "chuck up" to the middie, with slugs and re- volver bullets, could only be fired by himself, and even ill r 48 A Waif of the Plains. then, he darkly added, not without danger. This poverty of equipment was, however, compensated by the opposite statements from Jim of the extraordinary results obi, .ned by these simple weapons from "fellers I knew." How /i^ himself had once brought down a " bull " by a bold shot with a revolver through its open bellowing mouth that pierced its "innards." Hew a friend of his— an intimate in fact— now in jail at Louisville for killing a sheriff's deputy— had once found himself ale le and dismounted, with a simple clasp knife and a lariat, among a herd of buffaloes ; how, leaping calmly upon the shaggy shoulders of the biggest bull, he lashed himself with the lariat firmly to his horns, goading it onward with his clasp-knife, and subsisting for days upon the flesh cut from its living body, until, abandoned by its fellows, and exhausted by loss of blood, it finally succumbed to its victor at the very outskirts of the camp to which he had artfully driven it ! It must be confessed that this recital somewhat took away Clarence's breath, and he would have liked to ask a few questions. But they were alone on the prairie, they were linked by a common transgression ; the glorious sun was coming up victoriously, the pure, crisp air was intoxicating their nerves — in the bright forecast of youth everything was possible I The surface of the bottom-land that they were crossing was here and there broken up by fissures and "pot holes," and some circumspection in their progress became necessary. In one of these halts, Clarence was struck by a dull, mono- tonous jarring, that sounded like the heavy, regular fall of water over a dam. Each time that they slackened their pace the sound would become more audible, and was at last accompanied by that slight but unmistakable tremor of the earth that betrayed the vicinity of a waterfall. Hesi- tating over this phenomenon, which seemed to imply that their topography was ^vrong and that they had blundered from the track, they were presently startled by the fact that the sound was actually approaching them ! With a sudden is poverty ; opposite obi .ned How Aa bold shot Duth that 1 intimate I sheriffs mounted, L herd of shoulders iat firmly nife, and ng body, y loss of outskirts t must be ;;iarence's juestions. inked by »ming up !ir nerves )ssible ! crossing )t holes," ecessary. 11, mono- ir fall of led their i was at remor of . Hesi- iply that lundered fact that I sudden A Waif of the Plains. 49 instinct they both galloped towards the lagoon. As the timber opened before them Jim uttered a long ecstatic shout. " Why, it's them I " At a first glance it seemed to Clarence as if the whole plain beyond was broken up and rolling in tumbling waves or furrows towards them. A second glance showed the tossing fronts of a vast herd of buffaloes, and here and there, darting in and out and among them, or emerging from the cloud of dust behind, wild figures and flashes of fire. With the idea of water still in his mind, it seemed as if some tumultuous tidal wave were sweeping unseen towards the lagoon, carrying everything before it. He turned with eager eyes in speechless expectancy to his companion. Alack I that redoubtable hero and mighty hunter was, to all appearances, equally speechless and astonished I It was true that he remained rooted to the saddle, a lank, still, heroic figure, alternately grasping his hatchet and gun with a kind of spasmodic regularity I How long he would have continued this could never be known, for the next moment, with a deafening crash, the herd broke through the brush and, swerving at the right of the lagoon, bore down directly upon them. All further doubt or hesitation on their part was stopped. The far-seeing, sagacious Mexican plug, with a terrific snort, wheeled and fled furiously with his rider. Moved no doubt by touching fidelity, Clarence's humbler team-horse instantly followed. In a few moments those devoted animals struggled neck to neck in noble emula- tion. " What are we goin' off this way for ? " gasped the simple Clarence. "Peyton and Gildersleeve are back there— and they'll see us," gasped Jim in reply. It struck Clarence that the buffaloes were much nearer them than the hunting-party, and that the tramping hoofs of a dozen bulls were close behind them, but with another gasp he shouted — '* When are we going to hunt 'em ? " £ F 5 ; n ■ f p. 111 i Hi r ill 50 A Waif of the Plains. m\ " Hunt them," screamed Jim, with an hysterical outburst of truth; "why, they're huntin' ?/j— dash it." Indeed, there was no doubt that their frenzied horses were flying before the equally frenzied herd behind them. They gained a momentary advantage by riding into one of the fissures, and out again on the other side, while their pursuers were obliged to make a detour. But in a few minutes they were overtaken by that part of the herd who had taken the other and nearer side r.f the lagoon, and were now fairly in the midst of them. The ground shook with their trampling hoofs ; their steaming breath, mingling with the stinging dust that filled the air, half choked and blinded Clarence. He was dimly conscious that Jim had wildly thrown his hatchet at a cow-buffalo pressing close upon his flanks. As they swept down into another gully he saw him raise his fateful gun in utter desperation. Clarence crouched low on his horse's outstretched neck. There was a blinding flash ; a single, stunning report from both barrels ; Jim reeled in one way half out of the saddle, while the smoking gun seemed to leap in another over his head, and then rider and horse vanished in a choking cloud of dust and gun- powder. A moment after Clarence's horse stopped with a sudden check, and the boy felt himself hurled over its head into the gully, alighting on something that seemed to be a bounding cushion of curled and twisted hair. It was the shaggy shoulder of an enormous buffalo ! For Jim's des- perate random shot and double charge had taken effect on the near hind leg of a preceding bull, tearing away the flesh and ham-stringing the animal, who had dropped in the gully just in front of Clarence's horse. Dazed, but unhurt, the boy rolled from the lifted fore- quarters of the struggling brute to the ground. Then he staggered to his feet again ; not only his horse was gone, but the whole herd of buffaloes seemed to have passed too, and he could hear the shouts of unseen hunters now ahead of him. They had evidently overlooked his fall, and the 1 A Waif of the Plains, 51 gully had concealed him. The sides before hiril were too steep for his aching limbs to climb; the slope by which he and the bull descended when the collision occurred was behind the wounded animal. Clarence was staggering to- wards it, when the bull, by a supreme effort, lifted itself on three legs, half turned, and faced him. These events had passed too quickly for the inexperienced boy to have felt any active fear, or indeed anything but wild excitement and confusion. But the spectacle of that shaggy and enormous front, that seemed to fill the whole gully, rising with awful deliberation between him and escape, sent a thrill of terror through his frame. The great, dull, bloodshot eyos glared at him with a duml), wondering fury; the large wtt nostrils were so near that their first snort of inarticulate ragt made him reel backwards as from a blow. The gully was onlv a narrow and short fissure or subsidence of the plain ; a ff,w paces more of retreat and he would be at its end, against an almost perpendicular bank fifteen feet high. If he attempted to climb its crumbling sides, and fell, there would be those short but terrible horns waiting to impale him ! It seemed too terrible, too cruel ! He was so small beside this over- grown monster. It wasn't fair I The tears started to his eyes, and then, in a rage at the injustice of Fate, he stood doggedly still with clenched fists. He fixed his gaze with half hysterical, childish fury on those lurid eyes; he did not know that, owing to the strange magnifying power of the bull's convex pupils, he, Clarence, appeared much bigger than he really was to the brute's heavy consciousness, the distance from him most deceptive, and that it was to this fact that hunters so often owed their escape. He only thought of some desperate means of attack. Ah I the six- shooter. It was still in his pocket. He drew it nervously, hopelessly— it looked so small compared with his large enemy I nil! ^ I Ijiil He presented it with flashing eyes, and pulled the trigger. A feeble click followed— another, and again! i' ir 52 A Waif of the Plains. Even this had mocked him. He pulled the trigger once more wildly; there was a sudden explosion, and another. He stepped back ; the balls had apparently flattened them- selves harmlessly on tht^ bull's forehead. He pulled again hopelessly; there was another report, a sudden furious bellow, and the enormous brute threw his head savagely to one side, burying his left horn deep in the crumbling bank beside him. Again and again he charged the bank, driving his left horn home, and bringing down the stones and earth in showers. It was some seconds before Clarence saw, in a single glimpse of that wildly tossing crest, the reason of this fury. The blood was pouring from his left eye, penetrated by the last bullet ; the bull was blinded ! A terrible revulsion of feeling, a sudden sense of remorse that was for the moment more awful than even his previous fear, overcame him. He had done i/iat thing I As much to fly from the dreadful spectacle as any instinct of self- preservation, he took advantage of the next mad paroxysm of pain and blindness that always impelled the suffering beast towards the left, to slip past him on the right, reach the incline, and scramble wildly up to the plain again. Here he ran confusedly forward — not knowing whither — only caring to escape that agonised bellowing, to shut out for ever the accusing look of that huge, blood-weltering Suddenly he heard a distant angry shout. To his first hurried glance the plain had seemed empty, but looking up he saw two horsemen rapidly advancing with a led horse behind them — his own. With the blessed sense of relief that overtook him now came the fevered desire for sympathy, and to tell them all. But as they came nearer he saw that they were Gildersleeve the scout and Henry Benham, and that, far from sharing any delight in his deliverance, their faces only exhibited irascible impatience. Overcome by this new defeat the boy stopped, again dumb and dogged. " Now then, blank it all, will you get up and come along, gger once I another, led them- lled again n furious I savagely crumbling the bank, the stones ! Clarence crest, the n his left blinded ! if remorse s previous As much ct of self- paroxysm suffering ght, reach lin again, whither — 3 shut out i-welteriiig his first ooking up led horse ; of relief sympathy, ; saw that iham, and ince, their rcome by dogged, •me along, A Waif of the Plains. 53 or do you reckon to keep the train waiting another hour over your blanked foolishness?" said Gildersleeve savagely. The boy hesitated, and then mounted mechanically, with- out a word. " 'Twould have served 'em right to have gone and left 'em," muttered Benham vindictively. For one wild instant Clarence thought of throwing him- self from his horse and bidding them <-,o ci. and leave him. But before he could put this thoup li: mto iu don, the two men were galloping forward, with hi i'..>rse k' : by a lariat fastened to the horn of Gildersleeve's pealing to the others. "A compliment of this kind from our distinguished friend is not to be taken lightly." "I have observed, sir, that the Commodore's head is level," returned the other man with equal gravity. Clarence could have wished they had not treated his first hospitable effort quite so formally, but as they stepped from the coach with unben ding faces he led them, a little frightened, into the bar-rcom. Here, unfortunately, as he was barely able to reach over the counter, the bar- keeper would have again overlooked him, but for a quick glance from the dark man, which seemed to change even the bar-keeper's perfunctory smiling face into supernatural gravity. "The Commodore is standing treat," said 'the dark man, with unbroken seriousness, indicating Clarence, and lean- ing back with an air of respectful formality, "/will take straight whisky. The Commodore, on account of j., changing climate, will, I beUeve, for the present contt iii himself with lemon soda Clarence had previ* y resolved to take wh; • i.i.;e A Waif of the Plains. 6i the others, but a little doubtful of the politeness of counter- manding his guest's order, and perhaps slightly embarrassed by the fact that all the other customers seemed to have gathered round him and his party with equally immovable faces, he said hurriedly, " Lemon soda for me, please." ** The Commodore," said the bar-keeper, with impassive features, as he bent forward and wiped the counter with professional deliberation, " is right. No matter how much a man may be accustomed all his life to liquor, when he is changing climate, gentlemen, he says ' lemon soda for me ' all the time." "Perhaps," said Clarence, brightening, ''you will join too?" " I shall be proud on this occasion, sir." "I think," said the tall man, still as ceremoniously un- bending as before, " that there can be but one toast here, gentlemen. I give you the health of the Commodore. May his shadow never be less 1 " The health was drunk solemnly. Clarence felt his cheeks tingle, and in his excitement drank his own health with the others. Yet he was disappomted that there was not more joviality, ne wondered if men always drank to- gether so stiffly. And it occurred to him that it would be expensive. Nevertheless, he had his purse all ready ostentatiously in his hand ; in fact, the paying for it out of his own money was not the least manly and independent pleasure he had promised himself. "How much?" he asked, with an affectation of carelessness. The bar-keeper cast his eye professionally over the bar-room. "I think you said treats for the crowd ; call it twenty dollars to make even change." Clarence's heart sank. He had heard already of the exaggeration of California prices. Twenty dollars! It was half his fortune. Nevertheless, with an heroic effort, he controlled himself and with slightly nervous fingers counted out the money. It struck him, however, as ! I' P J! 62 A Waif of the Plains, \ 'Wl curious, not to say ungentlemanly, that the bystanders craned their necks over his shoulder to look at the contents of his purse, although some slight explanation was offered by the tall man. " The Commodore's purse, gentlemen, is really a singular one. Permit me," he said, taking it from Clarence's hand with great politeness. " It is one of the new pattern, you observe, quite worthy of inspection." He handed it 'to a man behind him, who in turn handed it to another, while a chorus of "suthin' quite new," "the latest style," followed it in its passage round the room, and indicated to Clarence its whereabouts. It was presently handed back to the bar-keeper, who had begged also to inspect it, and who, with an air of scrupulous ceremony, insisted upon placing it himself in Clarence's side pocket, as if it were an important part of his function. The driver here called "all aboard." The passengers hurriedly re-seated themselves, and the episode abruptly ended. For, to Clarence's surprise, these attentive friends of a moment ago at once became interested in the views of a new passenger concerning the local politics of San Francisco, and he found himself utterly forgotten. The bonnetless woman had changed her position, and her head was no longer visible. The disillusion and depression that overcame him suddenly were as complete as his previous expectations and hopefulness had been extravagant. For the first time his utter unimportance in the world and his inade- quacy to this new life around him came upon him crushingly. The heat and jolting of the stage caused him to fall into a slight slumber, and when he awoke he found his two neighbours had just got out at a wayside station. They had evidently not cared to waken him to say "Good- bye." From the conversation of the other passengers he learned that the tall man was a well-known gambler, and the one who looked like a farmer was a ship captain who had become a wealthy merchant Clarence thought he understood now why the latter had asked him if he came \ i A Waif of the Plains. 63 off a voyage, and that the nickname of "Commodore" given to him, Clarence, was some joke intended for the captams understanding. He missed them, for he wanted to talk to them about his relative at Sacramento whom he was now so soon to see. At last, between sleeping and waking, the end of his journey was unexpectedly reached. It was dark, but, being "steamer night," the shops and business places were still open, and Mr. Peyton had arranged that the stage driver should deliver Clarence at the address of his relative in "J. Street," an address which Clarence had luckily remembered. But the bov was somewhat discomfited to find that it was a large office or banking-house. He, however, descended from the sta<^e and with his small pack in his hand, entered the building as the stage drove off, and addressing one of the busy clerks asked for «' Mr. Jackson Brant." ' There was no such person in the office. There never l\ k'?. -^"^ '"'^ P'''°"- ^"^^ ^^"^ had always occupied that building. Was there not some mistake in the number ? iNo ! the name, number, and street had been deeply en- grafted in the boy's recollection. Stop! it might be the name of a customer who had given his address at the bank Ihe clerk who made this suggestion disappeared promptly to make mquiries in the counting-room. Clarence, with a rapidly-beating heart, awaited him. The clerk returned There was no such name on the books. Jackson Brant was utterly unknown to every one in the establishment For an mstant the counter against which the boy was leaning seemed to yield with his weight; he was obliged to steady himself with both hands to keep from falling It was not his disappointment-which was terrible : it was not a thought of his future-which seemed hopeless; it was not his injured pride at appearing to have wilfully deceived Mr. Peytcn-which ws. r-^ore dreadful than all these-but 1 was the sudden, sickc- . g sense that he himself had he^n deceived, incked, and looled ! For it flashed upon him for il'i 64 A W-, of IJ-" Plains. the first time that the v.igue sense of wrong which had always haunted h'ni was this— that this was the vile cul- mination of a plan io get rid of him, and that he had been deliberately lost and led astray by his relatives as helplessly and completely as a useless cat or dog ! Perhaps there was something of luis m nis face, for the clerk, staring at him, bade him sit down for a moment, and again vanished into the mysterious interior. Clarence had no con.;eption how long he was absent, or indeed of any- thing biH his own breathless thoughts, for he was conscious of wondering afterwards why the clerk was leading him thrcigh a door in the counter into an inner room of many desks, md again through a glass door into a smaller office where a preternaturally busy-looking man sat writing at a desk. Without looking up, but pausing only to apply a blotting-pad to the paper before him, tae man said crisply — " So you've been consigned to some one who don't seem to turn up, and can't be found, eh ? Never mind that," as Clarence laid feyton's letter before him. "Can't read it noNv. Well, I suppose you want to be shipped back to Stockton ? " " No ! " said the boy, recovering his voice with an effort. "Eh, that's business though. Know anybody here?" " Not a living soul ; that's why th / sent me," said the boy, in sudden rec ss d^ peratio. He wa- the more furious that he knew the tears were standing in his eyes. The idea seemed to st'-ike the man amusingly. " Looks a litile like it, don't it i he said, smiling grimly at Uie paper before him. " Got any money ? " "A little." "How much?" " About twenty dollars," said ' 'n hesitatingly. The man opened a small draw at h ide, mechanically, for he did not raise his eyes, and took out two ten-dollar go'd pieces. " I'll go twenty better," he said, laying them down on the desk. " That'll give you a chance to look around. A Waif of the Plains, vhich had I vile cul- had been helplessly ce, for the ment, and rence had ;d of any- conscious iding him n of many illcr office •iting at a 3 apply a 1 crisply — on't seem I that," as I't read it I back to an effort, here?" " said the the more s eyes. " Looks tiie paper hanically, loUar gold lem down c around- 65 Come back here, if you don't see your way clear." He dipped his pen mto the ink with a significant gesture as tf closing the interview. ^ said '"oredir*"' '"' *' "'■"• " ''■" "°' ^ ^^««<' ■>« The man this time raised his head and surveyed the bo. w,«,^.wo^,een eyes. "VouTe no, heyP Weirdo'no:^ haS'er"""' ^'"""' " ■" ^""""^ '"'° "•» ■»-•» gIad!:'geH.r" " ""^ ''^' '■" '^''^ *^' --y »<> be "If ytu'll let me pay you back again," said Clarence x mle ashamed and considerably frightened a'hi mp,1'ed accusation of the man before him. impuea r,^°" '"";" f " "l" "'"■ '''"*"e O"" Ws desk again. Cla 5nce took up the money and awkwardly drc»r out his purse, tut It was the first time he had touched iuince was retuu.ed to hin. in the bar-room, and it struck hmt^^ « was heavr and fuII-indeed, so full that on opentoR U a few^coms .o,l.d c. on to the floor. The man'S up ret^arked'gtr '^' '" "'' only twenty dollars ? " he »„H w'' !'^'°" fr "" fotty.-retumed Clarence, stupefied and blushmg. "I spent twenty dollars for drit^ks at the re^Tre'her:.""""""''- "'-'-' "-'' "-" "- .he' "You spent twenty dollars for drinhV said the man laymg down h.s pen and leani,,, bai i„ his ohaL to "S "J\i you treat the whole stage company?" But^lI-.-S-le"' '°- " "''-""" *' ""•'=«■»'• Dui - -v=ytn- :ji 3 sw dear in uaiilomia. / know that" ' f!j„ -I I i« *' ■ r 66 A Waif of the Plains, " Evidently. But it don't seem to make much difference yrith you," said the man, glancing at the purse. "They wanted my purse to look at," said Clarence hurriedly, " and that's how the thing happened. Somebody put /lis own money back into my purse by accident." " Of course," said the man grimly. " Yes, that's the reason," said Clarence, a little relieved, but somewhat embarrassed by the man's persistent eyes. "Then, of course," said the other quietly, "you don't require my twenty dollars now." "But," returned Clarence hesitatingly, "this isn't my money. I must find out who it belongs to, and give it back again. Perhaps," he added timidly, " I might leave it here with you, and call for it when I find the man, and send him here." With the greatest gravity he here separated the surplus from what was left of Peyton's gift and the twenty dollars he had just received. The balance unaccounted for was forty dollars. He laid it on the desk before the man, who, still looking at him, rose and opened the door. " Mr. Reed." The clerk who had shown Clarence in appeared. " Open an account with " He stopped and turned interrogatively to Clarence. "Clarence Brant," said Clarence, colouring with excite- ment. " With Clarence Brant. Take that deposit," pointing to the money, "and give him a receipt." He paused, as the clerk retired with a wondering gaze at the money, looked again at Clarence, said, " I think you'll do," and re-entered the private office, closing the door behind him. I hope it will not be deemed inconceivable that Clarence, only a few moments before crushed with bitter disappoint- ment and the hopeless revelations of his abandonment by his relatives, now felt himself lifted up suddenly into an imaginary height of independence and manhood 1 He was } It ti difference Clarence lomebody : relieved, ; eyes. /on don't isn't »iy d give it It leave it man, and e surplus ty dollars I for was lan, who, id turned :h excite- )inting to :d, as the y, looked e-entered Clarence, sappoint- iment by into an He was ^ ^aif of the Plains. &f Lv'no;" ^'"'' '^ ^^°°^ ^ --^e before \ cognised as the one that was on the door of fte bSint -a man of whom his fellow-passengers had spoken owiA adm,r,ng envy-a banker famous in all Califofnia, TO rt be deemed ncrcdible that this imaginative and hopefu7tov forgetfng all else, the object of hif visit, and eX he to Ws ha a iS; "' *" T'^ "= "<" his o™, aaucdly pu h.s hat a httle on one side as he strolled out on his wav to the streets and perspective fortune ? ^ .Zr^T\ '"'"■ """ ''^"''" ^^ '"Other visitor I, chanced to be the farmer-looking man who had h./. Clarence's feliow-passenger. Evidently a prMeged pertn interview the crptlif aledt^lL^y- ' * '^""'■^' "'^'-^ "Any letters for me?" _ The busy banker pointed with his pen to the letter «S" walt'^h I'r'^'^.^"^^^'^"^' pigeon-holes agait the walL The captain, havmg selected his correspondence paused with a letter in his hand. f^sponaence, "Look here, Garden, there are letter it alone. returned ts flashed [-saloons, of eager, or crime, the echo . to have A Waif of the Plains, CHAPTER VIII. 69 When Clarence was once more in the busy street before the bank, it seemed clear to his boyish mind that, being now cast adrift upon the world and responsible to no one, there was no reason why he should not at once proceed to the nearest gold-mines ! The idea of returning to Mr. Peyton and Susy, as a disowned and abandoned outcast was not to be thought of. He would purchase some kind of an outfit, such as he had seen the miners carry, and start off as soon as he had got bis supper. But although one of his most delightful anticipations had been the unfettered freedom of ordering a meal at a restaurant, on entering the first one he found himself the object of so much curiosity, partly from his size and partly from his dress, which the unfortunate boy was beginning to suspect was really pre- posterous, that he turned away with a stammered excuse and did not try another. Further on he found a baker's shop, where he refreshed himself with some gingerbread and lemon ^:oda. At an adjacent grocery he purchased some herrings, smoked beef, and biscuits, as future pro- visions for his "pack" or kit. Then began his real quest to- a., outfit. In an hour he had secured— ostensibly for some friend, to avoid curious inquiry-a pan, a blanket, a shovel and pick, all of which he deposited at the baker's- his unostentatious headquarters- with the exception of a pair of disguising high boots that half hid his sailor trousers which he kept to put on at the last. Even to his inexperi- ence the cost of these articles seemed enormous; when his purchases were complete, of his entire capital scarcely four dollars remained ! Yet in the fond illusions of boyhood these rude appointments seemed possessed of far more value than the gold he had given in exchange for them and he had enjoyed a child's delight in te.tiag the trans^ forming magic of money. \ 11 m . 'I n '\\ i ! i 70 A Waif of the Plains. Meanwhile the feverish contact of the crowded street had, strange to say, increased his loneliness, while the ruder joviality of its dissipations began to fill him with a vague uneasiness; the passing glimpse of dancing halls and gaudily whirling figures that seemed only feminine in their apparel ; the shouts and boisterous choruses from concert rooms ; the groups of drunken roysterers that congregated around the doors of saloons or hilariously charging down the streets, elbowed him against the wall, or humorously insisted on his company, discomposed and frightened him. He had known rude companionship before, but it was serious, practical, and under control. There was something in this vulgar degradation of intellect and power— quali- ties that Clarence had always boyishly worshipped— which sickened and disillusioned him. Later on a pistol shot in a crowd beyond, the '•'ish of eager men past him, the disclosure of a limp and helpless figure against the wall, the closing of the crowd again around it, although it stirred him with a fearful curiosity, actually shocked him less hope- lessly than their brutish enjoyments and abandonment It was in one of these rushes that he had been crushed against a swinging door, which, giving way to his pressure, disclosed to his wondering eyes a long, glitteringly-adorned, and brightly-lit room, densely filled with a silent, attentive throng in attitudes of decorous abstraction and preoccupa- tion, that even the shouts and tumult at its very doors could not disturb. Men of all ranks and conditions, plainly or elaborately clad, were grouped together under this magic spell of silence and attention. The tables before them were covered with cards and loose heaps of gold and silver. A clicking, the rattling of an ivory ball, and the frequent, formal, lazy reiteration of some unintelligible sentence was all that he heard. But by a sudden instinct he understood it all. It was a gambling saloon ! Encouraged by the decorous stillness, and the fact that everybody appeared too much engaged to notice him, the 1 a r r a s A Waif of the Plains. 71 boy drew timidiy beside one of the tables. It was covered with a number of cards, on which were placed certain sums of money. Looking down, Clarence saw that he was stand- ing before a card that as yet had nothing on it. A single player at his side looked up, glanced at Clarence curiously, and then placed half-a-dozen gold pieces on the vacant card. Absorbed in the general aspect of the room and the players, Clarence did not notice that his neighbour won twice, and even thrice, upon that card. Becoming aware, however, that the player, while gathering in his gains, was smilingly regarding him, he moved in some embarrassment to the other end of the table where there seemed another gap in the crowd. It so chanced that here was also another vacant card. The previous neighbour of Clarence instantly shoved a sum of money across the table on the vacant card and won. At this the other players began to regard Clarence singularly, one or two of the spectators smiled, and the boy, colouring, moved awkwardly away. But his sleeve was caught by the successful player, who, detaining him gently, put three gold pieces into his hand. " That's j'^wr share, sonny," he whispered. "Share— for what?" stammered the astounded Clarence. " For bringing me * the luck,' " said the man. Clarence stared. " Am I— to— to play with it ? " he said, glancing at the coins and then at the table, in ignorance of the stranger's meaning. " No, no ! " said the man hurriedly, " don't do that. You'll lose it, sonny, sure ! Don't you see you bring the luck to others, not to yourself. Keep it, old man, and run home 1 " " I don't want it ! I won't have it ! " said Clarence, with a swift recollection of the manipulation of his purse that morning, and a sudden distrust of all mankind. " There 1" He turned back to the table and laid the money on the first vacant card he saw. In another moment, as it seemed to him, it was raked away by the dealer. A sense of relief came over him. !:!■ ' i if) !' : I 72 A Waif of the Plains. I \ J,7^^T\ ^^'^J^^ °'^" ^'^^ ^" ^^^^ ^o^^^' and a strange fatuous look m his eye. - What did I tell you ? You see It s alius so ! Now," he added roughly, "get up and get out' o this, afore you lose the boots and shirt off ye » Clarence did not wait for a second command. With another glance round the room, he began to make his way through the crowd towards the front. But in that parting glance he caught a glimpse of a woman presiding over a wheel of fortune" in a corner, whose face seemed familiar. He looked again timidly. In spite of an extraordinary head-dress or crown that she wore as the "Goddess of Fortune, he recognised, twisted in its tinsel, a certain scarlet vine which he had seen before ; in spite of the hoarse formula which she was continually repeating, he recognised the foreign accent. It was the woman of the stage-coach I With a sudden dread that she might recognise him, and hkewise demand his services "for luck," he turned and fled Once more in the open air, there came upon him a vague loathmg and horror of the restless madness and feverish distraction of this half-civilised city. It was the more powerful that it was vague, and the outcome of some inward instinct. He found himself longing for the pure air and sympathetic loneliness of the plains and wilderness • he began to yearn for the companionship of his humble associates-the teamster, the scout Gildersleeve, and even Jim Hooker. But above all, and before all, was the wild desire to get away from these maddening streets and their bewildering occupants. He ran back to the baker's, gathered his purchases together, took advantage of a friendly doorway to strap them on his boyish shoulders, slipped into a side street, and struck out at once for the outskirts. It had been his first intention to take stage to the nearest mining district, but the diminution of his small capital forbade that outlay, and he decided to walk there by the highroad, of whose general direction he had informed him- selt In half-an-hnnr the !i"h«-s '\C '■'^ — ^-^ «. « u- uic iigHwS Oi uic iiuc, struggling city, is A Waif of ike Plains. i 73 and their reflection in the shallow turbid river before it, had sunk well behind him. The air was cool and soft • a yellow moon swam in the slight haze that rose above the ^u/is, m the distance a few scattered cottonwoods and sycamores marked like sentinels the road. When he had walked some distance he sat down beneath one of them made a frugal supper from the dry rations in his pack but m the absence of any spring he was forced to quench his thirst with a glass of water in a wayside tavern. Here he was good-humouredly offered something stronger, which he declined, and replied to certain curious interrogations by saying that he expected to overtake his friends in a waggon further on. A new distrust of mankind had begun to make the boy an adept in innocent falsehood, the more deceptive as his careless, cheerful manner, the result of his relief at leaving the city, and his perfect ease in the loving com- panionship of night and nature, certainly gave no indication of his homelessness and poverty. It was long past midnight when, weary in body, but still hopeful and happy in mind, he turned off the dusty road mto a vast rolling expanse of wild oats, with the same sense of security of rest as a traveller to his inn. Here com- pletely screened from view by the tall stalks of grai'n that rose thickly around him to the height of a man's shoulder he beat down a few of them for a bed on which he deposited his blanket. Placing his pack for a pillow, he curled himself up m his blanket, and speedily fell asleep. He awoke at sunrise refreshed, invigorated, and hungry But he was forced to defer his first self-prepared breakfast until he had reached water, and a less dangerous place than the wild oat field to build his first camp-fire. This he found a mile further on, near some dwarf willows on the bank of a half-dry stream. Of his various efforts to prepare his first meal, the fire was the most successful ; the coffee was somewhat too substantially thick, and the bacon and hp.rin„ lacked dehniteness of quality from having been cooked I'ir t! >:i U ik II 74 A Waif of the Plains. in the same vessel. In this boyish picnic he missed Susy, and recalled, perhaps a little bitterly, her coldness at parting. But the novelty of his situation, the brilliant sunshine, and sense of freedom, and the road already awakening to dusty life with passing teams, dismissed anything but the future from his mind. Readjusting his pack, he stepped on cheerily. At noon he was overtaken by a teamster, who in return for a match to light his pipe gave him a lift of a dozen miles. It is to be feared that Clarence's account of himself was equally fanciful with his previous story, and that the teamster parted from him with a genuine regret, and a hope that he would soon be overtaken by his friends along the road. » And mind tliat you ain't such a fool agin to let 'em make you tote their dodd— blasted tools fur them ! " he added unsuspectingly, pointing to Clarence's minmg outfit. Thus saved the heaviest part of the day's journey, for the road was continually rising from the plains during the last six miles, Clarence was able yet to cover a considerable distance on foot before he halted for supper. Here_ he was again fortunate. An empty lumber team watering at the same spring, its driver oflfered to take Clarence's purchases— for the boy had profited by his late friend's suggestion to personally detach himself from his equipment~to Buckeye Mills for a dollar, which would also include a "shakedown passage" for himself on the floor of the waggon. "I reckon you've been foolin' away m Sacramento the money yer parents give yer fur return stage fare, eh? Don't lie, sonny," he added grimly, as the now artful Clarence smiled diplomatically. ««rve been thar myself!" Luckily the excuse that he was "tired and sleepy" prevented further dangerous questioning, and the boy was soon really in deep slumber on the waggon floor. He awoke betimes to find himself already in the moun- tains. Buckeye Mills was a straggling settlement, and Clarence prudently stopped any embarrassing inquiry from his friend by dropping off the waggon with his equipment A Waif nf the Plains. 75 as they entered it, and hurriedly saying "Good-bye " from a cross-road through the woods. He had learned that the nearest mming-camp was five miles away, and its direction was mdicated by a long wooden "flume" or water-way that alternately appeared and disappeared on the flank of the mountain opposite. The cooler and drier air, the grateful shadow of pine and bay, and the spicy balsamic odours that everywhere greeted him, thrilled and exhilarated him. The trail plunging sometimes into an undisturbed forest, he started the birds before him like a flight of arrows through Its dim recesses; at times he hung breathlessly over the blue depths of caiions where the same forests were repeated a thousand feet below. Towards noon he struck into a rude road— evidently the thoroughfare of the locality —and was surprised to find that it-as well as the adjacent soil wherever disturbed— was a deep Indian red I Every- where; along its sides, powdering the banks and boles of trees with its ruddy stain, in mounds and hillocks of piled dirt on the road, or in liquid paint-like pools, when a trick- ling stream had formed a gutter across it, there was always the same deep sanguinary colour. Once or twice it became more vivid in contact with the white teeth of quartz that peeped through it from the hillside or crossed the road in crumbled strata. One of those pieces Clarence picked up with a quickened pulse. It was veined and streaked with shining mica and tiny glittering cubes of mineral that looked like gold ! The road now began to descend towards a winding stream, shrunken by drought and ditching, that glared dazzlingly in the sunlight from its white bars of sand, or glistened in shining sheets and channels. Along its banks, and even encroaching upon its bed, were scattered a few mud cabins, strange-looking wooden troughs and gutters, and here and there, glancing through the leaves, tlie white canvas of tents. The stumps of felled trees and blackened spaces, as of recent fires, marked the stream on either side. 76 A Waif of ike Plains. f ( A sudden sense of disappointment overcame Clarence. It looked vulgar, common, and worse than qW— familiar. It was like the unlovely outskirts of a dozen other prosaic settlements he had seen in less romantic localities. In that muddy red stream, pouring out of a wooden gutter, in which three or four bearded, slouching, half-naked figures were rakmg like chiffoniers, there was nothing to suggest the royal metal. Yet he was so absorbed in gazing at°the scene, and had walked so rapidly during the past few mmutes, that he was startled on turning a sharp corner of the road to come abruptly upon an outlying dwelling. It was a nondescript building, half canvas and half boards. The interior, seen through the open door, was fitted up with side shelves, a counter carelessly piled with provisions, groceries, clothing, and hardware — with no attempt at display or even ordinary selection— and a table on which stood a demijohn and three or four dirty glasses. Two roughly-dressed men, whose long matted beards and hair left only their eyes and lips visible in the tangled hirsute wilderness below their slouched hats, were leaning against the opposite sides of the doorway smoking. Almost thrown against them in the rapid momentum of his descent Clarence halted violently. ' "Well, sonny, you needn't capsize the shanty," said the first man, without taking his pipe from his lips. "If yer looking fur yer ma, she and yer Aunt Jane hev jest gone over to Parson Doolittle's to take tea," observed the second man lazily. "She allowed that you'ld wait." " Fm— I'm -going to— to the mines," explained Clarence with some hesitation. " I suppose this is the way." ' The two men took their pipes from their lips, looked at each other, completely wiped every vestige of expression from their faces with the back of their hands, turned their eyes into the interior of the cabin, and said " Will yer come yer, now will yer ? " Thus adjured, half-a-dozen men, also bearded and carrying pipes in their mouths, straggled out I A Waif of Uu. Plains. 77 of the shanty, and, filing in front of it, squatted down wu their backs against the boards and gazed comfortably at the boy. Clarence began to feel uneasy. " I'll give," said one, taking out his pipe and grimly eyeing Clarence, "a hundred dollars for him as he stands." "And seein' as he's got that bran-new rig-out o' tools" said another " I'll give a hundred and fifty-and the drinkk ive been, he added apologetically, "wantin' suthin' like this a long time." "Well gen'lemen," said the man who had first spoken to him, " ookm' at h.m by and large ; takin' in, so to speak, the gin ral gait of him in single harness, bearin' in mind the perfect freshness of him. and the coolness and size of his cheek — the easy downyness, previousness, and utter h.'^n^ T'T"''^"^'"''' °^ ^^' "^'"^"g y^^' I think two hundred ain't too much for him, and we'll call it a bargain." Clarence's previous experience of this grim, smileless Cahfornian chaff was not calculated to restore his con- fidence He drew away from the cabin and repeated doggedly, "I asked you if this was the way to the mines." ' "It are the mines, and these yere are the miners," said Je first speaker gravely. "Permit me to interdoose 'em This yere s Shasta Jim, this yere's Shortcard Billy, this is Nasty Bob, and this SlumguUion Dick. This yere's the Book o Chatham Street, the Livin' Skeleton, and me 1 » "May we ask, fair young sir," said the Living Skeleton who, however, seemed in fairly robust condition, "whence came ye on the wings of the morning, and whose Marble Halls ye hev left desolate ? " "I came across the plains, and got into Stockton two days ago on Mr. Peyton's train," said Clarence indignantly seeing no reason now to conceal anything. "I came to Sacramento to find my cousin, whn kn' li,,,-^^ *k more. I don't see anything funny in that l'^ I came here \\. U P f /■ 78 A Waif of the Plains. to the mines to dig gold— because— because Mr. Silsbee, the man who was to bring me here and might ave found my cousin for me, was killed by Indians." "Hold up, sonny. Let me help ye," said the first speaker, rising to his feet. " You didn't get killed by Injins because you got lost out of a train with Silsbee's infant darter. Peyton picked you up while you was takin' care of her, and two days arter you kem up to the broken-down Silsbee waggons, with all the folks lyin' there slartered." " Yes, sir," said Clarence, breathless with astonishment. " And," continued the man, putting his hand gravely to his head as if to assist his memory, " when you was all alone on the plains with that little child, you saw one of those redskins, as near to you as I be, watchin' the train, and you didn't breathe or move while he was there ? " " Yes, sir," said Clarence eagerly. " And you was lv! tct at by Peyton, he thinkin' you was an Injin in the me . j.iik, grass? And you once shot a buffalo that had beeu ;n?,ca?d with you down a gully — all by your- self?" " Yes," said Clarence, crimson with wonder and pleasure. " You know me, then ? " " Well, ye-e-es," said the man gravely, parting his moustache with his fingers. *« You see, you've been here before" " Before ! Me ? " repeated the astounded Clarence. "Yes, before. Last night. You was taller then, and hadn't cut your hair. You cursed a good deal more than you do now. You drank a man's share of whisky, and you borrowed fifty dollars to get to Sacramento with. I reckon you haven't got it about you now, eh ? " Clarence's brain reeled in utter confusion and hopeless terror. Was he going crazy, or had these cruel men learned his story from his faithless friends, and this was a part of the plot? He staggered forward, but the men had risen and I A Waif of Uie Plains. 79 escape. In vague quickly encircled him, as if to prevent his and helpless desperation he gasped— "What place is this?" " Folks call it Deadman's Gulch." Deadman's Gulch ! A flash of intelligence lit up the boy's blind confusion. Deadman's Gulch ! Could it h been Jim Hooker who had really run away, and had ; his name ? He turned half-imploringly to the first speaker.' Wasn t he older than me and bigger ? Didn't he have a smooth, round face, and little eyes? Didn't he talk hoarse ? Didn't he " he stopped hopelessly. "Yes; oh, he wasn't a bit like you," said the man musingly. « Ye see, that's the h-11 of it : You're altogether too many and too various fur this camp ? " "I don't know who's been here before, or what they have said," said Clarence desperately— yet even in that despera- tion retammg the dogged loyalty to his old playmate which was part of his nature. « I don't know, and I don't care- there! I'm Clarence Brant, of Kentucky; I started in Silsbee's train from St. Jo, and I'm going to the mines, and you can't stop me ! " The man who had first spoken started, looked keenly at Clarence, and then turned to the others. The gentleman known as the Living Skeleton had obtruded his huge bulk m front of the boy, and, gazing at him, said reflectively. " Darned if it don't look like one of Brant's pups— sure ' " "An: ye any relation to Kernel Hamilton Brant, of Looeyville ? " asked the first speaker. Again that old questi n ! Poor Clarence hesitated de- spairingly. Was he to go through the same cross-examina- tion he had undergone with the Peytons ? " Yes," he said doggedly, « I am— but he's dead. And you know it" "Dead— of course." "Sartin." "He's dead." "The Kernel's planted," said th- men in chorus. "Well, yes," reflected the Living Skeleton ostentatinu^w as one who spoke from experience. "Ham Branfs about V. I 'it IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. 1.0 I.I is ^ lis. 2.5 2.2 2.0 1.8 1-25 1.4 1.6 ^= = — < 6" ► V] <^ /i > > c*l ''"^'^i ^ ^J y Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 Z\7^ O ,.v .^ i/.A 4^. I* '-! 80 A Waif 0/ the Plains. as bony now as they make 'em." '« You bet ! About the dustiest, deadest corpse you kin turn out," corroborated SlumguUion Dick, nodding his head gloomily to the others; "in point o' fack, es a corpse, about the last one I should keer to go huntin' fur." " The Kernel's tech 'ud be cold and clammy I " concluded the Duke of Chatham Street, who had not yet spoken, "sure. But what did yer mammy say about it ? Is she geitin' married agin ? Did she send ye here ? " It seemed to Clarence that the Duke of Chatham Street here received a kick from his companions; but the boy repeated doggedly — "I came to Sacramento to find my cousin, Jackson Brant; but he wasn't there." "Jackson Brant!" echoed the first speaker, glancing at the others. " Did your mother say he was your cousin ? » " Yes," said Clarence wearily. " Good-bye." "Hullo, sonny, where are you going?" " To dig gold," said the boy. « And you know you can't prevent me, if it isn't on your claim. I know the law." He had heard Mr. Peyton discuss it at Stockton, and he fancied that the men, who were whispering among them- selves, looked kinder than before, and as if they were no longer "acting" to him. The first speaker laid his hand on his shoulder and said, "All right, come with me, and I'll show you where to dig." "Who are you?" said Clarence. "You call yourself only 'me.'" "Well, you can call me Flynn—Tom Flynn." " And you'll show me where I can dig— myself ? " "I will." "Do you know," said Clarence timidly, yet with a half- conscious smile, "that I— I kinder bring luck?" The man looked down upon him, and said gravely, but, as it struck Clarence, with a new kind of gravity, " I believe you." I About the Drroborated the others ; le I should ' concluded ken, "sure, she geitin* ham Street at the boy 1, Jackson glancing at cousin ? " f you can't the law." }n, and he 3ng them- y were no his hand I me, and I yourself th a half- vely, but, I believe A Waif of the Plains. 8z other dav" An.i v. i ? ^^" '" Sacramento the experience in th. kv^'"'^ ^^'^ ^''^' earnestness his experience in the gambhng-saloon. Not content with that -.he sealed fountains of his childish deep bdng bLke^^^ l^.:Z.':Tr' ^y-^^^^^y-^^ spolc'e of hi hot" m h« future had suddenly deserted him, or wheTer some eeraordmary prepossession in his companion had affected f ™M side Z^r '■ '"' '^ "-^ '■■">' '"= P^- >^ Sd On „"""'"■. ^'y"" ™» " possession of all the boy's history here, where vou Iikf>"c^,-^ u- ^ ^ anywhere you'H be sur^ot'd he clr'™"^"*"'^' "'"<' dirt, go to that sluice, and e the wa^ ZT "tf "" of the pan-workin' i round so "lie 'h^-h v ? *' '"^ rotary motion with the vessel 4. t ■''"""'"« " an .he soil is washed t oH Id y^TavtZy t ^ sand at the bottom. Then work Lt ,hl ^ ^ you see the colour. U" bT^fr^ oftstl:;: 2 '^ 1 11 leave you here, and you wait Ull I come back » wS another grave nod and something like a sniileTn ,h, „ ™*.e par. of his bearded face-f,s eyes-h™" str^rl^S!]; Clarence did not lose time. Selecting a snot where th. grass was less thick he broke through tL Sl:,Z^l up two or three spadefuls of red soif. When he had Med G f! ! ':'! I I ^ ii ; it 'ij fli If p 1 jlNn * ■■ ■ " : ^' r' ' r 82 A Waif of the Plains. the pan and raised it to his shor.lder he was astounded at its weight. He did not know that it was due to the red precipitate of iron that gave it its colour. Staggering along with his burden to the running sluice — which looked like an open wooden gutter — at the foot ot the hill be began to carefully carry out Flynn's direction. The first dip of the pan in the running water carried off half the contents of the pan in liquid paint-like ooze. For a moment he gave way to boyish satisfaction in the sight and touch of this unctuous solution, and dabbled his fingers in it. A few moments more of rinsing and he came to the sediment of fine black sand that was beneath it. Another plunge and sv^illing of water in the pan, and — could he believe his eyes ! — a few yellow tiny scales, scarcely larger than pins' heads, glittered among the sand. He poured it oif. But his companion was right ; the lighter sand shifted from side to side with the water, but the glittering pomts remained adhering by their own tiny specific gravity to the smooth surface of the bottom. It was " the colour " — Gold ! Clarence's heart seemed to give a great leap within him. A vision of wealth, of independence, of power, sprang before his dazzled eyes, and — a hand lightly touched him on the shoulder. He started I In his complete preoccupation and excite- ment he had not heard the clatter of horse-hoofs, and to his amazement Flynn was already beside him, mounted, and leading a second horse. " You kir. ride," he said shortly. " Yes," stammered Clarence ; " but " *^ But — we've only got two hours to reach Buckeye Mills in time to ca'.ch the down stage. Drop all that, jump up, and come with me ! " " But I've just found gold," said the boy excitedly. " And I've just found your — cousin. Come ! " He spurred his horse across Clarence's scattered imple- ments, half helped, half lifted the boy into the saddle of the I ounded at the red ring along Doked like be began rst dip of e contents loment he [ touch of in it. A 5 sediment ler plunge believe his than pins' ; off. But from side remained le smooth Did! 'ithin him. er, sprang iched him md excite- and to his mted, and keye Mills , jump up, ;dly. ;red imple- id!e of the A Waif of the Plains. 83 second horse, and with a cut of his riata over the animal's haunches, the next moment they were both galloping furi- ously away. CHAPTER IX Torn suddenly from his prospective future, but too much dommated by the man beside him to protest, Clarence was silent until a rise in the road a few minutes later partly abated their headlong speed, and gave him chance to recover his breath and courage. " Where is my cousin ? " he asked. " In the southern county, two hundred miles from here " " Are we going to him ? " "Yes." They rode furiously forward again. It was nearly half-an- hour before they came to a longer ascent. Clarence could see that Flynn was from time to time examining him curi- ously under his slouched hat. This somewhat embarrassed him, but in his singular confidence in the man no distrust mingled with it. " Ye never saw your— cousin ? " he asked. "No," said Clarence; "nor he me I don't think he knew me much, anyway." " How old mout ye be, Clarence?" " Twelve." "Well, as you're suthin' of a pup "-Clarence started, and recalled Peyton's first criticism of him-" I reckon to tell ye suthin' I Ye aint goin' to be skeert, or afeard, or lose yer sand, I kalkilate, for skunkin' aint in your breed Well wot ef I told ye that thish yer-thish y^x~cousin o' yours was the biggest devil onhung !-that he'd just killed a man and had to lite out elsewhere? And thet's why he didn't show up in Sacramento I What if I told you that ? » Clarence felt that this was somehow a little too muchl ii; II' 1 1 I 84 A Waif of the Plains. He was perfectly truthful, and therefore lifting his frank eyes to Flynn, he said — " I should think you were talking a good deal like Tim Hooker ! » His companion stared, and suddenly reined up his horse, then bursting into a shout of laughter he galloped ahead, from time to time shaking his head, slapping his legs, and making the dim woods ring with his boisterous mirth. Then as suddenly becoming thoughtful again he rode off rapidly for half-an-hour, only speaking to Clarence to urge him forward, and assisting his progress by lashing the haunches of his horse. Luckily the boy was a good rider— a fact which Flynn seemed to thoroughly appreciate— or he would have been unseated a dozen times. At last the straggling sheds of Buckeye Mills came into softer purple view on the opposite mountain. Then laying his hand on Clarence's shoulder as he reined in at his side, Flynn broke the silence. " There, boy," he said, wiping the mirthful tears from his eyei, "I was only foolin'— only trying yer grit! This yer cousin I'm taking you to ez as quiet and soft-spoken and as old-fashioned ez you be. Why, he's that wrapped up in books and study that he hves alone in a big adobe ranckerie among a lot o' Spanish, and he don't keer to see his own countrymen I Why, he's even changed his name, and calls himself Don Juan Robinson I But he's very rich ; he owns three leagues of land and heaps of cattle and horses,' and," glancing approvingly at Clarence's seat in the saddle, " I reckon you'll hev plenty of fun thar." '• But," hesitated Clarence— to whom this proposal seemed only a repetition of Peyton's charitable offer—'' I think I'd better stay here and dig gold — with you." "And I think you'd better not," said the man, with a gravity that was very like a settled determination. " But my cousin never came for me to Sacramento— nor sent, nor even wrote," persisted Clarence indignantly. ; his frank il like Jim • his horse, )ed ahead, 5 legs, and •th. Then ofiF rapidly urge him haunches er— a fact r he would came into len laying it his side, s from his rit ! This Dft-spoken t wrapped big adobe !er to see lis name, very rich ; id horses, le saddle, il seemed think I'd 1, with a nto— nor ly. A Waif of the Plains. 85 recZtV° -"u K^°^' ^"' ^' ^^°^" ^° *he man whom he reckoned would bnng you there-Jack Silsbee-and left it m the care of the bank. And Silsbee, being dead dldnl iTe 'was sent^LT? ""'°" '"^'^^'^ '^^"^^' ^^^^ ^^^ eiter was sent back to your cousin through me, because he bank thought we knew his whereabuufs. It came to n tfe hill L" ?"" f "' "'"^^ ^°" -- P-P-tU° on the hills.de. Rememberm' your story I took the liberty S Isbrio'h^- "' '°""' °"^ ^'^^ y°"' --- had toM bUsbee to bnng you straight to him. So, I'm only doin' now what Silsbee would have done." ^ Any momentary doubt or suspicion that might have arisen n Clarence's mind vanished as he met his companion's steady and masterful eye. Even his disappointment was prSn" AnV''^™ ^' ^'' new-foundlendsh ! Tnd protect on. And as its outset had been marked by an unusual burst of confidence on Clarence's part, the boy n his gratitude now felt something of the timid shyness of a deeper feeling, and once more became reticent MiHs h.r''M" *'"'' '° '""'"^ " ^^''^ "^^^1 ^t Buckeye Mills before the stage arrived, and Clarence noticed that his friend, despite Ms rough dress and lawless aspect pr^ voked a marke. agree of respect from those he'met-°^ whu:h perhaps, . wholesome fear was mingled. It is certain that the two best placesin the stage were given up to them without protest and that a careless, almost' superdlious, ^ alacrity by all-including even two fastidiously-dressed and previously-reserved passengers. I am afraid ihat Clarence enjoyed this proof of his friend's singular dominance with a boyish pride, and, conscious of the curious eyes of the passengers, directed occasionally to himself, was somewhat ostentatious in his familiarity with this bearded autocrat At noon the next day they left the stage at a wayside ride station, and Flynn briefly informed Clarence that they \ II 1' 1i 86 A Waif of the Plains. I ■1 must again take horses. This at first seemed difficult in that out of-the-\/ay settlement, where they alone had stopped, but a whisper from the driver in the ear of the station-master produced a couple of fiery mustangs with the same accompaniment of cautious awe and mystery. For the next two days they travelled on horseback, resting by night at the lodgings of one or other of Flynn's friends in the outskirts of a large town, where they arrived in the darkness, and left before day. To any one more experienced than the simple-minded boy it would have been evident that Flynn was purposely avoiding the more travelled roads and conveyances ; and when they changed horses again the next day's ride was through an apparently unbroken wilderness of scattered wood and rolling plain. Yet to Clarence, with his Pantheistic reliance and joyous sympathy with nature, the change was filled with exhila- rating pleasure. The vast seas of tossing wild oats, the hillside still variegated with strange flowers, the virgin freshness of untrodden woods and leafy aisles, whose floors of moss or bark were undisturbed by human footprint, were a keen delight and novelty. More than this, his quick eye, trained perceptions, and frontier knowledge now stood him in good stead. His intuitive sense of distance, instincts of woodcraft, and his unerring detection of those signs, landmarks, and guide-posts of nature, undistinguishable to aught but birds and beasts and some children, were now of the greatest service to his less favoured companion. In this part of their strange pilgrimage it was the boy who took the lead. Flynn, who during the past two days seemed to have fallen into a mood of watchful reserve, nodded his approbation. "This sort of thing's yer best holt, boy," he said. "Men and cities ain't your little game." At the next stopping- place Clarence had a surprise. They had again entered a town at nightfall, and lodged with another friend of Flynn's in rooms which from vague A Waif of the Plains. 87 id difficult alone had ear of the itangs with d mystery, ick, resting in's friends arrived in one more 'ould have ; the more ;y changed apparently ling plain, md joyous ith exhila- oats, the the virgin lose floors print, were his quick now stood i, instincts ose signs, iguishable Iren, were jmpanion. ; boy who two days 1 reserve, I yer best our little surprise, d lodged om vague sounds appeared to be over a gambling-saloon. Clarence woke late in the morning, and descending into the street to mount for the day's journey, was startled to find that Flynn was not on the other horse, but that a well-dressed and handsome stranger had taken his place. But a laugh, and the familiar command, "Jump up, boy," made him look again. It was Flynn, but completely shaven of beard and moustache, closely clipped of hair, and in a fastidiously cut suit of black I " Then you didn't know me ? " said Flynn. " Not till you spoke," replied Clarence. "So much the better," said his friend sententiously, as he put spurs to his horse. But as they cantered through the street, Clarence, who had already become accustomed to the stranger's hirsute adornment, felt a little more awe of him. The profile of the mouth and chin now exposed to his sidelong glance was hard and stern, and slightly saturnine. Although unable at the time to identify it with anybody he had ever known, it seemed to the imaginative boy to be vaguely connected with some sad experience. But the eyes were thoughtful and kindly, and the boy later believed that if he had been more familiar with the face he would have loved it better. For it was the last and only day he was to see it— as, late that afternoon, after a dusty ride along more travelled highways, they reached their journey's end. It was a low-walled house, with red-tiled roofs showing against the dark green of venerable pear and fig trees, and a square courtyard in the centre where they had dismounted. A few words in Spanish from Flynn to one of the lounging peons admitted them to a wooden corridor, and thence to a long low room, which to Clarence's eyes seemed literally piled with books and engravings. Here Flynn hurriedly bade him stay while he sought the host in another part of the building. But Clarence did not miss himj indeed, it may be feared, he forgot even the object of their tl [f 1.^:14 68 A Waif of the Plains. irr^ .k'.'"' ''"^^^'°"^ *^^' ^"ddenly thronged upon him and the boyish vista of the future that they seemeS to open. He was dazed and intoxicated HrhL joo. like h,-„.e,rrc..„c?:„:fh:xr/SeTf:;' venting somfrn'«e„;di"rfi,f 17? *°"«V "' '"■ prised to find that hi= .u. i 8'™'"8 "P. he was sur- « he was. Cn as usual 1,??M "" " embarrassed "Df r™,™ J , ' "^'erfully interposed— much thare'th": tf 'rr'" ".* °*^^' """^ '"ar ain't reckon/' he si dL„, /"/„.' "'""" ''^"^ ™""^ ' Don Juan Z^^Z) L added .oT, """" f"".^ ""■'=" well that you let ' lackson Rrfn - ?/ f ,"' " ' '"" ^ >han you, tat li t, Lfd t h '' i ^^ ''™ "e"'' enough, 'a. S you'd better'! To ^^;°/°^^°°'' occasional singular gravity ^"eluded, with his emtLte'd",:tt^e-m:chr tt™"l ^'"' ^"^-^'^ relief^the boy looked u^tbtirS'^dt^^^^^^^^ May I look at those books ? " ^ His cousin stopped and glanced at him with thp fire* expression of interest he had shown '^''^ "Ah, you read; you like books?" "Yes," said Clarence. As his cousin remained still nged upon ey seemed had never ticeived of e way he :ime. He md at an 5ice. in confi- dently his 10 means sin might fore him. 'Uld have fd to his ht of in- rfect and was sur- Jarrassed har ain't atters, I himself just as n better 3u soon vith his irence's pparent lly- be first d still A Waif of the Plains. looking at him thoughtfully, he added, «'My hands pretty clean, but I can wash them first if you like" "^'- may look at them," said Don Juan smilingly 89 are 'You 'and as they are old book ward. » An^ . • "Vr" "^^^ ^"^^"^ >'°"^ h^"^s after- Ir ruT ?, ' '"'"^ ^° ^'y"" ^"^denly with an air cf rehef, tdl you what I'll do. I'll teach him Spanish 1" M Tr^ ^\ '""T ^°^''^''' ^"^ ^'^'■^"'^e turned eagerly 1 shelves. They were old books, some indeed verj old queerly bound, and worm-eaten. Some were in foreign languages, but others in clear bold English type with auaS woodcuts and illustrations. One seeLd toTe ifhrS of battles and sieges, with pictured representations of com- batants spitted with arrows, cleanly Ic^.ped off in limb or toppled over distinctly by visible cannon-shot. He was deep m its perusal when he heard the clatter of horJes' hoofs m the courtyard and the voice of Flynn. He Tn to the window, and was astonished to see his friend already on horseback taking leave of his host For one instant Clarence felt one of those sudden revul- Slf hMt' "r °; ^^ '^' ^^^' ^"^ ^^'"^^ ^^ had a'ay frS FIvnn'h '?^f ''"^^^"°"^- ^^y""' his only friend! Flynn, his only boyish confidant 1 Flynn his ltd ofT r.'T^ '"^^ '^"' ^^^^^"^-^ him wftho'ut a word of parting ! It was true that he had onl- apreed to take him to his guardian, but still Flynn need r /have left him without a word of hope or encouragement ! Vvih any one else Clarence would probably have laken refuge n his usual Indian stoicism, but the same feeling that hadlmpelled him to offer Flynn his boyish confidences on their first meeting now overpowered him. He dropped his book ran out into the corridor, and made his way to the court yard, just as Flynn galloped out from the arch ridfr"' Xl^'l ""'''^ ' ^''P''""S ^hout that reached the nder. He drew rem. wheeled, halted, and sat facin^ ment his .uu»m had angered in the corridor, attracted by m 90 A Waif of t/te Plains. the interruption, and a peon, lounging in the archway, obsequiously approached Flynn's bridle rein. But the rideJ waved h,m off. and. turning sternly to Clarence, said- What's the matter now ? " "Nothing." said Clarence, striving to keep back the hot tears that rose in his eyes. '« But you were going away without saying 'good-bye.' You've been very kind to me. and— and— I want to thank you ! " A deep flush crossed Flynn's face. Then glancing sus- piciously towards the corridor, he said hurriedly— " Did he send you ? " " No, I came myself ! I heard you going " "All right. Good-bye." He leaned forward as if about to take Clarence's outstretched hand, checked himself suddenly with a grim smile, and taking from his pocket a gold com handed it to the boy. Clarence took it, tossed it with a proud gesture to the waiting peon, who caught it thankfully, drew back a step from Flynn, and saying, with white cheeks, " I only wanted to say good-bye," dropped his hot eyes to the ground. But It did not seem to be his own voice that had spoken, nor his own self that had prompted the act. There was a quick interchange of glances between the departing guest and his late host, in which Flynn's eyes flashed with an odd admiring fire, but when Clarence raised his head again he was gone. And as the boy turned back with a broken heart towards the corridor, his cousin laid ms hand upon his shoulder. -Muy hidalgamente, Clarence." he said pleasantly. Yes, we shall make something of you 1 " A Waif of the Plains. 91 CHAPTER X. Then followed to Clarence three uneventful years. Dur- ing that interval he learnt that Jackson Brant, or Don Juan Rolainson— for the tie of kinship was the least factor in their relations to each other, and after the departure of Flynn was tacitly ignored by both— was more Spanish than American. An early residence in Lower California, marriage with a rich Mexican widow, who dying childless left him sole heir, and some strange restraining idiosyncrasy of temperament, had quite denationalised him. A bookish recluse, somewhat superfastidious towards his own country- men, the more Clarence knew him the more singular appeared his acquaintance with Flynn, but as he did not exhibit more communicativeness on this pt^int than upon their own kinship, Clarence finally concluded that it \ras due to the dominant character of his former friend, and thought no more about it. He entered upon the new life at El Refugio with no disturbing past. Quickly adapting himself to the lazy freedom of this hacienda existence, he dpent the mornings on horseback ranging the hills among his cousin's cattle, and the afternoons and evenings busied among his cousin's books with equally lawless and un- disciplined independence. The easygoing Don Juan, it is true, attempted to make good his rash promise to teach the boy Spanish, and actually set him a few tasks ; but in a few weeks the quickwitted Clarence acquired such a colloquial proficiency from his casual acquaintance with vaqueros and small traders that he was glad to leave the matter in his young kinsman's hands. Again, by one of those illogical sequences which make a lifelong reputation depend upon a single trivial act, Clarence's social status was settled for ever at El Refugio Rancho by his pictur- esque diversion of Flynn's parting gift. The grateful peon, H • I i I ! ?■• ■■■E 92 ^ Waif of the Plains. o whom the boy had scornfully tossed the coin, repeated rTrl^ i ! ""^"°^" '"'^ >*°"^^^"1 relation was at once recognised as htjo de la famlia, and undeniably a hidZ born and bred. But in the more vivid imagination of Sn: « ^' ;^"^^°^her of God," said Chucha of he flV A ^^,L^°"^'"go ^ho himself relates it as it were the Creed. When the American escort has arrived w th the STe tT ? ""^?' ^°°' ^'°"' '^'"^ -^ °^^^-- Cornel' to h L T K •' '^'^" ^^^^°"^ ^ ^°^^ °^ P^^'^^ion- Comes to hun at this moment my little hidalgo. 'You he airxhis "''"" J° r'^ '^°" ^' y°- d--on ' he said. This escort, thinking to make his peace with \ r'lTtt; ^"^^ ^° ^'"^ ^ g°^d piece r.o pesos The httle hidalgo has taken it .., and with the woS' Ah you would make of me your almoner to my cous n'^ people,' has given it at the moment to Domi'go and with a grace and fire admirable." But it is certL T . Clarence's singular simphcity and truthfl ss a L 1 y of being picturesquely indolent in a way that suggefted a dreamy abstraction of mind, rather than any vulgarSencv to bodily ease and comfort, and possibly the fact thathe was a good horseman, made him a popular hero a El Refugio. At the end of three years Don Juan found th! this inexperienced and apparently idle boy of fourteen drh-rTf'^A^' P^"^' ^"^'"^ °^ ''^^ -n^he than he did himself. Also that this unlettered young rustic had devoured nearly all the books in his library lithbovish recklessness of digestioa He found, too, that'n spt' of h^ singular independence of action, Clarence was poss ssed of an invincible loyalty of principle, and that ask nl nn sentimental affection, and indeed^iWing none he'was without presuming on his relationship, devoted to hs ?;":f:jr"~ "i---^' that .om^eing a^glfnlg ray or sun.hin= lu uic nouse, evasive but never obtrusive^ A WaifofthePLiins, 93 he had become a daily necessity of comfort and security to his benefactor. Clarence was, however, astonished when one morning Don Juan, with the same embarrassed manner he had shown at their first meeting, suddenly asked him "what busmess he expected to follow." It seemed the more smplar, as the speaker, like most abstracted men, had hitherto always studiously ignored the future in their daily intercourse. Yet this might have been either the habit of security or the caution of doubt. Whatever it was it was some sudden disturbance of Don Juan's equanimity as disconcerting to himself as it was to Clarence . con- scious was the boy of this, that without replying to his cousin's question, but striving in vain to recall some delin- quency of his own, he asked with his usual boyish direct- ness — "Has anything happened? Have I done anything wrong ? " ■'a "No, no," returned Don Juan hurriedly. "But, you see. It's time that you should think of your future— or at least prepare for it I mean you ought to have some more regular education. You will have to go to school. It's too bad, he added fretfully, with a certain impatient forgetful- ness of Clarence's presence, and as if following his one thought. "Just as you are becoming of service to me, and justifying your ridiculous position here— and all this d d nonsense that's gone before-I mean, of course, Clarence" he mterrupted himself, catching sight of the boy's whitening cheek and darkening eye, " I mean, you know-this ridicu- lousness of my keeping you from school at your age, and trying to teach you myself— don't you see." "You think it is-ridiculous," repeated Clarence with dogged persistency. »tJ "1'!u ^.^"; ridiculous," said Don Juan hastily- There ! there !-let's say no more about it. To-morrow well nde over to San Jose and see the Father Secretary m < i II n ■ . f-r t 94 A Waif of the Plains. at the Jesuits' College about your entering at once It's a good school, and you'll always be near the rancho i " And so the interview ended. I am afraid that Clarence's first idea was to run away. There are few experiences more crushing to an ingenuous nature than the sudden revelation of the aspect in which It IS regarded by others. The unfortunate Clarence, con- scious only of his loyalty to his cousin's interest, and what he believed were the duties of his position, awoke to find that position -ridiculous." In an afternoon's gloomy ride through the lonely hills, and later in the sleepless solitude of his room at night, he concluded that his cousin was right He would go to school-he would study hard-so hard that in a httle-a very little while-he could make a living for hmiself. He awoke contented. It was the blessing of youth that this resolve and execution seemed as one and the same thing. The next day found him installed as a pupil and boarder m the college. Don Juan s position and Spanish predilec tions naturally made his relation acceptable to the faculty but Clarence could not help perceiving that Father Sob-' riente, the Principal, regarded him at times with a thoughtful curiosity that made him suspect that his cousin had especi- ally bespoken that attention, and that he occasionally ques- tioned him on his antecedents in a way that made him dread a renewal of the old questioning about his progenitor For the rest, he was a polished, cultivated man ; yet, in the characteristic, material criticism of youth, I am afraid that Clarence chiefly identified him as a priest with large hands whose soft palms seemed to be cushioned with kindness' and whose equally lai^e feet, encased in extraordinary shapeless shoes of undyed leather, seemed to tread down noiselessly— rather than to ostentatiously crush— the ob- stacles that beset the path of the young student In the cloistered galleries of the courtyard Clarence sometimes felt hmiself borne down by the protecting weight of this A Waif of the Plains. 95 paternal hand; in the midnight silence of the dormitory he fancied he was often conscious of the soft browsing read and snuffly muffled breathing of his elephantin^ tooted mentor. His relations with his schoolfellows, however, were at first far from pleasant. Whether they suspected favouri- tism ; whether they resented that old and unsympathetic manner which sprang from his habits of association with his elders, or whether they rested their objections on the broader grounds of his being a stranger. I do not know, but they presently passed from cruel sneers to physical opposition. It was then found that this gentle and reserved you h had retained certain objectionable, rude, direct, rustic qualities of fist and foot, and that violating all rules and disdaining the pomp and circumstance of schoolboy war- fare, of which he knew nothing-he simply thrashed a few of his equals out of hand, with or without ceremony, as the occasion or the insult happened. In this emergency one of the seniors was selected to teach this youthful savage his proper position. A challenge was given and accepted by Clarence with a feverish alacrity that surprised hiniself as much as his adversary. This was a youth of eighteen his superior in size and skill. The first blow bathed Clarences face in his own blood. But the sanguinary chrism, to the alarm of the spectators, effected an instan- taneous and unhallowed change in the boy. Instantly closing with his adversary, he sprang at his throat like an animal, and locking his arm around his neck began to strangle him. Blind to the blows that rained upon him he eventually bore his staggering enemy by sheer onseJ and surprise to the earth. Amidst the general alarm the strength of half-a-dozen hastily-summoned teachers was necessary to unlock his hold Even then he struggled to renew the conflict. But his adversary had disappeared, and from that day forward Clarence was never again molested I ° ll r ..i-ff' i: 96 A Waif of the Plains. Seated before Father Sobriente, in the infirmary, with swollen and bandaged foce, and eyes that still s e^ed to see everything m the murky light of his own blood. hifkTe? '°^' ""'^^^^ °^ '^' ^"'^"^'^ ^^"^ "P°" "My son "said the priest gently, "you are not of our religion, or I should claim as a right to ask a question of your own heart at this moment. But as to a good friend CJaro, a good friend," he continued, patting the boy's knee you will tell me, old Father Sobriente, frankly and trmhfully as IS your habit, one little thing. Were you not " No," said Clarence doggedly, " I'll lick him again to- morrow." ° " Softly, my son ! It was not of him I speak, but of some- thing more terrible and awful. Were vou not afraid of-of " -he paused, and suddenly darting his clear eyes into the very depths of Clarence's soul, added-" of ^^«rj^/^/ » The boy started, shuddered, and burst into tears. "So so, said the priest gently, "we have found our real enemy! fh^n fi K. r' ^A^^ ^"'^ °^ ^°^' ™y ""^^ ^^rior, we shall fight htm and conquer." Whether Clarence profited by this lesson, or whether this brief exhibition of his quality prevented any repetition schoolfellows had never been his associates or confidants It mattered httle to him whether they feared, respected him or were hypocritically obsequious after the fashion of he weaker. His studies, at all events, profited by this lack of distraction. Already his two years of desultory and omnivorous reading had given him a facile familiarity with many things, which left him utterly free of the timiditv awkwardness, or non-interest of a beginner. His usually reserved manner, which had been lack of expression rather than of conviction, had deceived his tutors. The audacity ot a mind that had never been dominated bv other<^ and A Waif of the Plains. 97 Clarence was sligl.tly w ba^in m/^?- ""'' "' ^ '""" freedom from .h'e rjlestastn^ed ttS l^^l'""'^ . 6"- "^^ vibic me neighbouring town of c:nnta r^i. restricted and unattpnWpri xr u j , ^ ^'^'"^ """ furnished „i.h porefrnVfl^hictrhis"" "'^'^"^ less state and Soartin h.KiJi u T ^'^ companion- contempt. Sr'heless t 1 ' '^"^"^'^ ^"^ ""^^^'^h l^ounging one afternoon along the AlampH, , r avenue set out hv th^ «o i tv^- • ^^ameda, a leafy village of San joslind th ^ '''°" ^^'^^^^ ^^^^^^" the a do'uble 'L if /oung • Lrrr?"^^ '^'"^' '^ ^^^ on their usual promenf df I vL ^f th "''"' ^PP^^^^^^ing the fondest ambition of he San 1//^,,^'°''''^°" ^^^"^ cially interdicted and cir u^.^ Jd J^^^^^^^^ attending the college excursi^nrcia/en e ffrL^^^^^^^^ profound indifference of a boy who Tl '^ ^^^ temperate .one of fifteen vearV thTnl ' u u^ '"^^^^diate young and romantic He'w;^pa^^^^^^^^^^ '^". "° ^°"^^^ glance, when a pair ordeTD vfnt? "" ""''^ ^ """"^'^^^ under the bro.d shide ofT "^'^^^'.^f ^^"g^t his own even as it had ont to/ed ^Tf ^ ^'^'^'^^"^^ ^^t' calico sun-bonnet stvf ^ '^' ^"^^^^ °^ ^ spoken, but w^h a auicl ,i.f ' "'"'"'^ '"^ "°"'^ ^^ve "leaning glan!e at th. ^'f "'' °^ '^"''°" ^"d a a mig glance at the two nuns who walked at tu^ u j and foot of the file «!hp ,-n^;, * ^ u ^^'''^^ ^t the head lue nie, sne indicated him to follnw tj« j-j .0 dare our and r„„ bac. . .ttror&S rec^^ 98 A Waif of the Plains. \ it. But she gave another swift glance of her blue eyes as she snatched it up and demurely ran back to her place. The procession passed on, but when Clarence reached the spot where she had paused he saw a three-cornered bit of paper lying in the grass. He was too discreet to pick it up while the girls were still in sight, but continued on; returning to it later. It contained a few words in a school- girl's hand hastily scrawled in pencil, " Come to the south wall near the big pear-tree at six." Delighted as Clarence felt, he was at the same time embarrassed. He could not understand the necessity of this mysterious rendezvous. He knew that if she was a scholar, she was under certain conventual restraints; but with the privileges of his position and friendship with his teachers, he believed that Father Sobriente would easily procure him an interview with this old playfellow, of whom he had often spoken, and who was, with himself, the sole survivor of his tragical past. And trusted as he was by Sobriente, there was something in this clandestine though innocent rendez- vous that went against his loyalty. Nevertheless he kept the appointment, and at the stated time was at the south wall of the convent, over which the gnarled boughs of the distinguishing pear tree hung. Hard by in the wall was a grated wicket door that seemed unused. Would she appear among the boughs or on the edge of the wall ? Either would be like the old Susy ! But to his surprise he heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. The grated door suddenly turned on its hinges, and Susy slipped out. Grasping his hand she said, ** Let's run, Clarence," and before he could reply, she started off with him at a rapid pace. Down the lane they flew — very much, as it seemed to Clarence's fancy, as they had flown from the old emigrant waggon on the prairie four years before. He glanced at the fluttering, fairy-like figure beside him. She had grown taller and more graceful; she was dressed in exquisite taste, wiili a minuteness of luxurious detail that r / blue eyes her place. ;ached the ;red bit of to pick it inued on; 1 a school- the south lame time isity of this a scholar, t with the 3 teachers, ocure him had often ivor of his ;nte, there nt rendez- s he kept the south ;hs of the wall was a le edge of But to liis I the lock, and Susy Let's run, d off with ery much, 1 from the fore. He lim. She iressed in letail ihat A Waif of the Plains, 99 bespoke the spoilt child-but there was the same prodigal outburst of rippling, golden hair down her back and shoulders violet eyes, capricious little mouth, and the same dehcate hands and feet he had remembered. He would have preferred a more deliberate survey, but with a shake of her head and an hysteric little laugh she only said, Kun, Clarence, run," and again darted forward. Arriving breatHes"r "''""' '''' ^"^"^' ^'^ ^°^"^^ ^"^ halted "But you're not running away from school, Susy, are you?" said Clarence anxiously. "Only a little bit. Just enough to get ahead of the o her girls, she said, re-arranging her brown curls and tilted hat. "You see, Clarence," she condescended to explain, with a sudden assumption of older superiority mothers here at the hotel all this week, and I'm allowed to go home every night, like a day scholar. Only there's three or four other girls that go out at the same time with me and one of the Sisters-and to-day I got ahead of 'em just to see j^«." "But"— began Clarence. "Oh it's all right; the other girls knew it, and helped me. rhey don't start out for half-an-hour yet, and they'll say I ve just run ahead, and when they and the Sister get to the hotel I'll be there already— don't you see ? " •' Yes," said Clarence dubiously. "And we'll go to ah ice-cream saloon now, shan't we? T !,^ ^"'''' T "'" "^^ ^°''^- I'^^ got some money," she added quickly, as Clarence looked embarrassed "So have I" said Clarence, with a faint accession of colour "Lets go!" She had relinquished his hand to smooth out her frock, and they were walking side by side at a more moderate pace. "But," he cominued, clinging to h.s first Idea with masculine persistence, and anxious to assure his companion of his power, of his position " I'm m the college, and Father Sobriente, who knows your lady ii 100 A Waif of the Plains. superior, is a good friend of mine, and gives me privilege"! • and— and-when he knows that you and I used to play together-why, he'll fix it that we may see each other when- ever we want." "Oh, you silly," said Susy, "7^//^a//— when you're" "When I'm 7f///a/?" The young girl shot a violet blue ray from under her broad hat. " Why— when we're grown up now ? " Then with a certain precision, " Why, they're very particular about young gentlemen ! Why, Clarence, if they suspected that you and I were" another violet ray from under the hat completed this unfinished sentence. Pleased and yet confused, Clarence looked straight ahead with deepening colour. "Why," continued Susy, "Mary Rogers, that was walking with me, thought you were ever so old— and a distinguished Spaniard ! And I," she said abruptly, "haven't I grown? Tell me, Clarence," with her old appealing impatience, "haven't I grown? Do tell me I" " Very much," said Clarence. "And isn't this frock pretty— it's only my second best- but I've a prettier one with lace all down in front; but isn't this one pretty, Clarence, tell me ? " Clarence thought the frock and its fair owner perfection and said so. Whereat Susy, as if suddenly aware of the presence of passers-by, assumed an air of severe propriety dropped her hands on her side, and with an aflfected con- scientiousness walked on, a little further from Clarence's side, until they reached the ice-cream saloon. "Get a table near the back, Clarence," she said, in a confidential whisper, "where they can't see us-and straw- berry, you know, for the lemon and vanilla here is just horrid ! " "' They took their seats in a kind of rustic arbour in the rear of the shop, which gave them the appearance of two youthful, but somewhat over-dressed and over-rnn.cioii= ! privileges ; sed to play other when- u're" under her r?" Then cular about pected that der the hat light ahead sy, "Mary were ever ," she said " with her Do tell •nd best — ; but isn't jerfection, ire of the propriety, icted con- Illarence's said, in a nd straw- re is just lur in the :e of two ronscioiis A Waif of the Plains. \ 101 Sit eld'" ""/" •"'"^^' °^ ^'^'^^^ awkwardness. Which Susy endeavoured to displace. "There has been " she remarked, with easy conversational li-htness " nuite an exaterr.ent about our French teacher being chnged' The girls-in our class-think it most disgraceful." veat"f 'n '''' '" "^" T""^ ''^ '^''' ' ^^P^r^tion of four years 1 Clarence was desperate-but as yet idealess a3 now."''' '"'" "^''^ ' ^^"S^' "b"t ^e don't have them "And 'Mose'" (a black pointer, who used to yeb when Susy sang), " does he still sing with you ? " ^ ^ '" "hnti^tt^TK"V"":r ^°"^'" ^^'^ Susy composedly; pony»andhe- ^^? i""' '"' ' ^'""^^ and a black eSs she dZT : '"^'^ '"''"'°^y °^ ^'' °^her personal t^on nf r J f ^° '^"'^ ^"'"^^^'-y details of the devo- id" ° ^'' !^°P;^^ P^'-^"^^- ^hom she now readily spokt recollection of the dead. From which it appeared that fhf Peytons were very rich, and, in addition to fheinLLsion! m the lower country, owned a ranche in SarSrand a house in San Francisco Tit^ oii , ., ,'^'*'"'* ^^^^^a and a impressions were ZZt re e^ In thf"' "f ^'™"«^=' her back .o .his n^aterial^eSd 'y, hetij- ""' '" "^ You remember Jim Hooker?" Th" ^li '''T'' a^ay-when you left I But just think of it I The other day, when papa and I went into i 1 resLLn m San Francisco, who should be there .aas^i^, on Se TbL -yes. Clarence-a real waiter-but Tim Hooker. p7 S: rj "?//"' °; ?^--'" -^^^ ^ 4ht ewSo of hS pretty chin, "/couldn't, you know; fancy_a waiter » h^selfnowtoadd tha, reveia.ii .o f^e rnl^t'o^Tif i. 1 \ I' t ml 102 A Waif of the Plai7is. grated on his sensibiliies. "Clarence," she said, suddenly turnin^r towards h.m 1 really believe these people suspect us." ^1 Of what?" said the practical Clarence. Don t be silly 1 Don't you see how they are staring ? » on^hroTr! o7!h"'l!' ""''^' ^° '^^^^' '''' ^-^^ -"°«ity on the part of the shopman, or that any one exhibited the rifu n of^^^^^^^ k" ''■" T ''' ^°"^^^"'-- ^"^ he felt a ing'theTuC "''"' "^' '°" '"'^^^" '''' '"^^' ^^-^- "You mean my cousm," said Clarence, smiling; "you knew my father died long before I ever knew you " ^ Ves; that's what you used to say, Clarence, but pana says It isn't so." But seeing the boy's wondering eye fixed on her with a troubled expression, she added quicJy, "Oh then, he ts your cousin ! " ^ /> '-'"i a 2lf\! .'^'"^ ^u°"^^' '° ^"°^'" ^^'^ ^1^^^"^^' with a rnile, that ^^'as however, far from comfortable, and a ?e tons «Vh / °^' r^^^'"^"' recollections' of th^ fn^nds " And r, "'' ^'°"^'' ^° '™ '^^ °"^ ^^ ^^^^ friends. And Clarence gave a rapid boyish summary of his journey from Sacramento, and Flynn's discovery of the letter addressed to Silsbee. But before he had concluded! ,n thl'rrr' '^'' ^"'^ ""'' ^y "° "^^^'^s interested m these details, nor in the least affected by the passing allusion to her dead father and his relation to Clarence'? n^isadventures. With her rounded chin in her hand she was slowly examining his face, with a certain mischievous, 11 T' ^^T'"'"'''- " ^ *^" y°" ^hat, Clarence," she sad when he had finished, «'you ought to make your cousin get you one of those soniireros, and a nice gold- braided ...a/.. They'd just suit you I And then-then, I- , somewhat •wards hitn s assistants^ staring?" 5t curiosity hibited the Lit he fell a scious of a Jsy, chang. ng; "you » but papa eyes fixed kly, ''Oh, nee, with le, and a s of the le of his :nmary of ry of the •ncluded, nterested ! passing larence's and, she :hievous, ice," she ke your ce gold- 1— then, ^ IVaif of the Plahts. 103 go W ""' "' '"' '°"" ^'^ "^'^^'^^ -^- we are "But I'm coming to see you at-at your house and at the Conveny' he said eagerly; "Father'sobrient 'anS my cousm will fix it all right." ^ But Susy shook her head with superior wisdom. « No • they must never know our secret 1-neither papa nor' mamma, especially mamma. And they mustn't know tha we've met again-.//., these years r It is impossible to describe the deep significance which Susy's blue eyes gave to this expression. After a pause she went on- ^ No ! We must never meet again, Clarence unless Mary Rogers helps. She is my best-my onh-st f^enH and older than I; having had trouble hTr'sefafd fng expressly forbidden to see him again. You cln speak "o her about Suzette-that's my name now ; I was re^hristened Suzette Alexandra Peyton by mamm. And no'ct ence' «3Zv ? "'" •'"' ^^^'^""^ ^^^'y ^-""d t^« -loon, you may kiss me just once under my hat, for good-bye'' She adroitly slanted her broad-brimmed hat towards the front of the shop, and in its shadow advanced her frsh young cheek to Clarence. twice '""ThL'."^ laughing, the boy pressed his lips to it Sh .hir .1^ ''""f' ^^'^ '^^ ^^^"^^^^ ^'^^^tation of a sigh shook out her skirt, drew on her gloves with the greatest gravity and saying. "Don't follow me furth than the door-they're coming now," walked with supercihous d jity past the preoccupied proprietor and waiters to the entrance. Here she said, with marked civility "Good afternoon Mr. Brant," and tripped away towards the hotef Clarence lingered for a moment to look after the lithe and elegant htt^ figure, with its shining undulations of hair that fell over the back and shoulders of her white frock like a_ gulden mantle, and then turned away in the oppo^S He walked home in T ct3f» o£> :». J e in a state, as it seemed to him, of I A IVaif of the Plains. after years, ^^ cor.ZVLX'J^^ZluJT " '" a premonition rather than a recollection ''^ ™ l' CHAPTER XL rl7 In thf '' 'h' 'k"'^^ ^'^ ^"S^^- ^^^ 'ong since rung, in the . orndor he met nn^ nf ^u^ r- .1. instead of questioning him. turned h s sah^'r T' grave gentleness that struck him He h,H , T " Father Sobriente's quiet studv w^h ,t,. ■ . '""■"' ""° ing himself, when 1 1' Sfs^u ^d' o rndTm" i^/c'^ others, called him bari-. -'c^^S^?" ,?^'"'' f *^« . ..cpti!.,t.t and embarrassed, with A Waif i>/ the Plains. 105 iii« ,h,„u- ' '"S 'Iful, half-compassionate smile. " r „,, R obL o, "' Th^'" "^ ^? ^ ''"'"'^^ "*--"> non Juan we will .^aIZZJ t ?"'"'' ""'"=">'• "^■" busy, w'e shall .^k am. e il.t:Vdr"' ' "" ""' getting on fluently „i,h your tran^adons Ih, '■'" '"l "' my son, excellent" ^""^ ™"=""'ons. J hat is excellent, Clarence's face beamed with relief -.r.A „?. vague fears began to dissipate '' '''''™'''' "« "And you translate even from dictation ■ Good 1 w. o^yo^? w" ^tr-r/r Z"^" «'"' '<• - -Pota- to you ifl poor %T^ '7'" "^"^ ''"' ""<'<>'««« renL it to meTvou '^o„d\ T ^l'" ^" """^ »d amuse and mstruC oTselves '• ■"""'• ""^ ' '° ''^ '"all .nd^'=rwere^oTurr;rrL^^^^^^^ pinch of -nuff S Ms iot " . T'"'' "■'" '" ^■"'^''^'™ briouss,,.i;5put;it'eSir- ^^""■■■" "^ "<'»' "'^■ visUedtonXriilldrerand':,'" 1 '1' '^"'" *^" ^ have sought ref^tfto^tC afby"d" ,'a"r t^rh 7"^'^ cruel I Miserable and blind I For ^^ "'^ ""'' wicked man, who in the pride of hi, ™ ""' 'f *" "-^ 1^ willing .0 risk punishL'f ,0 wf!!^ t"f. ™"?'<"^ be courage-must pause bef",e7 7' > "'' " '° r "«= oeio.e ti« awiul mandate that '■ ■- ■, ft > Eh 1 06 A Waif of the Plains. condemns an equal suffering to those he loves— which he cannot withhold or suffer for. In the spectacle of these inno- cents struggling against disgrace, perhaps disease, poverty, or desertions, what avails his haughty, all-defying spirit ? Let us imagine, Clarence." " Sir," said the literal Clarence, pausing in his exercise. "I mean," continued the priest, with a slight cough, "let the thoughtful man picture a father! A desperate, self- wiUed man who scorned the laws of God and society- keeping only faith with a miserable subterfuge he called ' honour '—and relying only on his own courage and his knowledge of human weakness ! Imagine him cruel and bloody— a gambler by profession, an outlaw among men, an outcast from the Church, voluntarily abandoning friends and family, the wife he should have cherished, the son he should have reared and educated— for the gratilication of his deadly passions. Yet imagine that man, suddenly con- fronted with the thought of that heritage of shame and disgust which he had brought upon his innocent offspring —to whom he cannot give even his own desperate reckless- ness to sustain its vicarious suffering. What must be the feelings of a parent " "Father Sobriente," said Clarence sofdy. To the boy's surprise, scarcely had he spoken when the soft protecting palm of the priest was already upon his shoulder, and the snuffy, but kindly upper lip, trembling with some strange emotion, close beside his cheek. " What is it, Clarence ? " he said hurriedly. " Speak, my son, without fear ! you would ask " " I only wanted to know if ' padre ' takes a masculine verb here," said Clarence naively. Father Sobriente blew his nose violently. "Truly though used for either gender, by the context masculine," he responded gravely. "Ah," he added, leaning over Clarence, and scanning his work hastily. "Good, very good ! And now, possibly," he continued, passing his hand -which he hese inno- :, poverty, )irit? Let xercise. lugh, "let rate, self- society — he called and his :ruel and 3ng men, ig friends le son he cation of enly con- ame and offspring reckless- it be the fhen the ipon his rambling 5eak, my lasculine Truly — sculine," ng over )d, very vis hand A Waif of the Plains. 107 like a damp sponge over his heated brow, " we shall reverse our exercise. I shall deliver to you, in Spanish, what you shall render back in English, eh ? And— let us consider— we shall make something more familiar and narrative, eh?" To this Clarence, somewhat bored by these present solemn abstractions, assented gladly, and took up his pen. Father Sobriente, resuming his noiseless pacing, began— "On the fertile plains of Guadalajara lived a certain caballero, possessed of flocks and lands, and a wife and son. But, being also possessed of a fiery and roving nature, he did not value them as he did perilous adventure, feats of arms, and sanguinary encounters. To this may be added notous excesses, gambling, and drunkenness, which in time decreased his patrimony, even as his rebellious and quarrel- some spirit had alienated his family and neighbours. His wife, borne down by shame and sorrow, died while her son was still an infant. In a fit of equal remorse and reckless- ness the caballero married again within the year. But the new wife was of a temper and bearing as bitter as her con- sort. Violent quarrels ensued between them, ending in the husband abandoning his wife and son, and leaving St. Louis— I should say Guadalajara— for ever. Joining some adventurers in a foreign land, under an assumed name, he pursued his reckless course until, by one or two acts of out- lawry, he made his return to civilisation impossible. The deserted wife and stepmother of his child coldly accepted the situation, forbidding his name to be spoken again in her presence, announced that he was dead, and kept the knowledge of his existence from his own son, whom she placed under the charge of her sister. But the sister managed to secretly communicate with the outlawed fatner, and, under a pretext, arranged between them, of sending the boy to another relation, actually despatched the innocent child to his unworthy parent. Perhaps stirred by remorse the infamous man " "Stop," said Clarence suddenly. I I io8 A Waif of the Plains. He had thrown down his pen, and was standing erect and rigid before the father. "You are trying to tell me something, Father Sobriente," he said, with an effort. '« Speak out, I implore you. I can stand anything but this mystery. I am no longer a child, I have a right to know all. This that you are telling me is no fable— I see it in your face, Father Sobriente; it is the story of — of" " Your father, Clarence," said the priest, in a trembling voice. The boy drew back with a white face. " My father ! " he repeated. " Living or dead ? " " Living— when you first left your home," said the old man hurriedly, seizing Clarence's hand, " for it was he who in the name of your cousin sent for you. Living! yes, while you were here— for it was he who for the past three years stood in the shadow of this assumed cousin Don Juan, and at last sent you to this school. Living, Clarence, yes • but living under a name and reputation that would have blasted you I And now ^^a^— dead in Mexico, shot as an insurgent and in a still desperate career ! May God have mercy on his soul I " " Dead ! " repeated Clarence, trembling, " only now ! " "The news of the insurrection and his fate came only an hour since," continued the Padre quickly ; " his compli- city with it and his identity were known only to Don Juan. He would have spared you any knowledge of the truth, even as this dead man would. But I and my brothers thought otherwise. I have broken it to you badly, my son, but forgive me ? " An hysterical laugh broke from Clarence, and the priest recoiled before him. " Forgive jj'^w/ What was this man to me?" he said, with boyish vehemence. "He never loved me ! He deserted me ; he made my life a lie. He never sought me, came near me, or stretched a hand to me that I could take ? " ■ J I A IVaif of the Plains. but 109 "Hush! hush!" said the priest, with a horrified look, laying his huge hand upon the boy's shoulder and bearing him down to his seat. "You know not what you say. Think— think, Clarence ! was there none of all those who have befriended you— who were kind to you in your wander- ings— to whom your heart turned unconsciously ? Think, Clarence, you yourself have spoken to me of such a one' Let your heart speak again, for his sake— for the sake of the dead." A gentler light suffused the boy's eyes, and he started Catching convulsively at his companion's sleeve, he said in an eager boyish whisper, "There was one, a wicked des- perate man, whom they all feared-Flynn, who brought me from the mines. Yes, I thought that he was my cousin's loyal iriend-more than all the rest; and I told him every- thing-all, that I never told the man I thought my cousin or any one, or even you; and I think, I think, Father, I hked him best of all. I thought since it was wroncr " he continued with a trembling smile, "for I was foolishly'"fond even of the way the others feared him— he that I feared not, and who was so kind to me. Yet he, too, left me without a word, and when I would have followed him "— but the boy broke down and buried his face in his hands. "No, no," said Father Sobriente, with eager persistence "that was his foolish pride to spare you the knowledge of your kinship with one so feared, and part of the blind and mistaken penance he had laid upon himself. For even at that moment of your boyish indignation he never was so fond of you as then. Yes, my poor boy, this man, to whom God led your wandering feet at Deadman's Gulch— the man who brought you here, and by some secret hold— I know not what-on Don Juan's past, persuaded him to assume to be your relation-this man Flynn, this Jackson Brant the gambler, this Hamilton Brant the ox^^\v,^v-was vour fyther/ Ah, yes! Weep on, my son ; each tear of "love iT A K* IIO A Waif of the Plains. t< (1! r,fi' and forgiveness from thee hath vicarious power to wash away his sin." With a single sweep of his protecting hand he drew Clarence towards his breast, until the boy slowly sank upon his knees at his feet. Then lifting his eyes towards the ceiling, he said softly in an older tongue, "And thou, too, unhappy and perturbed spirit, rest ! " • It was nearly dawn when the good padre wiped the last tears from Clarence's clearer eyes. " And now, my son," he said, with a gende smile, as he rose to his feet, " let us not forget the living. Although your stepmother has, through her own act, no legal claim upon you, far be it from me to indicate your attitude towards her. Enough that you are independent." He turned, and, opening a drawer in his secretaire, took out a bank-book, and placed it in the hands of the wondering boy. " It was his wish, Clarence, that even after his death you should never have to prove your kinship to claim your rights. Taking advantage of the boyish deposit you had left with Mr. Carden at the bank, with his connivance and in your name he added to it, month by month and year bv year ; Mr. Carden cheerfully accepting the trust and man- agement of the fund. The seed thus sown has produced a thousandfold, Clarence, beyond all expectations. You are not only free, my son, but of yourself and in whatever name you choose — your own master." " I shall keep my father's name," said the boy simply. '• Amen 1 " said Father Sobriente. Here closes the chronicle of Clarence Brant's boyhood. How he sustained his name and independence in after years, and who, of those already mentioned in these pages, helped him to make or mar it, may be a matter for future record. @)U0p» CHAPTER I. Where the San Leandro turnpike stretches its dusty, hot, and interminable length along the valley— at a point where the heat and dust have become intolerable, the monotonous expanse of wild oats on either side illimitable, and the distant horizon apparently remoter than ever— it suddenly slips between a stunted thicket or hedge of "scrub oaks," which until that moment had been undistinguishable above the long, misty, quivering level of the grain. The thicket rising gradually in height, but with a regular slope whose gradient had been determined by centuries of Western Trade winds, presently becomes a fair wood of " live oak," and a few hundred yards further at last assumes the aspect of a primeval forest. A delicious coolness fills the air ; the long shadowy aisles greet the aching eye with a soothing twilight ; the murmur of unseen brooks are heard ; and, by a strange irony, the enormous, widely-sprced stacks of wild oats are replaced by a carpet of tiny-leaved mosses and chickweed at the root of trees, and the minutest clover in more open spaces. The baked and cracked adobe soil of the now vanished plains is exchanged for a heavy red mineral dust and gravel; rocks md boulders make their appearance, and at times the road is crossed by the white veins of quartz. It is still the San Leandro turnpike— a few miles later to rise from this canada into the upper n j ;ii il: 112 Susy. plains again— but it is also the actual gateway and avenue to the old Robles Ranchc. When the departing visitors of Judge Peyton— now owner uf the Rancho— reach the outer plains again, after twenty minutes' drive from the house, the canacfa, rancho, and avenue have as completely disappeared from view as if they had been swallowed up in a plain. A cross road from the turnpike is the usual approach to the casa or mansion— a long, low quadrangle of brown adobe wall on a bare but gently sloping eminence. And here a second surprise meets the stranger. He seems to have emerged from the forest upon another illimitable plain, but one utterly trackless, wild, and desolate. It is, however, only a lower terrace of the same valley, and, in fact, comprises the three square leagues of the Robles Rancho. Uncultivated and savage as it appears— given over to wild cattle and horses that sometimes swee°p in frightened bands around the very casa itself— the long south wall of the corral embraces an orchard of gnarled pear trees, an old vineyard, and a venerable garden of olives and oranges. A manor, formerly granted by Charles V. to Don Vincente Robles, of Andalusia, of pious and ascetic memory, it had commended itself to Judge Peyton, of Kentucky, a modern heretic pioneer of bookish tastes and secluded habits, who had bought it of Don Vincente's descendants. Here Judge Peyton seemed to have realised his idea of a perfect climate, and a retirement, half-studious, half-active, with something of the seignioralty of the old slaveholder that he had been. Here, too, he had seen the hope of restoring his wife's health— for which ne had undertaken the overland emigration— more than fulfilled in Mrs. Peyton's improved physical condition, albeit at the expense, perhaps, of some of the languorous graces of ailing American wifehood. It was with a curious recognition of this latter fact that Susy. jj^ Judge Peyton watched his wife crossing the palia or court- yard w,th her arm around the neck of her adapted d ugTt Suztce. A sudden memory crossed his mind of the first day that he had seen them together-the day that he had brought the child and her boycompanion-tJo estravs C r" LV:rp r'" °" *' P'"'"^-'" «' "'f^ -^ -™P certamly Mrs. Peyton was stouter and stronger fibred ■ X. aThha? H^-^'f """ ='™^"= ""^ -'eriaiile heffigu r th, ? ^. « 7 "^f "" '""■'= ""'i «""». "ut it was strange that "Susy "-the child of homeher frontier blood/J parentage, whose wholesome peasant pCpnes had ' g41er:'„d e''^'"-^''°f ''"^ rown'thin^rind 1 Stn , , T- ''""''' '° ''"''' sained the delicacy his wife had lost. S,x years had imperceptibly wrought ih! change; it bad never struck him befor^o foSy" s „„ ths day o, Susy's return from the convent school at lanta Clara for the holidays. The woman and child had reached the broad veranda whtch on one side of the/./,;, replaced the old SpTnifh corndor. It was the single modern innovation that Pe«o„ had allowed h.mself when he had broken the quadrangular symmetry of the old house with a wooden "anS- 1 a d.t,on beyond the walls. It made a pleasan Toun'inl phce, shadowed from the hot mid-day sun by sloping S and awmngs and sheltered from the boisterous afternoon Trade wmds by the opposite side of the court. But s^sv d.d no seem inclined to linger there long that morntf n sm o Mr. Peyton's evident desire for'a m tXa £." T- 7 r?™' P'^°<='="P='i°° and capricious Jui o{ ace an?knit h *"f '".'" "'"'^ '"' <'-™"-'°