sity of California 
 ;hern Regional 
 >rary Facility 
 
 KATE and VIRGIL D. BOYLES
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS
 
 By the Same Authors 
 
 LANGFORD OF THE THREE 
 BARS. A Fighter of the Right 
 Sort. With pictures in color and 
 cover design by N. C. Wyeth. 
 Crown 8vo. Second Edition. $1.50. 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Standing thus, dumb, while twilight crept over all the land " 
 
 (Page ITS )
 
 THE 
 
 HOMESTEADERS 
 
 BY 
 KATE AND VIRGIL D. BOYLES 
 
 AUTHORS OF " LAKGFORD OF THE THREE BARS " 
 
 With Four Illustrations in Full Color by 
 MAYNARD DIXON 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 1909
 
 COPYRIGHT 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 
 1909 
 
 Published September 11, 190 
 Entered at Stationers Hall, London, England 
 
 AU Right* Retervcd 
 
 ?f)t I.ahri6r 
 R. R. DONNELLEY * SONS COMPANY 
 CHICAGO
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I JOSEPHINE CARROLL 11 
 
 II NEIGHBOR NUMBER Two 81 
 
 HE THE BEGINNING OF A QUARREL .... 47 
 
 IV ONJIJITKA 60 
 
 V A CHANCE ENCOUNTER AND A RESCUE . . 73 
 
 VI AT THE RANCH HOUSE OF THE SEVEN-UP . 88 
 
 VII ONJIJITKA MAKES A DISCOVERT .... 98 
 
 Vin CARROLL CALLS ON His NEIGHBOR . . . 112 
 
 IX UP THE MISSOURI 123 
 
 X THE CONTEST 138 
 
 XI THE BIG GULCH 163 
 
 XII HONOR AMONG THIEVES 181 
 
 XIII THE TRAGEDY AT THE HOMESTEAD . . . 208 
 
 XIV THE NEXT MORNING 230 
 
 XV THE LONG CHASE 242 
 
 XVI ONJIJITKA S LAMENT 251 
 
 XVII BURRINGTON JOINS THE CHASE .... 263 
 
 XVIII THE BROKEN KEY DESERTED 276 
 
 XIX HENRY CONFESSES 286 
 
 XX THE END OF THE LONG CHASE .... 306 
 
 XXI THE HOMESTEADER . 328 
 
 2134296
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Standing thus, dumb, while twilight crept over 
 all the land ". ..... Frontispiece 
 
 How do you do ? answered the stranger, in a 
 clear, sweet voice " . . . . .62 
 
 Saddle and rider shot through the air " . . 154 
 
 The young ranchman dealt death fairly and truly 
 to the slayer of his friend " .... 326
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 R the first time since she had come to the 
 Northwest country, Josephine Carroll felt 
 lonely. It was a strange feeling, under the 
 circumstances, and unexplainable. Jack was 
 there in that very room with his idle hands 
 clasped behind his head, his feet upon the window 
 sill, his gaze upon the near hills, seeing visions. 
 She had thought that when the old, close com 
 panionship, a year broken, should be renewed, 
 she could never be lonely again. It was the day 
 that made her restless, or the hills, perhaps. 
 More practical than Jack, she saw in those huge, 
 broken masses of gloomy, gumbo-stained hills, 
 piled high up into the cloudy dampness, only an 
 unaccountable freak of that age of unaccounta- 
 bilities when the waters receded from the land; 
 but more sensitive, she was the more depressed 
 by their overshadowing nearness. And the 
 
 [11]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 day it was far too warm for February, and 
 damp and close and still. There had been no 
 snow for days, and yet the dead, winter-bunched 
 grass on the steep slopes and in the wide valley 
 of the river looked heavy and sodden because of 
 the wetness in the air. Even the gaunt, bared 
 branches of the small cottonwoods, and the rusty 
 brown of the cedars that followed the course of 
 the ice-bound river and merged into the forest of 
 loftier elms and ancient, gigantic cottonwoods 
 of LaDue s Island, contributed their just quota 
 to the general gloom. The air was so still and 
 light that the sound of each echoed blow of the 
 axe in the hands of the island woodchopper came 
 rhythmically to the ears of the homesteaders. 
 
 Josephine sighed, and then, to cover the sound 
 of it, yawned slightly, and stooped to smooth 
 the ruffled fur of the big gray wolfskin rug 
 that lay on the floor by the fire. It was a strong 
 hand that stroked the stiff bristles into submissive 
 order, though finely formed and unaccustomed 
 to many things that they now found to do. 
 Josephine herself was strong with a fine strength 
 that showed itself in supple, assured movement, 
 and in the clear, steadfast eyes that had a trick 
 of looking at one sometimes so calmly and un- 
 
 [12]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 questioningly, and yet so straightforwardly, that 
 the effect was strangely disconcerting if one s 
 thought or motive were not altogether honest. 
 They were brown with deeps in them, yet were 
 not all of one color, but were made up of varying 
 shades of soft browns that made them beautiful. 
 Her hair was yellow very bright hair it was, 
 too, when the sun shone on it. She herself called 
 it red, and she wore it piled high upon her head 
 a proud head, with lifted chin. The lifted chin 
 gave one an erroneous impression of height 
 which Josephine secretly coveted. She was not 
 tall. On the contrary, she was really below the 
 medium; but she looked tall because of the 
 lifted chin and the high coils of shining hair. 
 Jack could have told, had he so willed, something 
 of her passion for height which was not a late 
 and passing fancy, by any means, but dated back 
 to the days of long ago, and had not been really 
 overcome until one day in the Summer just past. 
 Down on a particular old country place in the 
 South is a particular old orchard in which is a 
 particular gnarled old apple tree, nearly dead now 
 and with good reason. On her sixth birthday, 
 Josephine Carroll had suddenly conceived the 
 notion that she was an extremely important per- 
 
 [13]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 sonage in point of age. This conception was 
 quickly followed in a natural sequence of thought 
 by a consuming desire to know just how much 
 she lacked of being as tall as her mother, whom 
 she ardently longed to be like. She had immedi 
 ately confided this big longing to Jack, aged 
 nine, who was always ready with a way to help 
 her out of her childish difficulties. Oftentimes, 
 these ways proved to be the ways of a dreamer 
 and resulted unhappily; but Josephine always 
 forgot such times promptly. Her faith in Jack 
 was absolute. On this occasion, they were build 
 ing a play-house for the new birthday doll under 
 their own particular apple tree. Resourceful 
 Jack had at once scudded to the house for ham 
 mer and nails and had then driven a ten-penny 
 deep into the heart of the tree trunk just above 
 the tangled yellow hair of the ambitious little 
 maid. Darkly designing, they had then wheedled 
 their mother into the orchard under promise to 
 show her the new play-house. Smiling and un 
 suspicious, obeying an urgent entreaty, she 
 stood straight against the tree just to see if she 
 were not as tall as the crotch. She did not under 
 stand the childish ruse until she had unexpectedly 
 torn her dainty summer gown on a nail where 
 
 [14]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 no nail should have been and, glancing inquir 
 ingly at the children for explanation, had seen 
 the tears brimming in the eyes of one and had 
 heard the jeering, boyish crow of the other. 
 
 " Oh, me! But did n t you think you was big 
 just cause you had a birthday! I ll have one 
 Christmas and then I ll show you what it is to 
 be really big, sis. What a heap of growin you ll 
 have to do ! You 11 prob ly be as tall as mother 
 bout when you re forty and ready to die." 
 
 It had been a great disappointment for the 
 proud six-year-old. 
 
 "I ll tell you what to do, Josephine," the 
 mother had said, consolingly. "Every birth 
 day, you have Jack drive a new nail over your 
 head and we 11 see how many nails it takes before 
 you reach this one which I will drive in now and 
 which means me." 
 
 She had laughed merrily, the queenly young 
 mother, as with awkward fingers she drove in 
 the big nail ; and it had proved an alluring game 
 for the child until she was thirteen years old. 
 Early on this anniversary of her natal day, she 
 had stamped an impatient foot in chagrin at the 
 discouraging space of tree trunk left between her 
 last nail and that one away up there nearly to 
 
 [15]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 the crotch, which meant her mother. There had 
 been no one to see her outburst of temper but 
 Jack, and Jack at sixteen was more loyal than 
 he had been at nine ; so she had announced calmly 
 upon reentering the house that she should never 
 drive another nail it was so very childish she 
 was almost grown now, and, "I think I have 
 outgrown such babyish amusements, don t you, 
 mother?" she had asked sedately, and Jack had 
 only smiled. 
 
 Josephine had kept her word faithfully until 
 her twenty-fourth birthday. She knew then that 
 there could never be a recurrence of the visits 
 to the old apple tree and she drove her last nail, 
 her eyes blinded with tears for her who had in 
 stituted the childish game to comfort a childish 
 sorrow, and who had gone from her since her last 
 birthday; and then she smiled through her tears 
 to see how much of a lack there yet was and 
 she was twenty-four years old that day. She 
 found a big stone that had served many different 
 purposes in the old housekeeping days, and 
 standing upon it, kissed the highest nail very 
 tenderly before going back into the house to 
 write to Jack that she would be ready to join him 
 on his claim at the beginning of the New Year. 
 
 [16]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 No, Josephine was not tall, although it may 
 be that her longing after the unattainable nail 
 had helped to give that little lift to her chin which 
 was forever giving the impression of greater 
 height than she possessed. 
 
 The wolfskin which she stroked and of which 
 Jack was so boyishly proud, because it was the 
 first big game he had brought down since coming 
 West, was the only carpet the bare little room af 
 forded, but there was a good flooring w r hich gave 
 the Southern boy s claim shanty an air of comfort 
 and substantiality that many another lacked in 
 those days of the early nineties. The brother, 
 who had not told the real reason for Josephine s 
 sudden aversion to a game of long ago, had 
 builded for her the best that he could, fifteen miles 
 from a railroad, with the river running between. 
 The house was squarely and compactly built of 
 logs and there were two rooms and an attic. He 
 meant to stay and he wanted very much that 
 Josephine should stay, too. For this, his old 
 friends and neighbors in the South called him a 
 visionary, while his new friends and neighbors of 
 the West called him more or less good-naturedly 
 a tenderfoot and a pilgrim. There were those, 
 too, who designated him by even harsher names 
 
 [17]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 than these, deeming it criminal incompetency to 
 bring a gentlewoman to this land, bleak with 
 Winter. But neither Jack nor Josephine cared 
 a whit what anybody said or thought concerning 
 this affair that they held to be entirely their own. 
 Not only was Josephine determined to stay, but 
 she had also filed on the quarter adjoining Jack s 
 on the north and meant to live there when the 
 time came. 
 
 The wind arose along in the afternoon of this 
 traditionally warm day in February. It was a 
 warm, fawning wind out of the southwest until 
 it suddenly whipped around to the northwest, a 
 signal for the experienced to look well to their 
 woodboxes and coalbins and to gather their fam 
 ilies in from herd and barn and country school. 
 The wind increased in volume steadily, and pres 
 ently it began to snow. Not until then did John 
 Calhoun Carroll, late a gentleman of the Atlantic 
 seaboard, now a homesteader in the wonderful 
 hill region lying west of the Missouri River, turn 
 his eyes, brown like Josephine s, from their 
 dreamy contemplation of these same hills, re 
 luctantly, and, stifling a yawn, arise to his feet. 
 
 "There is a storm coming, Jo," he said, care 
 lessly. "I think I had better ride after the cattle 
 
 [18]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 and get them safely in the corral before it gets 
 any worse." 
 
 Had n t you better let them shift for them 
 selves to-night?" asked Josephine, a tiny line of 
 concern wrinkling her forehead. "Look, Jack! 
 It is snowing so hard that the hills are almost 
 blotted out already." 
 
 "All the more reason why I should be up and 
 doing," said Jack, cheerfully. "Let them be 
 blotted from sight ; just so the Broken Key be not 
 blotted from existence." 
 
 "Well, if you must " said Josephine, reluc 
 tantly, "but I do hate to see you go. Here, tie 
 up your throat, button your overcoat up tight, 
 and be sure to hold your head down and do not 
 swallow any snow wind," she cautioned, solici 
 tously. 
 
 Jack laughed. He had always laughed at 
 Josephine s solicitudes, even in the old days. But 
 he liked them. He had always liked them; but 
 he liked them more than ever after a year s 
 yearning through voluntary exile. The rude 
 door slammed behind him violently, caught by a 
 quick, resistless shock of wind that came nosing 
 warningly down the valley of the great, bleak, 
 frozen river. With a laugh of indifference, Jack 
 
 [19]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 ran Math the wind to the corral, saddled and 
 bridled his own particular cow pony, flung him 
 self into the saddle, bent his head and began 
 forcing his way northward through the driving 
 snow to the succor of fifty head of Broken Key 
 cattle, winter-grazing beyond the big gulch three- 
 quarters of a mile away. 
 
 Josephine, watching at the small, square win 
 dow, saw her brother disappear into the white 
 void of the storm to the north and then the chill 
 in the room crept to her heart and remained there. 
 It grew steadily colder. The fine, driving snow 
 beat and swirled against the window, and, drift 
 ing in, lay unmelted upon the sill. Conscious at 
 last of the increasing cold, she replenished the 
 fire, stuffing huge sticks of driftwood into the 
 stove till the fire roared and crackled and went 
 rumbling up the chimney, lured to a mad revelry 
 of abandoned spirits by the persistent call of the 
 storm fiend. The renewed warmth did not heal 
 Josephine s restlessness. She put on the tea 
 kettle with some vague idea of an early supper, 
 though night was yet far distant. When it was 
 singing bravely away, making a gallant effort to 
 outwit the pervading gloom, she sat down with 
 her darning materials, but paused dismayed be- 
 
 [20]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 fore the immensity of the yawning discrepancies 
 in the heels of Jack s hose. Poor old Jack, 
 there had been no one to mend for him all these 
 many months ; but it was far too gigantic a task 
 for her to undertake now with that terrible wind 
 pounding on her nerves. The work dropped 
 from her idle fingers and fell to the floor. 
 
 When an hour had passed, she went to the 
 window again, where a trembling seized her. 
 What had become of the sheds and the corral and 
 all the trees! Not even a dark, indistinct blur 
 of them showed through the dead white pall that 
 lay between and Jack had not yet returned. 
 She opened the door hurriedly and stepped out. 
 She was immediately engulfed in a choking whirl 
 of icy snow that blinded and strangled her, while 
 a wild gust of wind driving down from the hills 
 and sweeping around the corner of the house 
 caught her unawares and forced her to her knees. 
 Gasping, she crept back into the house, glad in 
 her heart for the cosy strength of its stanchly 
 constructed walls that scarcely shook in the grasp 
 of the mad wind. Hitherto she had been vaguely 
 uneasy because of Jack s long absence, but now 
 she became seriously alarmed. She began to 
 realize that this was no common storm. 
 
 [21]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 When another half-hour had passed away and 
 still Jack had not returned, the conviction stole 
 coldly over her that her brave young pioneer 
 brother, the last of his name, with whom and for 
 whom she had so unhesitatingly chosen to cast in 
 her lot in this big, lonesome Northwest country, 
 was either lost or some serious accident had be 
 fallen him. Nothing else could have kept him so 
 long away from her while this strange, terrifying 
 storm was screaming outside. What could she 
 do? Go in search of him? The heartbreaking 
 uselessness of such a course, when she remembered 
 how savagely and instantly she had been choked 
 back when she but stepped outside the door, 
 whitened her face with apprehension and brought 
 hot tears of impotent rebellion to her eyes. Per 
 haps her island neighbor might help her. It was 
 a comforting thought this one that she was not 
 altogether alone in this infinity of blank white 
 ness. The island was not really an island, after 
 all, in winter time when the water was low. She 
 should not have to cross any ice at all if she 
 could only find the way. She had never been 
 there nor had she ever seen the woodchopper, but 
 she knew w r here his log cabin was one could see 
 the light of it at night when the forest was bare, 
 
 [22]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 and she knew also the law of the hanging latch 
 string in the plains country. More than all, she 
 knew that she could no longer sit idle and 
 sheltered while Jack battled for his very breath, 
 maybe, out there in the swirl of the snow. Even 
 if she died for it, she must do something. She 
 had heard Jack say that Frank LaDue was an 
 old-timer surely then he knew the ways of such 
 storms as this one and would know how to go 
 about instituting a search for a missing man. If 
 she could only find the way! Well, at least she 
 could try to find it. 
 
 She went about her preparations very care 
 fully. She had felt the icy touch of the storm 
 once and it had not been a pleasant experience. 
 She put on her riding leggings, overshoes, and 
 heavy jacket, wrapped her head and throat well 
 in a big shaw r l, stuffed the stove full again from 
 the dwindling pile of driftwood, opened the door 
 and stepped out. Instantly, her mouth and eyes 
 were filled with the fine driving ice particles and 
 she was forced to steady herself by holding des 
 perately to the door knob while she tried to cough 
 up the cold wind and snow that was choking her. 
 Before making a fresh start, she let the shawl 
 fall over her face and found breathing easier, 
 
 [23]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 although now she must needs pick her way from 
 memory and intuition northward along the river, 
 then across the rough, dry bed of the slough, and 
 again northward into the heart of the heavily 
 timbered island, in the teeth of the wind almost 
 all the way. 
 
 Many, many times she stumbled and fell, but 
 always she picked herself up and fought on. 
 Sometimes she put back the shawl from before 
 her face in order not to lose her slight knowledge 
 of location. Always she held her course close 
 to the trees along the bank in order to keep the 
 direction. She was soon very tired. She won 
 dered if she might not lie down and rest for a 
 minute. It would give her strength to press on. 
 She fought this drowsy inclination desperately 
 for a long time, but it would have conquered her 
 presently had she not been all at once conscious 
 of a slight surcease in the beat of the ice- 
 impregnated air against her and wonderingly saw 
 before her a dim dark outline showing but haunt - 
 ingly through the heavy meshes of the curtain 
 of the storm. When she realized that this must 
 be the house she was seeking, she gave a little 
 sob of relief and went stumblingly up to the 
 door. It was opened almost instantly. 
 
 [24]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 "Blamed if it ain t you!" said the owner of the 
 shanty, wonderingly, and as if the dishevelled 
 and exhausted young creature on his doorstep 
 had been very lately in his musings. He stared 
 at her curiously, regardless of the biting and 
 laden wind that pushed its way into the room, 
 snapped at some saucepans on the table and sent 
 them crashing to the floor. 
 
 "I think I had better I think you must 
 let me in," said Josephine, stammeringly, glanc 
 ing forlornly at the big figure in the doorway, 
 so effectually shutting in the longed-for warmth 
 of the untidy, bachelor room. 
 
 "Why, sure, what am I thinkin about? Come 
 along in and thaw yourself out there by the fire," 
 said Frank LaDue, after a hesitation that was 
 not perceptible to Josephine because of her over 
 powering fatigue. "I call that downright ornery 
 in me to keep a poor little frost-bitten doggie like 
 you standin out in this blizzard, I do for a fact. 
 Just herd your feet up there to the stove and 
 make yourself to home." 
 
 Josephine crept in gladly and sank down upon 
 a chair w r hile a pleasing stupor gradually stole 
 over her senses. She was speedily brought back 
 to the present, however, by her host, who was 
 
 [25]
 
 . THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 somewhat roughly demanding of her an expla 
 nation of the fool s errand that had brought her 
 out in the blizzard. He still stood, and standing, 
 seemed a colossal figure indeed to the girl crouch 
 ing by the rusty but roaring stove. His size and 
 general air of capability inspired her with hope. 
 His head almost reached the low, dingy ceiling. 
 His hands were jammed down into his trousers 
 pockets. Josephine sprang up, her lethargy slip 
 ping from her in the shock of her momentarily 
 forgotten but now vividly remembered purpose. 
 
 "Mr. LaDue, it is Jack," she began earnestly. 
 "He started after the cattle, oh, a long time ago 
 -hours ago, I think and he has not come 
 home. He is lost in this terrible storm. He can 
 never find his way through it. He does not know 
 anything about your kind of storms they are 
 so awful. Oh, if he had only stayed safely at 
 home! What did the cattle matter?" 
 
 "Which goes to show that all the id jits ain t 
 dead yet," said the islander, with what seemed 
 like heartless indifference, taking his hands 
 from his pockets only long enough to roll and 
 light a cigarette. "Unless he is already laid out 
 flat in some gully where he stopped to rest." 
 
 "And it would be useless for me to try to find 
 
 [26]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL . 
 
 him," said Josephine, shuddering wofully because 
 of what LaDue had just said. 
 
 "You are right there, my girl," said LaDue, 
 "it would be worse than useless. If he can t find 
 his way, he surely can t expect a slip of a woman 
 critter to find it for him. Like enough he 11 come 
 out of it all right anyway. So stop worryin about 
 it, and you can bunk right here by the fire to 
 night and in the mornin you can skin across the 
 slough good and early and I ll bet you find him 
 safe and sound in bed, wonderin where the devil 
 you are. Take off your duds and I 11 get supper 
 ready." 
 
 "I thought I hoped " faltered Josephine, 
 and stopped. Controlling herself, she went on 
 with a quiet dignity. "I had thought that per 
 haps to you who have lived in this country so 
 many years this might not be so dreadful a 
 storm after all. I have made a mistake. I do 
 not ask anything of you. I must go myself." 
 She started for the door a little blindly. 
 
 "Why did n t you say that was what you was 
 after in the beginning?" demanded her host, 
 gruffly. "There ain t no more use in my huntin 
 for that there tenderfoot in this blizzard than 
 there d be in lookin for an unbranded calf after 
 
 [271
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 an Injun had been hangin round for a spell, and 
 that s as strong an argument as I can put up. 
 No tellin where in thunder he is by this time. 
 Anyway, his chances o showin up safe and 
 sound are a damned sight better than yours or 
 mine would be o runnin down that yearlin and 
 ropin him in this cussed storm. He comes with 
 the wind, but we d have to face it, and God 
 A mighty knows nobody could stand that long. 
 Supposin I managed to make the gulch he d 
 ten to one have passed me on the way. Frank 
 LaDue ain t no coward but he s only got one 
 life to live and he don t believe in throwin it 
 away on a fool s errand." 
 
 "Please do not think that I ask or expect - 
 any man to risk his life for a forlorn hope," said 
 Josephine, with a trembling voice. "I came to 
 you because I did not know the situation was 
 so desperate and there was no one else." 
 She wrapped her shawl about her and again 
 started for the door. 
 
 "You ain t goin out again, are you? Say, 
 I don t like that. You d better stay. If you get 
 lost, that kid 11 have to answer for the death o 
 both o you. You would n t like that, would you ? 
 This ain t no country for green kids and women, 
 
 [28]
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL 
 
 nohow. It beats the devil how some folks think 
 they can cut away from everything they ve been 
 used to and educated for, just set down on a 
 God-forsaken prairie in Winter that they don t 
 know nothin about, fold their white hands and 
 expect bread and butter to come a-walkin up to 
 em on legs and pop down their gullets like a 
 snake-charmed bird without puttin them to the 
 trouble o chewin , even. They feel hurt if it 
 does n t come jest that easy. Some folks seem to 
 think good money grows on bushes out in this 
 here country. Well, mebbe t would if there were 
 any bushes for it to grow on. Snow banks and 
 baked grass and dry sand don t make a first-rate 
 soil for that kind o crop. But about the kid. 
 If you don t find him at home in the morning, 
 well, there s no earthly way o helpin it and 
 no one to blame but himself. You stay here to 
 night. That s the advice of an old-timer and it s 
 free." 
 
 Without a word in reply, but with a sob in her 
 throat, Josephine turned and left him. He fol 
 lowed her to the door and watched her as the 
 storm caught her up and whirled her into its 
 midst. There was the same curious smile upon 
 his face that had been there when he confronted 
 
 [29]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 this girl on his threshold. When she had disap 
 peared into the swirl, he shut the door and sat 
 down upon the chair Josephine had so lately 
 vacated. Presently, he arose, reached for his hat, 
 twirled it around undecidedly, sat down again, 
 rolled and lighted a fresh cigarette, got up, 
 slouched to the door as if still undecided, and put 
 his hand upon the knob. 
 
 As for Josephine, she made her way with great 
 difficulty back to the house. Jack was not there. 
 Early night was closing in. The room was fast 
 growing cold. She replenished the dying fire 
 mechanically, numb to all feeling but that a weak 
 and untried girl stood alone in a darkening world 
 to defy the cruel arrogance of the elements and 
 the cowardly helplessness of man. Although it 
 was not yet altogether night, she put a light in 
 the window, steeled herself anew against the 
 despair that was creeping over her, opened the 
 door and once more stepped outside. She turned 
 her face resolutely to the north to find Jack. 
 
 [30]
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 "D Y the time Jack reached the far side of the 
 gulch where the cattle were usually to be 
 found the storm was in full swing. The cold 
 was intense. The snow blinded and choked him. 
 The wind seemed possessed of seven devils in the 
 strength of its will not only to halt his further 
 progress, but to force him back over the way he 
 had just come, for every inch of which he had 
 fought doggedly and persistently. The like of 
 such a winter storm he had never seen or felt 
 before, but he pressed on undaunted by its 
 strange intensity. 
 
 He was a slender young fellow, but was knit 
 together with muscular litheness and was perhaps 
 as much at home in the saddle as any denizen of 
 the range, barring dexterity with the rope. He 
 had begun riding at an early age when his 
 slim brown legs scarcely reached the beginning 
 of the downward curve of the broad-backed farm 
 horses, as he rode them to water by grace of the 
 
 [31]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 farm hands, who always liked the daring little 
 chap well. The training thus early begun was 
 continued through the later years, when his father 
 allowed him to ride the hunters, only occasionally 
 at first; after a while, whenever and wherever 
 it pleased him. He had not been long in the 
 cattle country before he discovered that there 
 was a vast difference in temperament and train 
 ing between a Kentucky hunter and a range- 
 bred, mongrel cayuse, but he did not hesitate 
 in adapting himself to the changed conditions 
 in horse flesh and soon had as complete a mastery 
 over the obstinate whims of his cow ponies as he 
 had ever possessed over the daintier fancies of 
 his thoroughbreds of the past. He was a good 
 rider. Seasoned cowmen granted him that dis 
 tinction ungrudgingly. He had yet to prove his 
 "staying qualities." It was generally consid 
 ered only a question of a little time when the 
 "young un" should have fretted away his lim 
 ited stock of endurance and have slipped away 
 in a night and the wide spaces would know him 
 no more. 
 
 Jack himself had no doubts or qualms shadow 
 ing his future. Even the gloom and menace of 
 the storm pressing around him left his sunny 
 
 [32]
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 spirit unterrorized. It did not occur to him for a 
 long time that he was in serious personal danger. 
 Although he could scarcely see an animal six 
 feet away, he was conscious of no premoni 
 tory dread for his own safety. If he could 
 only round up his whole bunch which was not 
 so many but that one choked down and left 
 behind would be a serious misfortune and get 
 it safely headed for home, he had not the shadow 
 of a misgiving as to his own ability to find his 
 way with the ice-laden wind at his back instead 
 of cutting and slapping and tearing away at his 
 face and driving down his throat. 
 
 He could not be sure that he had all of his 
 cattle when he finally headed for home, but he 
 was growing strangely tired all at once, and 
 some way it did n t seem to matter so much as it 
 did a while ago, whether his herd was saved 
 intact or whether two or three dropped by the 
 wayside. Cattle were only cattle anyway. He 
 found himself thinking, with the morbid pathos 
 of one forever on the outside, of Josephine s 
 fireside, of the warm glow from the open 
 drafts of the stove, of the good smell of sizzling 
 bacon and the taste of the flapjacks browned 
 in its gravy. It began to seem to him as he 
 
 [33]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 plodded drowsily along that these things, de 
 licious as they were, belonged to a far distant 
 past, a past of dreams, unreal, fast slipping 
 away, while he himself must just trudge along 
 and along through the cold, blinding, heart 
 less swirl of the snow. He shook himself 
 savagely, resenting the physical weakness that 
 directed his thoughts into such morbid channels. 
 Through the white void, he could see dim, dark 
 shapes plunging ahead, now appearing, now dis 
 appearing, like frolicsome ghosts of haunted 
 slumber, the shrieking of the gale covering up 
 the sound of their running footfalls. The rain 
 of the morning had now frozen into the ground, 
 which presented a hard, smooth surface, over 
 which the snow was blown furiously, skipping 
 into the air again, finding but little resting place 
 on the glassy level. In places, however, it had 
 begun to drift, especially in the gulches and 
 washouts. So completely was everything blotted 
 out by the storm that the first intimation Jack 
 had that he had reached the big gulch on his 
 return journey was when his cow pony with ac 
 customed feet took the first downward slip of 
 the steep incline. There was considerable drift 
 in -the gulch through which the horse floundered 
 
 [S4l
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 gallantly while Jack gave him the rein and 
 trusted to his instinct to pick up the trail on the 
 other side of the drift. 
 
 "Suffering Moses!" cried Jack, suddenly and 
 sharply, as he felt the first shock of the stumble. 
 He jerked the loosened rein quickly, but it was 
 too late. At some time, water had washed out 
 an ugly hole on one side of the path in the bot 
 tom of the gulch. Jack had known that it was 
 there. So doubtless had his horse; but in the 
 blinding storm it was impossible to see it or to 
 locate its position definitely. Into this washout 
 the pony stumbled and horse and rider were 
 thrown violently to the ground. The horse 
 scrambled up quickly, but Jack lay quite still 
 for a moment, the sudden, sharp pain that seemed 
 to originate in his right leg and then to spread 
 instantaneously over his whole body, obliterating 
 all sense of everything but the sense of its own 
 agony. It was not for long. Through the mists 
 of his fast creeping numbness, one thought stood 
 forth startlingly clear, and that was the absolute 
 hopelessness of his situation should his horse 
 leave him and go home alone. The thought 
 spurred him to a desperate reach for the bridle 
 rein. It was too late. The horse, apparently 
 
 [35]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 unhurt, had scrambled to its feet and before Jack 
 could prevent gave a lunge forward and started 
 up the other side of the gulch. 
 
 "You you traitor," cried Jack, aloud, and 
 fell back upon his bed of snow, despairing, yet 
 with a half smile on his lips as if to him there 
 was something comical in the contemplation of 
 his utter helplessness. He was of a people to 
 whom personal fear was a crime; but he was 
 also of a people who never gave up till they 
 had to. He was in intense pain he thought 
 his leg must be broken a pain that made his 
 eyes filmy with unseeing so that it was not the 
 snow alone that blinded him. Even breathing 
 was pain, for he was choked by the cutting snow. 
 But he did not intend to lie there and freeze to 
 death without an effort to prove the futility of 
 all effort. Perhaps he might even crawl the rest 
 of the way home. He should at least try it 
 just as soon as he recovered a little from the 
 shock of his fall and the pain of his broken leg. 
 Three-quarters of a mile through fast drifting 
 snow did not present a very hopeful outlook, but 
 there was nothing else left to do. There was 
 no one to help him in all the world except Jose 
 phine. There was no one to miss him or even to 
 
 [36]
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 know that he needed help except Josephine. 
 The island woodchopper was the only man on this 
 side of the river for many a mile, and there was no 
 earthly way of his knowing his neighbor s plight. 
 The scant half-mile that separated their cabins 
 might just as well have been ten for all the 
 comfort or aid one could count on in this isola 
 ting storm. How could LaDue know that he 
 had ridden into the void when he, Jack, could 
 scarcely discern one of his own creatures six 
 feet away? No, there was only Josephine, and 
 the trouble was that Josephine would be sure 
 to start out in search of him after a while. If it 
 were not for that, perhaps he might snuggle 
 down in the soft snow and rest and perhaps 
 sleep until morning, or at least until the storm 
 fell away he was so very tired but always 
 there was Josephine. She would start out there 
 was nothing on earth that could prevent Jose 
 phine s coming to look for him he knew Jo. 
 When night came and he had not returned, 
 she would come. There was not a doubt of it in 
 the world. But she would never find him. She 
 would get lost herself and die in the storm before 
 ever she could come anywhere near the gulch. 
 Even if she realized the utter foolhardiness of her 
 
 [37]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 action, still would she come. For this reason, 
 he must crawl home before she started out if 
 he could. He shook off the growing lassitude 
 that was fast fettering his limbs, summoned all 
 his powers of endurance to his aid, and began 
 the slow, tortuous climb up the side of the 
 gulch, dragging his useless leg painfully after 
 him. 
 
 He had almost gained the level when he slip 
 ped, lost his hold, and slid back almost to the bot 
 tom again. Even then he gripped his self-control 
 so tightly that his will prevented him from losing 
 consciousness, although he was dizzy with pain 
 and laboring for breath and altogether exhausted 
 after the gigantic effort he had made and its 
 failure. He was in desperate straits. He knew 
 it well. He had known it from the moment his 
 grasp had fallen short of the dangling bridle 
 rein. There had been a fighting chance only. 
 He had taken it and failed. The only point to 
 be considered now was whether or not there was 
 any way to keep oneself from freezing to death 
 until the storm abated. It would probably fall 
 away towards morning. Not that it mattered 
 much only on account of Josephine. Always 
 the thought of Josephine caused him to struggle 
 
 [38]
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 free of the almost overpowering desire to just 
 lie still and rest. 
 
 All at once, his listless gaze, in which there was 
 no hope, was caught and held by the dark blur 
 of an overhanging bank on the north side of the 
 gulch and a very short distance away. He knew 
 by the distinctness with which he could see its 
 outlines through the white that the snow was 
 drifting in front of it, leaving the hollow bare and 
 helping to form a sort of cave where he might 
 find shelter from the snow and wind that is, if 
 he could only get there. 
 
 He did get there at last, and lay white and 
 panting close up to the dirt side on the north, 
 free from the cruel beat of the wind and bite 
 of the snow for the first time since the door 
 of the Broken Key had slammed behind him 
 hours ago. The relief was intense. It was 
 not for long, however. The cold was bitter 
 and he had so little strength left with which to 
 fight it. His little sister Jo could never find him 
 away up here never and how could he ever 
 see her when she came into the gulch in search of 
 him if she was able to get so far ? Well, if he died 
 and Jo did not, there was this comforting 
 thought which he meant to hug to himself after a 
 
 [39]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 while to make the end easier there were no bet 
 ter men nor more manly in all the wide world 
 than the men of the range. They would see to 
 it that little Jo went safely home again when it 
 was all over. Suffering Moses! How cold it 
 was ! Funny how sleepy he was when it was not 
 even dark as yet. Thank God, the pain in his 
 leg had ceased. It was probably not broken 
 after all. Suddenly he laughed a low, whimsical 
 laugh at his own expense. He had actually been 
 afraid that he was going to die he had even 
 nearly whimpered in maudlin self-pity because he 
 had to die so uselessly when instead of dying, he 
 was merely going to sleep. He had mistaken the 
 feeling. He was sleepy, sleepy, sleepy, that was 
 all not dying. 
 
 "Halloo oo ! Halloo oo ! Hal- 
 loo o o !" 
 
 It was a faint cry at first, but it grew steadily 
 louder. Sometimes it seemed to come from one 
 direction, sometimes from another exactly oppo 
 site. Sometimes it was loud and piercing as if 
 cried directly at the heap of drifted snow up 
 under the dark, overhanging bank. Again, it was 
 fainter, as if cried down the valley and borne 
 away on the wind. But always it grew stronger. 
 
 [40]
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 "Halloo oo ! Halloo oo ! Hal 
 loo oo !" 
 
 It was a weird cry, sounding through the fast 
 gathering gloom. 
 
 "Halloo oo ! Halloo oo ! Hal 
 loo o o !" 
 
 It was repeated many, many times before it 
 gradually dawned upon the failing senses of the 
 young homesteader that this thing that he heard 
 and had been hearing so long was not a phantasy 
 of a disordered brain, but a human voice, smoth 
 ered and unnatural, maybe, because of the thick, 
 undulating blanket it was compelled to penetrate, 
 but a human voice none the less and a man s 
 voice at that. No woman least of all, Josephine 
 had lung power to sustain so vigorous and pro 
 longed a calling, storm-beaten as she would be 
 after having come so far. He lay another minute 
 after his big discovery, wondering drowsily what 
 the man wanted. Doubtless he was lost, too. 
 Funny that he himself in like straits had never 
 thought to call for help. Perhaps the utter use- 
 lessness of it all had restrained him unconsciously. 
 He had never once thought to call aloud and yet 
 here was a fellow creature yelling lustily for suc 
 cor and there was some one to hear him. Per- 
 
 [41]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 haps had he called - He lay for another full 
 minute, idly pitying the man s plight before the 
 thought came to him that it might perhaps be 
 well to give the poor fellow an answering hail. 
 He had found good shelter. He would share it. 
 He sat up dizzily, found that he could not bear 
 the new position, and fell back again. The effort 
 had taken all his reserve strength and he lay very 
 quiet for a long time, placidly deaf to that in 
 sistent " Halloo o o - out there in the 
 swirl of the storm. 
 
 "Halloo o o ! Halloo o o o ! 
 Halloo o o o ! Jack ! " 
 
 Was it possible that the man said "Jack"? 
 Why, Jack was his own name. Once more he 
 struggled to a sitting posture. 
 
 "Halloo o !" he cried, weakly, conscious 
 that the cry which gave him so much pain and 
 effort to make was riddled and blown to pieces 
 long before it reached half way down the 
 gulch. 
 
 "Halloo o !" he cried again, striving des 
 perately to make his voice carry. "Halloo o 
 o ! Halloo oo ! Halloo o o !" 
 With each repetition, his voice grew stronger 
 until at last it was heard, for, "Halloo, 
 
 [42]
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 where are you?" came the shouted question im 
 mediately after his last call. 
 
 "Halloo here north bank just over 
 his voice died away. 
 
 "Halloo, there, keep calling I can t find you 
 halloo o o ! Halloo o o ! Keep 
 calling!" 
 
 The words were fairly whipped from the 
 mouth of the seeker, for he was heading directly 
 up the north bank in the very face of the wind. 
 
 "Halloo o !" came a faint response and 
 then there were no more answers to the persistent 
 calling. It had grown very quiet up there on the 
 other side of the drift. 
 
 When Jack regained consciousness, there was 
 a comfortable feeling of warmth in his throat that 
 satisfied him for the time being. Soon he felt 
 with surprise that he was warm all over and ex 
 tremely comfortable only for that sharp, jumping 
 ache in his leg ; and, how easy it was to breathe ! 
 The storm must have fallen away. He opened 
 his heavy eyes. Josephine was softly chafing his 
 hands. He saw her before he realized that he 
 was lying upon his own bed and that the night 
 mare was ended. A brandy flask lay upon the 
 table by the bedside. A light flared and splut- 
 
 [43]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 tered in the window. Listening, he heard the 
 howling of the wind as it swept around the cor 
 ners of the house. It must be the night of the 
 same day, and yet he felt infinitely older. 
 
 "I think my leg is broken, Jo," he said, 
 faintly, and added, smilingly, "I m not a bird 
 nor a chicken nor a dog, but I reckon you ll have 
 to draw on your ancient experience in binding up 
 the wounds of our old pets and practise on me. 
 I m game. I promise not to faint. Let er go, 
 Gallagher!" He closed his eyes expectantly. 
 
 "A better one than I has done that for you 
 already, Jack, dear boy," said Josephine, turning 
 with a grateful smile to a weather-browned, mus 
 cular young fellow standing quietly by the fire. 
 "Your poor broken bones are all nicely set. You 
 lost consciousness, you know, up there under the 
 bank and the man who found you carried you 
 home and set your leg without your knowing any 
 thing about it. But you must n t talk any more, 
 Jack. You will work yourself into a fever if 
 you do." 
 
 "Lucky dog I to fall plunk into the path 
 of a doctor. How did it happen, Jo?" 
 
 "I do not think our friend I have n t learned 
 his name yet is a doctor. He just knew how. 
 
 [44]
 
 NEIGHBOR NUMBER TWO 
 
 Will you go to sleep if I tell you how it happened? 
 Promise me." 
 
 "All right. Let er go, Gallagher!" 
 
 His eyelids drooped with drowsiness. He saw 
 the big, still figure by the fire through a far- 
 removing haze of pain-coaxed sleep. 
 
 "I had left the house to look for you, Jack," 
 began Josephine, quietly, "but I had not gone 
 very far when I met this gentleman. He had 
 been caught in the storm and was hastening home, 
 but when he learned that you were lost he just 
 bundled me back into the house without any cere 
 mony at all, put up his horse and struck out after 
 you all alone Jack, these men of the West are 
 God s own " her voice broke a little "and he 
 found you and brought you back to me 
 and " 
 
 "That was mighty clever of you, LaDue," said 
 Jack, striving to keep awake until he had said 
 what he wanted to say. "You are a generous 
 man. I have not quite understood you. I hope 
 you will not hold it against me. Shake on it, 
 w r on t you?" 
 
 The stranger approached the bedside and took 
 the weak, extended hand in a warm, firm grasp. 
 
 "I am glad you are all right, Carroll," he said, 
 
 [45]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 quietly, "but your eyes play you false. You are 
 suffering much pain. It blinds you. I am not 
 LaDue, but Burrington. You remember Tom 
 Burrington of the Seven-up, don t you?" 
 
 [46]
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF A QUARREL 
 
 rilHE next day, rather early in the morning, the 
 storm having died in the night, a young 
 fellow with wide open, baby blue eyes, that soft 
 ened wonderfully the stalwart, self-reliant effect 
 of a pair of unusually broad shoulders, rode up to 
 the door of the Broken Key. 
 
 The Broken Key homestead-ranch had been 
 thus quaintly called because of a little incident 
 that had occurred shortly after young Carroll had 
 taken up residence on his claim. He had just re 
 turned one day in the late Summer from a long 
 ride to Yelpen for the mail and, the time being 
 ripe for choosing and registering a brand for his 
 newly acquired stock, was thinking deeply about 
 the subject when he suddenly broke his key in a 
 vain attempt to turn it in a plugged keyhole. He 
 had been very angry at first, but in the end had 
 reasoned that he himself had been much at fault. 
 He remembered having heard something, some 
 time, about the free-masonry that existed on the 
 range in regard to the unwritten law of the hang- 
 
 [47]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 ing latch string. It was very probable that some 
 one in passing had resented the inhospitality of 
 the locked door. He was genuinely sorry. He 
 should not forget again. That same week, he 
 perfected his design of a broken key and regis 
 tered it upon the books of the county. 
 
 "The Boss said you was in need of a hand, so 
 I thought I d just step up to see if I d do," said 
 the young fellow with the baby blue eyes on the 
 morning after the big storm. He was in manifest 
 confusion in the presence of Josephine. 
 
 "Aren t you rather young?" asked Jose 
 phine, hesitatingly. She had come to the door in 
 a morning gown of small-checked blue gingham 
 and her unexpected daintiness served to enhance 
 visibly the young man s embarrassment. 
 
 "Bless you," he grinned, awkwardly, "I ve 
 been punchin cows and wranglin horses since I 
 was knee-high-to-a-grasshopper. That s my 
 business, Misses." 
 
 "Are you quite sure that you are old enough 
 to vote ?" asked Josephine, smiling at his boyishly 
 expressed self-esteem. 
 
 "You bet I am. Why, Misses, I ain t no year- 
 lin nor yet a two-year old. I cut my eye teeth 
 ages ago. Besides, I come from Texas. The 
 
 [48]
 
 A QUARREL 
 
 babes know how to herd down there and any old 
 time they d a mind to call your Northern bluff at 
 ranchin they d make you look exactly plumb like 
 a balloon with a hole in it." 
 
 All at once, his brief while of easy self- 
 assertiveness passed away and it was as if it had 
 never been. The laugh died while a vacant, wist 
 ful look crept into his eyes. 
 
 "Please, Misses, take me," he said, coaxingly, 
 like a child. 
 
 "And you say Mr. Burrington sent you?" 
 questioned Josephine, trying to be wise and 
 business-like for Jack s sake. 
 
 "He said your man was thrown and would 
 have to lay off for a spell and he said I could come 
 and help you out if I wanted to and you was 
 agreeable. He said you had n t asked for no help 
 but he knew you needed it and I could stay as 
 long as you wanted me to and my place d be 
 waitin for me at the Seven-up when you was 
 through with me. I been punchin for the Boss 
 for a year." 
 
 "Well, I reckon you may stay until my brother 
 is able to ride again," said Josephine. "Many 
 of the cattle have strayed " 
 
 "Oh, and I was to tell you that some of your 
 
 [49]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 cattle was found feedin with a Seven-up bunch 
 on the home range this mornin and that you 
 ain t to worry about em because they are all 
 right where they are and the Boss 11 take care 
 of em," interrupted the new hand, importantly. 
 
 The rest need to feed. Will you see to them 
 now?" asked Josephine, quietly. 
 
 It was thus that Henry Hoffman became a 
 temporary resident of Jack Carroll s homestead. 
 
 Three tedious weeks passed before the young 
 Southerner was able even to make use of crutches. 
 A doctor had come out from Velpen the third 
 day after the accident, had approved cordially 
 of Tom Burrington s amateur surgery, rebound 
 the break, and had then left the patient to make 
 his gallant fight with Josephine s help, only, 
 against much pain and fever and delirium and 
 the deadly weariness of inactivity. At the end 
 of that time, he arose from his bed, hobbled pain 
 fully to the window and looked out, yearningly. 
 Warm weather was fast setting in. There was a 
 feeling of Spring in the air, though the gulches 
 and draws were yet full of snow. The loftier 
 hilltops only had thrust their crests, brown and 
 brooding, from out the white-streaked under 
 world. Tier after tier of these sombre-capped 
 
 [50]
 
 A QUARREL 
 
 hills lay between the edge of the bottom land and 
 the high horizon. 
 
 "To-morrow, Josephine, I ride to the Seven- 
 up and bring back our strays. Yes, to-morrow 
 sees me in the saddle again. You need not smile 
 in such a superior fashion, Jo. I shall surely 
 go if I want to." He was smiling, well-knowing 
 his absolute inability to make his rash assertion 
 good but how he longed for the feel of leather 
 between his knees once more ! He thrummed on 
 the pane with his thin hands impatiently. 
 
 "Why worry about the cattle?" asked Jose 
 phine, calmly. "Mr. Burrington sends us word 
 that they are doing very well with his herd. You 
 ought to be thankful that they drifted into such 
 comfortable quarters during that terrible storm 
 when they might have run till they starved or 
 have fallen and frozen to death, instead of la 
 menting the fact that you cannot have your eyes 
 upon them all the time. Next week, perhaps, 
 if you take care of yourself, you may be able 
 to ride to the Seven-up after your storm-strays. 
 To-morrow, you may- she paused, tan- 
 talizingly. To-morrow, you may hobble 
 down to the barn," she concluded, as one grant 
 ing a favor. 
 
 [51]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "We ll see," grumbled the sick man, rebel- 
 liously. 
 
 But when to-morrow came, he was content to 
 take his crutches and hobble down to the barn. 
 A few more brown peaks on the lower tiers had 
 poked their heads free of the white blankets. 
 The season of melting weather had begun in 
 earnest. A horse in the ash sapling corral whin 
 nied softly in pleased recognition of his long 
 absent master. It was he who had deserted on 
 the night of the big storm, but he was glad to feel 
 the familiar presence again. He put out his nose 
 for Jack to stroke and rubbed against his shoulder 
 caressingly. The barnyard premises seemed 
 otherwise deserted. The boy, Henry Hoffman, 
 was out with the remnant of the herd. The young 
 Texan had proved himself a good workman in 
 spite of his apparent youthfulness. The home 
 steaders would have been glad to retain his ser 
 vices for an indefinite period had their resources 
 warranted it. Resting his arms idly on the pal 
 ings, drinking in the soft air with lazy content, 
 Jack was presently aware that his horse was not 
 the only other creature near. From the south 
 side of the haystack every now and then came a 
 glint of red. He watched it come and go with 
 
 [52]
 
 A QUARREL 
 
 indolent curiosity. It was not long before a red 
 head with soft brown eyes appeared around the 
 stack and returned his gaze placidly, still munch 
 ing hay. 
 
 "Hello, there!" he said aloud, in surprise. 
 "Why are n t you out with the herd, young fel 
 low? Henry must be getting careless. Well, 
 stuff a-plenty now, for you won t get away again 
 in a hurry." 
 
 He picked up his crutches and prepared 
 to drive the straying calf into the protection of 
 the corral. 
 
 "By the great jumpin Jerusalem," he whis 
 tled, softly, "if the prodigal hasn t returned! 
 What a pity that in this instance the prodigal and 
 the fatted calf are one and the same person. It 
 would be funny, would n t it, to kill the fatted 
 calf to make a feast for this prodigal. Why, 
 are n t you the runaway, after all? " 
 
 The exclamation was called forth by the un 
 expected sight of a brand on the calf s side. One 
 evening, fully a month before the great storm, 
 this same calf, born the preceding Spring, had 
 failed to return with the herd. It had been run 
 ning with the cattle only a short time, as Jack had 
 kept it at home and fed it with his own hands 
 
 [53]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 after weaning it from its mother, whom he wanted 
 for a milch cow. He had never branded it. 
 
 "You ve been sowing some wild oats, I m 
 afraid, my lad," said Jack, "but I hope you have 
 learned your lesson and will be content to stay at 
 home in the future. Hello ! LaDue !" 
 
 The island woodchopper was riding slowly 
 by, apparently with no intention of halting, but 
 in answer to Jack s hail, he rode leisurely up to 
 the corral and threw one leg over the pommel 
 of his saddle and, thus resting, surveyed his 
 neighbor with careless curiosity. 
 
 "You see I m out again," said Jack, sociably 
 inclined. "I hope soon to be on my cowboy legs 
 again." 
 
 "You re lookin sort o peaked, pears to me," 
 said LaDue. 
 
 "Oh, that s just because Josephine has made 
 such a house plant of me since my accident," 
 explained Jack, with a smile. "That was a 
 tolerably good-sized blizzard, was n t it? I hope 
 you don t have many such." 
 
 "I was never out in a worse," said LaDue. 
 
 "Then you were out in it, after all," said Jack, 
 suddenly grown serious. "I did not know." 
 
 The man flushed through his heavy coat of 
 
 [54]
 
 A QUARREL 
 
 tan. He was oddly embarrassed. "I tried to 
 make the gulch after the girl left," he said, 
 slowly, "but it was so blamed uncomfortable 
 that I soon gave it up and came home. I 
 looked for you quite a spell." He spoke hesi 
 tatingly, as if he had not meant it to be known 
 that he had been out in the storm and was sorry 
 for his inadvertent admission. 
 
 : That was mighty good of you," said Jack, 
 earnestly. "I am glad that you tried. By the 
 way, LaDue," he continued, relapsing into good- 
 natured raillery. "I wish you d tell me how your 
 brand managed to stick on to my calf without so 
 
 c, / 
 
 much as a By your leave, kind sir. Pretty soon 
 I ll be accusing you of. cattle rustling if you 
 don t rope onto a good explanation." 
 
 "Your calf! Well, I like your nerve!" said 
 LaDue, laughing grimly, as he glanced critically 
 at the animal in the corral. "How do you make 
 that out, Carroll, when the calf is mine?" 
 
 "You must have branded him by mistake," 
 said Jack, still smiling, though a vague doubt 
 began stirring in his mind. He had never un 
 derstood his odd, profane neighbor. "Why, I 
 raised this fellow by hand, so to speak. I kept 
 him close to the house and barn after having him 
 
 [55]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 weaned and fed him myself until about a 
 month before the storm. I can t be mistaken, 
 LaDue," he concluded, boyishly. 
 
 "Neither can I," responded LaDue, a little 
 gruffly, "and I say that I raised that calf my 
 self. I cannot possibly be mistaken. You may 
 call me a cattle thief if you will. It s all one to 
 me. How did that calf get here?" 
 
 "He wandered here of his own free will, I 
 reckon," said Jack, perplexedly. "I found him 
 eating serenely away at my haystack yonder. 
 Most animals will come home finally if left to 
 themselves," he added, obstinately. 
 
 The man broke into a laugh of ironical amuse 
 ment. 
 
 "Say, kid, why didn t you brand your calf 
 while it was followin its mother? That s a habit 
 a cattleman gets into A mighty quick. Why 
 did n t you, eh?" 
 
 "Why, I just neglected it," said Jack, frankly. 
 "He was around the house all the time until he 
 was put into the herd and then I drove him in 
 with the rest of the cattle every night until he 
 was lost. I thought I could keep track of him, all 
 right. I meant to brand him after the Spring 
 round-up." 
 
 [56]
 
 A QUARREL 
 
 He was getting very tired and leaned heavily 
 against the fence, his face pale and thin, his brown 
 eyes luminous with the fever of fatigue. 
 
 "What a tale for cowmen! They don t do 
 business that way, Carroll. I don t, and I don t 
 pretend to be anything but a woodchopper. But 
 a man can t live among cattlemen without im- 
 bibin some of their goll-darned common sense. 
 Leastwise, I can t. I branded that there calf as 
 soon as I found him taggin his mother. It s the 
 safest way, friend." Suddenly, he leaned down 
 with an unexpected touch of friendliness in his 
 gruff voice. "I m sorry," he said, with grave 
 significance, "if you have really lost a calf, but 
 I m sorrier if you haven t. The boys don t 
 stand for no foolin , and you re pretty young, kid. 
 They d be rather rough with you. Don t begin 
 it, young fellow. I m in earnest. Get out of the 
 country if you can t make a livin no other way- 
 but whatever you do, don t begin it. I don t 
 hold this against you, you re young and green - 
 I can understand. But take my advice and get 
 out." 
 
 "Of course, LaDue," said Jack, wearily he 
 was very tired now, "I do not want to quarrel 
 with you; so, although I am positive the calf is 
 
 [57]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 mine, you may take him if you like. There is 
 some mistake. I do not doubt that you are 
 honest in your belief, but neither do I doubt my 
 own eyes. Take him. He is yours now at any 
 rate. We will say no more about it. Only- " a 
 sudden flash lighted up his tired eyes "don t 
 call me a cattle thief again, neighbor. I might - 
 resent it, you know. So long." 
 
 LaDue looked curiously at the younger man 
 for a moment. He shrugged his shoulders tol 
 erantly. 
 
 "Good," he said, briefly. "I like your grit, 
 anyway. Fight it out for yourself if you will." 
 
 He opened the gate of the corral, drove out 
 the disputed calf, and then continued his 
 leisurely way islandwards, driving the calf be 
 fore him. 
 
 "You can prove it, Jack," said Josephine, in 
 dignantly, a little later, to Jack, who lay upon the 
 bed worn out after his first exertion. "Prose 
 cute him. We will have our own." 
 
 "That s the rub," said Jack, quietly. "We 
 cannot prove it and we are strangers in a strange 
 land. He may be as innocent as we are. It looks, 
 though, as if he had taken advantage of its being 
 
 [58]
 
 A QUARREL 
 
 unbranded, does n t it ? Well, the incident is 
 closed and we shall say no more about it. But 
 mark you, Jo, if it should ever happen again I 
 shall fight it out to the last ditch. Remember 
 that." 
 
 [59]
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ONJIJITKA 
 
 fT^HE following morning, Josephine rode up 
 into the hills to the west of the Broken Key 
 ranch. She rode astride, for Jack had insisted 
 that she ride so. The hills to be climbed were 
 high, and the ways to their summits were steep. 
 The gulches were deep and narrow, and the cut 
 aways ugly. Many a deceptive washout lay 
 concealed behind some innocent-looking cedar 
 sapling or bunch of the hard-leaved soap-weed. 
 One did well not only to be wary in choosing 
 one s trail, but to be sure of one s firmness and 
 equipoise in the saddle. So Josephine felt very 
 mannish and confident on that day, riding slowly 
 over the hills. Jack, who had still to wait a 
 little before he could be strong enough to ride 
 again, had begged her to be careful, and she was 
 being careful. She knew that the bluffs and 
 draws, with their blind trails, were vastly dif 
 ferent from the gentle slopes of her home land. 
 But she also knew that Jack had given her a 
 
 [60]
 
 ONJIJITKA 
 
 good horse a native of these hills and one 
 which had been gently broken because she, 
 Josephine, was coming West to ride him. 
 
 She was trying the mettle of her new com 
 panion and was finding it good. She had 
 always made a companion of her riding horses. 
 She was never content until all the little tricks 
 of temper, manifestations of nervousness, little 
 differences in the niceties of bit control, all the 
 dislikes and the affectations of the new partner 
 ship were as a printed page for her just and 
 comprehensive reading. She liked the high 
 spirit and endurance of this rough-coated crea 
 ture of the range, accepted him joyously and set 
 about to win his love and confidence in return, 
 because it might be that some time much would 
 be required of him for her sake. 
 
 The day had become damp and cloudy with 
 moisture, and the wind, rising lightly out of the 
 southwest, went skimming over the hilltops with 
 soft, sibilant whisperings. Someway, it carried 
 a little chill with it, even though it was a promise 
 of melting w r eather still to come. Josephine, 
 pausing a moment at the brow of a hill, where 
 the indistinct trail she had been unconsciously 
 pursuing dipped into a valley, hesitated to go 
 
 [61]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 farther, and thought of the dinner that it was 
 her lot to prepare, a household task that she, 
 unaccustomed to its exactions, had forgotten 
 while the sun shone. 
 
 Into the range of her vision as she gazed 
 thoughtfully across the valley, rode a horse 
 woman. This rider did not pause on the opposite 
 hilltop as Josephine had paused, but rode steadily 
 down into the ravine, apparently without knowl 
 edge of the near presence of another/ human life in 
 the solemn solitude of the hills. She came out of 
 the southwest and she rode easily and as well as 
 Josephine rode, astride. It was not until after 
 she had crossed the valley and was climbing the 
 hill where Josephine awaited her approach with 
 a curious little throb of something akin to home 
 sickness engendered by the unexpected nearness 
 of one of her own kind that Josephine perceived, 
 with a shock of disappointment, that the stran 
 ger s feet were encased in beaded moccasins. 
 With this rather startling exception, however, 
 she was dressed much as Josephine was dressed, 
 with leggings, dark blue serge skirt, short jacket, 
 and fur cap. This was noticeable, however, that 
 while Josephine s cap was of sealskin, hers was 
 of beaver, a relic of the days when her trapper 
 
 [62]
 
 How do vou do? answered the stranger, in a clear, sweet voice
 
 ONJIJITKA 
 
 ancestors still found beaver along the waterways 
 of the Dakotas. 
 
 "How do you do," said Josephine. 
 
 "How do you do," answered the stranger, in 
 a clear, sweet voice. She stopped before Jose 
 phine, and it was then that Josephine received 
 the second surprise of the unexpected encounter. 
 The moccasins had belied the stranger, after all. 
 Her skin was almost as fair as Josephine s own 
 and her cheeks were flushed with color. Her 
 head was as proudly held, with even a touch of its 
 patrician poise. Her dark eyes met Josephine s 
 frankly curious gaze with reserve. 
 
 "I am, you know," she added, unexpectedly. 
 
 "Are what?" asked Josephine, in surprise. 
 
 "Dakotah." 
 
 Josephine held out her hand with a quick 
 gesture of impulsive friendliness. 
 
 "I should never have guessed it," she said, 
 honestly. "But that need not hinder our being 
 friends, need it ? I have been afraid that I was 
 going to be very lonely, sometimes. I did not 
 know there were any girls west of the river. My 
 name is Josephine Carroll and I live at the 
 Broken Key." 
 
 The girl hesitated a moment, drawing back 
 
 [63]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 slightly; then she changed her mind and ac 
 cepted Josephine s proffered hand-clasp with 
 grave formality. 
 
 "My name is Onjijitka, which in English 
 means Rosebud, and I live on the Rosebud 
 Reservation," she said simply. 
 
 "That is a very pretty name," replied Jose 
 phine. " I am afraid it will take me some time to 
 learn to pronounce it correctly in Indian, so for 
 the present, at least, I will call you Rosebud, if 
 you don t mind." 
 
 "They called me Rosebud at school, and 
 nearly everybody around here calls me that, ex 
 cept the Indians," the girl said. 
 
 Icl You were going toward the river ?" ques 
 tioned Josephine. "I was about to return and 
 will ride with you if you do not object. I am my 
 brother s housekeeper and must hasten to get the 
 dinner pot to boiling," she chatted easily, with 
 a mixture of girlish pride in the new dignity of 
 her position and an honest desire to show a 
 friendly spirit to this girl of another race. Even 
 in her light chatter, her voice retained the soft, 
 drawling cadence implanted there by her South 
 ern birth and training, and which was fast 
 becoming irresistible to the half-breed girl. 
 
 [64]
 
 ON JIJITKA 
 
 "You have been to school at Hampton, have 
 you not?" she questioned, wondering at the con 
 tinued silence of her new companion. 
 
 "Notre Dame," said Rosebud, laconically. 
 
 "Oh!" said Josephine, blankly. ; Then you 
 are a Romanist?" she added presently, de 
 termined to make this girl talk if she sat there all 
 day asking questions. 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "Are you crossing the river to-day ?" ventured 
 Josephine again. "Perhaps we had better be 
 starting back," she suggested, pointing Long 
 Chase s nose homeward. 
 
 "I am going to Velpen," answered Rosebud, 
 falling into step beside Josephine. 
 
 "Then you must stop at the Broken Key and 
 dine with us," exclaimed Josephine, as the ponies 
 started briskly forward. "I will have dinner 
 ready in no time. You will, won t you? Promise 
 me," insisted Josephine. 
 
 "I should like to," hesitated Rosebud, "but it 
 has been a long time since I ate with any of 
 your people. I am afraid I should not know how 
 to act." 
 
 "I do not believe that," said Josephine, ear 
 nestly. "Besides, there are only Jack and I and 
 
 [65]
 
 we are very plain people, I assure you, and live 
 in a very plain manner. Surely you will not 
 refuse to dine with us because of our limited 
 capabilities for serving a good meal, will you?" 
 she concluded laughingly. 
 
 "I thank you," said Rosebud, soberly. "I will 
 eat with you since you are so good as to ask me. 
 I did not expect to eat at a white man s table 
 again. But Josephine Carroll has a way, and 
 Onjijitka does not know how to refuse." 
 
 "Don t you like white people?" asked Jose 
 phine. 
 
 "Yes, I like you some of you," said Rose 
 bud, her native reserve giving way at last. "But 
 you do not like me. You do not like me as well 
 as you like my mother, who is all Dakotah. I 
 went away to Notre Dame because my mother s 
 people did not like me very well and I thought 
 I d learn to be white. I learned almost. I 
 learned this much and then I had to stop: that 
 I might learn to read and write, comb my hair 
 according to the mode, wear abominable stiff 
 corset things, sing and dance and play the piano 
 and embroider and oh, so many, many things 
 that are required, you know how many but that 
 I never could be white. I spent four years learn- 
 
 [66]
 
 ONJIJITKA 
 
 ing all this and then I found at the very last 
 that you had lied to me you white people. My 
 blood is mixed, and that, you say, is a barrier 
 raised by heaven itself and as irrevocable as 
 death. I beat my heart out until it was all 
 bruised and bleeding; with sorrow at first, then 
 with rage, because you had lied to me, you know, 
 and then because I would not be a dog of a 
 half-breed, to fawn upon the white man," she said, 
 her voice vibrating with the fierce pride of her 
 haughty Sioux forefathers who had been heredi 
 tary chiefs, "I came back to my people. My 
 father was dead and my mother had married 
 Two Hawks. They accepted me. When I was 
 little, my mother called me Onjijitka. All my 
 people call me that now, though at school I was 
 known as Rosebud Gireaux. Gireaux was my 
 father s name. I am all Dakotah now." 
 
 This was not true this latter statement 
 and Josephine, w r ith quick sympathy, knew that 
 it was not. If she were in truth content to hark 
 back wholly to the Indian ways, why then this 
 dress of the pale face and why then this sombre 
 speech with its tang of bitterness? 
 
 "Let us be friends, you and me," said Jose 
 phine, as their ponies took the homeward stretch 
 
 [67]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 toward the little cabin with its thin spiral of 
 smoke climbing idly up into the damp air. The 
 sight sent a queer little home thrill through her 
 heart. Strange, when she had thought there was 
 to be no end to the longing for the sunny land of 
 her nativity, though Jack was never to know that. 
 "This land of yours is so big and lonesome, Rose 
 bud. Shall we be friends always?" 
 
 "You are very good. I should like to be 
 friends. When Rosebud visits Miss Josephine 
 Carroll at the Broken Key, well and good. I 
 should know what to do. At Notre Dame, many 
 took me to be just French my father was a 
 French Indian trader in the Red Lake country, 
 you know and the good sisters taught me some 
 of their ways. But when Miss Josephine Car 
 roll comes to visit at the tepee of Two Hawks, 
 Rosebud will have forgotten and what will Miss 
 Josephine Carroll do then?" 
 
 "I do not care where you live," cried Jose 
 phine, impulsively, "w r e are going to be friends, 
 are we not?" 
 
 "Always," said Rosebud, gravely. 
 
 Dinner was smoking on the table when Jack 
 swung up the path on his crutches, whistling a 
 gay measure the while, well content with all the 
 
 [68]
 
 ONJIJITKA 
 
 world just then, notwithstanding his tedious 
 convalescence and the fact that he had so recently 
 disagreed with his neighbor. Josephine was 
 home and she would have a spanking hot 
 dinner all ready. After that there would be a bit 
 of a smoke and a chat, maybe, about that time 
 coming when there would be a realization of all 
 their ultra-optimistic dreams, and there should be 
 cattle on a thousand hills for John Calhoun and 
 Josephine Carroll. So the whistle on his lips was 
 very gay and the content in his handsome eyes 
 was very pronounced when he threw open the 
 door of his cabin and sent his new hat a real 
 Stetson this time, he had learned the proper thing 
 in hats since his tenderfoot days spinning 
 across the floor. It was then that he saw Rose 
 bud. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said at once, with 
 ready courtesy. 
 
 "Rosebud, my brother Jack," said Josephine, 
 placing the steaming coffee pot upon the table 
 and looking altogether charming in a gingham 
 apron, her cheeks flushed with recent proximity 
 to the stove. "Jack, Miss Rosebud Gireaux." 
 
 "Welcome to the Broken Key," Miss 
 Gireaux," said Jack. 
 
 [69]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Thank you," said Rosebud, simply. 
 
 "Rosebud and I are already the very best of 
 friends," explained Josephine, as they seated 
 themselves around the table with its square of 
 white linen which Josephine had brought with 
 her from that far away Southland. "And we are 
 going to be together a great deal in the time to 
 come. Xow that you are discovered, Rosebud, 
 it will not be easy for you to get away from me." 
 
 "I shall not want to," said Rosebud, seriously. 
 
 "I should like to know where I come in on 
 this," spoke up Jack, a laugh in his eyes. "You 
 girls seem to be leaving me altogether out of the 
 count. I shall not submit to it, I assure you." 
 
 "Oh, now that I have Rosebud," scoffed Jose 
 phine, "you can take care of yourself. Men are 
 dreadfully in the way, are they not, Rosebud? " 
 
 "Now, Miss Rosebud," remonstrated Jack, 
 "don t you go to siding in with Josephine there. 
 You know you d like to have me around some 
 times, now, would n t you?" he wheedled. "I am 
 a pretty good sort of a fellow, really." 
 
 He was much amused by this play of nonsense. 
 He was much of a boy still, though he was seven 
 and twenty. Besides, she was a very pretty girl 
 there was no getting around that. He won- 
 
 [70]
 
 ONJIJITKA 
 
 dered what she would say. She did not seem like 
 a girl who would enter into raillery with the 
 joyous abandon of many girls whom he had 
 known in the past. 
 
 If you are like Josephine," sue replied 
 gravely, "you cannot help being good. As for 
 your being in the way, that I cannot answer, be 
 cause I never knew before any one like you." 
 
 It was late when Rosebud, returning, crossed 
 the ice again and was slipping noiselessly past 
 the ranch of the Broken Key on her way to the 
 tepee of Two Hawks. It was dark, too, with 
 that damp, warm, cloudy darkness that comes 
 with the melting of many snows. A light, burn 
 ing steadily, shone through the window. Jose 
 phine and Jack were still up then. Perhaps 
 Josephine was reading aloud while Jack rested, 
 stretched out upon the wolfskin that she had 
 noticed on the floor by the fire, his hands under 
 his head, maybe. Or it might be that there was 
 silence between them while each dreamed his 
 dream. She was glad now that she had worn her 
 moccasins. She could creep up unheard and un 
 seen and satisfy that unexplainable longing 
 which was hers. They would never know and 
 she would see again the man whose like she had 
 
 [71]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 never known before. She slipped lightly from 
 her saddle and crept forward soundlessly with 
 all the cunning stealth of her Sioux ancestry 
 coming to the exultant aid of this their child. 
 Before she had half covered the distance she 
 stopped suddenly. It meant that she should 
 have to bear for all time the cross of blood. It 
 meant that she could never again know content 
 in the lazy, degenerating existence of Two 
 Hawks. As long as she lived now she would 
 have to be as white as she could because of- 
 Josephine? Yes, because of Josephine. And 
 Jack? Ah, yes, because of Jack Jack of the 
 courteous speech, the whistling mouth, and the 
 laughing eyes. Skulking in the shadows was not 
 what they would do those two in there. She 
 glided back to her pony, mounted, and rode 
 slowly away into the wide and lonely night. 
 
 [72]
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER AND A RESCUE 
 
 ri^HE warm weather continued. The older 
 settlers along the Missouri predicted an 
 early break-up of the river. The bluffs were 
 dry and brown and the snow in the deep ravines 
 and pockets of the hills was fast disappearing. 
 
 The cattle that had strayed from the Broken 
 Key during the wild storm in which John Cal- 
 houn Carroll s leg had been broken had not 
 yet been recovered. But Tom Burrington had 
 reported them as running with his own herds, so 
 the young homesteaders were resting easy in the 
 friendly assurance. There were only a half- 
 dozen or so of them, but it would have been a 
 woful loss at the very beginning of the Carrolls 
 fight for place in the big land so arrogantly re 
 sentful of invasion, where the littleness of man 
 was seemingly an inexorable law and dogged 
 endurance the one hope of the ultimate gaining 
 of a foothold therein. 
 
 "Don t you want to ride with me to see Tom ?" 
 asked Jack, shortly after the visit of the Indian 
 
 [731
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 girl and when he had at last obtained Josephine s 
 permission to ride. "We can find out about the 
 fool cattle and make a neighborly call at the same 
 time." 
 
 "But Mr. Burrington has not called on us 
 yet," objected Josephine. 
 
 "Don t you ever believe that," said Jack. 
 "Did he not draw up his horse and chat a bit the 
 other day on his way home ? That counts west of 
 the river, my girl." 
 
 "I did not see him. He did not ask for me," 
 said Josephine, still loath. 
 
 "He asked about you, however; and besides, 
 where would I be now if it had not been for this 
 man Tom Burrington of the Seven-up? You 
 will have to pack away in moth balls some of your 
 old-fashioned, conservative prejudices, Jose 
 phine," he counselled, wisely. "Or, better still, 
 bury them altogether. I have," he confessed, 
 with a laugh. "Remember always that we are 
 well within the borders of cattle land. Besides, 
 I shall be gone the better part of the day and I 
 thought it would be lonesome for you here. 
 Come, get on your bonnet. It is a fine day for 
 a ride." 
 
 It was a fine day. There was no mistake about 
 [74]
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 that. The air was like June. From the island 
 came the pound of regular blows of an axe upon 
 fallen timber, the rhythmic echoes of which went 
 sounding among the hills. Somewhere within 
 that labyrinth of ancient, lofty, gaunt cotton- 
 woods, of runty, spreading cedars, of gigantic 
 elms, and of the thick growth of straight, slender 
 ash, their neighbor was chopping wood. As 
 they were mounted and ready to start, a man 
 rode into their clearing, a young man with 
 much breadth of shoulder and with lazy-looking 
 eyes. 
 
 "Howdy," said the newcomer, indifferently. 
 
 "Good-morning," returned Jack. "I thought 
 you went early this morning, Henry. 4 You said 
 last night that you expected to be off before sun- 
 up." 
 
 "Yep. I reckon I did. But I thought I d 
 come back and ask you something. You see I m 
 out of a job now." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" asked Jack, in a fever to 
 be off. 
 
 "Who did you say lives over to the island 
 now?" 
 
 "A man by the name of LaDue Frank La- 
 Due. By the way, you might find work over 
 
 [75]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 there. He chops a lot of wood and must need a 
 great deal of help. You see how heavily that 
 island is timbered. Besides, I understand that 
 LaDue runs the ferry during the Summer. He 
 will certainly need assistance then. It won t do 
 any harm to talk to him, anyway. I thought 
 Tom Burrington was keeping your place for 
 you at the Seven-up." 
 
 T ain t much of an island now," said Henry 
 Hoffman, evasively. 
 
 " No, it is n t, for a fact. But they tell me that 
 during high water a considerable stream flows 
 between it and us." 
 
 "Does he keep any cows?" inquired Henry, 
 meditatively. "I m thinkin I wouldn t be a 
 howlin success topplin over trees. I d ruther 
 ride any day. No tellin , though, what we will 
 come to yet, now that the good old days of free 
 grass are turnin up their toes to the daisies. 
 You fellows are responsible for that." 
 
 " Why don t you go West, man? " said Jack, a 
 little impatiently. Was he never to have done 
 with this quarrel against homesteading ? "There 
 is free grass in plenty out along the old Black 
 Hills trail. But honestly now, my friend," he 
 argued, with returning good nature, "I acknowl- 
 
 [76]
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 edge that I am somewhat of a tenderfoot, but 
 are you not asking me to believe a lot when you 
 intimate that you are an old-timer ? Have you 
 voted yet?" 
 
 T ain t because I ain t old enough, if I 
 have n t," said the other with a laugh. "Besides, 
 as I told your sister when I first came here, I Ve 
 been punchin cows and wranglin horses, young 
 fellow, since I was knee-high-to-a-grasshopper. 
 What did you remark about that man LaDue 
 and his critters? Hasn t he ary a cow?" 
 
 "I think he has a few. I do not know where 
 he keeps them. You had better go and interview 
 him. If you do not come to terms, why, walk 
 right in here and make yourself at home before 
 riding on," said Jack, with ready hospitality. 
 "You will find bacon and bread handy, and there 
 is fresh meat in the shed. Just help yourself, 
 will you? We have a long ride before us and 
 must be getting on." 
 
 "Say, Mr. Carroll," advised Henry, "these 
 ain t the good old days I was tellin you about, 
 you know. Folks mostly lock their doors here 
 abouts. T ain t always then they find things 
 like they left them. Sometimes there won t be 
 nothin there at all but just a vacuum, savin 
 
 [77]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 some sky and air, maybe. Well, so long," he 
 called, riding leisurely islandwards. 
 
 "What an abnormal breadth of shoulder he 
 has," said Josephine, musingly, "and his eyes are 
 as blue and frank as a child s. Do you know, 
 Jack, that is just what he reminds me of a 
 great, good-natured, overgrown baby." 
 
 Perhaps twenty feet from the shore Tom 
 Burrington had cut a watering place for his 
 cattle, and sanded well the ice between so they 
 would not slip. This trough ran parallel with 
 the central portion of a large airhole, a mile and 
 a half in length and perhaps forty rods in width 
 at its widest place, and a number of feet beyond 
 the ice ditch. The current where the river was 
 open had a curious rotary movement. Tom was 
 riding to the corral to release the cattle therein 
 waiting to be driven to water, when Jack and 
 Josephine rode into view. He swept his wide 
 hat from his head and rode quickly forward. 
 
 "You do not know how glad I am that you 
 have come," he said, with a certain grave em 
 phasis. Glancing at Josephine, he could not help 
 wondering how it was that a woman so altogether 
 sw r eet and good to look upon had chanced to stray 
 to these outer boundaries of the earth. 
 
 [78]
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 "We are seekers," explained Jack. You 
 have not been rustling any Broken Key cattle, 
 have you, Tom ? I am told of a surety that some 
 are mixed up in your herds. Explanations are 
 in order, and I hope for the sake of our friend 
 ship that this little affair may be satisfactorily 
 adjusted," he concluded, whimsically. 
 
 Tom laughed ; then he held his hands to his lips 
 and sent forth a resonant hail that awoke the 
 echoes in the surrounding hills. 
 
 "Forgive me, Miss Carroll," he apologized, 
 "but that boy, Charlie, is around somewhere and 
 I want him. I lost a valuable man this morning," 
 he continued, turning to Jack. 
 
 "Henry Hoffman came back a while ago and 
 told me that you no longer needed him," said 
 Jack, "and that he guessed he d be a-movin on. 
 
 "He had not been with me long, but he was as 
 good a cowman as I ever knew. He came to this 
 country from Texas a year or two ago. He is a 
 reckless sort of a fellow, but I liked him. I do 
 not know why he left me. He gave no excuse; 
 simply said, when I paid him off this morning, 
 that he guessed he d be a-movin on. 
 
 "I referred him to our neighbor, LaDue. He 
 was looking for a job." 
 
 [79]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Good Lord!" ejaculated the cowboy, Charlie 
 Moore, riding into the little circle. "Henry 
 Hoffman chop wood? Not muchy! I d plumb 
 love to see him do it!" 
 
 "Well, he is gone, so it does not matter what 
 he does or where he goes," said Tom. "But I 
 was sorry to lose him. Ride to the home range, 
 Charlie, and cut out any Broken Key cattle that 
 may be there. You reported some strays on 
 that pasture, did you not? You had better take 
 some one with you. Drive the bunch here." 
 
 "I will go with him," volunteered Jack, "if I 
 may leave Josephine behind." 
 
 "By all means," agreed Tom promptly. 
 
 "If you will keep on with your work," qualified 
 Josephine. 
 
 "It is agreed. I have a hundred head of cattle 
 here which I am bound to deliver to the Lower 
 Brule Indians, in prime condition. The drive 
 begins at two o clock this afternoon. I have 
 the government contract, as perhaps you know, 
 so I have this to do every month. If you really 
 do not mind, I will just finish this little chore 
 now." 
 
 Jack and Charlie rode away. Josephine 
 watched the work of the big ranchman interest- 
 
 [80]
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 edly, sitting quietly on Long Chase, looking fair 
 and sweet and lovable with the fresh wind blow 
 ing loosened tendrils of shining hair about her 
 face, the crimson at her throat making a spot of 
 color in vivid contrast to the dun hues of the 
 hills and the lines of gray timber belting the 
 ravines on the opposite side of the river. 
 
 Together with most of the cattlemen of the 
 sterner mould, those who had endured and who 
 now, weather-toughened, hardship-proof, battle- 
 scarred veterans of the wilderness, looking back 
 upon their colossal struggle, were slow to accord 
 to rawer recruits the strength of purpose with 
 which they themselves had been endowed, and 
 counted all tenderfeet weaklings until proved 
 otherwise. Burrington believed that young Car 
 roll and his sister would flit away soon, and that 
 the wide plains and the solemn hills would know 
 them no more. Not that Carroll was not brave- 
 hearted and lofty-spirited ; but the bravest hearts 
 may be broken by loneliness, and the loftiest 
 spirits sink the lowest when encompassed by un- 
 responsiveness. 
 
 Besides, there had never been a girl like Jose 
 phine west of the river never ; and because 
 there never had been, he was afraid to look for 
 
 [81]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 her face on the canvas of the future for 
 fear that it would have been blotted out. If 
 only she could be kept until his mother came; 
 that might help to hold her always. But he 
 could not ask his mother to come to him until 
 the harshness of early Spring was well over, not 
 even and besides, how could he ask her to come 
 now, any way, just because an unusually sweet 
 girl ha d settled in the neighborhood? The ab 
 surdity of it all sent a laugh to his lips as, still 
 mounted, he opened the gate of the huge corral 
 and drove the herd down toward the river. He 
 wore no coat or waist-coat, his heavy blue flan 
 nel shirt being all-sufficient for his vigorous and 
 healthy manhood. The soft ends of the white 
 neckerchief knotted around his brown throat 
 fluttered gayly in the light wind. 
 
 Separating about ten of the cattle from the 
 main herd, Tom drove them onto the well-sanded 
 ice. Josephine rode closer. She had heard Jack 
 say that cattle seldom stepped on ice unless under 
 compulsion, as they had an inherent fear of it. 
 She was somewhat surprised, therefore, to ob 
 serve that part of the herd left on shore began 
 to disintegrate and to move forward. The cattle 
 were very dry and Tom was alone. In spite of 
 
 [82]
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 him, at least thirty impatient, thirsty steers 
 crowded down to drink. Immediately the ice, 
 softened by the long spell of melting weather, 
 began to sink, and the water came up through 
 the cut places and spread over the ice. Leaping 
 from his horse, Tom quickly skirted the cattle, 
 and from the channel side began driving them 
 shoreward. This left the remaining herd master- 
 less, and the whole foolish, thirsty bunch pressed 
 forward to the sanded ice. It was a critical mo 
 ment. The water already lay six inches deep 
 over the ice. And now it seemed to Josephine 
 that there was only one thing for her to do. She 
 could not sit still and let all those poor creatures 
 drown before her eyes. She must help Tom. 
 Slipping from her saddle, she ran swiftly around 
 the now terrified herd and began pressing the 
 cattle back to the shore. 
 
 "My God, Josephine!" cried Tom, not know 
 ing that he called her so, his brown cheeks paling 
 with sudden apprehension. "You will be tram 
 pled to death! Keep back!" 
 
 At that moment the shore ice gave way. 
 There was grave danger then for Tom and Jose 
 phine as well as for the cattle. But an indom 
 itable soul was Tom s. Still pushing the cattle 
 
 [83]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 forward, he ran toward Josephine on the farther 
 side. Too late ! The ice had broken at last from 
 the shore to the treacherous, boiling airhole, and 
 all that mass of rotten ice between became a heav 
 ing, floating death trap. Many cattle had al 
 ready scrambled in safety to the bank. Many 
 were breaking in, and yet others slid into the 
 water, unable to maintain a balance on the tippy 
 blocks that broke off from the main strip. 
 Most of these fortunate ones swam readily to 
 shore ; but of those which broke off on the farther 
 side, many kept their footing and went floating 
 down the narrow channel, their unsteady sup 
 port knocking against the thin ice on the far side 
 of the airhole. When these finally struck the 
 solid ice below, they dived suddenly under, drawn 
 by the terrible suction, and the luckless creatures 
 thus unexpectedly brushed into the water had 
 not room nor time to resist, and many a fine beef, 
 signed with the sign of the opulent Seven-up, 
 was thus drawn into the yawning, cruel trap of 
 death. 
 
 It was well for Josephine, that day, that quick 
 ness in thought and unhesitancy in action were 
 Tom s by right of birth as well as by the years 
 of training in the struggle for the subjugation 
 
 [84]
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 of the arrogant cattle country. He was bound 
 ing to Josephine to force her out of the reach 
 of danger when the crash came. And then it was 
 that Josephine found herself unanchored on a 
 jagged-edged piece of ice that tottered beneath 
 the weight of herself and two lusty steers; but 
 these two poor creatures slipped immediately 
 into the seething water, so that her frail bark rode 
 steadily and began its slow, stately, heart- 
 clutching journey down the channel. Then this 
 is what he did, that man of the plains. There 
 might have been other ways of saving Jose 
 phine; perhaps none so sure, because it was his 
 incomparable strength that made it possible. 
 Afterwards it came to him that he might have 
 let her drift, as the foolish cattle had drifted, 
 to the solid ice below, and then called to her to 
 jump before her block went under; but there 
 might have been a mis-step, and there was no 
 power on earth that could have saved her had 
 her spring fallen short. Just a moment he stood, 
 strong, reliant, weighing the chances. A swift, 
 unformed thought of commendation flashed 
 through his mind and then hid in his heart to 
 find expression in another time. Josephine had 
 not screamed nor made one rash or hysterical 
 
 [85]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 movement. White-cheeked and quiet, she 
 awaited his lead. 
 
 "Do not move!" he called to her, and ran 
 swiftly to the shore, leaping the chasm where a 
 dark flood pushed and eddied between. It 
 would have been a long jump, even on an athletic 
 field with the advantage of a run and without 
 the hazard of teetering ice for the weight of his 
 spring. As it was, he fell foul of the bank and 
 went waist deep into the slacker water close in 
 shore. He scrambled out, sprang up the bank, 
 snatched his rope from his saddle horn, ran down 
 the river, and out onto the unbroken ice below the 
 ugly break-up. 
 
 Josephine was drawing perilously near the 
 danger line when he roped her roped her as 
 he had roped hundreds of creatures of the range. 
 Tom Burrington had not been one to stay in the 
 cities while the stirring man s work of the ranch 
 was left to others, who in turn would reap the 
 high reward of a true sight, a steady nerve, and 
 a strong arm. No cow-puncher on the Seven-up 
 could throw a better rope than its master. The 
 noose settled swiftly under Josephine s arms; 
 there was a quick, sharp jerk, and he drew her 
 
 [86]
 
 A CHANCE ENCOUNTER 
 
 to him, out of the death trap, safe, but bruised 
 by her crumpled flight over the ice, and shocked 
 into momentary unconsciousness by the sudden 
 contact with the cold water.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 AT THE RANCH HOUSE OF THE SEVEN-UP 
 
 came n. 
 
 "I am very sorry," said Josephine, ear 
 nestly. "I wanted to be a help instead of a hin 
 drance. I am very sorry." 
 
 She was sitting in a rocking-chair on a huge 
 gray wolfskin close to the fire in the big living- 
 room of the ranch house of the Seven-up. Tom, 
 unaccountably embarrassed and fearful moreover 
 of her taking cold as a result of her recent plunge, 
 stirred the fire vigorously until it roared and 
 crackled, and then stood near in order to feed it, 
 which he did almost constantly from a supply of 
 driftwood heaped high in a box behind the stove. 
 Josephine had removed her dripping outer gar 
 ments and was well wrapped in a gayly colored 
 Indian blanket which her host had left for her. 
 Her small stockinged feet were propped upon 
 the fender, her shoes standing near by to dry. 
 The pretty color was returning to her cheeks. 
 In the kitchen Tom s cook was plainly visible, 
 moving briskly about preparing a meal of might 
 
 [88]
 
 AT THE RANCH HOUSE 
 
 for the Boss s tony, unexpected, but altogether 
 welcome guests. Given an incentive, he really 
 was a famous cook, and what better incentive 
 than a girl and such a girl a girl so late from 
 civilization that her notions were doubtless even 
 yet colored with the pampered fancies of that far 
 away, mistaken people. He would show her once 
 and for all what real cookery was. So he sang, as 
 he mixed his biscuit dough, a song of sacred 
 words, but profane melody profane because he 
 had a long time ago forgotten the meaning of 
 what he sang. 
 
 "Are you sure that you are warm enough?" 
 demanded Tom, irrelevantly. 
 
 "I am as warm as toast," said Josephine. 
 You have made such a splendid fire, I shall be 
 dry in no time. You are so good. How can I 
 ever you were so quick and so strong." 
 
 Someway, it was hard to say anything properly 
 to this man. She had never before found any 
 trouble in expressing herself easily and to the 
 point. It annoyed her. If he would only sit 
 down ! He stood there looking down at her 
 gravely, and he seemed very big and handsome 
 while she herself felt chagrined, humbled, for 
 lorn, and decidedly at a disadvantage with that 
 
 [89]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 ridiculous blanket, her wild hair, and dilapidated 
 appearance generally. It wasn t fair. 
 
 "I am glad I was in time," he said, simply. 
 "But I was sorry that I had to throw so soon. 
 I think if I had had time to get nearer I might 
 have saved you from a wetting." 
 
 Her vexation of the moment vanished imme 
 diately. She held out her hand impulsively, and 
 as he held it for rather a long moment he did not 
 think once of the dishevelled hair or of the bizarre 
 effect of the gay blanket. What he did think 
 was this : That the west country would be a very 
 lonely country when this brown-eyed, sweet- 
 voiced Josephine Carroll went away from it 
 forever. Something came to him then some 
 thing that brought a hint of color into the bronzed 
 face and a light into the gray eyes. He threw 
 back his handsome head and laughed a little 
 under his breath. He would do it if he could. 
 
 "What did the wetting matter? What did 
 anything matter?" said Josephine, gratefully. 
 "Only that in a moment I should have been it 
 would have been too late but in that moment 
 you were there and now I am here safe and warm 
 by the fire it would be so dark under the ice 
 and cold and the water is running so fast." 
 
 [90]
 
 AT THE RANCH HOUSE 
 
 She shuddered and was silent, the full horror of 
 it all creeping over her for the first time since her 
 rescue. 
 
 "You must not think of that," said Tom, 
 quietly. "There was n t the slightest danger. I 
 knew that I should be in time and I also knew 
 that I should not miss. Why, Miss Carroll," he 
 went on, lightly, "I want you to know that I 
 know how to throw a rope. If you will just re 
 member that one little fact, you will not be afraid 
 the next time you go for a sail down Old Muddy 
 on an ice boat." 
 
 Josephine smiled tremulously; then she asked 
 soberly: "And the poor cattle did many 
 drown? Oh, the poor things!" 
 
 "Not many in proportion. The boys are 
 filling out the required number now. Do not 
 grieve about them," he added, in a low voice. 
 
 At that moment a shrill cattle call was heard 
 from without, and with the words, " That is 
 Charlie, and judging from the racket, the boys 
 have found the strays all right," Tom left the 
 room. 
 
 It was a meal of might, to be sure. They ate 
 in the same big room where Josephine had sat 
 by the fire. She had put on her own clothes 
 
 [91]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 again, but still felt a little wrinkled and 
 "trembly." She tried hard, however, to keep her 
 mind off the rushing water, and the men never 
 spoke of it after the affair had been explained to 
 Jack. His answer to Tom had been a strong, 
 silent handclasp. There were half a dozen cow 
 boys seated around the long tables besides Tom, 
 Josephine, and Jack. It was an interesting 
 room. Josephine was frankly curious about it 
 and its furnishings. It was very plain to be seen 
 that a woman had been there that it had not 
 always been inhabited by a careless set of bache 
 lor cow-men alone. That rocking-chair, for 
 instance, was of fine wicker, self-evidently a 
 woman s chair. There were several flower pots 
 on the south window sills, although any plant 
 there might once have been was now but a dead 
 and desolate stalk. 
 
 "We forgot to water them," explained Tom, 
 with a laugh, when he saw Josephine s eyes rest 
 ing upon these pathetic reminders of his careless 
 ness. "I promised my mother that I would take 
 care of them and so did Charlie here. You 
 need not grin so cheerfully, my boy, you know 
 that you are as deeply involved in this affair 
 as I am. My mother loves flowers, Miss Car- 
 
 [92]
 
 AT THE RANCH HOUSE 
 
 roll, and more than that, I imagine that she 
 thinks the boys need some refining influence 
 about them. Not I, of course, but the boys. We 
 are an ornery lot, I suspect. Anyway, she cun 
 ningly tries to enlighten our souls to a proper 
 appreciation of the beautiful. I promised her 
 when she went away that I would take care of 
 her posies, but I forgot, and Charlie forgot; so 
 they died." 
 
 "While you are about it you might as well tell 
 why we re eatin canned beans for dinner, too, 
 stid o spuds and ingerns," spoke up Charlie 
 Moore, casually. He was busily engaged upon 
 the consumption of a generous share of the beans 
 in question, as he spoke. 
 
 "Please do," said Josephine, smiling. 
 
 "They froze." 
 
 " Oh ! And how did it happen ? " 
 
 "Will you not spare me the harrowing re 
 cital?" begged Tom, in joyous badinage. 
 
 "Tell me," insisted Josephine, gleefully. 
 
 "Well," said Tom, ruefully, "if I must, I 
 must, I suppose. It was this \\fay. You 
 see I have a little brother. His name is 
 Louis and he is eleven, I believe, and some 
 what of a farmer, with mother putting him 
 
 [93]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 up to it all the time. Louis had a garden 
 down there on the bottom last Summer. The 
 boys liked him and they all helped. We had 
 fine watermelons in August, and good things all 
 Summer long. When he went away, he left 
 explicit instructions as to just when we must dig 
 up the late potatoes and the onions; but we 
 kind of forgot, and one morning the ground w r as 
 frozen through a foot or more. It w r as a sad fare 
 well, and this has been a long and dreary winter, 
 potatoless and onionless." 
 
 "What shocking shiftlessness," laughed Jose 
 phine, merrily; "but you have suffered for it." 
 
 "Indeed, we have," responded Tom, soberly. 
 "Do you know, I hated like the deuce Miss 
 Carroll, forgive me, I forgot to own up to the 
 little chap that I had forgotten to take care of 
 his garden. He did so want the boys to have 
 something good to eat during the long, monoto 
 nous Winter. Yes, that is the child s shelf there 
 in the corner. He cannot always be carrying all 
 of his things to and from Chicago, so he leaves 
 part of them here. He persuaded one of the 
 boys to put up that shelf in the living-room be 
 cause he said it seemed a shame to lock up his 
 treasures in his own room when You fellows 
 
 [94]
 
 AT THE RANCH HOUSE 
 
 might as well be getting the good of em. It is 
 a strange jumble of school books and boy stories, 
 marbles and baseball paraphernalia, which he 
 brought with him, and odd stones, snake skins, 
 wolf teeth, coyote skins, bits of mica and horns of 
 defunct cattle, which he has gathered together 
 here and some of the things the Indians have 
 given him. Most of those he took back with him 
 to the city, however; things like the war bonnet, 
 the moccasins, the medicine pouch, the barbed 
 arrows, and the shield. They would make a vast 
 impression on his mates, you will very readily 
 understand. Yes, that is his own rifle. I am 
 teaching him to use it. Poor chap,! How he 
 longed to take that with him to show the fellows, 
 although he knew that he could never use it there. 
 But the mother said, No. 
 
 "And yet you could disappoint a child like that 
 and forget his garden," said Josephine, reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 "It was a shame, was n t it? But his revenge 
 is at hand. We shall all have to reform and learn 
 to farm whether we like it or not. It will soon be 
 a question of our butter and bread. You home 
 steaders have invaded the land at last. I confess 
 that I have always been surprised that you have 
 
 [95]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 not done so before; but you have sounded the 
 doom of the cattlemen all right. We shall 
 either be compelled to turn grangers or else be 
 a-movin on/ as Henry said this morning." 
 
 Again the old question! 
 
 "One would think," interposed Jack, jestingly 
 earnest, "that Josephine and I were not only 
 monsters of iniquity, but a multitude of monsters 
 all hydra-headed. Now, Josephine and I are 
 only two people and Josephine has but one head 
 and I have but one. I pledge you my word of 
 honor that this is true according to my own best 
 belief and judgment." 
 
 They all laughed heartily, but Tom soon be 
 came grave. 
 
 "You are not the only ones," he said. "It is 
 the beginning of the end. Carroll, do you in 
 tend to abide by your holding, no matter what 
 the consequences may be, and in spite of hard 
 ships, discouragements, drought, and loneli 
 ness?" 
 
 He looked at the younger man keenly a mo 
 ment. He wanted to know the make of Jack 
 because upon him depended many things, chief of 
 which was the question of the staying or going 
 of Josephine. 
 
 [96]
 
 AT THE RANCH HOUSE 
 
 "I do so intend," replied Jack, steadily. 
 "Through good or evil report through pros 
 perity or poverty through happiness or sorrow 
 through trouble, pain, or death. All I ask is 
 to be let alone. I had better be let alone. If I 
 am not, there will be trouble for some one." 
 
 [97]
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ONJIJITKA MAKES A DISCOVERY 
 
 river did break up early, the Spring was 
 beautiful, and May time was Summer time in 
 the cattle country. The hills were spotted far 
 and wide with bunches of that uncompromisingly 
 stiff plant with its many spear-shaped leaves, 
 which the natives call soap-weed. Undulating 
 barriers made of the broad-leaved, prickly cactus 
 that runs along the ground sprang up every 
 where. Josephine had worn her heavy leathern 
 leggings in the Winter for warmth. She con 
 tinued to wear them now with thick-soled shoes 
 as a protection against surprise from some torpid 
 rattler which might any day now be coming out 
 to stretch himself after his long sleep, and to 
 bask in the warm sun of this early Summer. A 
 colony of prairie dogs had settled a short distance 
 northwest of the Broken Key, and the little fel 
 lows chattered and squealed and dived in and out 
 of their underground homes all the live-long day. 
 Slabs of mica, oftentimes in layers as thin and 
 smooth as if sliced with a knife, glinted from the 
 
 [98]
 
 A DISCOVERY 
 
 cut bluffs opposite, or, catching the sun, glit 
 tered on the narrow slate gravel below where 
 they had slid from some upper stratum. The 
 cedars in the gap and in the gulches had changed 
 their rusty brown to a cleaner, richer green. 
 The wild, stormy winds of Spring had settled 
 down into the steady monotones of Summer 
 breezes which went whispering through the grass 
 and talked in mysteries to the tree-tops. Under 
 the spell of it all, the ceaseless winds, the immu 
 table hills, the solemn solitude, the haughty rush 
 of the big yellow river to join the southern sea, 
 Josephine forgot the longing for the land of her 
 fathers which had stalked beside her all through 
 the dreary Winter months, and the home of the 
 South became a sweet haunting memory of some 
 thing that had passed away forever. 
 
 On one of these May afternoons when the wind 
 blew strongly over the high table lands and 
 grieved in the gulches, Onjijitka, returning from 
 Velpen, rode down through the gap and sent a 
 shrill, penetrating, but sweet halloo into the face 
 of the wind across the white-capped water. 
 Then, slipping from her pony, she stood leaning 
 against him, motionless, . waiting. Presently a 
 boat pushed out from the island and began its 
 
 [99]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 wavering, uncertain course towards her. It was 
 a huge, ungainly looking object not unlike a 
 crudely built row-boat, except for its unusual 
 size. There was one large oar near the front re 
 quiring the rigid attention and constant labor of 
 two men, not so much to propel as to keep the 
 boat at the proper angle with the current, the cur 
 rent forcing it forward somewhat in the manner 
 in which the wind forces a sailboat when the 
 boat is riding at right angles with it. When with 
 a soft, sliding sound, the ferry grounded on the 
 yielding sand of the near shore, one of the men 
 sprang out and secured it by throwing the noose 
 of a heavy rope over a stake driven into the earth, 
 some little distance up the road. Then the second 
 man stepped slouchily ashore. 
 
 "So it s you, Rosebud," said the latter, gnaw 
 ing off a piece of villainous-looking plug tobacco 
 as he spoke. "You could n t have w r aited, I sup 
 pose, until this cursed wind went down? " 
 
 "No, I could n t," said Rosebud, calmly, lead 
 ing her pony to the water s edge. 
 
 " Oh, you could n t, could n t you? " retorted 
 LaDue, his ready anger rising to meet the cool 
 insolence of the tone. "Well, young lady, the 
 chances are pretty much in favor of you waitin , 
 
 [100]
 
 A DISCOVERY 
 
 whether it suits you or not. Just don t you cast 
 off yet, Henry. Wind s too blamed strong for 
 this here boat to push against. We ll just wait 
 a while, if you don t mind." 
 
 " I don t mind in the least," said Rosebud, in 
 differently. "Now that you have come, I 
 should n t care if we remained here until moon- 
 up, for that matter." 
 
 "Supposin Henry and I should scoot back 
 with the boat, not hankerin perticlar to over 
 load er with you and your critter, what would 
 you do then, eh?" 
 
 "I should shoot the old tub full of holes so 
 that she would sink with you," responded Rose 
 bud, composedly. 
 
 "Do you carry a gun, girl?" asked LaDue, 
 curiously. "I don t see none." 
 
 "Put me to the test and then you will know," 
 said Rosebud, quietly. 
 
 "The girl s got the drop on you, LaDue," 
 called Henry Hoffman, good-naturedly, from the 
 stake. "Quit your foolin and git that there 
 cayuse into the boat if you re kakilatin on any 
 he p from me." 
 
 "That s what you get by caterin to a she- 
 Injun," said LaDue, grumblingly. 
 
 [101]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "I think, perhaps, you had better not call me 
 that any more," said Rosebud, softly. 
 
 "Call you what?" 
 
 " She-Injun. You had better not, I think." 
 
 Her voice was low, emotionless. Her soft 
 dark eyes were not upon him at all but were fixed 
 dreamily upon the long, green timber line of the 
 mainland opposite. It looked farther away than 
 it really was, somehow, with the wind blowing 
 from it and the whitecaps riding between. La- 
 Due laughed loudly. 
 
 "Why, God A mighty, girl," he cried, "but 
 you re puttin on a lot o airs, now, ain t you? 
 What s come over you all o a sudden? Tell me 
 that, now, and then we ll go. I ain t got no in 
 tentions o campin out here all Summer, if you 
 have. What s come over you, Rosebud? You 
 ain t contemplatin leavin your relations again, 
 are you?" He glanced at her keenly from sud 
 denly narrowed eyes. 
 
 "Never mind about that," said Rosebud, al 
 most listlessly. "But you had better remember 
 what I said about calling names." 
 
 Leading her pony, she stepped into the boat 
 where, there being no deck, the gritty little fellow 
 was compelled to stand, steadying himself on the 
 
 [102]
 
 A DISCOVERY 
 
 narrow flat bottom. The horse disposed of to her 
 satisfaction, she turned her back upon the men, 
 nor would she be drawn into further conver 
 sation. At a sign from LaDue, Henry cast 
 off, both men sprang on board, and the 
 rude little ferry began its slow, tortuous way 
 back against the wind. Without a doubt it would 
 drift below its original moorings. Rosebud, un 
 afraid, dreamed day-dreams. The men plied the 
 big oar untiringly, Henry Hoffman interestedly. 
 He had never seen anything just like it until he 
 had hired out to Frank LaDue for a season s 
 chopping of wood. There was nothing to be 
 heard but the sweep of the Summer wind over 
 the boat and the swish of the tawny water 
 slapping against the rough planking. 
 
 Presently the men began talking in a desul 
 tory fashion. Their voices were not distinct but 
 Rosebud was not interested. She did not like 
 LaDue and she felt no curiosity concerning the 
 new man on the island. Men came and went 
 there, giving place to a new man so quickly that 
 it was scarcely worth while to be curious about 
 them. A man would drift one day to the island. 
 No one knew whence he came. No one asked. 
 He would cut wood for a while, haul it some- 
 
 [103]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 times to ranchmen off the river front who had no 
 timber, thus identifying himself for the time 
 being with the interests of the owner of the 
 island. After a while he would not be there any 
 more. There would be a new man doing the same 
 old things. What was the use of being curious? 
 So Rosebud did not listen. 
 
 It was not long, however, before a little hissing 
 sound was borne to her ears, a sound akin to the 
 warning of a rattle-snake. It was not a rattle 
 snake s warning, and Rosebud never for one 
 moment thought that it was. She knew perfectly 
 well what it was, and it was because she knew 
 so well that she seemed not to hear at all. She 
 continued staring idly across the turbulent water. 
 Her Indian blood helped her. And yet what she 
 had heard was only a faint "Sh she h h ," 
 half whispered by one of the men. There is 
 nothing so penetrating as a sibilant whisper. It 
 is very probable that had not that hissing caution 
 been given, she would have comprehended noth 
 ing of the low-toned conversation; but now that 
 something was being said that she must not hear, 
 she would hear if she had to stifle her own 
 breath which hindered her. They were not say 
 ing much a word now and then she could 
 
 [104]
 
 A DISCOVERY 
 
 not hear what was that - "the kid s critter 
 swim er across this evening pocket 
 
 Rosebud rode slowly and unconcernedly across 
 the island and stopped at the Broken Key. 
 
 "I am going to stay for supper, Josephine," 
 she announced, calmly. 
 
 Jack was not at home. 
 
 "It is strange that you did not meet him," said 
 Josephine. "He went to town right after din 
 ner. We are sadly in need of help, Rosebud. 
 Why, bless you, I have turned herd boy. Did n t 
 you know that? I take care of the cattle while 
 Jack farms. The house just takes care of itself. 
 It looks dreadful, I know. But what is a body 
 going to do when she has fifty poor creatures to 
 minister unto ? I cannot let them starve. I wish 
 we had kept that baby-eyed cowboy who works 
 for our neighbor. But we did not realize when 
 we let him go in March how much extra work the 
 farming would make. He said that he would 
 rather take care of cattle than chop wood. Still, 
 I notice that he is everlastingly at it chopping 
 wood, I mean. It is strange that you did not 
 meet Jack, Rosebud." 
 
 An inscrutable smile came into Rosebud s dark 
 eyes. She had not met Jack but she had seen 
 
 [105]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 him. She had not met him because well 
 because and he had not seen her because she 
 had not meant that he should see her. She 
 thought to herself, a little sadly, that Josephine 
 need not be troubled about her home. In Rose 
 bud s eyes, it looked neat and sweet and 
 home-like. Bowls of wood violets stood on the 
 rude table. White Swiss curtains hung at the 
 windows. It was true that books, papers, and 
 magazines were strewn rather carelessly about, 
 but what did it matter? The room looked like 
 Josephine and it looked like Jack. 
 
 When Rosebud was gone, Josephine sat down 
 on the door step to wait for Jack. The wind had 
 fallen away. It was very still. The sun went 
 down and a coolness crept in^ts wake. There 
 was a thick growth of willows between her and the 
 river but it seemed to her that she could feel it 
 rushing southward. She wished that Jack would 
 come. The evening was such a lonesome time 
 when he was away. She was afraid that she 
 might get to thinking thinking of a better day 
 for them, when Jack was never long gone and 
 when she never had to be alone. The evenings 
 here in the valley were sp still. It was getting 
 dark. There would be a moon, though, so she 
 
 [106]
 
 A DISCOVERY 
 
 should not be afraid. She wondered what they 
 were doing on the island. They were not cutting 
 late to-night. From far away came faintly the 
 sound of a coyote s shrill bark, then another and 
 another, mellowed by distance. The far-away 
 yelping continued, making the near stillness 
 stiller and the lonesomeness more lonesome. A 
 big timber wolf was visible for a moment skulking 
 along the sky line of the western hills then it, 
 too, was gone. An owl hooted, and at that mo 
 ment Rosebud came back. She was on foot and 
 she glided noiselessly around the house like a 
 phantom of the lonely night. 
 
 "Josephine," she whispered, holding out her 
 hand, "come with me and quickly!" 
 
 "What where " began Josephine, startled 
 and bewildered. She arose and grasped Rose 
 bud s hand, chilled with sudden apprehension 
 and glad, glad, of the friendly human touch. 
 
 "Do not be afraid just come with me and 
 quickly. I did not go home I followed them. 
 That man LaDue is a devil, Josephine." 
 She was dragging Josephine toward the dark 
 blur of the island forest while these breathless 
 words came in choking undertones from her lips. 
 "He will run in Indian calves from the Reserva- 
 
 [107]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 tion, will he? Let him watch out. Now and 
 from henceforth I, Onjijitka, am camping on his 
 trail. You know that he does that, don t you, 
 Josephine runs in our calves and hides them 
 here on the island until he can dispose of them ? 
 He has not yet been caught in the act but we 
 know Two Hawks knoavs and Bear Heart - 
 let him beware of Bear Heart Bear Heart 
 never forgets and his hate is relentless and his 
 vengeance sure. The agent knows, I think. 
 They know it at the Seven-up. Many know it 
 who are afraid. Afraid, Josephine, do you hear ? 
 But Onjijitka is not afraid. Let him look out. 
 Josephine, have you lost a cow?" 
 
 "Yes," whispered Josephine, starting nerv 
 ously away from a fallen tree trunk. 
 
 "You must not be afraid," said Rosebud, re 
 assuringly. "They are both at the river by this 
 time. There is no one else on the island. You 
 are sure about the heifer?" 
 
 "Yes," assented Josephine, trying desperately 
 to control the numb terror that was creeping over 
 her. "She has been missing for two days." 
 "Would you know the stray?" 
 "Yes. She is the cow we always milked." 
 "We must not talk any more now," said Rose- 
 
 [108]
 
 A DISCOVERY 
 
 bud, in a low voice. "Do not say a word. Just 
 follow me." 
 
 They turned aside from the dim wagon trail 
 into the dark woods to the north. There was no 
 light in the cabin but they gave it a wide berth, 
 nevertheless, and were soon safely lost in the 
 labyrinth of the forest. Presently, they turned 
 eastward and crept noiselessly forward until 
 they came to the end of the timber. There they 
 halted. If they remained quiet there was little 
 danger of discovery. The shadows were very 
 deep. The moon, riding up from the eastern 
 hills, served only to make them the denser by 
 contrast. The usually murky water gleamed 
 silver in the white radiance. The river was low 
 and a sandy beach stretched between the timber 
 line and the water s edge where a skiff swung 
 lightly at its moorings. There was no sign of 
 man or beast in all the peaceful scene. They had 
 not long to wait. Very soon, two men and a cow 
 emerged from out the gloom of the forest so 
 close to them that Josephine with difficulty re 
 frained from gasping aloud in sheer nervous 
 dread, and walked leisurely across the sandbar. 
 Josephine pressed Rosebud s hand convulsively 
 and Rosebud understood. The men were plainly 
 
 [109]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 visible their identity easily determined. They 
 approached the boat wordlessly. They were not 
 afraid. This was a very lonely spot. They were 
 silent merely because there was no necessity for 
 speech. They understood one another so abso 
 lutely Frank LaDue and his woodchopper. 
 They stepped into the boat and pushed off, but 
 the cow evinced signs of stubbornness, planted 
 her feet firmly in the sand and refused to be 
 dragged into the water, so that the leading rope 
 became taut and strained, all to no purpose. 
 Immediately, the men broke forth into profanity 
 which had no effect, seemingly, upon the cow. 
 The controversy between man and brute was 
 finally adjusted, to the satisfaction of the men at 
 least, by Henry Hoffman s jumping from the 
 boat and shoving the animal into the river, using 
 an oar for a club. Then he himself ran into the 
 water, climbed into the rapidly receding skiff, and 
 the two men rowed across the moonlit water and 
 into the heavy shadows beyond, the cow swim 
 ming gallantly in their wake. 
 
 "And he said, Josephine," whispered Rose 
 bud, as the girls made their way homeward, back 
 through the dark, island forest there was no 
 need of whispering now, but it went with the 
 
 [no]
 
 A DISCOVERY 
 
 eerie errand upon which they had been bent 
 "he said I followed them, you know ah! he 
 little dreamed that the she-Injun was so near. 
 He had better not call me names any more, Jose 
 phine, and he had better, far better, stay off 
 the Indian lands." Her voice was low and hiss 
 ing, but beautiful still. It would always be beau 
 tiful. * She had forgotten what she meant to say. 
 They came out into the dim trail where the moon 
 light filtered through the foliage overhead; then 
 she remembered. "He said, Josephine, I ll get 
 every critter Carroll owns if he does n t get out 
 o here mighty damned quick! 
 
 With a sinking heart, Josephine recalled 
 Jack s words the day at the Seven-up. " All I 
 ask is to be let alone," he had said. "I had bet 
 ter be let alone. If I am not, there will be 
 trouble for some one." 
 
 [in]
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 CARROLL CALLS ON HIS NEIGHBOR 
 
 T T was late when Jack came home. He found 
 Josephine and Rosebud still sitting on the 
 door step. Rosebud arose at once. 
 
 "Josephine and I will ride home with you," 
 said Jack. 
 
 "Indeed you shall not," returned Rosebud, 
 resolutely. "It is too far. I stayed with Jose 
 phine because she will tell you why. I am 
 going home alone." 
 
 "Rosebud, stay all night," urged Josephine. 
 "It is so late." 
 
 "The night is not bad to me," answered Rose 
 bud. "You must not forget that every turn of 
 the old trail, every bunch of soapweed by the 
 wayside, is known to Onjijitka. Night or day, 
 it is all the same. Good-night." 
 
 "Onjijitka," said Jack, with whimsical re 
 proach and with a gallant and reckless disregard 
 of the many miles that lay between the Broken 
 Key and the outlying hut on the Reservation 
 he had a little way of hesitating for a barely per- 
 
 [112]
 
 A CALL 
 
 ceptible moment before pronouncing her name in 
 the slow, lovable voice that was becoming so dan 
 gerously sweet to the step-daughter of Two 
 Hawks "do you mean to say that you are not 
 going to let me ride home with you<?" 
 
 "Onjijitka has said. Good-night." She 
 glided into the shadows and was gone. 
 
 "Heigho!" yawned Jack, throwing himself 
 down upon the spot where Rosebud had been 
 sitting. "I m tired, Jo, dead tired." It was 
 true. His face showed pale and tired in the 
 moonlight. "I think perhaps I have found 
 some one to help us after a while in a few days 
 but it was hard, tremendously hard. I think 
 the Broken Key is out of favor, Josephine. 
 Heigho, but I am tired!" He clasped his hands 
 behind his head and rested so, leaning against 
 the door casing, his brown eyes staring thought 
 fully into the shadows. "What a pretty girl 
 Onjijitka is," he said dreamily. 
 
 "She is indeed," assented Josephine, quietly. 
 "Jack, I have something to tell you." 
 
 Early the next morning Jack sauntered over 
 to the island. Because the river was low, he 
 walked dry-shod across the slough. The log 
 cabin was deserted. The door was standing open 
 
 [113]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 but there was no one within. The breakfast 
 dishes stood unwashed upon the table. They 
 consisted of two tin cups, two tin plates, a like 
 number of tin spoons and blackened steel knives 
 and forks, with an immense frying pan holding 
 the place of honor in the centre. It had evidently 
 served the double purpose of having the bacon 
 first cooked and then served therein. The odor 
 of the fried meat still clung to the close air of the 
 low-ceilinged room. Should he wait? Surely 
 some one would return presently to straighten 
 the untidy room. The sleeping bunks were even 
 unmade. Yes, he would wait a bit not inside 
 he would walk up and down in the sweet out 
 door air of the early morning. He was hurt and 
 angry. He had entered into the pioneer life 
 beyond the big river simply, whole-heartedly, 
 fearlessly, unsuspiciously. Suddenly and with 
 out warning he had been struck in the dark. It 
 was a rude awakening. 
 
 The sun climbed higher. The plains country 
 winds could not penetrate to the little clearing 
 in the heart of the woods so that here it was very 
 warm and still, with the sun creeping insidiously 
 through the thickening tree-tops. Presently 
 from up stream, as he waited, came a familiar 
 
 [114]
 
 A CALL 
 
 sound, and soon the quiet, almost oppressive air 
 was ringing with the monotonous repetition of 
 blows from an axe in the hands of the wood 
 cutter. The day s work had begun. The proba 
 bilities were that there would be no returning to 
 the house now until noon time. It seemed strange. 
 It was not the way of the men of the West who 
 kept house for themselves to leave until the 
 primitive bachelor arrangements were as tidily 
 disposed of as it was possible for them to be under 
 the circumstances. It came to Jack, standing 
 there pondering the unusualness of the early 
 desertion, that it was a premeditated getting 
 away. Perhaps he had been seen crossing the 
 slough and perhaps he was not accounted a wel 
 come guest. Well, he should follow his neighbor 
 to the wood-chopping. He had come to see him 
 and he meant to see him. 
 
 He found LaDue up in the northern boun 
 daries of the island, alone, cutting up a gigantic 
 cottonwood that had been felled a few days be 
 fore. The man ceased his labors, leaned his axe 
 against a tree, and wiped his streaming face with 
 a much soiled handkerchief. 
 
 "Oh, it s you," he said, indifferently. 
 
 "Yes," said Jack. "I stopped at the house, 
 
 [115]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 but finding no one there, I came here. I heard 
 the sound of your axe." 
 
 "Wasn t Henry to the house?" 
 
 "I did not see him." 
 
 "He must have been round some ers. Fine 
 day." 
 
 "It is, indeed. I came over to see you, Mr. 
 LaDue, about a little matter of business that I 
 am sure you will be able to explain satisfactorily," 
 began Jack. He paused a moment. 
 
 "Well, spit er out. I got a lot o work to do 
 to-day, sonny," responded LaDue, with sug 
 gestive impatience. 
 
 "All right," said Jack, quietly, although the 
 hot, impulsive blood burned in his face and 
 tingled at his finger tips so that he longed to 
 knock his neighbor down. "I shall not keep you 
 long. Briefly, then, this is the way of it. Last 
 night, my sister saw you and your man cross one 
 of the Broken Key milch cows to the other side. 
 The animal has been missing for two or three 
 days. Now, I know how easy it is, Mr. LaDue," 
 continued Jack, diplomatically, "to mistake 
 cattle when they run at large, and it was after 
 night, too, when you crossed this one. Mine have 
 been feeding right here, near home, and I know 
 
 [H6l
 
 A CALL 
 
 that many of them stray over to the island. But 
 we have decided to let them feed north of the big 
 gulch again so that there need be no more trouble. 
 Is it not so?" 
 
 LaDue s face was convulsed with a great rage. 
 His narrow eyes gleamed malignantly from 
 beneath his heavy brows. His black, bristly, 
 seven-days beard gave him a peculiarly unkempt 
 appearance, as his house had looked when he 
 left it. 
 
 "Now, you look here, young feller," he said, 
 "you ll do well to mind your own business. 
 Don t you know that yet ? If you don t, you ll 
 do a mighty well to learn. This ain t a meddlin 
 country and we have a pretty good way o teach 
 ing fool tenderfeet who don t know their place 
 nor their business well, if we don t exactly 
 teach em their business, we have a first-rate way 
 o showin em pretty plain what ain t their 
 business. Takin that in? Well, I did cross 
 a cow last night my own critter she was 
 and Henry drove her to the rest o the bunch 
 in the hills. Now, then, is that explanation 
 enough for you ? You would n t have got the 
 half from Frank LaDue if you were n t my 
 neighbor." 
 
 [117]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 He reached for his axe as if the subject and the 
 call as well were both at an end. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Jack, firmly. "That is 
 not explanation enough. I had hoped that we 
 might settle this this disagreement amicably 
 and I still hope that you will see the wisdom of 
 not letting this affair go any farther and will 
 agree to end it right here and now peacefully and 
 with no one the wiser. Onjijitka 
 
 "Thievin , lyin Sioux!" muttered LaDue, 
 with a scornful shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 For a moment, it seemed as if Jack would 
 spring at the man s throat and throttle him, so 
 enraged was he at the brutal remark, but he con 
 trolled himself. 
 
 "Onjijitka," he continued, steadily, "my sis 
 ter s very dear friend and mine overheard, 
 yesterday, your arrangements with Henry Hoff 
 man on the boat to cross Carroll s critter when 
 the wind went down. After supper, she fol 
 lowed you to the place where you had concealed 
 the animal. She heard you say, LaDue, that you 
 meant to have all of my stock if I stayed here. 
 That was not very neighborly, now, was it ? 
 Why you should desire my removal from the 
 country so heartily at the same time that you 
 
 [118]
 
 A CALL 
 
 plan to make a good thing out of my poor little 
 herd is more than I can comprehend," he con 
 cluded, a little wistfully. 
 
 LaDue s anger had seemingly passed away 
 during this brief recital and he was now uncon 
 cernedly rolling a cigarette. He sat down upon 
 the fallen log as if he had changed his mind about 
 being in a hurry and reached for a wide chip 
 which he whittled idly. Instantly, Jack became 
 stern again. 
 
 "But if you think to force me out of the way 
 by such means, I tell you now, LaDue, frankly, 
 that you might as well spare yourself any fur 
 ther trouble, for I will never go. Do you hear? 
 I will never go alive." He paused a moment, 
 then continued: "So Onjijitka went back and 
 told my sister and they made your rendezvous, 
 too, together, only they kept back in the timber 
 and they saw all that there was to see. The 
 moon was very bright, you will remember." 
 
 LaDue waited until he had whittled away the 
 last splinter in his chip and had begun on another ; 
 then he said, tolerantly: 
 
 "You never can believe Injuns, Carroll. 
 They re the biggest liars and thieves in the world 
 and half-breeds are the worst o all. You ain t 
 
 [119]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 learned much if you ain t learned that yet. No 
 one in this here country 11 trust a half-breed out 
 o his sight. Anybody s cattle is their cattle. 
 That squaw was just makin trouble. She may 
 have your critter herself for all I know, or else 
 that thievin ol renegade of a Two Hawks. He 
 does n t make no pretensions o livin on any 
 thing but slowelk. If you d have told me in 
 the first place that this squaw critter had been 
 stuffin you, I wouldn t have been so all-fired 
 mad as I was, because I know Injuns. I killed 
 a Injun once for rustlin one o my critters," he 
 concluded, casually. 
 
 "Shall we leave Onjijitka out of the question 
 for the present?" said Jack, with cold authority. 
 "Miss Carroll saw the cow and knew it for our 
 own. That is enough, I think. Now, what are 
 you going to do about it?" 
 
 "Aho! So that s the way the wind blows, is 
 it?" said LaDue, with a disagreeable chuckle. 
 "I was askin her only yesterday why she was 
 puttin on so many airs." 
 
 "I asked you," said Jack, now white with 
 passion, "what are you going to do about it?" 
 
 "And I answer you," replied LaDue, "not a 
 damned thing ! " 
 
 [120]
 
 A CALL 
 
 "If you do not deliver that cow to me before 
 noon on the day after to-morrow, I shall make 
 you sweat for it," said Jack, deliberately. 
 
 "Do! Go ahead!" taunted LaDue. "I defy 
 you! Prove that was not my cow, will you? 
 How are you goin to do it ? Tell me that, now !" 
 
 "You know very well how I shall prove it. 
 I mean what I say. I understand perfectly, 
 now, that little calf deal. And you dared to in 
 sinuate that I rustled that calf from you ! That 
 incident may not be closed after all. But leaving 
 the calf altogether out of the question, I shall 
 prosecute you just as surely as the cow is not 
 returned to me by noon of the day after to 
 morrow. I give you until then because 
 to-morrow we shall be at Lower Brule for the 
 games. We go as far as Velpen to-night. I 
 trust that you understand me thoroughly?" 
 
 The islander s passion was something terrible 
 to see. 
 
 "You you upstart," he choked, "do you 
 think for a moment that there won t be a way 
 found for plasterin your damned mouth be 
 fore you have a chance to regale the officers with 
 your pack o petticoat lies? A pretty sort o 
 woman your sister must be to go spyin round 
 
 [121]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 on the doin s o men. How could she tell whose 
 blamed cow that was, and at night ? It was a 
 sorry day for her when she strayed away from 
 her own and took to her din with this bunch west 
 o the river. A sorry day and you can tell her 
 so for me. Now, then, young man, what are you 
 goin to do about it ?" 
 
 "I have told you," said Jack, quietly. "You 
 have until the day after to-morrow." 
 
 He nodded curtly, turned, and strode quickly 
 homeward. 
 
 Left alone, LaDue fingered, restlessly, some 
 thing that lay in a heavy holster at his hip. 
 There was an ugly look in his eyes. 
 
 "Why didn t you?" asked Henry Hoffman, 
 lounging into view with the oars of the skiff over 
 his big shoulders. There was a quizzical look in 
 his blue eyes as he spoke. 
 
 "I did n t want to freeze you out of the game, 
 Henry," said LaDue, calmly, reaching for his 
 axe. 
 
 [122]
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 nn HE Wild West celebration to which Jack 
 referred was not to be a tawdry imitation of, 
 nor a burlesque on the peculiarities and environ 
 ments of range life. It was to be a real, active, 
 though friendly rivalry between real cowboys, 
 with real, well-earned records to make or break 
 and with real brands to represent, brands that 
 were carried by thousands of animals and were 
 known far and wide over the range country. 
 This competitive trial of skill was to be held at 
 Lower Brule Agency for two reasons. First, 
 because the Indians were interested, but chiefly 
 because it was neutral ground for the cowmen 
 of the Bad River country and those of the south, 
 accounting the Agency the dividing line. Be 
 tween these two sections was a friendly feud of 
 long-standing rivalry and the coming contest had 
 been planned to settle some old scores, to decide 
 some disputed points, and above all, to inter 
 rupt, however briefly, the unruffled monotony 
 of the daily life of the cowboy pioneer. 
 
 With Jack and Josephine Carroll, when they 
 
 [123]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 rode into Velpen the evening before the day of 
 the games, were Tom Burrington, of the Seven- 
 up, his mother and young brother Louis, but 
 lately out from Chicago, the boy driving his 
 mother in the buggy while Tom rode his favorite 
 mount, a blooded animal but a famous cow horse 
 none the less; Rosebud and her step-brother, 
 Bear Heart, son of Two Hawks, of the Rosebud 
 Indian Reservation. Bear Heart was a full- 
 blooded, square-shouldered Sioux, who held as 
 sacred the traditions of the past; who dreamed 
 of a rehabilitated freedom and glory for his 
 people, and who had promptly rejected the 
 proffered advantages of civilization by running 
 away from Carlisle, whither Two Hawks, at the 
 earnest solicitation of Rosebud, warmly seconded 
 by the Missionary Bishop, had sent him in a 
 moment of unguarded and listless indifference. 
 Bear Heart had stoically refused to go back and 
 Two Hawks had not insisted. 
 
 The little party went straight to the hotel. 
 There seemed to be an unusual number of men 
 hanging around the lobby. M any left the room 
 upon the arrival of the new guests, three of 
 whom were ladies, but they did not go far. They 
 collected in small groups outside, not talking 
 
 [124]
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 much, but a plainly discernible air of expectancy 
 pervaded each and every one as if something of 
 supreme interest was booked to happen before 
 long and no one wished to be very far off 
 when the entry was called. While Jack regis 
 tered for the party, Tom stepped out to give 
 orders for the care of their horses. Upon re- 
 entering the room, he was casually approached 
 by a prominent merchant of the town in company 
 with a neighbor from the White River country. 
 Talking ceased all at once among the smokers 
 who had elected to remain. The women had gone 
 upstairs. 
 
 "Hello, Burrington," greeted the man from 
 White River. 
 
 "Why, hello, Symes. So you are frittering 
 away good time, too, are you, going up to watch 
 those fool boys play monkey shines ? We ought 
 by rights to be in better business. Are you going 
 up on the boat?" 
 
 f .Nope. Not me. I got to feel leather be 
 tween my knees when I m travellin or I ain t 
 comfortable. Mr. Budlong, here, and the whole 
 Velpen aggregation are goin up that way, 
 though. I suppose you are, too, seein s you ve 
 got your women folks with you." 
 
 [125]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Yes, we are going to take it easy this time. 
 Who are entering from down our way, Symes ? 
 I have been too blamed busy to keep posted. 
 What is going to happen?" 
 
 "Oh, the usual things horse racing and 
 bronc busting and such child s play. Of course 
 you re goin in for the ropin contest, ain t you, 
 Burrington?" 
 
 There was a faint suggestion of anxiety in the 
 matter-of-fact question. Jack sauntered over to 
 the group, his hands in his pockets, waiting for 
 the women to come down to go into the dining- 
 room for a late supper. 
 
 "Not this time," said Tom, carelessly. "I am 
 all out of practice. It is too hard work, anyway. 
 I am getting lazy." 
 
 He turned at the sound of a step on the stair. 
 It was only Louis, ill-content unless within 
 sound of his big, gray-eyed hero s voice. He 
 perched himself on the middle stair and prepared 
 to listen to what was going on while still obeying 
 his mother s request that he wait for her and 
 Josephine and Rosebud. 
 
 "But, Mr. Burrington," interposed Budlong, 
 anxiously, "we have counted on you all the time. 
 The boys are all agreed. Velpen is betting 
 
 [1261
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 heavily on you. Why, you must enter. We 
 simply cannot get along without you." 
 
 "It seems to me that I have something to say 
 in this matter," said Tom, with a laugh, "and so 
 I say that the boys had better call their bets off. 
 I am not going in. I never thought about it 
 seriously and I d rather not." 
 
 The men who had vacated the room but a little 
 while ago now began filing slowly back again. 
 They were impatient for the result of the plainly 
 premeditated interview. 
 
 "But it s this way, Tom," urged Symes. 
 "The Pierre fellows are coming down, whole 
 droves strong. There s a regular stampede 
 of em, and they re makin a lot o talk about a 
 wonder they ve got up there. They re braggin 
 there ain t ary a man in the State can beat im 
 and we are bound to call that bluff. We re 
 all agreed on you. There ain t nobody else we 
 can dare trust agin that there miracle fellow 
 they re blowin so much about. He s a new 
 one. I never heard o him before. More n 
 likely he ain t so much, after all, but we can t 
 afford to run no risks. For the honor o old 
 Kemah, we ve got to stop the big talk o those 
 fellows up north. Ain t that so?" 
 
 [127]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Well, but see here, boys," said Tom, includ 
 ing in his response the entire group, who by this 
 time had frankly surrounded him, ready to lend 
 their persuasive powers, if necessary, in order to 
 win their point, "I feel the honor and all that 
 you know that, don t you? it is mighty good of 
 you boys to to well, to think that I could 
 do it " he was visibly embarrassed, for Jose 
 phine had at last appeared around the bend in 
 the stairway and was standing quietly behind 
 Louis, waiting "I appreciate your high rating 
 of me it is really downright good of you- 
 but that is one reason why I hesitate. In fact, 
 I cannot do it, boys. I should only disappoint 
 you. I should stand no more show of winning 
 than a jack-rabbit. That s honest. I am all out 
 of practice. I have not half thrown a rope in ages 
 and I do not know when I have made a tie. I 
 should like to accommodate you but I can t 
 do it. I should lose for you and that I should 
 hate like the dev deuce. Get some one of whom 
 you can be sure. I am all out of training and I 
 cannot do it." 
 
 "You re the only one we are sure of, Tom, 
 and that s why you Ve got to enter. You don t 
 need no practice. You 11 git there anyway. 
 
 [128]
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 You always do. There ain t a man west o the 
 river can throw a rope like you you know that, 
 Tom practice or no practice." 
 
 "Let me see," said Tom, meditatively, "who 
 can we get to fight for our honor? There is 
 Henry Hoffman. I can vouch for him. He used 
 to outride for me. He was the best hand with a 
 rope I ever saw. I think he works for Frank 
 LaDue now. Why don t you get him? He 
 comes from the Southwest and that is a recom 
 mendation in itself." 
 
 "No woodchoppers for us," said a cow- 
 puncher on the outskirts, with a disdainful shrug 
 of his shoulders. :< Thirty-seven seconds d make 
 him look purty sick, I m thinkin ." 
 
 "A fellow that s been haulin wood since 
 March," said Symes, argumentatively, "is 
 more n likely somewhat out o practice, too." 
 
 "But I can t take my horse on the boat," 
 pleaded Tom, "and I am not alone, you know. 
 I am with a party. I can t leave them." 
 
 "We 11 see to it that that wall-eyed cayuse of 
 yours is on the boat," returned Symes, promptly. 
 "Waitly 11 take him if we boys insist. Well, we 
 insist so that s a go." 
 
 "Have you any further objections to "put 
 
 [129]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 forth?" asked Budlong, with an appreciative 
 smile at the inexhaustibility of Symes s argu 
 ments and the readiness with which he marshalled 
 them forth to meet any and all objections. 
 
 "I cannot think of any more now," laughed 
 Tom, helplessly. "But I am afraid that you will 
 be sorry. I will do the best I can you know 
 that, don t you? But I tell you now that I can 
 never make it in thirty-seven seconds. If that 
 miracle fellow can well, remember that I 
 warned you." 
 
 "Then that s settled," said Symes, with a sigh 
 of relief, and the crowd dispersed with noisy 
 self-congratulations upon the successful installa 
 tion of their unanimous choice of a champion. 
 
 The Susie, temporarily out of commission as a 
 ferryboat, left her wharf promptly at five o clock 
 on the morning of the big day of the sports. 
 No delay would be tolerated by her impatient pa 
 trons, for the programme of events was scheduled 
 to open immediately after the early twelve o clock 
 dinner and, counting on her best time and that no 
 obstacles would be encountered, such as becom 
 ing annoyingly and indefinitely stranded upon 
 a sand-bar, the boat could not possibly make the 
 distance short of eleven. The early morning air 
 
 [130]
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 was soft and cool and still. The fussy little gaso 
 line boat ploughed her way right gallantly up the 
 yellow, turbulent channel, wisely keeping close 
 in shore whenever feasible in order to follow the 
 line of least resistance. 
 
 "I am so glad that you consented to uphold 
 our standard," said Josephine, smilingly. "I 
 was afraid that you were going to refuse right 
 out of hand, and then whatever should we have 
 done?" 
 
 They had obtained seats on the west side of the 
 engine house, all the party from the Seven-up, 
 the Broken Key, and the Reservation, so as to be 
 well out of the way of the late May sun when 
 he should have warmed up to the work of the 
 day. The rude camp stools of the women were 
 propped against the outer wall to afford support 
 for feminine backs, but Tom and Jack stood in 
 front of them leaning carelessly against the rail 
 ing, while the moody Indian, heedless of sun and 
 disdaining the continued companionship of the 
 loquacious whites, soon wandered forward and 
 sat down upon the huge coil of rope that would 
 later secure the boat to the landing at the Agency, 
 and gazed silently, impassively, at the panorama 
 of bluff and gulch and mouth of creek, the glint 
 
 [131]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 of sun-struck mica and the dazzle of the white 
 chalk rock with its corrugated surface where the 
 rains and melted snows of centuries had worn 
 their way to the river below, leaving innumerable 
 little crinkles in their wake to bear witness to the 
 constant erosion that had carved and scarred the 
 rugged face of the bluffs of the Big Muddy. 
 Louis neither sat nor stood; he was everywhere. 
 
 " It is all foolishness," responded Tom, soberly. 
 Besides the disappointment that he feared he 
 must inflict upon his friends, he had suddenly 
 developed an intense aversion to making a show 
 of himself before this gentle-mannered, high 
 bred girl from the Old South, he who had so often 
 played the game with joyous zest. He was 
 whittling away at a diamond willow which he 
 had seized when, to avoid a huge, floating log, 
 the boat had veered in close to the shore. "I 
 shall only disappoint the boys. I know my 
 limitations. I should not be afraid to try if I 
 were in training, but as it is 
 
 "I am like the boys," said Josephine, gayly. 
 "I have no fear. We have builded our faith on 
 a rock," she added, slowly, w r ith just a percepti 
 ble darkening of the frank eyes. "I do not 
 forget, you see, when I, even I, came under your 
 
 [132]
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 all-conquering noose. Any one capable of rop 
 ing a hysterical girl, teetering down stream on a 
 bit of crazy ice, need surely have no uneasiness 
 about a clumsy quadruped." 
 
 "Ah, but you did not time me, Miss Carroll," 
 retorted Tom. "I was doubtless an hour at it; 
 and moreover, I object to that term hysterical. 
 I am here to testify that you never made a sound. 
 You neither screamed nor cried nor moaned. 
 You were pretty white, I confess, but you were 
 very brave." 
 
 "Paralyzed," said Josephine, banteringly, "or 
 posing, maybe, for your lordship s approval." 
 
 "That being the case, I admire your superb 
 self-control more than ever," said Tom, with a 
 laugh of unbelief. 
 
 "Do not talk about it, children," interrupted 
 Mrs. Burrington. "It positively makes me 
 shudder just to think about it. Do talk about 
 something pleasant." 
 
 But before the subject was shifted, Josephine 
 flashed him a tiny smile as she said, softly, "Re 
 member, your friends have perfect faith in you," 
 and Tom bowed his handsome head in grave ac 
 knowledgment and wished that he might fairly 
 justify her confidence, on the field, but in his 
 
 [133]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 heart he was dubious of what the close of the 
 afternoon should bring forth. 
 
 "I say, Tom," panted Louis, coming up at 
 that moment in great haste, his blue eyes snap 
 ping with excitement and scorn, his chubby face 
 hot and moist from too long a stay on the sunny 
 side, "he says you are going to get beat all to 
 nothing. I heard him telling somebody that you 
 were too stuck up for this country, anyway, but 
 that you would get your medicine this afternoon." 
 
 "Hold on there, lad," interrupted Tom, good- 
 naturedly, tossing his willow into the current, 
 catching up the small boy and elevating him to a 
 position on the railing, where he held him firmly. 
 " Who says what ? Slow and easy now." 
 
 "Why, Frank LaDue, of course. He s talk 
 ing over there with some fellows. and he said that 
 Pierre man was the best ever. He said he had 
 every record in cattledom beat. Now, what do 
 you think of that?" 
 
 He slipped away from Tom s grasp and bal 
 anced himself dexterously without holding on to 
 the railing, while the big brother who loved him 
 eyed him sharply, but made no move to lay hold 
 of him again, in spite of the mother s protests. 
 
 " He said he hoped you would get beat even if
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 you did belong to his diggings it would serve 
 you plumb right that you were altogether too 
 smart and were a little too blamed sure that you 
 were the biggest frog in the puddle. You are, 
 too, Tom, and that s the joke of it. Well, 
 mother, you need n t frown at blamed. I made 
 that over for your special benefit. He said 
 damned, and worser ones, too, before he was 
 through. His dictionary is n t like ours," he 
 went on, airily and slangily, "but of its kind, it 
 is surely a dandy. He said you strutted around 
 like God Almighty well, mother, he did. I m 
 just quoting, and quoting isn t swearing, is it? 
 Now what do you think of that? I snickered 
 right out. I couldn t help it. He hadn t seen 
 me before and oh, gee ! did n t he look mad, 
 though? But he said he hoped you would hear 
 what he d said it might do you some good. 
 And he d have spit tobacco on me, careless-like, 
 if I had n t been too quick for him. Old snake- 
 in-the-grass ! When he got up he said something 
 kind of under his breath about your Colloguin 
 with tattlers and interlopers and land-grabbers. 
 Colloguin isn t in my dictionary," he con 
 cluded ingenuously, but no one helped him to a 
 better understanding. 
 
 [135]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 Jack s smooth, boyish face hardened, Jose 
 phine s became wistful, while Rosebud tapped 
 the floor with her moccasined right foot, nerv 
 ously. Tom alone seemed unmoved, but Mrs. 
 Burrington, who knew him best, perceived that 
 his keen but usually laughing eyes had narrowed 
 ever so slightly, which was a bad sign. 
 
 "To me, that has an ugly ring," said Jack. 
 "Look out for foul play, Tom." 
 
 "If there is going to be any trickery," said 
 Mrs. Burrington, imploringly, "for goodness 
 sake, Tom, keep out of it. You said that you 
 would not go in. Don t have anything to do 
 with the wretched affair. It is a constant wonder 
 to me why I will come back to this uncanny 
 country. Every Summer, I make up my mind 
 firmly that it shall be my last and yet here I am 
 again, silly old woman that I am, to whom gray 
 hairs have brought no corresponding sense. A 
 nice situation this,, for an old woman and a babe!" 
 
 "Babe! I don t see any babe," exploded 
 Louis, fearful for his dignity when he was so 
 soon to be a man of affairs in the cattle country 
 like Tom. "And, Tom, I d beat or bust now 
 if I were you. Me and Bear Heart 11 watch out 
 for foul play, won t we, old fellow?" he con- 
 
 [136]
 
 UP THE MISSOURI 
 
 eluded, appealing to his good friend, the Indian, 
 who had left his position on the coil of rope and 
 sauntered forward. 
 
 The Indian nodded gravely. 
 
 "Bear Heart and the little brother will watch," 
 he said unemotionally. 
 
 "What a tempest in a tea-pot, to quote you, 
 mother," said Tom, laughing heartily. "There 
 will be no trickery. Our friend dislikes me so 
 thoroughly that he has pinned his faith to this wise 
 man who has come out of the North. That is 
 all. It is easy to prophesy catastrophe for those 
 you hate. Trickery? That is not the game we 
 cowmen play." His face became stern. "We 
 play the game fair or we play it not at all. Don t 
 think for a minute that I shall submit to trickery. 
 That word," he smiled suddenly, winningly, "is 
 not in my dictionary." 
 
 [137]
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 OOME squaws, waist deep in the shore water 
 washing print garments, ducked behind a 
 drift of logs as the Susie slanted in toward the 
 landing. They resented the amused stare of the 
 passengers, refused to furnish entertainment for 
 the insolent white man, and so hid themselves 
 with only their heads appearing above the logs, 
 their black eyes snapping defiance. A cavalcade 
 of cowboys swept down to meet the incoming boat 
 with much clatter of hoofs and with clouds of 
 dust. A boat landing at Lower Brule under 
 ordinary circumstances was a novelty, but this 
 one was possessed of unusual interest because it 
 had been early bruited about that he whom the 
 cattlemen south of the Agency were to present as 
 the champion roper, was travelling hither that 
 way. Symes was there to see to it that Burring- 
 ton had not changed his mind, though there was 
 little fear of that, for his word once given was 
 never broken and his friends knew this and re 
 spected him for it. Still, Symes could not help 
 being anxious. He held sectional supremacy as 
 
 [1381
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 a very precious thing and he had seen this much- 
 lauded hero from the north and had felt in 
 stinctively that Tom Burrington of the Seven-up 
 was the only man of theirs who would not be 
 outclassed by this tough, wiry, cool-eyed candi 
 date for new honors. So it behooved him, Symes, 
 to see to it that nothing prevented Tom s enter 
 ing the lists that afternoon. It was to be the 
 crowning event of the day. Nothing appeals to 
 the cowboy like a good throw and a good tie. 
 Other things would be interesting, even exciting, 
 but there would be nothing quite equal in real 
 sport to the contest, which was the last thing on 
 the programme, with the exception of the Indian 
 grass dance, played in full regalia, with which 
 event any sort of unusual celebration at the 
 Agency always closed, a concession on the part 
 of the Government to the perpetuity of the 
 memory of the days of the Dakotahs. 
 
 Those who had come up the river on the boat 
 walked to the Agency, straggling across the 
 prairie by twos and threes, accepting with moreor 
 less good-nature the dust of the riders who raced 
 to the pleasure grounds in a childish exuberance 
 of spirits because of the holiday, and perhaps, 
 too, with an unacknowledged impulse to "show 
 
 [139]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 off" their really wonderful prowess before this 
 foolish crowd of tenderfeet from town. Tom 
 walked with his friends, leading his horse, ap 
 parently having forgotten all about his uneasiness 
 as to the result of the coming trial. Josephine 
 was so frankly pleased with everything and 
 was so palpably enjoying herself and appealed 
 to him so many times for explanation or con 
 firmation that he had no will to mar her pleasure 
 by any further croaking of evil to come, and so 
 
 . / c* 
 
 gave himself up to a quiet enjoyment of her high 
 spirits and unbridled curiosity as to anything and 
 everything that concerned the life of these wards 
 of the Government. 
 
 The tepees especially interested her. They 
 were laid out in a semi-circle on a wide flat about 
 half a mile from the Agency. They were tem 
 porary homes, most of them, pitched thus con 
 veniently for the celebration, their canvas w r alls 
 gleaming spectrally on the sunny plain, well re 
 moved from the shade of the river trees. The 
 Lower Brule Indians had been gathering for 
 days from even the utmost confines of the Reser 
 vation and their assembled camp-fires would 
 gleam redly for many a night yet to come. 
 
 "I realize perfectly that I am making a tre- 
 
 [140]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 mendous nuisance of myself," said Josephine, 
 with a longing glance across the white dis 
 tance to where the tents sat so lazily in the 
 glare of the sun, "but how I should love to go 
 a-vi siting." 
 
 She had shaded her eyes with her gauntletted 
 hands, her felt hat was pushed far back on her 
 head and the moisture on her forehead the 
 May day was as warm as June had curled 
 numerous little tendrils of shining hair. She was 
 so altogether lovable, so irresistibly compelling, 
 so intensely feminine in spite of her rough riding 
 attire, and withal so quietly, unquestioningly 
 and unpresumingly ready for and equal to the 
 emergency of a sojourn in this rough-edged re 
 gion, that Tom Burrington swore another oath 
 under his breath, a stronger oath than the em 
 bryonic one that he had sworn on the day the ice 
 went out, when she sat warming her feet at his 
 own fireside, an oath that she should never leave 
 the cattle country never for any other 
 home. He should force it to blossom content^ 
 ment for her. He hailed a passing buckboard 
 that was in a weird state of dilapidation and 
 rattled whiningly. It was drawn by a pair of 
 ragged and vicious-looking Indian ponies and 
 
 [141]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 they were driven by a deeply seamed v gnarled, 
 hawk-eyed veteran of many a hunt and many a 
 warpath, and this ancient and picturesque red 
 man was at once pressed into service. While the 
 rest of the party made ready for dinner, he drove 
 Tom and Josephine the rounds of the Summer 
 village where Tom was well known to many, and 
 on the most friendly terms with all. 
 
 The white canvas of the wall tent testified to 
 the encroaching influence of civilization, but the 
 majority of the tepees were erected on the time- 
 honored plan of the forefathers. A series of poles 
 forming a circle were brought together at the top 
 and tied with strips of rawhide ; around these the 
 canvas was stretched, leaving an aperture at the 
 top through which the fumes of the kinnikinnic 
 and, in case of necessity, the smoke of the wood 
 fire might escape. Encircling these crude chim 
 neys and extending two feet above were the 
 crossed tops of the tepee poles. Suspended from 
 each of these poles, like pennants from a staff, 
 was a bright ribbon-like strip of beef much 
 resembling a strip of red flannel. The action of 
 the sun and pure air soon dried these strips, the 
 smoke of the indispensable kinnikinnic cured and 
 flavored them, and the result was, to the red man, 
 
 [142]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 a very delectable food product known as jerked 
 beef. In the centre of the semicircle was a tent 
 made of the tanned skins of the buffalo and elk 
 stretched over smoke-stained poles with the moth- 
 damaged hair side on the interior. The outside 
 of the skins, the tanned side, was profusely 
 decorated with Indian drawings in blue, red, and 
 yellow pigments, conveying to the initiated a 
 complete history of the tribe and the occupant. 
 This was the tepee of Standing Cloud, the last 
 of the hereditary chiefs of the Brule Sioux. 
 
 Tom and Josephine visited and chatted and 
 gave pennies to the bright-eyed but speechless 
 little children, and bought moccasins, beaded and 
 tribe-marked, right from the feet of a laughing, 
 bashful, young squaw. It was a very pleasant 
 hour for them both and made for good comrade 
 ship. 
 
 It was not until after dinner, when Tom was 
 finding the best places for his party on a grassy 
 plot to the west of the ball grounds, that he 
 thought at all of the contest in which he himself 
 was to be so important a factor. It would be a 
 grave misfortune to lose the game for his people ; 
 not so much for himself, his personal pride could 
 easily stand the shock of defeat, but he could not 
 
 [143]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 bear to think that his friends should lose pres 
 tige, and through him ; and those northern ranch 
 men were already arrogant enough. Not so 
 much for himself that was true and yet he 
 knew that it would be one of the bitterest mo 
 ments of his life if, when the sun was low, he must 
 needs come back to her, across the level stretch 
 of country, figuratively trailing his colors in the 
 dust. If only he were in training! If only, as 
 long as he must, he had planned to do this thing. 
 The field which had been chosen for the games 
 was about a quarter of a mile from the Agency 
 buildings and a little to the west. Josephine 
 scorned an umbrella, but Mrs. Burrington raised 
 hers with a placid smile of acceptance of her ina 
 bility to love the unguarded sun of the prairie, 
 and prepared to take a sort of resigned interest 
 in the proceedings. People had begun drifting 
 thither long before the hour set. They were a 
 strange assemblage cow-punchers, ranchmen, 
 people of the town, a smattering of government 
 officials, and a host of Lower Brule and Crow 
 Creek Indians. There was much talking and eat 
 ing of peanuts, much betting and much smoking 
 of cigarettes, in the midst of which the pro 
 gramme of events was opened. 
 
 [144]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 There was a ball game first between a bunch of 
 town boys and a stalwart nine composed entirely 
 of young Brule bucks lost to the town, for 
 which Josephine leaned over and hugged Rose 
 bud ecstatically, while Rosebud said nothing 
 though her eyes shone with pleasure and pride. 
 Horse races and foot races followed each other 
 in rapid succession. There was a round of bronco 
 busting in which Bear Heart acquitted himself 
 with much glory, outclassing his worthiest rival 
 on a foul of "grabbing leather," and then while 
 the enthusiasm for the good showing made by 
 the Indian from the southern Reservation was at 
 its highest pitch, Tom Burrington arose from his 
 place beside his friends on the grassy plot and 
 slipped quietly away in search of his horse. 
 
 It was very warm. The sky of the late and 
 cloudless afternoon was very blue. The wind of 
 the plains was holding its breath so that it was 
 very still everywhere except in that one tiny spot 
 set down in the midst of illimitable, solemn, and 
 shimmering space where a handful of human 
 beings yelled lustily and gyrated foolishly and 
 otherwise disported themselves as if they were of 
 much, much consequence. They were people of 
 the plains, accustomed only to God s heavens and 
 
 [145]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 the limitless stretch of scenery to bound their 
 enthusiasm, so that their isolation was not 
 strikingly palpable to them, and yet they were 
 men, so that their play was the less incongruous 
 to them. 
 
 There were seven entries for the roping con 
 test, and the rough badinage that was without 
 malice amongst the contestants and their friends, 
 kept the crowd in a tumult of good humor. 
 
 Bill Dulan, a tall, muscular, middle-aged 
 athlete, foreman and joint proprietor of the 
 I bar U ranch located near the border line, an 
 adept with the rope and a sure shot with rifle or 
 "six-gun," was chosen as referee. Climbing 
 upon the arch above the smaller gate of the cor 
 ral, he proceeded to announce the rules of the 
 contest. With a bow directed toward the group 
 of ladies, he described a wide semi-circle with his 
 broad-brimmed light hat with a fair leather strap 
 for a band, and began: 
 
 "Ladies, cow-punchers, feller citizens, and In 
 juns, this here s goin to be a contest and you can 
 bet your life it s goin to be fair. The I bar U 
 outfit never plays a favorite; you can put your 
 money on your favorite puncher and you 11 sure 
 collect if he s the swiftest with his string. Bud 
 
 [146]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 McGonnigal of Texas is holdin the world s 
 record at thirty-seven seconds and the rules here 
 will be Bud s rules, Steer down and hog-tied, 
 three feet tied together. No dead steers count, 
 so look out for the broken necks or you will have 
 to try again. Your throw rope and two six-foot 
 ropes in the belt must do the business. Now 
 some of you galoots splice your ropes together 
 and run a half ring from the fence at the right to 
 the fence to the left of this gate and the puncher 
 sets his saddle by the gate and moves narry a peg 
 until the steer crosses the line." 
 
 Five of the contestants had cheerfully per 
 formed their part of the game, all having hog- 
 tied their steers in artistic fashion, but none of 
 them having gotten below the minute record. 
 One neck was broken and the Indians had 
 dragged off the carcass for beef. 
 
 When the man from the north country rode 
 up to the gate of the enclosure where the untamed 
 monarchs of the range were milling restlessly, a 
 great cheer ascended into the vaulted blue and 
 went sounding over the prairie. His reputation 
 had preceded him and some of his admirers even 
 expected him to break the record of Bud McGon 
 nigal. With his advent upon the field began the 
 
 [147]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 real interest of the day. He was a well-built 
 young fellow, not so large as Tom, but tough, 
 wiry, supple, entirely at home in the saddle. He 
 was apparently oblivious to the furor into which 
 his appearance had thrown the crowd. He 
 shifted his quid of tobacco carelessly and bided 
 his time with the utmost unconcern, one leg 
 thrown over the saddle horn, one hand toying 
 with the reached mane of his cow horse. He was 
 not an individual owner, but was foreman of a 
 big syndicate ranch in the middle north. Sitting 
 there so carelessly, he was the picture of self- 
 confidence, sure of his ability to throw a rope, 
 range-bred and consequently haughty in manner ; 
 but he lacked Tom s general popularity, on 
 account, in part, of his connection with outside 
 capital. Still, numerous friends from the Pierre 
 country had followed him here a boisterous, con 
 fident, clamorous bunch of rooters, who vocif 
 erously rallied to his support and promptly 
 covered every dollar put up by the southern men, 
 who were equally confident of their champion s 
 ability to humble the pride of this arrogant north 
 erner. The betting ran high and incessant. The 
 honor of the range forbade that this stranger out 
 of the north, reputed to be so wonderfully expert, 
 
 [148]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 rumored to have made Montana s record, should 
 set the time for the Dakota ranges. 
 
 Conspicuous among the Pierre contingent was 
 Frank LaDue, loud-mouthed, swaggering, and 
 betting heavily against the man from Iris own 
 country. 
 
 "Loyal to his home range and a man of high 
 notions of honor," said Jack, in an ironical un 
 dertone. 
 
 "Well, of course," Josephine excused him, con 
 scientiously, though reluctantly, "he is not a real 
 cattleman, you know. He is only a chopper 
 of wood. So I suppose that he ought not to be 
 held culpable for arraying himself on the side of 
 his own personal inclinations." 
 
 "He is Tom s neighbor, just the same," re 
 torted Jack, finding no shadow of a justification 
 of the man s unusual conduct, "and he derives 
 his livelihood from the southern ranges. He has 
 belittled an affair of honor among peoples to the 
 level of a vulgar personal spite of no moment. 
 He might at least have had the decency to stay 
 at home." 
 
 "I don t care, I am glad he is betting so 
 steep," broke in Louis, vengefully. "Old skee- 
 zicks ! When he loses everything he s got and is 
 
 [149]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 nothing but a beggarly old bankrupt, he need n t 
 think he can come whining around Tom for a job. 
 No, siree ! Why, Tom would n t any more dream 
 of letting him punch one of his cows than he d 
 dream of flying over the moon, and if he did I d 
 punch his head for it. Gee!" 
 
 The corral gate at the right of the champion of 
 the north country swung back and instantly 
 every eye was bent upon the opening. Out 
 trotted a steer with his horns low to the ground 
 and, catching sight of the crowd, essayed to turn 
 and rejoin his fellows; but the gate swung shut, 
 a cowboy yell w r ent up from the crowd, and the 
 magnificent animal, throwing his muzzle high in 
 the air, started with the swiftness of a stag for the 
 open prairie beyond. As he crossed the twenty- 
 yard line, the feet of the waiting horseman 
 dropped into the stirrups with a click, his right 
 hand sank to the throw rope upon his saddle, his 
 left grasped the reins and the rowels sank into 
 the flanks of the cow horse. Half a dozen swift 
 leaps and the rope went singing through the air, 
 the loop settling over the head of the terrified 
 steer. The horse swerved suddenly to the right, 
 fetching the slack of the rope down over the left 
 side and thigh of the steer, then, as suddenly 
 
 [150]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 facing the animal, he braced his feet for the in 
 evitable shock, as the rider took a half hitch in 
 the rope around the saddle horn, leaping to the 
 ground as the steer landed fairly on his back. 
 The horse began backing away to keep the rope 
 tight as the cowboy sprang toward the prostrate 
 animal, fashioning a loop in one of his short ropes 
 as he ran. Dropping this over the right hind 
 foot as it came forward in a kick, he swiftly took 
 a half hitch around the right fore foot as the two 
 met ; tying the loose end of the rope around the 
 other fore foot, he raised both hands aloft and 
 the steer lay "hog-tied," unable to arise. The 
 stentorian voice of Bill Dulan announced the 
 time, "Thirty-nine seconds," and the crowd broke 
 into wild cheering, friend and foe alike giving 
 credit to the fine horsemanship and the excellent 
 work of the stranger. There was nothing narrow 
 about these men ; they gave praise ungrudgingly 
 where praise was due. 
 
 When Tom Burrington rode up to the gate, a 
 sudden hush fell upon the people while they 
 measured him by those thirty-nine seconds. 
 "Can he do it?" was the query of north and south 
 alike as they gazed upon the perfect physique 
 and careless smile of the champion of the southern 
 
 [151]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 slope. Then cheer upon cheer went up from ad 
 miring throats as the ranchmen did homage to 
 their hero who was to uphold the honor of the 
 southern range. He rode easily, smilingly, to his 
 station. If he was disturbed by a doubt as to 
 his ability to lower the excellent record set, no 
 one was the wiser by look or sign from him. He 
 was perfectly self-contained as he turned his gaze 
 toward that portion of the ground where his par 
 ticular friends had been seated in close proximity 
 to an umbrella. There was no umbrella visible 
 now. It lay trampled in the dust under foot, 
 while the low, reddening sun of the closing day 
 beat unheeded upon the gray head of a handsome, 
 stately woman of the city, who had arisen with 
 the rush of intense feeling called forth by the 
 appearance there at the gate of her big, self- 
 reliant, smiling, splendid son. Beside her stood 
 Josephine, her eyes bright as stars, the color 
 burning in her cheeks, her lips parted. To these 
 two, Tom doffed his plainsman s hat and then 
 laughed aloud to see his small but wildly enthu 
 siastic brother dragged back by the hand of 
 Carroll as he would have rushed to him in his 
 boyish excitement. 
 
 During the short interval between his arrival 
 
 [152]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 and the opening of the gate, the betting was re 
 newed, eager voices calling their challenges and 
 others equally loyal promptly accepting them. 
 Suddenly, startlingly distinct, came the aston 
 ishing proposition : 
 
 "I ve got another hundred here, boys! Two 
 to one on Pierre!" 
 
 The speaker was Frank LaDue a close 
 neighbor, as neighbors were in that day, of the 
 Seven-up ranch. An attempt to repeat the chal 
 lenge was literally drowned in the chorus of voices 
 anxious to cover his extraordinary bet. 
 
 The smile left Tom s lips and his eyes nar 
 rowed in the old dangerous way. He was dressed 
 simply as the cowboy dresses when on duty, with 
 out the showy embellishments of an earlier day 
 or the affectation of a later. His dark blue flan 
 nel shirt fitted easily over his broad shoulders 
 and was left open at the throat. The inevitable 
 gauntletted gloves, to protect his hands from the 
 scorching of a possible running rope, were with 
 out ornament or fringe. At his belt on either 
 side hung the short tie-rope peculiar to the con 
 test. His trousers were tucked into his riding 
 boots, that had the high cowboy heels to prevent 
 the foot slipping too far into the stirrup. About 
 
 [153]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 his throat was a gay, loosely knotted, carefully 
 adjusted handkerchief. 
 
 The gate swung back once more and a shaggy, 
 black three-year-old steer came through it with a 
 bellow and made a break for freedom. Scarcely 
 had its hoofs touched the distance line when 
 Tom s horse was after it with the sagacity of a 
 trained cow horse, while the crowd went deathly 
 still. Tom s muscular right arm circled above his 
 head, shot forward, and the noose settled over the 
 head of the steer with a full third of the rope s 
 length to spare. He had never made a better 
 throw in his life and he knew it and exulted in 
 victory in sight. The half hitch around the saddle 
 horn had been taken and the tie-rope was in his 
 hand as the horse braced himself for the shock. 
 When it came, the horse went over backward 
 while saddle and rider shot through the air as if 
 projected from a catapult. 
 
 " For God s sake, keep the people back ! " cried 
 Jack, who was the first to reach the motionless, 
 white-faced form that lay stretched upon the 
 grass. "Symes, Bear Heart! Keep them back, 
 I say ! We must have air ! " 
 
 It was the mother who took the quiet head 
 upon her lap, sitting there upon the trampled 
 
 [154]
 
 Saddle and rider shot through the air
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 earth, but Josephine had taken one of the inert 
 hands and was chafing it, softly, blindly, while 
 Louis gave vent to his grief in wild sobs. But 
 Tom was only stunned and no bones were broken 
 and when water was brought and his face laved 
 in it, he opened his eyes and gazed about in 
 a bewildered manner, and then, remembering, 
 smiled. 
 
 "Well, I lost out. I did the best I could. Tell 
 the boys I m sorry. What happened? How 
 came I here?" 
 
 "It wasn t fair," sobbed Josephine. 
 
 Tom raised his eyes caressingly to her face. 
 
 "I don t seem to remember just what hap 
 pened," he said, "but it must have been fair." 
 
 When it was ascertained beyond doubt that 
 Tom was not killed, not even seriously injured, 
 congratulations for the unannounced winner 
 began, and the crowd, somewhat subdued, com 
 menced to disperse. Most of the Indians had al 
 ready stolen away to make preparations for their 
 grass dance and were even now assembling in the 
 unfloored, corral-like bowery that had the heav 
 ens for its canopy, the leafy branches for its walls, 
 and the grass of the prairie for its carpet. 
 
 "Look! Look!" cried Louis, and coming to- 
 
 [155]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 ward the group kneeling about the fallen cham 
 pion, was Bear Heart carrying over his arm the 
 saddle that had so treacherously given way at 
 the crucial moment. Tom had scarcely struck 
 the ground when a dozen riders were after the 
 maddened steer as he dashed away and the rope 
 and saddle were recovered promptly. 
 
 " Ugh ! Waniche ! " grunted Bear Heart, inad 
 vertently lapsing into the laconic brevity of the 
 Sioux, as he pointed to the cleanly broken girth- 
 strap dangling from the saddle, his face sternly 
 fixed and his eyes keenly ablaze with the light of 
 discovery. 
 
 Tom sprang to his feet with a suddenness that 
 set his head to spinning and almost unbalanced 
 his mother and Josephine, who were kneeling one 
 on either side of him. 
 
 "Let me see it," he commanded, peremptorily. 
 
 "Bear Heart is right," said Jack, slowly pass 
 ing the saddle up for Tom s inspection. 
 
 The break had occurred under the saddle skirt 
 where the ladigo strap passes through the cinch 
 ring a leather-covered ring, hidden from view 
 by the saddle skirt. It was a clean break too 
 clean and the Indian redeeming his promise to 
 the boy to watch, had discovered it, and his eye, 
 
 [156]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 trained by practice to note the slightest sign, had 
 detected in the break foul play. 
 
 "What does it mean?" asked Josephine, 
 breathlessly watching the stern faces of the men. 
 
 "It means," said Tom, painfully straightening 
 himself and placing a steadying hand upon Jack s 
 shoulder, "it means that some one cut that strap 
 with a sharp knife, just enough so that the strain 
 of cinching the saddle would not break it, in all 
 probability, but the sudden strain of the falling 
 steer would surely snap it, as it did. It means, 
 too, that my fall was a foul and that I have 
 another trial coming in this contest if I may 
 have your saddle, Symes." 
 
 "No, no, Tom!" cried Josephine, a note of 
 pain, too sharp and sudden to be disguised, ring 
 ing in her voice. His only answer was a swift 
 look and a reassuring smile. 
 
 "You shall not do it," declared the elder 
 woman, vehemently, "Isn t one killing enough? 
 You are as weak as a babe and it would simply 
 be suicide, and I forbid it!" 
 
 :< You are too much shaken up to try again," 
 pleaded Josephine. 
 
 "And you would only lose," argued Mrs. Bur- 
 rington, desperately, realizing even as she spoke 
 
 [157]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 that she was wasting words in attempting to 
 change the stubborn mind of her unswerving son 
 who had determined his course and would follow 
 it even if the heavens should fall. 
 
 "It w r ould have taken all your strength be 
 fore. What can you do now that your strength is 
 gone?" she continued, rebelling hotly, but, she 
 felt, in vain, against the clearly formed but yet 
 unspoken decision of her son. 
 
 "I am afraid you are pretty weak yet, Tom," 
 advised Jack, doubtfully, "I think that you had 
 better call it off for this time, don t you? We 
 can get even later on when you are yourself 
 again." 
 
 "Will you get your saddle, Symes?" was the 
 grim answer, and Symes turned gladly toward 
 his horse. 
 
 "What s all this fool talk about a new trial?" 
 demanded LaDue, touching the arm of the ref 
 eree. 
 
 "Burrington gets a new trial. Some one 
 fouled his traps," ruled the referee, curtly. 
 
 "The hell you say! A man fool enough to go 
 into a thing like this with a faulty saddle de 
 serves what he gets. Why, the saddle s part o 
 the game. It is n t professional to be careless 
 
 [158]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 with a thing like that. You know that mighty 
 well, Bill," continued the bully. 
 
 "It is my decision that the saddle was tam 
 pered with to throw this contest. Do you catch 
 that?" responded Bill Dulan, as he turned and 
 looked LaDue squarely in the eye. "Tom Bur- 
 rington s saddle is the apple of his eye and 1 11 
 bet the best string of ponies I Ve got that it was 
 in perfect condition the last time he looked at it, 
 and I don t think that was very long ago, either, 
 and he gets another chance." 
 
 "What right have you to change the rules, or 
 make new ones?" snarled LaDue, angrily. 
 
 " I m the referee and he gets another chance. 
 Do you hear that ?" shouted stout-hearted Bill, as 
 he turned his back on the grumbler. 
 
 "I ve looked at that harness and the gentle 
 man is sure entitled to a fair chance, for he did n t 
 have it before." All heads were turned to look at 
 the new speaker and a cheer went up as they saw 
 that it was the Pierre champion who spoke. 
 They loved fair play, these plainsmen. 
 
 The scattering crowd had rushed back to the 
 corrals when it became known that Tom Bur- 
 rington was to have another trial. His pluck 
 and the general belief that he had been the victim 
 
 [159]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 of foul play had made him more than ever a 
 favorite. 
 
 Again it was a black steer that was released 
 a hornless galloway, as wild as a native buffalo 
 and as fleet as an ordinary horse. But Tom s 
 mount was a racer. As the black mass crossed 
 the line, the horse made a mighty spring that had 
 often won for him as a quarter horse, and in a 
 moment had closed up the intervening gap and 
 was pressing close to the steer s side; yet Tom s 
 arm hung by his side with the hondeau of the loop 
 resting on his thumb. The vast crowd stood mo 
 tionless, scarcely daring to breathe, as the people 
 realized that the champion of the south, fearing 
 probably for his strength, contemplated the most 
 difficult of all throws, a foot catch. It was not 
 only the most difficult, but also the most uncertain 
 catch even for an expert such as he was. 
 
 Suddenly the arm raised, the rope shot out, 
 the loop missing the steer s head by several feet, 
 and a groan went up from the women and tender- 
 feet ; but the cowmen held their breath in admira 
 tion as Tom s stout lungs let out a yell that 
 caused the steer to dodge suddenly to the right 
 and the trick was accomplished. His shoulders 
 striking the rope just above the loose-sliding 
 
 [160]
 
 THE CONTEST 
 
 hondeau, caused the loop to swing toward him, 
 and with the next lunge, both his front feet went 
 into it. Like a flash the horse turned to the left, 
 answering the pressure of Tom s knee, for he 
 had dropped the reins and already held the short 
 tie-rope in his hand. 
 
 The rope tightened, with a snap like a pistol 
 shot, as the horse wheeled and braced his feet. 
 But the saddle held, and the galloway, turning a 
 complete somersault, lay struggling with his 
 front feet effectually tied and one of his hind 
 legs over the rope below the hock joint. With a 
 skill that comes only with a cool head and long 
 training, Tom deftly dropped the short rope 
 over the free hind leg and, with the rapidity al 
 most of thought, put a half hitch over the other 
 and a final tie over the two front feet together, 
 and the steer lay helpless with his four feet tied 
 together. 
 
 Tom s hands went into the air and the tensely 
 quiet crowd broke loose in a series of such wild 
 cheers as the little bend had never before heard 
 as the referee announced the result, "Thirty- 
 seven seconds." The world s record had been 
 tied and the honor of the southern range had 
 been upheld. 
 
 [161]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 " By Jove! Thirty-seven seconds with a man 
 
 whose wind had been completely knocked out of 
 
 him not half an hour before is going some," said 
 
 Jack, as they walked back to the Agency through 
 
 , the fast-fading light. 
 
 There was a clatter of hoofs, clouds of dust, 
 and a bedlam-like yelling, as an enthusiastic 
 crowd of cowboys swept past them, each shout 
 ing some expression of praise for his hero. He 
 was a very human hero and coughed disgustedly 
 at the choking smudge of dust that enveloped 
 them. 
 
 "Bully!" shouted Symes. "Bully!" he roared 
 again, ecstatically, as he raced past at the end 
 of the cavalcade. "I Ve got some two-to-ones to 
 settle with Frank LaDue! Bully!" And 
 "Bully!" yelled Louis from his seat on the sad 
 dle in front of Symes, where he was doing his 
 full share of celebrating. 
 
 " I am mighty glad that I won for the boys," 
 said Tom, simply, and then he turned toward 
 Josephine. "It is a good country," he added. 
 
 [162]
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 /^ IRT with the spoils of war, an abandonment 
 of lightsome spirits, loose tongues, and 
 hoarse voices, the victorious delegation from the 
 south swarmed noisily on board the Susie with 
 the first coming of dusk, and the stanch little 
 boat, with the telling help of the swift current, 
 chugged and quivered its rapid way down the 
 darkening river. Their friends from the Seven- 
 up remained in town for the night, but Jack and 
 Josephine rode home through the still late hours, 
 for at the Broken Key there had been no one 
 left behind to tend the stock which had been 
 turned loose to feed at will. With them rode the 
 Indians, Rosebud and Bear Heart. 
 
 In the early morning of the next day, Jack 
 and Josephine together drove the cattle north 
 ward and across the big gulch, where a well de 
 fined cattle trail led to the grass lands beyond. 
 At noon of the same day, Jack came into the 
 living room of the Broken Key with stern eyes 
 
 [163]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 and a determined set to the jaws that were so 
 rapidly losing their boyish curves. He ate his 
 mid-day dinner silently. Josephine, too, said 
 little. At one o clock he put a lump of sugar in 
 his pocket, left the room, went to the stable, took 
 down his saddle and bridle, flung them across 
 his shoulders, and returned to Josephine. 
 
 "Jack!" she cried, in appealing remonstrance, 
 "You are not going to cross the river with 
 him?" 
 
 "Why not?" asked Jack, with a half return 
 of his old gay smile. "It is quite in keeping, ac 
 cording to my notion, for him to furnish me 
 transportation in order that I may lodge my 
 complaint against him with the proper authori 
 ties. He has given me just cause for complaint. 
 Surely, then, he owes me the means of prosecu 
 ting the same. Is not that a logical and reasona 
 ble supposition, sister mine? You would not 
 want our neighbor to mutilate his free gift by not 
 allowing him to put on the finishing touches, 
 would you? It is a rare talent, Jo, that has the 
 grace to accept generously. We will cultivate 
 it, you and I." 
 
 "You would make fun if you were going to 
 die this minute," said Josephine. "But I am 
 
 [164]
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 afraid, Jack. It seems just like oh, I do not 
 know what it seems like, but it seems awful. 
 Why don t you go around by Kemah? Cannot 
 you ford White River somewhere?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, but it is much farther. 1 11 just take 
 my rifle if you will hand it to me that s a 
 good girl. It is the only gun I know anything 
 about and so what s the use of hampering my 
 self with those foolish little forty-fivers the gen 
 tlemen of the northern ranges affect so lovingly? 
 If I had occasion to shoot at a rattler like enough 
 I should blaze away with the butt end levelled at 
 him. Who would care for Josie then? But, 
 Josephine," he continued, more soberly, "you 
 need not be in the least afraid. Henry Hoffman 
 is going to row me across in the skiff and in all 
 probability I shall not see LaDue at all. I shall 
 take a horse from the other side. Hence this 
 loaf of sugar." 
 
 "Let the old cow go," whispered Josephine, 
 slipping her arms around the neck of this young 
 pioneer brother of hers, whose high hopes and 
 lofty ambitions would make him a cattleman of 
 the great northern ranges by and by if it was 
 to be. He seemed to her very young in that mo 
 ment and she had a choking, blind longing to 
 
 [165]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "mother" him as if he were a child and to keep 
 the creeping shadows of an unknown trouble 
 away from him if she could. She was two years 
 younger than Jack and yet it seemed to her that 
 she was much, much older. "I am afraid, Jack. 
 Don t let us quarrel with our neighbor. What 
 is the use? Where will it all end? Let us go 
 back home, Jack, shall we?" 
 
 "Why, Josephine, if you are really afraid to 
 stay alone, I won t go to-day. I will wait until 
 the next time Rosebud comes along so that she 
 can stay with you. I wish she were here now or 
 I wish that we might both go. Suppose we do. 
 Get on your bonnet and we will both go. Every 
 thing went well yesterday during our absence, 
 why should it not again?" 
 
 "No," said Josephine, resolutely, "the cattle 
 are feeding in strange places and they must 
 come home to-night. Besides," she added, in 
 dignantly, "why should I be afraid for my 
 self?" He had meant to make her indignant, so 
 he smiled at her with caressing amusement. 
 "You know that I am not afraid for myself. 
 It is you, Jack. Why do they hate you so?" 
 
 "I wish I knew," said Jack, wistfully. "I al 
 ways thought I was a pretty good sort of a fel- 
 
 [166]
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 low, myself. That is where you erred you 
 people of my ain countrie. You tried to make 
 me think so you know you did and now I 
 have to suffer for the mistake that was not 
 originally mine. For an eradicator of self- 
 conceit, commend me to the West, Josephine." 
 
 "Jack, why don t you ask Tom Burrington?" 
 said Josephine, suddenly. 
 
 A shadow came into Jack s eyes and lingered 
 there while he gazed for a long moment over 
 Josephine s bright head, beyond the great yellow 
 river with the arrogant push of its channel, be 
 yond the hills with their whispering grasses, aye, 
 beyond the lonely ranges themselves away 
 far away to the South. 
 
 "I am afraid, Josephine," he said at last, so 
 berly, "I am afraid that Tom knows." Then he 
 was gone and Josephine crept back into the still 
 house to wait for the long afternoon to pass so 
 that Jack could come home again. 
 
 It was a long afternoon and the house seemed 
 far lonelier to-day than any other day when Jack 
 had been gone. It was a listless day, too, so that 
 there was no work that she seemed to want to do. 
 Presently she left the little low room with its 
 ghostly corners and insistent silence and sat on 
 
 [167]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 the door step with a bit of sewing in her hands. 
 Here, although she could not see it, it seemed 
 that she could feel the solemn rushing of the 
 water journeying southward and to-day she let 
 herself drift away upon its tawny flood and 
 dreamed the long, Summer hours through until 
 it seemed true that she and Jack and no other in 
 all the world were gliding along with the cur 
 rent, slipping away from the sinister shadows and 
 the mocking mysteries that were settling down 
 upon the valley, so that with all its wideness and 
 all its promise one must choke with the creeping 
 shadows unless one could slip away as she and 
 Jack were slipping quietly with no one to 
 know out of the gloom and into the sun-shot 
 land of their own people. 
 
 And then Tom stopped on his way home. His 
 mother and Louis had gone directly to the Seven- 
 up from Velpen earlier in the day, but Tom had 
 found it necessary to visit one of his northern 
 line ranches and was only now on his way home. 
 Josephine had long since forgotten that she had 
 meant to sew. Now, however, she picked up the 
 work that had fallen from her idle fingers and 
 smiled to think how far away she had been, and 
 was glad, when he sat down beside her on the 
 
 [168]
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 rough log door step, because she was not to be 
 alone for a little while, anyway. 
 
 "Where is Jack?" he asked, wondering why 
 her eyes had grown so much sadder since he had 
 seen her last only yesterday. 
 
 "He has gone to town," she said. And then it 
 came to her what Jack had said : " I am afraid 
 Tom knows." If Tom knew, why did he not tell 
 them? A vague doubt stirred in her heart. She 
 glanced at him quickly. The gray eyes were 
 looking at her steadily, full of friendliness. How 
 strong he was! How strong he had been and 
 how quick on that day when he had drawn her 
 away from the dark water that was rushing and 
 writhing under the ice. He had not faltered once 
 nor hesitated in that great hour of her peril 
 and his. She should like to ask him if the steal 
 ing of the cow was all one with that supposedly 
 wide-spread feeling against them as home 
 steaders, and whether it was an earnest of what 
 was to come if they remained in the cattle coun 
 try. She should like to ask him how universal 
 was the prejudice. He would know and he could 
 tell them what to do. But if he already knew, 
 why did he not tell them? Were she and Jack 
 the ones to beg the courtesy of fair dealing? Or 
 
 [169]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 to force a confidence upon one who would per 
 haps receive it reluctantly? Her pride rebelled. 
 It might be that his interests, too, demanded that 
 they leave the country. Perhaps that was what 
 Jack meant. She had never thought of that. It 
 was strange that she and Jack should be consid 
 ered so formidable that it was becoming neces 
 sary to send them into exile they were just two 
 lonely young people in a strange land. What 
 did it all mean? Her mouth trembled, her eyes 
 were heavy with unshed tears, so that she could 
 not see to take any more stitches. The big ranch 
 man who had been waiting for her to break the 
 silence between them was troubled. 
 
 Tell me what it is that troubles you, Jose 
 phine," he said, gently. 
 
 "It is nothing," she said, making a supreme 
 effort to control her emotion. 
 
 He tapped his high-heeled riding boots with 
 his whip, restlessly. 
 
 "Josephine," he pleaded at last, his handsome 
 head very close to hers as he bent toward her, 
 "something has happened. My girl, you look 
 heart-broken. You cannot hide it from me. 
 Tell me. Let me help you if I can. Do not for 
 get that we are neighbors, you and I." 
 
 [170]
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 " I am very foolish, Mr. Burrington," she said, 
 quietly. "I have been worrying about Jack 
 just as if he could not take care of himself any 
 where. But somehow I cannot help thinking of 
 him as a boy all the time and fussing over him 
 accordingly. He would not thank me for it, I 
 am sure. Mr. LaDue politely stole one of our 
 cows the other day and Jack naturally objected 
 to such high-handed procedure and has gone up 
 to town to see what the law can do for us and 
 for him. There is not the least cause for worry. 
 I just got to thinking." 
 
 "Why did you not tell me this yesterday?" 
 asked Tom, gravely. 
 
 "Why should you have been compelled to give 
 ear to our little private quarrels when you had so 
 much to think about that was of more im 
 portance?" she counter-questioned. "You will 
 stay for supper?" 
 
 "No," he said, rising. "I must go. I have 
 been up country and want to get home before 
 dark. Josephine " he began and stopped. He 
 wanted to take her in his arms and make her tell 
 him why she cried, but the proud little tilt to her 
 chin restrained him. He turned quickly and was 
 gone. Josephine was alone again. 
 
 [171]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 The sun was getting low when she buckled on 
 her leggings and pinned on her big hat to go for 
 the cattle. The new feeding grounds for the 
 Broken Key herd were about one mile distant, 
 just beyond the big gulch which led down from 
 the edge of the high ridge of hills on the west to 
 the river, meandering somewhat up by the hills, 
 following the line of least resistance, but on the 
 bottom cutting almost squarely across the land 
 which Josephine Carroll had staked out for her 
 self. In June, when the annual rise was at its 
 flood, the overflow backed up the deep, narrow 
 ravine for some distance but seldom as far as the 
 old trail, which was a relic of the days when Da- 
 kotah pony herds held sway and when no white 
 man s cattle might feed on this rich land, with its 
 inestimable water front, without permission of the 
 Government. But now on this last day of May, 
 the water was comparatively low and the gulch 
 lay safe and dry from its source up in the hills 
 to the very river itself. Josephine rode slowly. 
 The sun was still above the broken line of the 
 horizon the evenings were long and light so 
 that there was little danger of darkness falling 
 before she had her little bunch safely corralled 
 
 [1723
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 unless many had strayed away. She was grow 
 ing used to the direct sun of the plains and the 
 white glare troubled her but little these days, and 
 now that the rays were yellowing and struck her 
 slantingly, she did not mind them at all, but took 
 off her wide hat and pinned it to her saddle horn. 
 She was cooler so. The prairie dogs scolded her 
 in shrill, vigorous language as she rode through 
 their village, defying her smartly, only to skurry 
 into ignominious retreat when she passed near 
 them in friendly spirit, innocent alike of the in 
 tent or of the arms of war. Gradually, the calm 
 of the Summer evening came to Josephine. The 
 day was done. It was over, all the anger, the hurt 
 confidence, and the vague, uneasy groping after 
 something that could not be grasped, for all the 
 groping endeavor. Jack would soon come now 
 and there would be a cheery little late supper, 
 a talk on the door step in the sweet, wide outdoors 
 of the moonlit night, and to-morrow would be 
 a new day. 
 
 The cattle had not strayed far. Neither were 
 they of a contrary temper to-night. They filed 
 across the big gulch slowly, but of one mind. 
 Josephine hummed a snatch of a Southern folk 
 
 [173]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 song happily to herself and thought of many 
 things that were of little kin to the thoughts of 
 the day that was done. 
 
 Shortly before this, a man had made his way 
 leisurely through the heavy undergrowth to the 
 northern end of the island, crossed the slough, 
 which was lower and wetter at this point than 
 farther below, on a reef of rocks, entered the 
 mouth of the gulch and sauntered carelessly 
 westward. He had not progressed far, in truth 
 the old pony trail lay dusty and travelworn still 
 some distance before him, when he heard a faint 
 sound. He paused, inclining his ear to the north. 
 He had not been mistaken. The sound was 
 plainly distinguishable in the hush of the early 
 evening. He hesitated a moment. A clod of 
 dirt, loosened by the touch of heavy feet, went 
 rolling down the trail and at the same time a 
 little cloud of dust arose as the vanguard of the 
 Broken Key herd slid down the steep pathway. 
 Nearer to the trail, a clump of cedars growing 
 from the northern side made an excellent hiding 
 place. But the leader of the herd was already 
 climbing the opposite incline. He heard a clear, 
 joyous, ringing cattle call and the voice that sent 
 
 [174]
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 it forth on the still air was a girl s voice. With 
 out proceeding any farther toward the trail, he 
 climbed half way up the bank and crept into the 
 shadow of a small hollow that had been washed 
 out by the spring rains. Then he waited, and 
 presently Josephine, softly singing her mournful, 
 sweet melody, rode down into the valley. 
 
 The old trail was destined to be not a lonely 
 trail that night. It was as if the ghosts of the 
 dim past, of a day when the dusky habitants 
 made history that was never written, had returned 
 for one mad revel in memoriam. Up from the 
 south came a horseman. He rode rapidly, 
 straight in his stirrups, his hat brim blown back 
 by the violent friction with the air. The little 
 dogs fairly scampered out of sight at the first 
 beat of his horse s feet on their sod without even 
 taking time to bark at him. He had seen the 
 straggling line of the herd coming home and was 
 riding to meet it. He, too, heard the clear, sweet 
 call, and saw the lithe figure of the unconscious 
 girl ride down into the dim valley. The sound 
 of the voice brought a gleam into the gray eyes, 
 the sight of Josephine sent the blood racing 
 tumultuously through his veins so that he thrilled 
 
 [175]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 with the glory of it. If he spurred his horse yet 
 more, he would meet her just as she reached the 
 level again. 
 
 What was that thing which moved there by 
 the hollow? Had one of the herd strayed from 
 the beaten trail? Or was it some lone, gaunt 
 timber wolf lurking near to see if a calf or some 
 weakling of the herd did not drop out of the 
 ranks and linger to its undoing? The rider, still 
 on the run, threw up his arm to keep the after 
 glow out of his eyes, while he swept the darkening 
 hollow with the keen and comprehensive sight of 
 the men of the plains. Suddenly, he knew. A 
 great sternness settled around his mouth. His 
 eyes became cold and hard as steel, while the fierce 
 desire to kill well-nigh choked him with its in 
 sistent clamoring to be heard. He was a very 
 primitive man indeed in this hour when one spied 
 upon the woman whom in his heart he had chosen 
 for his own. He drew rein so suddenly that his 
 well-trained cow pony settled back upon its 
 haunches as if with the intuitive expectation of 
 the feel of the tautenihg rope, even though he had 
 not heard the little sing of it as it cut through 
 the air. For a moment, he hesitated. What was 
 the fellow s business? Why was he hiding while 
 
 [176]
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 Josephine rode across the ravine? Who was he? 
 And then he turned white and cold, sitting on his 
 horse out there on the grassy level, with night 
 coming on, although he did not feel it, did not 
 know it then, for his nerve was never steadier, 
 his sight never truer than when he raised his rifle 
 to the level of his right shoulder and sped the 
 bullet that struck down the hand in the hollow 
 that had steadied another gun pointing with 
 deadly menace up the valley. He shot twice 
 again in rapid succession, and then his horse 
 sprang forward at the cruel jab of the spurs. 
 When he came to the edge of the gulch, the man 
 was gone, gone as if the earth had swallowed 
 him, and there was only Josephine in the valley. 
 She was white of cheek and there was a startled, 
 hunted look in her dark eyes. She had uncon 
 sciously dismounted and stood trembling by her 
 pony s shaggy neck. 
 
 "He went toward the river," she whis 
 pered, tremulously. 
 
 "Who, Josephine?" asked Tom, a dangerous 
 quiet in his voice. He, toofdismounted and came 
 close to her. 
 
 "I didn t see him. I only heard him," she 
 answered, sobbingly. 
 
 [177]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Why, Josephine," said Tom, reassuringly, 
 U I did not mean to frighten you like this. But 
 it was such a fine chance or it seemed to be, 
 rather that I shot without thinking of you, I 
 am afraid. If I had not been such a blamed 
 bungler you might have had a fine skin for your 
 floor. He was on your land, you know, so that 
 I should have been in duty bound to surrender 
 the spoils to you. I am not used to missing," he 
 continued, with an engaging smile. " It hurts my 
 pride. He was at ridiculously close range, too." 
 
 "Why, what did you shoot at?" demanded 
 Josephine, in unfeigned surprise and relief. 
 
 "A big, gray wolf, bless you, who coveted one 
 of your fat heifers," returned Tom, promptly. 
 "I came back to see Jack about that which you 
 were telling me about this afternoon I could 
 not get it off my mind and was riding to meet 
 you when that pesky rascal crept across my vision 
 and I missed him." 
 
 "I thought it was a man," said Josephine, and 
 then, because she was ashamed of her unwar 
 ranted fright, she flung up her head and looked 
 at him defiantly, two red spots burning in her 
 cheeks. But something in his face made her ask, 
 doubtfully : 
 
 [178]
 
 THE BIG GULCH 
 
 "You are not lying to me, are you?" 
 
 " ( No, Josephine, I am not lying honest," 
 he said, unsteadily. 
 
 She seemed so alone there in the valley that 
 would henceforth be a valley of shadows for 
 Josephine, and she was far, far dearer to him 
 than he had ever before dreamed, even when he 
 had tried, sometimes, to think of the cow country 
 with her gone from it. The effort he made not 
 to snatch her to him, mount and ride away with 
 her, somewhere, anywhere, only with her, out of 
 the shadows, shook in his voice. 
 
 "Come, Josephine, let me help you mount and 
 I will take you home." 
 
 He held out his hand, she put her foot into 
 it, gave a little spring and slipped into her saddle. 
 But she was not yet free. His strong arms were 
 clasped tightly around her and he leaned his head 
 against her, standing thus, dumb, while real 
 twilight crept over all the land and in the valley 
 it grew quite dark. Josephine forgot to ask him 
 why, if he knew, he had not told them, and, a 
 little blindly, let her ungauntletted hand grope 
 softly through his hair as he stood looking up at 
 her. 
 
 "Do you love me, Josephine?" he whispered. 
 
 [179]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Let me go, Tom," she said, unsteadily. "We 
 must go home. The cattle will stray." 
 
 She tried to unclasp his hands with earnest, 
 ineffectual fingers so ineffectual that Tom 
 laughed, suddenly caught the little struggling 
 hands in his, laid his face upon them, kissed them, 
 held them against his breast, kissed them again, 
 then released her, and they rode together out of 
 the valley. 
 
 [180]
 
 T 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 F it had been I, now," said Jack, "I could 
 believe that mischief was meant. But Jose 
 phine why, what could any one have against 
 Josephine? Men do not make war on women, 
 Tom, especially without good cause and what 
 cause has that generous-hearted girl given for 
 such deviltry? For that matter, what have I 
 done? But, with or without reason, I have been 
 literally hounded since the day of my arrival. 
 Frankly speaking, I resent it. I shall continue to 
 resent it, and that right smartly. Some day, when 
 I have gained immunity, I shall demand explana 
 tion and apology. Meanwhile, I am biding my 
 time. I shall not be surprised at anything that 
 anybody may attempt to do to me ; but I honestly 
 think that you are mistaken about such evil 
 intent towards Josephine, Tom." 
 
 "Granted that men do not war on women," 
 returned Burrington, gravely, "what about 
 brutes? Can you say the same of them? You 
 did not see what I saw, Jack. I think you would 
 believe what I believe if you had seen." 
 
 [181]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 It was very early. Josephine, singing happily 
 over the getting of the breakfast, wondered 
 what errand had brought their neighbor of the 
 Seven-up so early in the morning. Would he 
 say anything to Jack about what had happened 
 last night? She did not mean about the missing 
 of the wolf of course Tom would tell that- 
 had told it last night, in all probability though 
 she could not altogether remember. It was like 
 him to tell that on himself, laughingly. Men 
 usually sure of themselves could always afford 
 a laugh at their own expense. But what had 
 happened afterward would he say anything 
 about that ? After all, what had happened ? She 
 could not altogether remember. 
 
 Jack was down at the woodpile splitting wood 
 when Tom rode into the clearing. They had not 
 come up to the house at all and were talking 
 earnestly together right there at the woodpile, 
 Jack leaning against a sapling, his brown face 
 still damp and flushed from his recent exertion, 
 while Tom Burrington, still mounted, though 
 sitting with both feet on one side of the saddle, 
 absently trailed the thongs of his whip over the 
 toes of his riding boots. It was obviously a grave 
 matter that upon which their minds were bent. 
 
 [182]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 Well, it was a serious situation hers if that 
 was what engrossed their attention. How could 
 she ever leave Jack? He was in trouble and he 
 was alone but for her and besides, she had 
 forgotten how easy it was, sometimes, to for 
 get did Tom Burrington know something that 
 he ought to tell them and would not? Even 
 though he himself were free of personal blame, 
 yet if he knew and would not tell them that 
 good honor, which makes loyalty to class an obli 
 gation that high-minded men may not disregard, 
 had been offended, and that offence was always 
 unforgivable. What should she say when the 
 boys came up? But the boys did not come. 
 
 "You did not know the man?" asked Jack, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "I did not recognize him. It was dusky in 
 the gulch and he had disappeared when the smoke 
 of my gun had lifted. Don t you think that if 
 he had not been on some devil s errand he would 
 have made his presence known? I tell you, Car 
 roll, it looks bad." 
 
 " Still, he might not have known that you were 
 a peaceful and law-abiding citizen. You must 
 confess that you made your advent upon the 
 scene in rather a startling and belligerent man- 
 
 [183]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 ner. I do not know anything, Tom, of course, 
 but I just cannot believe that any one would 
 want to kill Josephine. Kill Josephine! Why, 
 it is a monstrous thought. I do not believe it." 
 
 "Not know me? Of course he knew me! 
 Everybody knows me, and that is not sounding 
 my own praises, by any means. To be sure he 
 knew me. Besides, I was in the light on the up 
 land while he was in shadow. He could n t help 
 but know me. Moreover, if he took me for a 
 desperate character, why did he not stay and 
 fight for Josephine. Tell me that, Carroll. 
 There is n t a man on the Seven-up who would 
 sneak away and leave a Dakotah Indian woman 
 in danger under such circumstances, let alone a 
 white woman. I tell you, you must take Jose 
 phine South or else give her 
 
 He stopped short, while involuntarily his eyes 
 sought and found the open doorway of the cabin 
 where the figure of a girl passed once in a while 
 and sometimes glanced his way. Jack did not 
 notice the significance of the pause. 
 
 "I never thought of that," he said. "Yes, 
 why did he run from you and why did he run 
 from Josephine? I don t know what to do, 
 Tom. If I take her South, that means a general 
 
 [184]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 break-up. She would not stay there unless I 
 gave up my hold here and stayed with her. I 
 should have to tell her the reason for her going 
 back part of it, at least so she would never 
 consent to my coming back here. I know Jose 
 phine and there are only we two, you know. 
 I cannot afford to give up. We have risked too 
 much to pick up and leave it all except of 
 necessity. Of course, if what you say is true, I 
 shall not hesitate a moment to take her away; 
 but it is so hard to believe and I am much dis 
 posed to stay and find out for myself what it all 
 means. I shall not leave Josephine alone again," 
 he drew himself up a little proudly, "so there 
 is no cause for worry on that score. Until I 
 ascertain the meaning of the deviltry that seems 
 to be in the air, I shall not let Josephine out of 
 my sight. You may rest assured of that. If 
 it is as you say, I shall then take Josephine South 
 and come back and put the snake-in-the-grass 
 where his fangs won t count for much any more." 
 "You will do as you think best, of course," 
 said Burrington, perceiving by the younger 
 man s attitude that the subject was closed. "By 
 the way, Carroll," he continued, casually, "that 
 was not my only object in coming to see you this 
 
 [185]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 morning. I had two axes to grind, in fact. 
 How would you feel about taking a little ex 
 cursion up into the Westover country? I need 
 a man and you are just the kind I want all 
 grit and nerve. Josephine could stay with 
 mother, you know, and I d send a boy over to 
 look after your stock. What do you say?" 
 
 Jack hesitated just a moment for Jose 
 phine s sake; but when he thought of that Feb 
 ruary storm and of Tom Burrington s part in 
 it, all doubt as to his course left him immediately. 
 
 "I say that I am your man with all my heart," 
 said the boy from the South, promptly. "You 
 have found yourself a loser?" 
 
 "To the tune of seventeen head of as fine 
 horses as run on this side Old Muddy. They are 
 the home ranging kind, too, and yet I have 
 scoured the whole near country for them rode 
 two days and could not get wind of them at all 
 until last night late heard then that some one 
 had seen them up near Westover. Now that 
 means foul play, of course home horses do not 
 find themselves away up at Westover unless 
 they are native to the soil or are helped there 
 one of the two. Horses, as you probably know, 
 do not wander like cattle. It will not be a pleas- 
 
 [186]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 ure party by any means, Jack, and I shall not 
 be at all hurt if you decline to go. Now please 
 do not go dignified so quickly. No one doubts 
 your nerve. I was thinking of Josephine." 
 
 "She need not know our errand," interrupted 
 Josephine s brother, with convincing brevity. 
 "As for the rest, according to your own theory, 
 she is safer surely at the Seven-up than at the 
 Broken Key." 
 
 It had come to him, suddenly, illuminatingly, 
 who it was that Burrington suspected and that 
 the quest might not be for horses alone, but one 
 in which Tom Burrington knew that he, Jack, 
 would be with him heart and soul. Perhaps 
 the thought brought out stern lines of determina 
 tion about the boyish mouth perhaps the time 
 was come when, as he had said, "the snake-in-the- 
 grass would be put where his fangs would not 
 count for much any more." 
 
 "Then you are with me? " 
 
 "Do we start this morning? " asked John 
 Calhoun Carroll, calmly. 
 
 It was early twilight when they rode silently 
 up to the corral at Dave Myers s ranch on White 
 River. They were seeking refreshment and 
 lodging for the night after almost a full day in 
 
 [1871
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 the saddle. They had been following a pretty 
 well defined trail by rumor for some time, but 
 had lately lost it. It was folly to ride a blind 
 trail by night. Dave was a good fellow and 
 would give them the best accommodation he 
 could. They would just turn their horses in with 
 the rest before going to the house. There was 
 no doubt in the world of Myers s hospitality. 
 There seemed to be no one about the place. The 
 house wore a deserted look. Still, that could 
 make no difference in their arrangements. They 
 should simply enter unbidden, cook some supper, 
 and then rest their tired bodies on the object 
 which looked the most like a bed among the half- 
 breed s heterogeneous collection of makeshift 
 house furnishings. 
 
 " Good horses he s got, " said Jack, drawing 
 rein at the gate. 
 
 A short silence followed, during which Jack 
 stretched his wearied limbs and longed heartily 
 with the longing of a hungry boy for the supper 
 that had yet to be prepared. 
 
 "He has, indeed," assented Tom, at last, 
 grimly. "You never see that brand on any other 
 kind. I for one do not challenge his taste. The 
 trouble is that the owner of that brand is not 
 
 [188]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 the only good judge of horseflesh in this 
 country." 
 
 Jack emitted a low whistle of surprise and 
 then said, with untroubled serenity : 
 
 "Well, I am right glad to find the trail again." 
 
 : You are a brick, dear boy," was the older 
 man s only response as he slipped from his horse 
 and proceeded calmly to relieve him of saddle 
 and bridle. This accomplished, he opened the 
 gate and sent the horse in to rest among his one 
 time mates. 
 
 " Is n t this high-handed procedure a trifle 
 risky?" asked Jack, following suit with ready 
 adaptability to the lead of the chief. 
 
 "I have not an idea at just what point the 
 pesky rascals may decide to return to gloat over 
 their lucky haul. A Seven-up concealed in the 
 bushes would not strike them exactly in the 
 light of a white flag of truce, I am thinking; 
 and I imagine that a Broken Key would not 
 have the effect of soothing syrup, either. It 
 will be too dark to notice the difference in the 
 bunch." 
 
 "Y,ou are evidently not thinking seriously of 
 quietly driving the bunch home now in order to 
 save all further trouble," said Jack, with a smile. 
 
 [189]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 " Such a thought is certainly not weighting me 
 down at present," said Tom, leading the way to 
 the house. "It seems to me that I should kind 
 of like to know who it is that has such an uncon 
 trolled hankering after the fleshpots of the 
 Seven-up. Not Dave Myers I doubt if he 
 knows anything about this. Would n t you like 
 to know, too, Jack?" he concluded, with a 
 peculiar significance. 
 
 "That I would," agreed Jack, heartily, his 
 blood tingling with the lust of conflict. 
 
 "And besides," continued Tom, calmly, "I 
 counted only ten. I want my other seven." 
 
 They took no extraordinary precaution to con 
 ceal their presence. In truth, it was not many 
 minutes before a cheerful fire was rumbling in 
 the rusty stove and the smoke of it was curling 
 up into the slowly coming darkness of the summer 
 night. While Jack, with the sure instinct of 
 healthy hunger, peered into likely places for 
 flour and cured meat and coffee, the more prac 
 tical Tom fed the fire and put the skillet on to 
 heat for the flapjacks it devolved upon him to 
 make. 
 
 "If they see our fire, they will only think that 
 Dave has returned," he remarked, casually, to 
 
 [190]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 his companion, "and they are evidently counting 
 on Dave s not talking if he does come back, so 
 what is to hinder our having a fine supper? I 
 for one am fairly starved." 
 
 At that moment, the door was quietly opened 
 and a boy entered the room. He seemed not 
 older than twelve years and his thin face went 
 haggard with a child s dread as he saw who it 
 was that so unconcernedly sifted flour over there 
 by the table. 
 
 "I thought they had come back," he fal 
 tered, standing with his back to the door, his 
 hand nervously clasping the latch string behind 
 him. 
 
 "Who?" asked Tom, indifferently, mixing 
 dough as if everything else in all the world was 
 of little worth as compared with this work upon 
 which he was bent. 
 
 "I - - I das n t tell," said the boy. " He d 
 kill me if I told." 
 
 "Who would kill you, little chap?" asked 
 Tom, gently, thinking of another boy who was 
 about this waif s age and who was very close 
 indeed to the heart of the elder brother. 
 
 "He would. I das n t tell." 
 
 Well, never mind. You need n t tell, little 
 
 [191]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 chap, if you don t want to. You are called the 
 White Slave hereabouts, are you not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I don t know, " said the boy miserably. 
 
 "Well, I do," said the ranchman, with a sigh. 
 "Boy, do you know me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then do just as I tell you to-night, and - 
 you shall not be called the White Slave any 
 longer. Do you understand?" 
 
 The boy shook his head. 
 
 "Listen then. It is I who have the upper 
 hand now. You see that, don t you? You will 
 do well to serve me to-night. In fact, boy, you 
 had better! When he comes back, do his 
 bidding, but say nothing about us. You under 
 stand that much? Well, make your choice." 
 
 " I don t think he will come to-night, " said 
 the boy, after a short silence. I don t think 
 any one will come back before three o clock. 
 That s why I could n t understand the smoke." 
 
 " Don t lie to me!" cried Tom, sternly. " TeU 
 me the truth. How many are there?" 
 
 " I don t know. " 
 
 "Who is the leader?" 
 
 [192]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 " I das n t tell." 
 
 "Oh, he s the one who d kill you, is he? Why 
 are n t you looking for him to-night? " 
 
 Cause he s gone." 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 " I das n t tell." 
 
 "Then the devil take you," exclaimed Tom, in 
 exasperation. 
 
 "My boy," put in Jack, quietly, "if you will 
 tell me the truth, you will not have to work for 
 these men any longer. I do not think you quite 
 understood Mr. Burrington. Come here. Poor 
 kid! You have no father or mother, have you? 
 I thought not. Neither have I. Would n t you 
 like to live at the Broken Key? I need some one 
 to herd my cattle. You would never have to 
 come back here, and there are no "white slaves" 
 at the Broken Key. If you will tell me where 
 your master is and where the rest of Mr. Bur- 
 rington s horses are and when any one is ex 
 pected back here, you can go away with me in 
 the morning and you can stay with me for 
 always, if you like. It is as Mr. Burrington says 
 we have the upper hand now, but your 
 answering my questions may prevent bloodshed. 
 Won t you tell me?" 
 
 [193]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 The White Slave stared at him with dilating 
 eyes. 
 
 "Are you the man he calls Carroll?" he 
 stammered. 
 
 "I am." 
 
 "Why, he he " 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Jack, "that he hates me 
 - that is, if we are talking about the same man, 
 and I think we are. He hates Mr. Burrington, 
 too. But what difference does that make be 
 tween you and me?" 
 
 "Well, I won t tell his name," said the boy, 
 with superstitious stubbornness. "He d hear 
 it, someway, all right. He d know I told. He 
 knows everything." 
 
 "Where is he now?" asked Jack, quietly. 
 "You will tell me, won t you? " 
 
 " I don t know where he is. He said he was 
 going to the dugout. If you know where that 
 is, you know more than I do. He took some 
 horses with him." 
 
 You are sure you don t know where the dug 
 out is?" 
 
 I don t know honest. They never tell me 
 their secrets." 
 
 "When did he start?" 
 
 [194]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 "At sun-down." 
 
 "By Jove!" cried Tom. "If we d only been 
 a half-hour earlier! " 
 
 "What direction did he go?" 
 
 "He crossed White River." 
 
 "And when are the other fellows coming 
 back?" asked Jack, with a keen, though veiled 
 glance at the boy. 
 
 They said three o clock," persisted the boy, 
 "but they crossed White River, too, and I don t 
 think they intend to come back until to-morrow." 
 
 "What are you doing here, then, if you are 
 not expecting them? " demanded Tom, suspici 
 ously. 
 
 " None o your business," returned the White 
 Slave, sullenly. He was afraid of the big ranch 
 man of the Seven-up. 
 
 "Tell me, my boy," said Jack, gently. 
 
 "Well, I was to watch if anybody came. But 
 they wasn t lookin for no one to come. And 
 I was to be here to feed their horses when they 
 did come and cook em some grub if I wanted 
 to keep my liver," said the boy, with evident 
 unwillingness. 
 
 "I know what I am going to do," exclaimed 
 Tom, suddenly and determinedly. "I m going 
 
 [195]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 to run down the boss of this little affair. If the 
 boy is telling the truth, no one will come back 
 here for a day or two at least. It is not likely 
 they would cross White River twice in a night 
 unless there was something pressing. White 
 River is up. I am no good at a waiting game, 
 anyway. If the boy is lying, we 11 string him 
 up. Will you go or stay, Jack? I think it would 
 be just as well perhaps for you to stay and 
 watch the premises. Some one might come back, 
 after all, and you could hide in the bushes and 
 report to the officers to-morrow if I don t get 
 back. But we 11 both go if you say the word." 
 
 "You d better both go," advised the White 
 Slave, shortly. 
 
 "You re such a cheerful liar, you know," said 
 Tom, calmly, "that we 11 just do as we please." 
 
 "I reckon I 11 stay," said Jack, quietly. 
 
 " Good. If I don t strike any trail, I ll be 
 back by three o clock. Don t take any risks. 
 We re only scouting now, you know, and it s 
 so infernally dark. Keep an eye on the kid. So 
 long." 
 
 He slipped out and was gone. 
 
 "Will you do just as I say?" asked Jack, 
 turning to the boy. 
 
 [196]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 "Yes," said the boy, with grateful submissive- 
 ness. "I will mind you, Mr. Jack Carroll. Are 
 you goin to hide in the bushes like Mr. Burring- 
 ton said?" 
 
 "No," said Jack, a fighting smile on his lips 
 and a gleam in his eyes, " I am not going to hide 
 in the bushes like Mr. Burrington said." 
 
 It was late when the muffled sound of unhur 
 ried horses hoofs drifted into the quiet room 
 where Jack Carroll waited for the coming of 
 some one, his blood cooled with the wearisome and 
 indefinite delay. He had begun to think that 
 Tom had been right, after all. He slouched back 
 in his chair and listened sleepily to the frantic 
 whirring of a lumbering June bug on the wing 
 and the subsequent dull thud of its foolish con 
 tact with the wall. The light had been removed 
 to an inner room and the kitchen was in complete 
 darkness. The White Slave crouched by the 
 window but faintly outlined by the darkness 
 within. There seemed something of stealth in 
 the approaching hoof -beats perhaps because of 
 the lateness of the hour, the stillness of all else, 
 and because the sound was not a running nor a 
 braggart sound. The steps came nearer stop 
 ped; then startlingly close, grimly amusing be- 
 
 [197]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 cause of its unconsciousness, a deep yawn drifted 
 in through the window and sounded as loudly in 
 the room as if it had originated there. The care 
 free, unthinking act was closely and harshly fol 
 lowed, however, by the firing in rapid succession 
 of two pistol shots. The White Slave made no 
 move. He seemed incapable of action until a 
 slight shove from Jack s foot warned him and he 
 rose and slipped out into the night. 
 
 " It s a wonder you would n t take your time," 
 grumbled the man on the horse, with rough 
 sarcasm. "I m dead for sleep. Here you are. 
 Give him good water and good feed if you want 
 your liver left whole ! " 
 
 There was the sound of an opening door. The 
 faintest light of which a cloudless, moonless but 
 starlit summer night is capable of giving crept 
 in, while outside the ineffectual lamps of the fire 
 flies gleamed and darkened softly. 
 
 "Hell!" The man still talked to the boy, who 
 was already beyond hearing. "It s as dark as 
 the inside of a cow. Why the devil did n t you 
 leave that light in the kitchen?" 
 
 He stumbled across the room to the streak of 
 yellow that ran along the floor and threw open 
 the door leading into the lighted room beyond. 
 
 [198]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 The hand was a heavy one that came down on 
 his shoulder at that moment, so that he turned 
 squarely upon command and threw up his hands, 
 however grudgingly, because there was nothing 
 else to do when he felt the cold steel pressing 
 against his neck. The boy had played fair. He 
 had not told. 
 
 "You did that right well, Mr. Horse-thief," 
 said Jack, approvingly. "A clean surrender- 
 no fuss or sloppiness of any kind. Very good. 
 I approve of you." 
 
 "Damn!" said the man, shortly. 
 
 "Did Frank LaDue go directly to the stable?" 
 asked Jack, carelessly. 
 
 "Suppose you go and see for yourself," 
 growled the captive, sullenly. 
 
 "Certainly, with all the pleasure in the world," 
 said Jack, readily. "You just rest quietly as 
 you are for a minute or two while I borrow your 
 guns and things, will you? I 11 take the belt, 
 too, if you don t mind. Now, don t be too pro 
 miscuous with your hands, please. Just a minute 
 while I make a record tie with my rope. Hold 
 your hands close to your sides," demanded Jack, 
 sternly. 
 
 There was no mistaking his intention should 
 
 [199]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 there be an offensive move on the part of the out 
 law. The sullen horse-thief, swearing softly all 
 the while, nevertheless submitted to be bound 
 hand and foot and rolled into a corner. 
 
 "All right? " asked Jack, finally. " If you are 
 ready, I reckon I ll be movin* on." 
 
 He nodded to his prisoner, opened the door 
 and passed out. All was still. There was noth 
 ing to be heard but the strident frog chorus from 
 the river yonder. Presently, as he paused a 
 moment, listening, he thought he heard a sound 
 that he knew over by the corral the low, ex 
 pectant, grateful whinny of a hungry horse that 
 sees his long delayed supper coming at last. He 
 walked swiftly towards the corral, keeping well 
 in the shadows. 
 
 Throw up your hands," he cried, suddenly, 
 in a low authoritative voice, to a dark shape just 
 emerging from the corral. The hands went up 
 while a plaintive voice expostulated: 
 
 "Why, is that you, Mr. Carroll? What you 
 got agin me? I ain t never done nothin to you." 
 
 Well, do something for me now, " said Jack, 
 curtly. "Make for the house and be quick about 
 it. Keep your hands up, please, until I relieve 
 you of your playthings. Now, then, hurry, will 
 
 [200]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 you ? I have an engagement with Frank LaDue 
 to-night that I want to keep, so step along lively, 
 please." 
 
 "You Ve got a long ride before you, have n t 
 you?" vouchsafed the prisoner, sociably. 
 
 "Not so long as it might be," said Jack, with 
 brief significance, as they entered the house where 
 the first sullen captive lay, grinding his teeth in 
 helpless rage over the shame of this wholesale 
 capture by one man and him a pilgrim from a 
 far-away country. The second took the affair 
 more philosophically and grinned impudently 
 into the homesteader s face. He, too, submitted 
 without further fight. It was an ugly-looking 
 gun, that, and he did not like the look in the 
 young Southerner s eyes, and besides, down deep 
 in his heart, he was a coward. 
 
 Again, Jack left the room. Were there others 
 of the gang still hanging about the premises or 
 were there others yet to come? Was Frank 
 LaDue concerned in this nefarious incident? He 
 steadfastly believed so. He strode toward the 
 dark pile of the stable without his former 
 wariness. He had been so successful thus far that 
 his buoyant spirits could harbor no depressing 
 premonition of a possible reverse of fortune. It 
 
 [201]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 had all been so ridiculously easy. Pure luck had 
 played into his hands. He was almost ashamed 
 of its tameness. He meant, however, to probe 
 this affair to the foundation of it all. He should 
 wring a complete confession from some one or 
 all of these men if he had to resort to some tor 
 ture process of mediaevalism. To-night should 
 determine for them whether or not this secret 
 organization which he and Burrington had run 
 down was in any way in league with that diaboli 
 cal attempt at Josephine s life. For despite his 
 skepticism, there lurked, .down deep in his heart, 
 the awful fear that what Burrington believed 
 might be true, after all. 
 
 There was a sudden, sharp report, and a bullet 
 went hurtling by him with an ominous sing and 
 hiss. Though untouched, he dropped, grateful 
 to the kindly darkness that made a man prone on 
 mother earth of little worth as a target. He lay 
 perfectly still for a moment, wondering what 
 effect the unexpected shot would have upon the 
 White Slave, but trusting to his good judgment 
 not to squeal regardless of any little gun play 
 there might be. Or had the boy already told? 
 Perhaps, nay probably, this was the arch-thief 
 of all and the boy s fear of his master had been 
 
 [202]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 stronger than his promises to Jack. He had as 
 yet seen nothing, but the shot had come from the 
 direction of the barn, so that he was between the 
 enemy and the house. It was a good advantage. 
 The gods had surely been with him this night. 
 He strained his sight houseward. If the outlaw 
 knew that his comrades were prisoners there, he 
 might not readily accept an opportunity for 
 escape. Their brotherhood was a right loyal one. 
 If he knew! Did he know? Jack began creep 
 ing back toward the house. Suddenly, a stream 
 of light poured out into the night as the door was 
 unexpectedly opened and the White Slave 
 stumbled into the kitchen. But his was not the 
 only figure thus revealed. In the outer circle of 
 light loomed up the sinister outlines of a man to 
 whose greedy gaze stood now unveiled the pic 
 ture of the whole situation and he saw with 
 understanding. But Jack saw, too, and compre 
 hended more quickly because there was nothing 
 in it new to him but the figure daubed on in the 
 foreground, so that while there were two ex 
 plosions, his was first and went home, while the 
 second went far astray and was lost. It was 
 thus Jack fulfilled his obligation to the White 
 Slave. He did not doubt that the outlaw s 
 
 [203]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 bullet was meant to end the life of the child who 
 had told. 
 
 "You ve got us, Carroll," said the last captive, 
 lying white and spent upon Dave Myers s bed, 
 after his enemy had stanched the flow of blood 
 from his shoulder. "Now what are you goin to 
 do with us?" 
 
 "I don t know you, although you are pretty 
 familiar with my name," said Jack, gravely. 
 "Did you know that your den had been raided?" 
 
 "I sort o suspected," said the man, with a 
 sour grin, "when I made out your slim shanks 
 comin towards me. So when I missed you, I 
 made for the house just to investigate sort o , you 
 know. I did n t know then that I d missed you 
 plum but I was afraid to go very close to you 
 for fear you were playin possum. Good Lord! 
 If I d a only knowed there was only you, a 
 scrawny, white-livered, stiff collar feller! A 
 tenderfoot! A milk and honey boy! Damn! I 
 supposed o course Tom Burrington was in here 
 and a whole carload o off cers. I thought I d 
 peek in at the winder and see what was goin on 
 when the kid here saved me the trouble by openin 
 the door." He glared at the cowering boy, 
 malevolently. 
 
 [204]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 "What made you, kid?" asked Jack, gravely. 
 
 "I was afraid o the shootin ," said theWhite 
 Slave, whimpering. "I wanted to get under the 
 bed. But I did n t tell on you, honest I did n t." 
 
 "Well, never mind. There is just the one 
 thing that I want to know of you," said Jack, 
 turning once more to the wounded man, "the rest 
 you had better keep to tell to the officers; but 
 what I want to know won t keep." 
 
 "Fire ahead." 
 
 "Is Frank LaDue mixed up in this affair?" 
 
 "That s none o your business," responded the 
 prisoner, insolently. 
 
 "I wish you would tell me," said Jack, ear 
 nestly, "and tell me now to-night. It is a 
 matter of life or death. Where is he now and 
 how does he work?" 
 
 The man laughed. 
 
 "That s easy. I don t know where he is now 
 and he works like a coward." 
 
 "Was he with you to-night?" 
 
 "Now, look here, young feller; nobody s been 
 infringin on your property rights, have they? 
 Why don t you wait until your own ox is gored?" 
 
 " Somebody certainly has been infringing upon 
 my property rights, but leaving that out of the 
 
 [205]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 question now, what I must know to-night is, as 
 I told you before, a matter of life or death." 
 
 "Well, then, you can stop pesterin yourself 
 about that. Everybody knows that Frank La- 
 Due s a coward. And after to-night, I can tell 
 him he d better be a-takin some notice o you 
 instead o countin so much on intimidatin you. 
 You need never worry about him shootin , 
 though. He d be afraid o the dark afterwards. 
 I m only tellin you what everybody knows. But 
 he s a great bluffer, Frank LaDue is. He might 
 plug your keyhole, for instance, but he d never 
 follow it up. He steals from small owners and 
 homesteaders and Injuns. He ain t got the 
 courage to tackle big concerns usually. The 
 Injuns hate him like pizen and I look for trouble 
 now most any day in that direction, and so far 
 as I can read human nature, he don t love you 
 none, nor that Seven-up fellow, neither. But if 
 he has ever worked with me in anything you will 
 never know it. The law s got me at last but I 
 reckon I can keep my mouth shut about other 
 fellers. Are you satisfied? I wouldn t have 
 talked half so much to any other man, but you 
 are such a comical little slim-shanks to make such 
 a haul as three big lubbers like us. I can t help 
 
 [206]
 
 HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
 
 laughin but I m through now." He closed 
 his mouth stubbornly and turned to the wall. He 
 could not be persuaded to speak again. 
 
 The next morning, early, Tom Burrington re 
 turned unsuccessful in both his man and horse 
 hunt. Mingled with his honest admiration of his 
 tenderfoot friend s fine showing for his night s 
 work was much astonishment and not a little 
 chagrin. The two men started at once for West- 
 over with their prisoners, where the latter were 
 given into the keeping of the deputy marshal. 
 They waived examination before the United 
 States Commissioner, were bound over to appear 
 at the next regular term of the United States 
 Court at Deadwood, and then Tom and Jack and 
 the little White Slave drove the stolen band of 
 horses home. The real quest of both men had 
 been in vain. This thought stayed with Tom 
 throughout all the long, dusty way, that a thou 
 sand horses gone astray could not have taken him 
 so far from Josephine in her hour of danger had 
 he not been so sure that he was about Josephine s 
 business. One of the outlaws had said that La- 
 Due was too much of a coward to shoot. Was 
 not shooting a coward s game? 
 
 [207]
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "VTOTHING of an unusual nature had occurred 
 during the absence of the two men. Tom s 
 mother, acting upon an earnest hint from her big, 
 gray-eyed son who had grown so much more 
 thoughtful and reserved in the year that was just 
 past, and who, since two short days ago, had 
 grown infinitely older, had contrived to keep her 
 guest contented within doors most of the time 
 an act deserving of much credit, for the girl loved 
 with a great love the wide outdoors. 
 
 "We spent such a lazy day yesterday," con 
 fessed Josephine, smilingly. "First we made 
 gingerbread men, Louis and I, a whole battalion, 
 thanks to Mrs. Burrington, who was generous 
 with the dough. Then we sewed and sang and 
 read and talked about you when you were a 
 little boy, and about Jack when he was a little 
 boy, and about Louis when he was a little 
 baby ; and this morning, now what do you 
 suppose we did this morning? " 
 
 "I never could guess," said Tom, wondering 
 
 [208]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 how he ever thought for a moment that Jose 
 phine ought to go away when here in his house 
 by the side of his stately, gray-haired mother, she 
 was so safe and merry and seemingly content 
 so dear a household spirit. Could not he, Tom 
 Burrington, accounted in the range country a 
 man of more than ordinary strength both physical 
 and of the will, protect and hold what was his 
 own? He laughed, looking at her thus, to think 
 that he had ever thought that he could let her 
 go. She should come to his house and to him and 
 then let all the world watch out. 
 
 "Don t tell, Josephine," urged Louis. "He 
 does n t deserve to know. He ll just let em 
 freeze again." 
 
 "Why, you have told yourself, chum," laughed 
 Josephine, merrily. "Besides, anybody could 
 tell by the sunburn on your nose and the freckles 
 on mine that we had been out in the sun all the 
 morning. Well, I will tell you, though, as Louis 
 says, you do not either of you deserve to know. 
 While your mother was getting those pretty slips 
 ready to take the place of the plants that froze 
 last Winter all on account of somebody s unap- 
 preciative carelessness, Louis and I went down 
 to our garden and hoed potatoes all the morning 
 
 [209]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 and weeded the onion bed, and if you do not think 
 of me and of my poor blistered hands every time 
 you taste a potato of the future, you will be an 
 ungrateful wretch and we shall never forgive you, 
 shall w r e, Louis?" 
 
 "I do not see any blisters, my fine lady," said 
 Tom, interestedly. "I have you. You wore 
 gloves. She did didn t she, Louis?" 
 
 "Ask her. How should I know?" said the 
 boy, loyally. " Do you expect a fellow to be 
 for always on the look-out to see whether his 
 women-folks wear gloves or not ? Life s too 
 short." 
 
 "I should think that you could see for your 
 self," said Josephine, holding out her hands for 
 inspection. They were not very large hands and 
 they were very white, and Tom, not daring to 
 touch them, but feeling the hot blood burn his 
 face with the desire of it, asked abruptly: 
 
 "You didn t go down to the far garden, did 
 
 you?" 
 
 "You bet we did," said Louis, stoutly. 
 " Charlie Mason has n t been able to do a thing 
 down there and it needed fixin mighty bad. So 
 Josephine and I worked down there all the morn 
 ing and this afternoon I m going to teach her 
 
 [210]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 to shoot my rifle to pay her for working in my 
 garden." 
 
 "I couldn t help it, Tom," explained the 
 mother, apologetically, as she saw the sternness 
 creeping over the handsome face. "She would 
 go this morning in spite of me. They took hold 
 of hands, the silly children, and just ran away 
 from me. I could not go myself because I did 
 not know where they went, and besides, I had 
 bread in the oven." 
 
 "Why should I not go to the garden?" asked 
 Josephine, in troubled surprise. 
 
 And Tom, looking long and deep into her 
 clear, questioning eyes, did not dare to tell her 
 why. The shadow of a great unrest fell over his 
 face. He wished in that moment that he had 
 asked her of Jack, yesterday, down by the wood 
 pile was it only yesterday? when the words 
 of his great desire had trembled upon his lips 
 and would have been spoken had he not choked 
 them back because he knew so well that Jack 
 w r ould never give her up while this mysterious evil 
 menaced her. But perhaps if he had tried hard 
 enough, he might have convinced Jack of the 
 entire wisdom of such a course. He wished he 
 had tried. He wished he had spoken to Jack on 
 
 [211]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 the way home from Westover. Jack almost be 
 lieved what the horse-thief had said about La- 
 Due s art of bluffing. Yet he had known that it 
 would not be worth while to speak, then, because, 
 while Jack almost believed the horse-thief s 
 rough reading of the islander s character and 
 intentions, he did not believe it altogether, and 
 Tom knew that Jack Carroll would never listen 
 to his or any man s suit until the question was 
 settled one way or the other. He might even, 
 and probably would, only bring about a loss of 
 fellowship by his undue haste. He knew all of 
 this well, and yet if Jack only would! Yes, 
 why not? Why should Josephine not go to the 
 garden to his garden? If she could not, if the 
 very thought of it brought the cold damp to his 
 forehead, then indeed was the time come when she 
 must go away. His dream had been the idle 
 dream of a fool s paradise. 
 
 "There is no reason at all why you should not 
 go," he answered, quietly, "except that a regular 
 den of rattle-snakes infests that locality. You 
 must promise me that you will never go away 
 down there alone." 
 
 "I should think that it would be a very simple 
 matter to kill all those rattle-snakes," said Jose 
 fs 12]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 phine, unsuspiciously. "If I were a man, I 
 should do it. I should think you would be afraid 
 for Louis. What with wolves and rattle-snakes, 
 I very plainly foresee an exciting, if hampered, 
 future for Josephine Carroll. Yes, I promise, if 
 you will trust Louis and his gun to me this after 
 noon," she bargained. "He complains that the 
 stern, elder brother never lets him take his gun 
 out unless attended by this same tyrant. I will 
 send him safely home in the morning. Is it a 
 bargain?" 
 
 "It is a bargain," agreed Tom. 
 
 Shortly after noon of that same day, having 
 first sent the White Slave out with the cattle, 
 Jack was planting and harrowing corn in a field 
 long neglected because of his inability to get help. 
 He kept doggedly at the task all through the 
 long, hot afternoon, while Josephine and her 
 young guest amused themselves near by with 
 shooting at humps of turned-over sod for targets, 
 or bunches of soap-weed. Sometimes they tried 
 their luck at a flock of visiting blackbirds, having 
 no intention of really hitting anything that was 
 alive. Indeed, they would have been sorely re 
 morseful had a feathered and make-belief target 
 inadvertently fallen. At least, Josephine would 
 
 [213]
 
 have been, and the boy was bound in honor to 
 support the views of his pretty young hostess on 
 this day when he was not only her guest but her 
 sworn protector as well. Tom had said so and 
 it meant something when Tom spoke. How he 
 listened and longed for the warning rattle of a 
 snake so that he might prove his position as not 
 honorary only, but urgently active as well. He 
 even threshed through the prairie grass with his 
 chubby and rubber-booted legs in the vain hope 
 of surprising the enemy in his lair, never dream 
 ing of failure to kill. 
 
 When the shadows of the trees had stretched 
 themselves near halfway across the river, when 
 the sun hung over the western hills and shone 
 with a yellower light, when the frogs began 
 chanting their raucous monotones, when the 
 meadow lark s liquid notes had taken on a plain 
 tive tone and the "bob white" of the quail, calling 
 to his brooding mate, came sleepily from grass 
 coverts, and the soft, heart-breaking lament of 
 the mourning dove floated with penetrating 
 sweetness from the depths of the island forest, 
 when, if one listened, one could hear the deep, 
 steady push of the river, Josephine waved a 
 cheery good-bye to the laborer in the field, who 
 
 [214]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 held his hat high to honor the passing of the blue- 
 ginghamed figure, held out her hand to the boy, 
 and the two strolled leisurely homeward to pre 
 pare the evening meal for the man who must 
 work while yet there was light. 
 
 "I am tired, Josephine, dead tired," said Jack, 
 after supper. He sat down on the threshold and 
 leaned his head wearily against the door-casing. 
 It was a characteristic attitude of his that Spring 
 and Summer when he was tired or thoughtful. 
 His eyes were lifted to the hilltops, as they had 
 so often been before, where the light yet lingered, 
 although dusk had come to the valley. 
 
 "Poor boy," comforted Josephine. "You 
 work far too hard. It was n t fair of Mr. Bur- 
 rington to keep you up all last night, either. Was 
 it, Louis?" 
 
 "No, I suppose not, only I do wish I had been 
 there, too," sighed the boy. "Gee! Maybe Jack 
 would have let me take their guns away from em, 
 maybe. What 11 you bet ? Would n t you, 
 Jack? Because there was n t a speck of danger. 
 You had the drop on em all the time, you know." 
 
 "But where the fun without any danger at 
 all?" laughed Jack. 
 
 "Well, of course," qualified the boy, "they 
 
 [215]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 might have drawn so quickly as to hurt me even 
 if you had killed em afterwards. Say, Jack, I 
 wish you d let me work for you. I m a bully 
 hand at makin garden and tendin to stock. 
 You just ask Tom. And I could learn to plough 
 and cultivate corn and things. I d love to. 
 Maybe if you needed me, and Josephine, too, 
 mummy would let me stay out here all Winter. 
 I hate to go back to that old Chicago and that 
 old school now that I know you and Josephine. 
 Josephine makes the best biscuits I ever ate in 
 my life. Mummy says it s because she was born 
 in the South. She says you get a knack by being 
 born down there. I wish our old cook had gone 
 down there to be born. Josephine, are you going 
 to have sour milk batter cakes for breakfast? 
 I like em even better than biscuits for breakfast 
 when you make em," he concluded, diplo 
 matically. 
 
 "Thanks, old chap," said Jack, a laugh in his 
 eyes, "but now that I have the White Slave to 
 help around, I won t need your labor. However, 
 you are dead welcome to stay here all the time 
 if you like. By the way, I wonder what keeps 
 the boy? It s away past milking time. Any 
 mail, Josephine?" 
 
 [216]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 "Lots of it," said Josephine, interestedly. 
 " The home papers, and letters, too, and the mag 
 azines, and I have n t read a word. Was n t I 
 good to wait for you? Charlie Mason, that 
 Seven-up cowboy, you know, went to town early 
 this morning and he said he would bring our mail. 
 Shall I light the lamp and read the news to you?" 
 
 "Please," said Jack, yawning. "It seems a 
 shame to have a light this fine evening, but we 
 shall have to have the news, I suspect." 
 
 Josephine arose, lighted a lamp, set it upon 
 the table, leisurely drew up a chair, sat down and 
 slipped a finger through the wrapping of a news 
 paper. Opposite, chin in hand, elbows on the 
 table, sat the boy Louis, prepared to give his 
 earnest attention to the reading of the news of 
 a far-away country. 
 
 "Do you want to do something for me first, 
 Louis?" asked Jack. "Just bring me a basin of 
 cold water, will you? My poor feet burn like 
 sixty. They are not exactly at home yet in plough 
 shoes never mind, Jo, don t look so overcome. 
 A better time is coming. Anyway, they ll get 
 used to it. It is only a question of time when 
 my pretty feet won t have even a bowing ac 
 quaintance with a calf and will be too calloused 
 
 [217]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 even for reminiscence. This is a world of adap 
 tability, you know," he went on, with his old, 
 whimsical smile. "You are a good boy, Louis. 
 Thank you. Gee! That feels good! Drink it 
 in, poor feet, for you have to go again to-morrow. 
 Fire ahead, Jo. So the old place is to be sold 
 again. I thought Uncle Geoffrey would have to 
 do that sooner or later. I would not go back, 
 though, for all the world, would you, Jo? This 
 is a right glorious country and we are here to 
 stay. Heigho, but I am tired!" 
 
 He clasped his hands behind his head as he 
 had done that night when he found Onjijitka 
 sitting late with Josephine. There was a sudden, 
 sharp report, a piercing scream, darkness, and 
 the slim, tired body of John Calhoun Carroll, late 
 a gentleman of Carolina, sank softly to the floor, 
 while without many stars began to twinkle in the 
 darkening sky, and drearily across the quiet 
 country came the yelping of the coyotes. 
 
 "Josephine! I am shot!" 
 
 It was the boy who spoke, a great horror in 
 his breaking voice. 
 
 "Where, dear? Do not be afraid," called 
 Josephine, soothingly, as she groped her way 
 around the table and took the rigid little figure 
 
 [218]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 in her arms. "Where, dearie, where are you 
 hurt?" 
 
 "I don t know, Josephine," sobbed the boy, 
 clinging to her in a passion of uncontrollable ter 
 ror. "It came through the window." 
 
 "But when you screamed, where did it hurt 
 you ? Jack, why do you not come ? Our boy has 
 been shot. Oh, Louis, you must tell me where 
 you are hurt. I cannot find a match. Jack! 
 Jack!" 
 
 No answer broke the hush that followed this 
 passionate appeal. 
 
 "Why, dear boy," said Josephine, then, in a 
 sweet, strained voice, "you are not hurt at all. 
 It is Jack. Do not sob so. I tell you it is Jack. 
 Do you not see? Jack does not move. He is 
 there by the door. I must shut that door or 
 they will shoot him again." She rose to her feet 
 unsteadily, supporting herself with her hand 
 on the table. " Come, Louis, we must shut the 
 door." 
 
 "It came through the window, Josephine," 
 repeated the boy. 
 
 "But I must shut the door," persisted Jose 
 phine. 
 
 Very quietly she slipped forward, very quietly 
 
 [219]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 put her arms around the shoulders of the boyish 
 figure lying there so still, and gently lifted it 
 wholly within, so that the bare white feet of him 
 who had gone no longer rested upon the cold, 
 hard stone of the doorway those bare, white 
 feet that never again would follow the unac 
 customed harrow, or be bruised by the harsh 
 leather of plough shoes. It is a glorious country, 
 poor Jack, but the price of it was many a fair 
 young life like yours and many a heart-ache like 
 Josephine s. When Josephine had closed the 
 door softly, she crept back to the boy. 
 
 "Get your rifle," she whispered. "He is down 
 at the woodpile I saw him and I know him 
 he will kill you, too, and me, Louis, if we do 
 not kill him first. Quick!" 
 
 "Is Jack " 
 
 "Yes, dear, Jack is dead," she said, in a 
 strange, quiet voice. "Get your gun so that we 
 may kill that man out there, and then go for 
 help." 
 
 Help! It was the slogan that sounded the 
 rally to Tom Burrington s brother. It was then 
 that his sturdy little soul, so peculiarly akin to 
 that of the elder brother, leaped from the shackles 
 of its own fear and never again, throughout all 
 
 [220]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 the long watches of that night of terror, did he 
 fail this girl whom Tom loved. 
 
 "Let me shoot, Josephine," he said, biting his 
 lips desperately in his effort to keep them steady. 
 You don t know how, and besides it s a man s 
 work. No, Josephine, we must n t have a light. 
 They saw too plainly before. They shot through 
 the window, you know." 
 
 But Josephine took the rifle from the small 
 hands that would have clung to it, saying simply : 
 
 "I must do it. Jack would if he could but 
 he cannot so I must. I promised Tom to take 
 care of you." 
 
 She crept again to the door, opened it slightly, 
 turned the unaccustomed weapon toward the 
 dark blur of the woodpile, and fired. The gun 
 dropped from her nerveless hands to the floor. 
 
 " He was n t there, Louis," she said, pitifully. 
 "He is hiding somewhere. We shall have to stay 
 until he goes away." 
 
 She felt for a match, found one at last and 
 lighted the lamp, which smoked distressingly, 
 with its chimney scattered in fragments over the 
 table and floor. The quick-witted boy hastily 
 drew the blinds close and then Josephine, sitting 
 upon the floor, took upon her lap the head of the 
 
 [221]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 boy that was dead. In the half light, his face 
 was serene and it seemed as if he smiled. It was 
 a brave soul that had said he was here to stay, 
 and now he was already gone. But he had left 
 in his stead the grace of a smile, half humorous, 
 wholly accepting, of one who, however unex 
 pectedly, had met and known and rebelled not 
 weakly against the master of all the world 
 death. But if death be the master of all the 
 world, why, then, as Josephine gazed on the still 
 face in that solemn hour, that haunting air of 
 mysterious triumph around the boyish mouth? 
 Was it that, beyond the world, death had met its 
 master? 
 
 Josephine had no will to do aught but look 
 upon that face as the time dragged heavily away. 
 There was nothing else in all the world but Jack, 
 and now that he was gone, what did anything 
 matter? Only she was very glad that she had 
 worn gloves in the garden that morning because 
 now her hands were soft to touch the smooth 
 white forehead very white at the edge of the 
 thick brown hair, but shading into tan above the 
 closed eyes. Rosebud was coming to-morrow for 
 a visit and she wondered idly what the Indian 
 girl would say when she came to the ranch of the 
 
 [222]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 Broken Key and knocked, and there would be 
 no one to say, "Come in." For of course she, 
 Josephine, would be killed before morning. If 
 not, Jack would come back for her. He would 
 never leave his little sister alone never. She 
 could trust Jack. Would Onji, as Jack loved 
 to call her, open the door and enter unbidden? 
 Yes, for the key was broken and any one could 
 come in who wanted to. There would be no one 
 to keep any one out anyway to-morrow. Poor 
 little Rosebud! It would be very lonely for her 
 in the time to come. There would be nowhere 
 for her to go, any more, to have change from the 
 slothful life in the home of Two Hawks. She 
 would go back to the Dakotahs and never try 
 to be white any more. But why not? It was 
 such a lonesome world without one s own people. 
 She, Josephine, could not bear it alone, so she 
 was going back to her own Jack was coming 
 for her pretty soon now so why should not 
 poor, lonely, passionate, striving, slighted Rose 
 bud go back and stay with her own? Two 
 Hawks was a very good man, and nothing mat 
 ters in all the world but one s own. Everything 
 else is emptiness. One finds that out when one 
 comes to die. But Rosebud would be very lonely 
 
 [223]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 for a while. Generous-hearted Jack had been 
 good to her, and she had tried to be, too. Would 
 she cry? No, that was not her nature. She 
 would just steal away again softly and go to the 
 Seven-up, maybe, and then Tom would come and 
 he was so big and strong that he would just pick 
 them both up and lay them on the bed and then 
 he would wonder where Louis was why, where 
 was Louis? 
 
 And then it w r as as if Josephine s heart really 
 broke, for she knew that she could not stay there 
 any longer with the dear body of Jack; that she 
 must no longer sit there and wait for Jack to 
 come back. She knew that she must arise and 
 go to the little boy who was so bravely quiet, but 
 over whose sensitive young face hung the gray 
 shadow of an awful horror. She laid the dear 
 head upon the floor and stood up, pressing her 
 hands just once against her eyes, where hot tears 
 had sprung because the floor was so hard. Then 
 she asked, steadily : 
 
 "Is he gone, Louis?" 
 
 "I don t know, Josephine. I have not heard 
 anything," he answered, his heart leaping at the 
 sound of a human voice again. 
 
 "One of us will have to go and one of us will 
 [224]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 have to stay," said Josephine, in even, con 
 strained tones. "Which would you rather do, 
 go or stay?" 
 
 "I don t care, Josephine, honest. Which 
 would you rather do?" 
 
 "I do not know what to do. I cannot leave 
 you and I cannot send you." Her voice died 
 away drearily. 
 
 "I am not afraid of Jack," fabricated the boy, 
 "and I am not afraid to go, either. Maybe the 
 man is gone." 
 
 Josephine shook her head. 
 
 "No, dear," she said, resolutely, though often 
 the sweet voice broke, "we ll both go. Jack is 
 dead. They can do nothing more to him. I 
 promised to take care of you, so we ll go to 
 gether, you and I." 
 
 With something to do, a sad courage and 
 strength had come back to her. She did not look 
 again at the quiet form, but hurriedly blew out 
 the smoking light, took firm hold of Louis rifle, 
 and held out her hand to the boy. 
 
 * We must climb out of the bedroom window," 
 she said. 
 
 "But he shot through there," remonstrated the 
 boy, who was never to forget the awfulness of 
 
 [225]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 that shot through the window when the bullet 
 had whistled past him so close that he thought 
 it had found him. 
 
 "I know, but I saw the man afterwards down 
 by the woodpile, so we cannot go by the door," 
 decided Josephine. "Come into the bedroom. 
 We will get out at that window." 
 
 Noiselessly, they crept to the bedroom window, 
 raised it softly, and peered out. It was very 
 dark so dark that Josephine caught her breath 
 with the thought of daring it. The air was still, 
 warm, oppressive, and hard to breathe. A storm 
 was coming. They heard the mutter of distant 
 thunder following a bright flash of lightning that 
 showed huge masses of black and angry clouds 
 drifting rapidly up from the west, and that left 
 the hovering, waiting gloom the murkier and the 
 more insistent because of the brief illumination. 
 The storm would break soon. They must hasten. 
 A new thought came to Josephine. She groped 
 her way to the rude closet, felt resolutely among 
 Jack s belongings until she found coat and 
 trousers, and then she quickly changed her own 
 clothes for those that had been Jack s. 
 
 "We can run better," she whispered, "and my 
 skirt will not always be catching on something, 
 
 [226]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 and maybe they will be afraid of me because they 
 will think that I am a man." 
 
 She pushed the boy gently aside. 
 
 "I must go first, chum," she said. 
 
 Ah, God! What was that? Was it the 
 guarded snap of a trigger struck into place for 
 deadly readiness? And had the faint rustling 
 of the grass that preceded it been caused by the 
 stealthy haste of a man to be on time? There 
 was no wind to disturb the grass. Or was it the 
 first sigh of the storm? She climbed frantically 
 back into the room, shot wildly two or three times 
 out of the window, and then, panting with terror, 
 leaned against the wall. 
 
 "We shall have to stay all night," she said, 
 chokingly. "He is out there. He won t let 
 us get away. We must keep shooting, Louis, 
 all the time. We must never stop. We must let 
 him know that we are not utterly helpless and at 
 his mercy. Have you lots of cartridges? We 
 must not waste them. We must put some aside 
 for an emergency." 
 
 They did keep shooting all the night long, just 
 to let some one out there in the dark and the storm 
 know that they were not utterly helpless and at 
 his mercy they, a stricken girl and a little child, 
 
 [227J
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 to whom the wild, electrical storm with its beat 
 ing rain and the roar and crash of its thunder 
 came like heavy cannonading from an answering 
 enemy. They shot through the doorway, through 
 the shattered west window, through the bedroom 
 window, and then through the doorway again, 
 and so the weary round twice and thrice and 
 countless times, till the first creeping gray of the 
 early dawn outlined the hill summits and the tops 
 of the taller trees on the island while the valleys 
 and the lower thickets remained yet a menacing, 
 haunted blur of black. Then hand in hand they 
 watched at the window. The storm had been 
 brief, though furious, and had long since died 
 away. When the near thickets began faintly but 
 surely to show form and substance and the light 
 of the eastern hills took on rose tints, Josephine 
 led the boy to the inner room and made him lie 
 down to rest for an hour, and soon, spent with 
 fear and fatigue, he slept. But Josephine did 
 not sleep, and when it was entirely light and 
 there was no one to be seen in all the lonely 
 land, she awakened the boy. The window stood 
 wide open. 
 
 "It is better slip through this way and run, 
 dear boy, run. You must not be afraid. No one 
 
 [228]
 
 THE TRAGEDY 
 
 will dare hurt you, Tom Burrington s brother. 
 It is day, too. Do you hear me ? You are not to 
 be afraid. Now go, dear." 
 
 "Poor Josephine," said Louis, slipping his 
 arms around her neck for a quick embrace. "How 
 white you are and how tired ! I will run all the 
 way, so it won t be long. Are you sure that you 
 are not afraid? Had n t I better stay? " 
 
 "Yes, Louis, I am afraid," said Josephine, 
 with a smile, the exceeding pathos of which the 
 boy never forgot, "but I am more afraid to go 
 and leave you and we cannot go together now 
 it is too late. You must not be seen with poor 
 Josephine Carroll any more, for she is Jack s 
 sister, you know. So please hurry, won t you, 
 chum?" 
 
 Closing the window after the boy as he slipped 
 away into the chill of the early morning, Jose 
 phine crept back to watch by Jack alone. 
 
 [229]
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 JOSEPHINE was tired. A deadly weari 
 ness held the muscles of her arms and 
 shoulders in a thraldom the chains of which the 
 sight of the murderer himself peering in at the 
 fatal west window could not have broken. Those 
 firm-fleshed young arms had done well when the 
 need of them had been insistent; when all night 
 long, death had sat brooding over the little iso 
 lated house in the valley. But with the cool first 
 light of the June morning came a relaxation of 
 the tense muscles and a strange apathy of the 
 brain which engendered a woful loss of nerve 
 force. The time passed unaccounted for; time 
 during which Josephine, sitting on the floor, 
 stared dumbly into space ; time during which she 
 could not have lifted a hand in self-defence 
 though the summons had left her no alternative 
 but instant death, and though Louis rifle lay 
 close to her feet ; time during which the sun swung 
 higher and higher up into the deep blue of the 
 Dakota sky, and the mournful low of the milch 
 
 [2 so]
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 cows, calling Jack, beat distressfully upon her 
 ears although she heard it not for what it meant. 
 
 Finally she arose, mechanically changed her 
 clothes, and resumed her position upon the floor. 
 She was sitting thus when Tom came. She 
 heard nothing of the hoof beats on the sod, noth 
 ing of the clamor of that wild ride nor the heavy 
 breathing of the hard-ridden horse dragged to a 
 stand-still, without the hint of a slowing-down, 
 so that when the door was thrown open, she 
 shuddered softly, bewilderedly, with an un 
 reasoning dread of supernatural visitation. 
 
 "Josephine!" 
 
 Louis had told him. He knew that he should 
 find Jack lying there dead and that Josephine 
 would be sitting hopelessly and drearily close by. 
 The sadness of that which he saw now with his 
 actual eyes, he had seen with his inner vision all 
 the way while he rode like the wind, triple-guised, 
 a saint of relief, a devil of vengeance, justice in 
 carnate. He had just entered the living room for 
 the early breakfast which prevailed at the Seven- 
 up in the summer-time, when the child, utterly 
 exhausted, white with fatigue, tear-streaked and 
 travel-stained, stumbled into the room from the 
 front entrance. The unspeakable relief which 
 
 [231.1
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 the sight of the broad-shouldered, flannel- shirted, 
 keen-eyed, self-confident man who was his big 
 brother brought to the sorely tried boy, was too 
 much for his self-control and he began to sob 
 abandonedly, standing by the door and making 
 no effort to come further within. Tom under 
 stood then and yet he stayed a moment to listen 
 to the boy s broken story, and stayed yet a mo 
 ment longer to put the child in his mother s arms, 
 and then, nothing short of Omnipotence could 
 have stayed him longer. Yet all he could say 
 was, "Josephine!" He repeated it helplessly, 
 "Josephine!" 
 
 "I am glad it is you," said Josephine, in a 
 quiet little voice. "I did not hear you coming. 
 Did Louis tell you?" 
 
 "Yes, he told me," said Tom, huskily. He 
 strode forward, seized the cold hands in his warm 
 clasp and lifted her strongly to her feet. 
 
 "Come, Josephine," he said, almost roughly. 
 "You must not sit there any longer. There is too 
 much to do. Have you had any breakfast?" 
 
 She shook her head drearily while the first tears 
 that had come to her eyes since she laid Jack s 
 head on the hard floor stood there now because 
 she could not understand this terrible new 
 
 [232]
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 sternness of Tom s. What had she done that he 
 should speak to her thus? She began to sob 
 childishly. She had thought that when Tom came 
 much of her trouble would be over because he was 
 so big and capable he would help her to bear it 
 and instead, he was scolding her and why? 
 Was it because of Louis? 
 
 "I did n t know what else to do," she pleaded. 
 
 "What are you talking about?" asked Tom, 
 sharply. 
 
 "About Louis, you know. I promised you 
 that no harm should come to him and I did try to 
 make my words come true. But I could not leave 
 him, could I ? I thought that it would be so ter 
 rible for a little child to stay here all alone with 
 with - And I could not go with him because 
 they would have killed him, too, if he had been 
 seen with Jack s sister. So I let him go alone. I 
 am sorry. I did not mean to do wrong." 
 
 "Josephine, if you do not keep still, you will 
 kill me," said Tom, brokenly. "I thank my God 
 that you were not alone. I shall be a better man 
 always for this, that He did not let you be alto 
 gether alone even if there was no one to help 
 you but a little child. My girl, what made you 
 think of such a monstrous thing?" 
 
 [233]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "You were so cross," she said, despondently. 
 
 The man gripped himself hard. She seemed 
 so utterly helpless standing there by the unre 
 sponsive body of the one man in all the world who 
 had authority over her, so young and fair and 
 sweet, and yet because of her great sorrow, so 
 far removed from his lover s touch, that he must 
 crucify the imperious demands of his whole being 
 to crush her in his arms and comfort her there. 
 Had he been harsh with her? If he had, it was 
 because of the fierce longing that was in him, 
 that was so hard to control. 
 
 "I did not mean to be," he said, gently. 
 
 "I know it," she said, smiling sadly. She was 
 stronger now and knew that while it was good to 
 have him there and that he would know how to do 
 the things that had to be done, yet her trouble she 
 must bear alone forever. She knew now that 
 there was no other way. " I am very tired and I 
 did not understand just for a minute. Forgive 
 me. What shall I do now? " 
 
 As her hint of a cry for help had been the 
 younger brother s call to rally last night, so 
 Josephine s complete dependence upon him made 
 Tom his own man again now. Quietly but pur 
 posefully he went about the duty that lay before 
 
 [234]
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 him. Stepping into the next room, he robbed the 
 scarcely disturbed bed of its upper covering and 
 returning, spread it reverently over the body of 
 his friend. Then searching for and quickly find 
 ing a big tin cup, he left the house, to return 
 shortly with the cup brimming with fresh milk 
 which he commanded her to drink. She obeyed, 
 too weary to resist his dominant will. 
 
 "Now, Josephine," he said, earnestly, "I shall 
 have to leave you for a little while. Do not 
 worry. I shall come back just as soon as I can. 
 It will not take me long. Do not leave the house. 
 You will remember that, won t you? Do not be 
 afraid that anything will happen to me. I will 
 be back in ten minutes. Do you understand? " 
 
 Yes, she understood. There was no fear but 
 that she understood, poor Josephine. 
 
 "Must you go? Is there no other way? Must 
 I be left alone again?" 
 
 He put his arm for one moment around the 
 slight, drooping shoulders while she read the 
 hard, inevitable truth in his pitying eyes, and then 
 hastily left the house. 
 
 He crossed the bed of the slough dry-shod, 
 though with some difficulty, as the river was rap 
 idly rising, and went directly to Frank LaDue s 
 
 [235]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 cabin on the island. There was no one there. At 
 least no one responded to his peremptory sum 
 mons. He had not thought to find any one at 
 home and yet he kept one hand very near to his 
 pistol belt while he unceremoniously thrust open 
 the door and entered unbidden. Convinced that 
 the house was deserted, he was on the point of 
 leaving when something over by the bed attracted 
 his attention. He stared meditatively at a pair 
 of rough, half-worn shoes, the plough and harrow 
 kind, not the dapper riding boots of the cowboy, 
 and they were caked with yellow mud not yet al 
 together dry. They interested him, these shoes, 
 and yet he must not waste time upon them. He 
 proceeded quickly to the stable and corral. There 
 was no one there. He glanced at the sun. It was 
 high time that the proper authorities be called 
 into action and assistance rendered to Josephine. 
 He longed greatly to pursue his investi 
 gations relentlessly to the inexorable end, 
 when he should stand face to face with Jack s 
 murderer. But there was Josephine. Too much 
 time had been frittered away already. If only 
 he had waited at the Seven-up long enough for 
 his mother to accompany him! He gazed 
 longingly into the depths of the forest to the 
 
 [236]
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 north. How close together grew the trees and 
 how massive the trunks of many ! He knew that 
 most of the cowboys around cherished the belief 
 that the unbranded calves from the Indian herds 
 were systematically driven from the Reservation 
 into the seclusion of this heavy timber here to re 
 main until such time as the lord of the domain 
 deemed it wise to remove them to the open. 
 Surely the belief was a well-grounded one. It 
 would give him a lively satisfaction to penetrate 
 that leafy labyrinth, if only there were not 
 such crying need of him elsewhere. But, after 
 all, it would be foolhardy to attempt to run down 
 a man or men in that unknown wilderness 
 where a clever fugitive, forewarned, might elude 
 one enemy for days at a time and all the while be 
 silently laughing behind some gigantic cotton- 
 wood where, if the mood struck him, he could end 
 his pursuer s days of searching by the simple jar 
 of a little steel hammer. And then what would 
 become of Josephine? He turned away reso 
 lutely and would not heed the bright-eyed, saucy 
 squirrels that seemed, cunningly, to try to lure 
 him farther and farther within the dim forest. 
 He retraced his steps and reentered the house. 
 " I am going to town now, Josephine," he said, 
 [237]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 gravely. "I shall not be gone long. You must 
 not be afraid. There is no one anywhere around 
 the premises neither here nor on the island. I 
 could not go and leave you alone until I had sat 
 isfied myself thoroughly that there was no one. 
 I hate to leave you, but as you say, there is no 
 other way. Why, Josephine, you look different. 
 Have you dressed again?" he asked, doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "for I have found another 
 way. I must go and you must stay." 
 
 True. She had taken advantage of Tom s 
 absence to change her pretty gingham house 
 gown for her riding habit. She was dressed for 
 out-of-doors even to her gauntletted riding 
 gloves. She was very pale, her lips were pressed 
 tightly together, and her dark eyes were haunted 
 with shadows that were destined to come and go 
 as long as life lasted; otherwise, she seemed per 
 fectly composed and self-reliant. 
 
 He did not acquiesce readity. In truth, he 
 disputed her intention vehement!} 7 , but, "Mr. 
 Burrington," she asked, unexpectedly, " do you 
 believe that they are satisfied with Jack s death 
 alone?" 
 
 He was taken completely by surprise and ut 
 terly confounded for the moment. He hesitated 
 
 [238]
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 in troubled doubt. Was it possible that she, too, 
 was connecting the gulch incident with last night? 
 "Tell me, Mr. Burrington," she insisted, her eyes 
 beginning to shine with a feverish brilliance, 
 " am I exempt, or is it annihilation? Tell me, 
 for I must know." 
 
 He bowed his head for a moment while his 
 struggle lasted. It was very bitter for a man of 
 Burrington s make to let a girl ride away into 
 action that at best was fraught with peril while 
 he remained with folded hands behind. But any 
 thing was better than to leave her here alone 
 where so many things might happen. Was it not 
 true that Josephine, too, was proscribed? It 
 would be criminal inefficiency to refuse to take 
 into consideration the man s probable return to 
 complete his work. The thought was unbearable. 
 Josephine would be far, far safer in the wide out 
 doors with a fast horse and a good rifle. 
 
 "I do not know," she said, steadily. "It has 
 come to me just now that I have sometimes 
 thought you knew something that you would not 
 tell us. Who knows? Maybe, if you had " 
 she hesitated, trembling violently. "But how 
 ever that may be, I must go now." She stepped 
 to the door and opened it. 
 
 [239]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 Tom turned his haggard face away for a mo 
 ment and gazed silently out of the window. 
 There was a terrible pain in his heart that spread 
 to his eyes and burned them and struggled dog 
 gedly for the mastery of his self-control. 
 
 You are right," he said at last, quietly. "It 
 is better for you to go. But I shall go with you." 
 
 "And leave him alone?" she asked, with 
 a touch of scorn. 
 
 "Then you must go alone," he said, with an 
 effort. "Come, we have lost too much time al 
 ready." 
 
 His horse stood patiently at the door, the 
 bridle rein trailing to the ground. Quickly, re 
 sourcefully, he shortened the stirrups. "You will 
 ride my horse," he said, with cold authority. 
 " He is all ready and besides he is the longest- 
 winded and fastest horse on the range." He 
 slipped his arm through the bridle rein and 
 started for the river, Josephine following blindly. 
 Arrived at the boat landing, they found the ferry 
 gone ; but the light skiff was there tugging away 
 unweariedly at its safe moorings, rebelliously de 
 sirous of floating away with the swift current. 
 
 "Well, he will just have to swim," said Tom, 
 tersely. 
 
 [240]
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 Holding the boat steady with one hand, he held 
 out the other to Josephine. After a momentary 
 hesitation, she gave him her hand and stepped into 
 the boat. 
 
 "You will have to sit in the stern and lead the 
 horse," said Tom. "I am sorry to make you do 
 this, but he might not follow docilely, at least 
 until we strike the middle of the river." He 
 handed the reins to Josephine, sprang into the 
 boat, seized the oars and pushed off. 
 
 On the far shore, gravely kind despite his 
 heartache, he lifted her into the saddle and fitted 
 his own rifle across the saddle horn. 
 
 "Do not spare the horse," he said. "Only be 
 careful not to cripple him before you reach the 
 uplands. Give him his head and he will not fail 
 you. Good-bye, Josephine. * 
 
 Tom Burrington watched the blue-clad figure 
 until it disappeared up the Gap ; then he returned 
 to the straining boat and rowed back across the 
 yellow river to take his turn at watching alone. 
 
 [241]
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE LONG CHASE 
 
 NCE safely upon the plateau surrounded 
 only by unobstructed distances and the soft, 
 rare, sun-shot atmosphere that touched her like a 
 benediction after her long night of murk and 
 horror, Josephine s fear fell away from her. She 
 rode rapidly but not constrainedly. Jack would 
 be well cared for now and she was so tired. There 
 was all the time in the world and a long life to 
 live alone. She must never hurry what she had 
 to do any more because, when the things were all 
 done, what would she do then? There was so 
 much time that had to be lived through. She was 
 stronger than she had been last night and knew 
 that it was only a delirious though pleasing phan 
 tasy of a bewildered brain that had deceived her 
 into the belief that Jack would come back to her. 
 She knew to-day that she would have to live her 
 life without Jack. It would be a very long life, 
 too, because she was so young and very strong. 
 She could not remember having ever been really 
 ill since the old days of the measles and the 
 
 [242]
 
 THE LONG CHASE 
 
 whooping cough. She was not the kind who 
 might pine away and die of heart-break. She 
 should just have to live it out alone there 
 was no help for her the last of her race just 
 a lonely girl with nowhere to go. After a while, 
 a long, dreary, barren while, she would be a 
 white-haired, sad-eyed old woman still with 
 nowhere to go. She did not see how she could 
 bear it but she should just have to there 
 was no other way. 
 
 And then for some vague, indefinable reason, 
 she turned her head and glanced back over the 
 road she had just come. It stretched behind her 
 straight and level and rain-freshened, but she 
 was no longer alone upon it. What was there so 
 hauntingly familiar in the pose of the man riding 
 so rapidly her way? She hesitated for a moment, 
 gazing earnestly backward. His horse seemed to 
 be clearing the ground in great leaps. Suddenly 
 the truth came to her in a sickening sense of com 
 prehension. He was the man with the baby blue 
 eyes whom she had recognized last night lurking 
 around the wood yard of the Broken Key and 
 he had dared to give chase after her on the high 
 road. Ah, God! Would this terrible nightmare 
 never end? She pressed her pale lips close to- 
 
 [243]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 gether, leaned low in the saddle, and gave the 
 horse his head with a whispered word in his ear 
 as she had been wont to speak to Long Chase. 
 Long Chase! What was it that Jack had said 
 once about the "long chase"? She shuddered be 
 cause it had come and she had not her own. Was 
 it an evil omen that, when the time was come, 
 Long Chase should be peacefully grazing many 
 miles away? 
 
 Yet it was a good horse she rode and he ran 
 with head low and with long, loping strides that 
 measured off the land in regular and telling 
 distances ; but the speed of her horse was to be of 
 no advantage. She heard the report of a rifle 
 and the whistle of a bullet as it passed in close 
 proximity to her. She had lingered too long 
 pondering the long, dreary years that stretched 
 out before her into such an infinity of unending- 
 ness, and now her life was to be cut off short as 
 Jack s had been, without time for reconstructing 
 her outlook, without choice or appeal. Moreover, 
 she was to be shot down in malicious, unreasoning 
 play. Jack was a man and as such had been big 
 game worthy the unremitting zeal and changeless 
 purpose of the huntsman; but just because she 
 was a no-account, friendless girl, troublesome 
 
 [244]
 
 THE LONG CHASE 
 
 only by reason of her relationship to Jack, she 
 was to be shot down in the ruthless, inconsequen 
 tial way of the sportsman, who, after having 
 successfully stalked his big game, picks off a 
 gopher or a blue bird or a harmless owl, for no 
 reason at all except an overflow of exuberant 
 and wanton spirits. Was there any other reason 
 why any one should desire to kill her? Well, 
 and why not? The years were long Jack was 
 dead. Half-unconsciously, she drew rein. Let 
 the end come now. It was far, far better so. 
 She and Jack could go together, after all. 
 Nothing else was worth while, so of what use this 
 blind struggle for mere life life that would be 
 too hard to live even if she won it ? Death by the 
 bullet was easy that is it would be only a 
 second or two and Jack had borne it. She could 
 bear it, too. Why should she, a girl, presume to 
 be the last of a race noted through generations for 
 its gallant men? She heard another shot and the 
 whir of another bullet. 
 
 Suddenly the blood rushed to her colorless face, 
 the insane stare of the brown eyes into the unre- 
 vealed mysteries of another world gave way to a 
 warm human look of firm resolve, and once again 
 Tom s horse bounded over the road making the 
 
 [245]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 best run of his life and with an evil light in his 
 eye for the presumptuous cayuse who had dared 
 to gain so many leagues during the temporary 
 aberration of mind of his strange rider whose 
 slightest behest he instinctively obeyed, however 
 unwillingly. Perhaps there was something in the 
 pressure of the knees and in the feel of the bit 
 that told him he must that though his burden 
 was light it was masterful. 
 
 Ay ! Jack was dead ; but the slayer of him was 
 not and while he lived, Josephine would live, too. 
 The reaction had come. There would be time 
 enough and to spare for her to try to find a way 
 to live the long years when Jack s murderer had 
 been made to drink to the bitter dregs the cup 
 w r hich was " An eye for an eye and a tooth for a 
 tooth." 
 
 She had accomplished about twelve miles of 
 her journey when she turned to find herself pur 
 sued. Soon the road swerved sharply around a 
 grove of trees planted years ago by a man who 
 had dreamed dreams but who had not had the 
 courage of them and had retraced his way to the 
 nearer but more limited opportunities of an older 
 civilization. The place was now deserted save 
 for birds and wild prairie creatures. On the far 
 
 [246]
 
 THE LONG CHASE 
 
 side, Josephine dismounted, led the horse well 
 within the shelter of the trees and tied him se 
 curely. She should have need of him after 
 wards, and so there must be no possibility of the 
 animal s abandoning her in a sudden fright. She 
 was quite calm and made her plans collectedly, 
 taking up her own station behind a huge 
 straight-trunked cottonwood and waiting. She 
 realized fully that her position would not be 
 tenable long should she fail in her purpose. 
 There were no more turns on the road to Velpen. 
 He could see that she was not on it. It was sweet 
 and quiet and cool here under the trees after the 
 rain; and there was a home-like, woodsy smell, 
 faint but true, because of the dampened foliage 
 that had lain there many years. If he would only 
 just pass on and leave her unmolested! Pres 
 ently then, she would slip out and continue her 
 journey to town and let him whose right it was, 
 and whose duty, do for the murderer what there 
 was to be done. But in her heart she knew that 
 he would not pass on. 
 
 The iron-shod feet were coming very near now. 
 Just a moment and they would round the point. 
 But how long that moment was! Long since it 
 seemed to her that it must have passed and still 
 
 [247]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 she heard and could not see. How regular and 
 rhythmical the hoof-beats were, pounding along 
 on the hardened earth whose surface only had 
 been thinly affected by last night s storm! She 
 put her free hand to her throat. She had an al 
 most uncontrollable inclination to scream aloud 
 in hysteria. Why did he not come? She won 
 dered irrelevantly if her pretty hair would be 
 found to be gray-streaked when this was all over. 
 He came at last, his horse lathered with the heat 
 of the chase. The man w r ith the baby blue eyes 
 evidently had not thought of let or hindrance, for 
 he swung around the angle without diminution 
 of speed. There was even something of triumph 
 in the sweep of his unguarded curve toward the 
 new prospective, as if insolently assured that now 
 the end was very near. He glanced down the 
 road and made a movement as though to stop 
 his horse. It was at that moment Josephine shot. 
 Not in vain had been Louis painstaking effort 
 to teach his friend of his own newly acquired 
 and proudly shared knowledge of firearms only 
 the day before; for the man lurched forward in 
 his saddle and fell prone to the ground. 
 
 For a moment the world turned dark to Jose 
 phine and she leaned heavily against the tree for 
 
 1248}
 
 THE LONG CHASE 
 
 support. She had killed the slayer of her brother! 
 Would the nightmare never end? But she could 
 not leave him out there in the road alone for the 
 pitiless sun to beat upon and the rollicking 
 prairie wind to sport with. Now that he was 
 dead, a strange pity for him surged up in her 
 woman s heart. The horse was standing per 
 fectly still where he had so abruptly halted when 
 his rider had fallen at his feet. Tremblingly, 
 Josephine approached. He seemed very young 
 lying so helplessly there, his eyes closed and one 
 arm thrown out between the horse s feet where 
 a step would have trampled it into the earth. 
 Stooping, she gathered the big, inert shoulders 
 within her arms, overcoming by a tremendous 
 effort of will the sudden violent repugnance that 
 laid hold of her when she remembered for whom 
 she had so short a time before performed a like 
 service. She laid him down in the shade of the 
 cottonwood whose leaves were quivering and 
 rustling one against another with a lonesome 
 sound, and then with a little sob of relief she 
 turned to her horse. But she paused irresolute, 
 her hand on the bridle rein, a new horror dawn 
 ing upon her face. What was it, that faint, far 
 away sound, so distant when first it arrested her 
 
 [249]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 attention but growing more and more distinct 
 so rapid, so regular, so insistent? Was it the 
 beat of other hoofs upon the sod? Was Frank 
 LaDue coming to gloat over the culmination 
 of his heinous plots? Or was it a dream sound, 
 that running, pounding, louder-growing, heart- 
 clutching clamor that would break and subside 
 into vague echoes of unreality only when she 
 might struggle free from the nightmare that 
 had haunted her all night? She crept close to 
 Tom s horse for companionship, and in numbed 
 dread waited. 
 
 [250]
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ONJIJITKA S LAMENT 
 
 A NOTHER girl was sitting on the floor by 
 Jack when Tom returned to the house 
 Onjijitka, the half-breed girl; but this girl sprang 
 up quickly and faced him with defiance as if she 
 had been caught in mischief and expected censure. 
 In her attitude, there was something also of a 
 startled wild creature at bay and there was cor- 
 roboration in her stammering words of excuse. 
 
 "He he was all alone and I was watch 
 ing by him for Josephine s sake." 
 
 It was a pitiful subterfuge there in the 
 presence of all that was mortal of the man 
 who had been a good friend to her and in her 
 soul she felt it to be unworthy. Better, far bet 
 ter, humiliation in the sight of this arrogant 
 rancher than repudiation here of that which 
 was the highest and best thing she had ever 
 known. She could never speak of it again after 
 ward, never stoop to explain, this she knew, but 
 here and now it was like cheating the dead the 
 beloved dead to even act a lie; besides she was 
 a woman of the Dakotahs and it was her right 
 
 [251]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 to mourn aloud for the brave who had gone. So 
 she threw back her head with a gesture of pride 
 and looked at the intruder squarely while in her 
 sombre black eyes glowed the mysteries of the 
 most sacred thing of two races met in one. 
 
 "He was not like any man I ever knew before," 
 she said. 
 
 This was Onjijitka s lament for the dead. 
 Thus began and ended her public mourning. 
 She had held to her racial instinct to cry aloud 
 her grief; she had not lied to the spirit that was 
 gone. Never again did she break her sealed reti 
 cence and speak of that which was in the heart 
 of her heart as she had spoken to Tom Burring- 
 ton of the Seven-up by the side of the dead man. 
 But henceforth she was always solitary, growing 
 more silent and reserved as time went on, and 
 liking much to slip away by herself somewhere on 
 the wide prairie and listen all day long, perhaps, 
 to the whispering grass and the singing wind, 
 trying to attune her mortal ear to the secrets 
 they were forever trying to tell. 
 
 "Who has done this thing, Rosebud?" asked 
 Tom, presently, when he had succeeded in swal 
 lowing the lump in his throat that had suddenly 
 thrust itself there for Rosebud s sake. 
 
 [252]
 
 ONJIJITKA S LAMENT 
 
 "Frank LaDue," she answered unhesitatingly. 
 
 "What makes you think so?" 
 You think so, too, don t you? " counter- 
 questioned the girl. 
 
 "Yes, I am afraid that I do," said Tom, slowly. 
 
 "I know what I know," said Rosebud, enig 
 matically. " Where is Josephine? " 
 
 "She has gone to town for help." 
 
 " And you let her go? " accused Rosebud. 
 
 "I could not help it, Rosebud. She is safer in 
 the open than here, and some one had to go." 
 
 " I could have taken care of her," said she. 
 
 "But I did not know that you were coming. 
 I should not have let her go had I known." 
 
 Frowningly, Rosebud gazed out at the open 
 door and it was as if she were listening to some 
 thing afar off. Tom watched her silently and 
 wondered about many things in that brief while, 
 but about one thing most of all. Had Jack loved 
 this lithe-limbed, beautiful maid of the Dakotahs? 
 That was something he could never know. 
 
 "I am afraid for Josephine," said Rosebud, at 
 last, turning to him and speaking thoughtfully. 
 "What if he should take after her? He hates 
 Josephine. He calls her names as he does 
 me. The night he stole the cow, you know, he 
 
 [253]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 called her names. I heard him. I am afraid for 
 Josephine." 
 
 "There was no one at home on the island," said 
 Tom, soberly. "I ascertained that the first thing 
 this morning." 
 
 Rosebud shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Not at home, maybe, but not far away, I 11 
 warrant you. Come, let us see if the boat is still 
 there." 
 
 They left the house together, carefully closing 
 the door behind them, and hastened down to the 
 shore. There was a light wind blowing. They 
 could hear it in the treetops. The water lapping 
 the bank and sucking away the sand made a 
 gentle, dreamy sound suggestive of solitude and 
 unread mysteries. There was no other sound to 
 break the summer stillness. The two stared at 
 one another blankly. 
 
 "It s gone, Rosebud," said Tom at last, me 
 chanically, passing his hand over his forehead to 
 brush away an imaginary something there. 
 
 But the girl s eager eyes were already fixed 
 upon the opposite hills which, seemingly destitute 
 of life, lay in strange convolutions beneath the 
 blazing sun, their gumbo-blackened outlines 
 softened by the shimmering distance. 
 
 [254]
 
 ONJIJITKA S LAMENT 
 
 "Look, Tom!" she cried, suddenly, in quick 
 and burning excitement. "There on the hill 
 no, beyond the Gap the second rise!" 
 
 Plainly silhouetted against the blue and sunlit 
 sky on the highest point on the other side, rode 
 a man who had not been there a moment before 
 and who must have just accomplished the tor 
 tuous climb to the level. In a moment, he had 
 disappeared from view behind the rim, into the 
 broad high plains beyond. 
 
 "He rides like Henry Hoffman," said Tom, 
 in a dangerously calm voice. "LaDue is a slop in 
 the saddle." 
 
 "But Henry Hoffman works for LaDue," 
 said Rosebud. 
 
 "Yes, Henry Hoffman works for LaDue," 
 said Tom, slowly. "We must find another boat," 
 he added, decisively. 
 
 He glanced keenly up and down the sandy, 
 treacherous shore. The Indian girl had no need 
 to deprecate his slow, methodical reasoning now. 
 When action was the paramount consideration, 
 his the initiative, hers to follow. He explained 
 briefly during their short and unsatisfactory 
 search for another boat what he intended to do. 
 He would cross the river if he had to swim it, go 
 
 [255]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 to Ole Johnson s place a quarter of a mile down 
 the river, and borrow his fast horse. He was con 
 fident that thus equipped, even with the handicap 
 of lost time, he could overtake any horse 
 that LaDue owned, or any horse on the range 
 for that matter, except the one Josephine was 
 riding. 
 
 Half -sunken in the fine, shifting, and watery 
 sands and considerably below the usual boat land 
 ing, they came suddenly upon a clumsy skiff, an 
 ancient derelict whose days of adequate service 
 had long since gone by. Nevertheless, they 
 quickly dragged it upon the shore, quickly turned 
 it upon its side and emptied it of its contents, 
 Rosebud obeying the man s behests with an un 
 questioning faith and comprehension that boded 
 well for Josephine s rescue. 
 
 "It leaks like the devil," said Tom, "but when 
 it is full I 11 abandon it." 
 
 He kicked off his shoes as he spoke, in antici 
 pation of the contemplated emergency. Fortu 
 nately a pair of oars thrown up on the bank and 
 forgotten these many moons were found to be 
 reasonably sound and Tom determined to trust 
 himself and his mission without further delay to 
 this precarious means of transportation. 
 
 [256]
 
 ONJIJITKA S LAMENT 
 
 "I will go with you to bail for you," proffered 
 Rosebud, bravely. 
 
 "No, Rosebud," said Tom, firmly. "You are 
 needed here. Have you thought of the possi 
 bility of some one s returning and attempting 
 to burn the house in order to hide all evidence of 
 the crime? You know what to do if any one 
 comes. Good-bye, girl." 
 
 Rosebud did not linger to see how he fared. 
 The man out there in the condemned boat had 
 little need of the girl s emotional attendance upon 
 this play of his, either for moral support or to 
 feed his enthusiasm. This was not a spectacular 
 play to be acted before the grandstand or a coterie 
 of ardent admirers whose champion he was. It 
 was the play of life and death. He had need of 
 nothing in this world but his own indomitable 
 spirit, his steady nerve, his incomparable strength 
 and the thought of Josephine. In the world 
 beyond, perhaps, he had need of much, but that 
 did not bother Tom, because if he had stopped to 
 think about how great was his need of a power 
 far superior to his own, his opportunity would 
 have been lost. So he concentrated all his 
 faculties upon his own capabilities, and the In 
 dian girl knew that he would do well. But there 
 
 [257]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 was one who needed her. She glanced once at the 
 man making his slow, wearisome way across the 
 river, her eagerness and animation gradually 
 giving place to a strange immobility of expres 
 sion, then turned, and, abandoning the heavy 
 sand of the wagon road for the greater solitude 
 and aloofness of an untried way through the 
 timber, silently and swiftly made her way back 
 to the Broken Key. 
 
 The terrible push of the current gave Tom 
 little time to bail the rapidly filling boat. The 
 water did not seep its way through infinitesimal 
 crevices but literally poured in through the gap 
 ing cracks of the water-soaked and water-warped 
 flat bottom, with a gurgle and a chuckle that 
 seemed to gloat, tantalizingly, in anticipation of 
 the inevitable result of this hard-fought struggle 
 for supremacy. When he desisted for a moment 
 in his effort to cut the channel as nearly as possi 
 ble at right angles, he was carried swiftly down 
 the river so that he lost any advantage that ac 
 crued temporarily from the lightened boat, as it 
 soon filled again, and the little headway he had 
 gained was more than balanced by the loss of his 
 ability now to make an advantageous landing at 
 the Gap. Meanwhile, up there beyond those 
 
 [258]
 
 ONJIJITKA S LAMENT 
 
 frowning and precipitous cliffs, an unprotected 
 girl was riding furiously for her life, maybe, 
 while a fiend rode in relentless pursuit. The 
 water played treacherously around his bare feet, 
 plashing back and forth with a gathering mo 
 mentum, swayed by the impetus of the powerful 
 and determined strokes of the oars wielded un 
 dauntedly against heavy odds. Now the water 
 covered his ankles. His exertion was gigantic. 
 He had no more strength in reserve. He was 
 using it all to the very dregs. Perspiration 
 came out in big beads on his forehead and trickled 
 down his set face. The handkerchief around his 
 throat became damp and steamy and choking, but 
 he could not spare a hand to remove it. Sunlight 
 scintillated on the dancing ripples and his eyes 
 ached with the glare of it until the green of the 
 receding shore was lost to him in a blur of shim 
 mering white. 
 
 He was half way across when the hungry, in 
 gulfing waters flowed over the sides of the boat 
 and met, with the exultant kiss of the conquering, 
 the inner waters which, like some warriors of 
 Greece aaons ago, who, having gained a surrep 
 titious entrance into the city of their wrath, 
 treacherously it may be, but with the fortunes of 
 
 [259]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 war, opened its gates to the conquering horde, 
 had made this victorious meeting possible. Tom 
 was prepared for the triumphant embrace. He 
 rolled easily into the water, away from the suc 
 tion of the sinking boat, and rested for the 
 fraction of a minute upon his back before striking 
 out for the still distant shore. 
 
 The odds were tremendous but he overcame 
 them all, and accomplished his stint to the quieter 
 waters that crowded against the steep, slaty 
 cliffs, and breathed freely once more. Here a 
 new difficulty presented itself and one that threat 
 ened grave results. The annual June rise had 
 begun and the river was rolling high between its 
 banks, so that only where the deeper ravines drew 
 to the river was a landing practicable or even 
 possible. He had drifted so far with the current 
 that he had long ago passed the deep gap in the 
 hills that gave access for crossing to the island 
 and to the Broken Key ranch, and now a perpen 
 dicular wall of solid chalk rock reared itself up 
 ward, appalling in its significance. The wash of 
 other rises had worn the rock almost to the 
 smoothness of glass, so that there was nothing a 
 man might grasp to stay his deadly progress 
 down the river. Had he passed Ole Johnson s 
 
 [260]
 
 ONJIJITKA S LAMENT 
 
 cattle trail to the water course? If he had, poor 
 Josephine! He was very strong to endure. He 
 might manage to keep the greedy water out of 
 his lungs by kindly luck and by just drifting 
 until this hideous nightmare of an unbroken cliff 
 gave way to the open country, but it would be 
 too late for Josephine, far too late, poor Jose 
 phine! The thought made him frantic for the 
 moment. He tore at the unresponsive surface 
 with impotent hands and a maddened brain until 
 many spots were stained with the blood of his 
 cruel efforts. The uselessness of it all, however, 
 soon calmed his desperation and, well nigh ex 
 hausted, he allowed himself to drift idly along, 
 keeping himself afloat with one hand while the 
 other he dragged slowly along the menacing wall, 
 ready to clutch at the first knob or embrasure 
 that offered a hold to his tingling fingers. 
 Though how to scale the cliff, granted a foothold 
 gained, was a problem of which he would not let 
 himself think until the time came to grapple 
 with it, hand to hand. There would be time 
 enough then to find a way or not to find a way. 
 Thank God, he had not drifted beyond Ole 
 Johnson s gulch after all. A warmth came back 
 to his heart, the old fire leaped into the gray eyes 
 
 [261]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 that had looked so closely upon death, and so 
 gallantly. Once more it was his to shape his 
 course and pursue it. Ah, but the feel of it was 
 good! 
 
 He bounded upon the shore, ran swiftly along 
 the jagged way unmindful of his unshod feet, 
 until he came to the longed-for gap in the hills. 
 In the shortest time possible for the accomplish 
 ment thereof, he had made known his wants to 
 Ole Johnson, a bachelor Scandinavian, a recluse 
 by habit, but a humanitarian by instinct, else he 
 never had given over his loved thoroughbred to 
 such a dare-devil rider on such a dare-devil 
 errand, and was in the saddle, rebelted with Ole s 
 own cartridge belt and armed with his pistols, 
 and was cutting across the sun-seared plain on 
 the trail of the man with the baby blue eyes who 
 had told him once that "He must be a-movin 
 on." 
 
 [262]
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 BURRINGTON JOINS THE CHASE 
 
 *\\ 7"HEN he came out upon the main road, he 
 noted with a feeling of intense relief that 
 the tracks of pursuer and pursued were plainly 
 stamped thereon. The rain had wrought well 
 for his peace of mind, for as yet there were no 
 signs of Josephine s having been overtaken. 
 The regularity of the hoof-prints remained un 
 broken for many a mile with no faltering of the 
 one, as if the hand that guided had been sud 
 denly struck down, and with no perceptible 
 quickening of the other as if in a sudden burst of 
 triumphant recognition of a weakening on the 
 part of her who rode ahead. A hope, faintly 
 illusive in the beginning but gradually growing 
 stronger and more abiding, took possession of him 
 - a hope that Josephine had not been taken una 
 wares, that she had been on her guard from the 
 first and had been miles in the lead before ever 
 this chopper of wood had crossed the river. As 
 for the horse she rode, there was no danger but 
 that he would become infused with the spirit of 
 
 [263]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 the chase at the first hint of an unfriendly 
 presence in his rear. He had good blood in him 
 and had fleetness of foot and an unusual strength 
 of endurance without the vicious unreliability of 
 the average mongrel range-bred bronco. He had 
 also been broken and trained by a proud master. 
 He now stood as an accurate exponent of the 
 pride of man combined with the pride of beast. 
 Tom could not know what manner of horse-flesh 
 Henry Hoffman was astride, but he knew that 
 this quondam cowboy had ridden away from the 
 Seven-up on that never-to-be-forgotten morning 
 when the ice went out, upon a rough-coated, 
 tangle-tailed, calico pony with an antagonistic 
 gleam in his eyes and an innate aversion to 
 undue haste. These same characteristics had 
 won for him, during his brief sojourn, im 
 munity from active service, because there was no 
 time to waste at the Seven-up; and so the pony 
 had been allowed to wander and feast undisturbed 
 upon the good grass lands, while the man whom 
 he had grudgingly carried to this undreamed-of 
 horse heaven, snubbed other mistaken beasts and 
 rode them to cattle. Frank LaDue owned no 
 thoroughbreds; hence the man had gained little, 
 even granting that he had discarded the calico 
 
 [264]
 
 JOINING THE CHASE 
 
 pony for an uncertain mount borrowed from the 
 indifferent horse herd of the islander. There 
 were good grounds for, the warmth of faith that 
 Tom hugged to himself as Ole Johnson s horse 
 ate up the distance in voracious mouthf uls. Little 
 need t was there of boot or spur. The tap of Tom s 
 bare heel was incentive enough and to spare for 
 the best efforts of an animal already on its mettle. 
 By far the greater portion of the distance was 
 well behind him and the breath of an involuntary 
 prayer of thanksgiving had but just escaped his 
 undemonstrative lips when two riders appeared 
 before his strained gaze perhaps a mile ahead 
 of him perhaps more. They were much too 
 far removed for him to see the muscular play 
 of the cruel struggle for more speed when their 
 speed was already so great they seemed to be 
 skimming over the way like birds. After 
 his set-back in crossing the river, he had 
 not dared to believe that he might over 
 take them. Surely Josephine had loitered on 
 the way, and as surely for some purpose that 
 he could not fathom, Henry had lingered, too. 
 Why ? He did not wait for an answer to the half- 
 formed question in his mind, but, digging his 
 heels once more in the animal s sides, he bent his 
 
 [265]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 head, and the horse that had seemingly been al 
 ready doing its best sprang forward with a new 
 impetus, so that the light breeze which had come 
 out of the north after the storm pressed like a 
 strong wind and finally lifted his heavy hat from 
 his head and deposited it upon the road far be 
 hind. He let it lie where it fell. One of those 
 figures ahead had much advantage in the lead. 
 It was Josephine, of course; but could she main 
 tain it? At any moment might not the man cut 
 short this ghastly play by means of a bullet? 
 He tingled with the dread of the sound of a 
 shot, and then caught his breath sharply with the 
 fear that he might not hear it should it occur, 
 but the wind was with him and Josephine still 
 rode unhampered and with a fine grip of herself. 
 My God! Had it come? The report of a 
 rifle came floating back upon the wind. Jose 
 phine still kept her seat, but all at once she 
 seemed to be losing ground. Had she or the horse 
 been hit, or had he overestimated the horse s en 
 durance? Just two short miles beyond the grove 
 of trees lay the town on the bluff side, and behind 
 - less than a mile now so close that if he only 
 had his rifle its carrying power might even now 
 put a sudden end to this terrible strain so close 
 
 [266]
 
 JOINING THE CHASE 
 
 that if he failed in his mission he should simply 
 turn stern, accusing eyes to the distant sky, curse 
 the grinning fates that tantalized, and die rode 
 the man who loved her with his whole strong 
 heart. But what could his strength avail her 
 now? The man would certainly shoot her before 
 he could get close enough to stop him. He no 
 ticed that she again seemed to be gaining. "Oh, 
 Josephine! Josephine!" he breathed, not real 
 izing that he spoke aloud, so great was the stress 
 of his effort and the fear of what might at any 
 moment now stay her in her gallant race for life. 
 "If you can only keep up a little longer I may 
 be able to help you." 
 
 He heard another shot and saw Josephine dis 
 appear around the grove. As Henry neared the 
 turning point, Tom, with the forlorn hope that 
 the staring distance would carry the sound of it 
 to the ears of the man who was about to follow 
 into the blankness beyond the trees and warn him 
 that he was not alone with his fell design, seized 
 his pistol, so ineffectual at that distance, and shot 
 rapidly many times into the face of the wind, nor 
 did he desist until Henry, too, had disappeared 
 from sight. For the first time since the pre 
 cipitous wall, whose foundation had been bathed 
 
 [267]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 in the turbulent waters of the June rise, had pre 
 sented itself immutably to his impotent hands, 
 utter hopelessness laid hold of him coldly. 
 
 He drew in his horse somewhat when he came 
 to the turn, for it seemed to him that he could not 
 bear to see what he dreaded had come to pass. 
 But the way opened before him, straight, sunny, 
 deserted, save for a runty calico pony that grazed 
 by the wayside. How many, many times in the 
 years gone by had it stretched before him thus 
 and yet In the momentary bewilderment that 
 preceded comprehension, a rifle shot rang out 
 sharply in the waiting silence. He heard the bul 
 let whistle purringly past him, felt against 
 his bronzed cheek the slight, cool breath of the 
 displaced air, and with the quick conclusion that 
 Henry Hoffman lay in ambush for him, he jerked 
 his horse back upon its haunches simultaneously 
 with the act of again seizing the pistol that had 
 been returned to its holster ; but at that moment a 
 slim, girlish, blue-clad figure with dishevelled yel 
 low hair, a white face, and wide, appealing eyes 
 ran out from somewhere among the trees and 
 stood panting before him. 
 
 "Did I kill you?" There was a sharp agony in 
 her voice. 
 
 [268]
 
 JOINING THE CHASE 
 
 " Don t I look very much alive? " asked Tom, 
 with a little unsteady laugh of relief as he threw 
 himself from his horse. "I feel alive, I assure 
 you, very much so in fact. Oh, yes, my hat ! No 
 wonder you were alarmed. I must look sort of 
 savage and no mistake. Why, I left that back a 
 ways. I hadn t any real use for it, you know. 
 You will perceive that I have dispensed with all 
 superfluities of dress," he continued, glancing 
 deprecatingly at his bare feet and talking just to 
 try to talk away the woe in her eyes. He was 
 breathing heavily from his late exertions. "And 
 so it was you, little woman, and not Henry, 
 after all, who had it in for me. Who ever would 
 have thought that you desired my blood?" he 
 rallied her, softly. 
 
 " Don t! " she besought, so sorrowfully that he 
 desisted and was silent. "Why have you left 
 Jack?" she accused, suddenly, calling him to ac 
 count unshrinkingly because of a revival of that 
 old suspicion that there had been something he 
 ought to have told them. She took firm hold of 
 her self-control so that she should betray no sign 
 of weakness before this man who might, if he 
 would, have prevented Jack s murder. You 
 have broken your promise. I did wrong to trust 
 
 [269]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 you. Your leaving him is in keeping with 
 other things that you have done. Why are you 
 here ? Why do you not go on your way ? We do 
 not need you Jack and I." 
 
 "I left Rosebud in charge at the Broken Key," 
 said Tom, steadily, though he bowed his head to 
 conceal the pain that gripped him at this second 
 manifestation of aversion and suspicion. "We 
 thought that you were in great danger because 
 we saw Henry Hoffman taking your trail. So 
 I came and she stayed. What has become of 
 Henry?" he asked, dully, his eyes straying for a 
 moment to the calico pony feeding by the road 
 side, flecks of foam still lurking about his neck 
 and flanks. 
 
 " I killed him," said Josephine, in a sort of calm 
 despair. " I slipped into the woods there and hid 
 and waited and when he came around the corner, 
 I shot him. He is dead. I dragged him in there 
 out of sight he was very heavy and he killed 
 Jack, but I had to do it, did n t I ? There was no 
 other way. So I carried him there but oh, I 
 did hate him so and when I had to put my arms 
 around him, I shut my eyes tight to keep from 
 shooting him again. He is in there now. He is 
 so helpless. I shot him, you know. He is lying 
 
 [270]
 
 JOINING THE CHASE 
 
 down on the wet grass and his blue eyes are 
 closed they were just like a baby s, weren t 
 they?" she questioned irrationally. 
 
 Tom could not speak, but he took the cold 
 hands in a strong, warm clasp and held them 
 thus. 
 
 "And then I heard some one else coming. I 
 thought at first it was a dream," she continued, 
 " it sounded just as things sound in a dream. 
 But after a while, I knew that it was not 
 a dream and it came to me all of a sudden that 
 it must be Frank LaDue. I do not know why it 
 was not Frank LaDue, do you? He hated Jack 
 so. It must have been LaDue but it was not 
 it was you and so I shot at you." 
 
 "But you did not hit me at all, Josephine," 
 said Tom, quietly. "Your bullet lies out there on 
 the prairie somewhere. It is a lucky thing for me, 
 I am thinking, that Louis has his limitations as 
 instructor in the canny art of firearms. Come, 
 show me where you laid him." 
 
 She withdrew her hands quickly from his grasp 
 and led the way to the place where the blue-eyed 
 boy lay. Upon reaching the spot, she turned 
 away in a strong revulsion of feeling, for the man 
 had struggled to a partial sitting posture and 
 
 [271]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 was leaning against the same cottonwood tree 
 that had sheltered Josephine while she waited for 
 those other footsteps to come nearer. He was 
 pale from loss of blood but composed and almost 
 apologetic in his attitude of feeble reproach. 
 
 "Gee! But you can shoot, girl," he said, glanc 
 ing dubiously at Burrington, as they approached. 
 "Or were you aimin at me?" he questioned, 
 jocularly. " I Ve known women folks before 
 that could hit almost anything they were n t 
 aimin at. What made you do it, girl? What 
 have I ever done to you? Ain t you Jack Car 
 roll s sister? Why, we re neighbors, didn t you 
 know that? Considerin that fact, it wasn t 
 just white for you to treat me like this now, 
 was it?" 
 
 "Shut up, Henry, will you?" interrupted 
 Tom, sternly. "We do not want any of that 
 nonsense. It won t do you any good and you 
 are only wasting breath. We know all about 
 everything. Just keep still, will you?" 
 
 He knelt as he spoke to ascertain the amount of 
 injury the man had sustained. 
 
 " Sure thing, Tom, if you say the word. But I 
 certainly would like to know why the girl s got 
 it in for me." 
 
 [272]
 
 JOINING THE CHASE 
 
 "You you were following me," accused 
 Josephine, chokingly, "and you shot at me." 
 
 "Don t you ever believe it," protested the man, 
 earnestly. "I was just ridin to town to see Boss 
 Frank. I was ridin like the devil, I admit that, 
 but that s just my way. I was raised a cowboy, 
 you know. I just shot to attract your attention, 
 so you would stop and wait for me. I never 
 dreamed I was scarin you. Why," he continued, 
 turning to Tom, "many a time I Ve seen her 
 about the island or crossin that big gulch on their 
 place, drivin the cows home, singin purty-like 
 to herself, with the sunset on that yeller hair." 
 His cheeks flushed and he brushed his arm before 
 his eyes. "Frank always said it was n t a 
 woman s work," he concluded abruptly. 
 
 "Why did you kill Jack?" demanded Jose 
 phine, suddenly. 
 
 "Is that boy dead?" he asked with intense agi 
 tation. 
 
 "You ought to know. You killed him," said 
 Josephine, steadily. 
 
 "I do not know what you have against me," 
 said Henry, slowly. "I never chased you and 
 I never killed your brother. I was coming to 
 town to see Frank about haulm some wood over 
 
 [273]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 to the Agency. I never killed nobody in my life 
 never killed nothin but just coyotes and the 
 likes of them." 
 
 "It will be better not to say anything more 
 now, Miss Carroll," advised Burrington, for 
 mally, as he arose to his feet. "Leave him to 
 me. I will take care of him. It will be better 
 for the sheriff to come here for him. He is in 
 pretty bad shape. You will have to go on alone 
 after all; but nothing can hurt you now. See 
 Sheriff Dennison the very first thing. Tell him 
 to bring three or four men with him. You must 
 remain in Velpen. Go directly to the hotel when 
 you have seen the sheriff and I will send my 
 mother in to you as soon as I get back. I will 
 go with the officers to the Broken Key and come 
 back with Jack. It will be far better so. You 
 will mind me, won t you?" he asked, with some 
 thing of appeal struggling through the business 
 like formality of his directions. 
 
 She shook her head, springing into the saddle 
 seemingly without seeing his out-stretched hand. 
 
 "I tell you that you must," he said authori 
 tatively. "It will be far better so. Your long 
 ride would count for nothing, as we are coming 
 directly back. You are worn out and you will 
 
 [274]
 
 JOINING THE CHASE 
 
 need all of your strength. If you do not trust 
 me, I will let the men go to the Broken Key 
 alone. You will stay?" 
 
 She looked at him for a moment, silently, then 
 turned and slipped out into the road and he knew, 
 with an irritating sense of his utter powerless- 
 ness to control her, that she would return with 
 the men who were to come to bear John Calhoun 
 Carroll within the sheltering arms of the law, 
 which had struck, for him, too late. 
 
 [2751
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE BROKEN KEY DESERTED 
 
 A LL that was mortal of the young Southerner 
 was to be taken back to the old home and 
 laid to rest in the ancient burial ground where 
 so many generations of his people were sleep 
 ing. Geoffrey Goodman, the last of kin on the 
 mother s side, was to meet the sad little procession 
 at Sioux City. So Josephine had arranged and 
 so her plans were carried out. 
 
 When the spring wagon that was to carry 
 Josephine and the Burringtons to Velpen was 
 driven down through the Gap on the opposite 
 shore and a vibrant hail had sounded to the wait 
 ing ones in the claim shanty of the Broken Key, 
 Rosebud arose from her posture of silent, gloomy 
 dejection by the table, which was still strewn with 
 the papers and magazines that were never to be 
 read, and glided wordlessly toward the open 
 door. In her movements, there was a haunting, 
 new hint of the gait of the women of the Dako- 
 tahs, the burden bearers of their race. Hitherto, 
 her step had always been unusually elastic and 
 untrammelled. Josephine followed her. 
 
 [276]
 
 THE BROKEN KEY 
 
 "I wish you were going with us, Rosebud," 
 she said, resting her right arm around the Indian 
 girl s shoulders. "Won t you change your mind 
 and go?" 
 
 Rosebud shook her head. Her dark hair was 
 braided, an unusual mode for it of late, and fell 
 below her waist in two long plaits. 
 
 "The mother of the Seven-up goes with you. 
 There is no need of Onjijitka, the Indian girl." 
 
 "I do need you, Rosebud," said Josephine, 
 soberly. "Do you forget how few my friends 
 in Dakota are? I shall miss you when I get 
 on the train. I shall look for you and you will 
 not be there. It will be very lonely for me, 
 Rosebud." 
 
 The girl hesitated. There were just the three 
 present. Tom had gone down to the landing to 
 get the boat in readiness. It was hard for her to 
 speak her thoughts to Josephine alone im 
 possible in the presence of the stately mother of 
 Tom, however kindly the elder woman s attitude 
 toward her had always been. Her habit of re 
 pression, inherited from many generations, pre 
 vented any manifestation of feeling and held her 
 outwardly unresponsive to Josephine s appeal. 
 
 "Onjijitka is sorry," she said at last, slowly, 
 [277]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "but she cannot go. Is Josephine Carroll coming 
 back to the plains country?" 
 
 " I do not know. I do not think so," said 
 Josephine, with a little shudder. "You are 
 changed, Rosebud. I cannot understand why, 
 but somehow you seem different. Oh, I wish, I 
 wish that you were coming South with me," she 
 cried, suddenly, throwing her arms around Rose 
 bud s neck and kissing her passionately. You 
 knew him, too! Do not forget me, Rosebud! 
 Maybe I shall come back. Good-bye! Good 
 bye!" 
 
 " Good-bye, Josephine," said Rosebud, but still 
 she did not go. There was something else she 
 must say if she could. She shifted her position 
 uneasily. Mrs. Burrington was watching her 
 curiously. She tried to appear stolidly indif 
 ferent to the parting because of this frank in 
 spection and she tried to make herself go and 
 leave unsaid that which something was forcing 
 her to say. 
 
 "We must go, Josephine, dear child," said 
 Mrs. Burrington, at last. "Tom is waiting." 
 
 "You are right," replied Josephine, strangely 
 loath to go and leave Rosebud standing there 
 alone, although she could not have explained 
 
 [278]
 
 THE BROKEN KEY 
 
 any reason for the feeling of reluctance. "We 
 must go. Good-bye, Rosebud." 
 
 " Good-bye, Josephine," said Rosebud, and 
 then it came, slowly and with difficulty, what she 
 had so long wanted to say. "If you will come 
 back to the Broken Key, I will leave Two Hawks 
 and come and live with you. I will do the man s 
 work the ploughing, the planting, and the har 
 vesting, the milking and the riding to cattle. 
 You, Josephine, you can keep the house 
 pretty. I I cannot bear to think that cob 
 webs will grow over the door of the Broken Key." 
 
 She did not wait for an answer but slipped 
 away and soon disappeared into the timber, her 
 moccasined feet gliding forward, catlike, as she 
 pursued her way not in the direction of the 
 outlying hut of Two Hawks, who had established 
 himself practically on the very borders of the 
 Reservation and who, under the constant 
 and untiring promptings of his educated step 
 daughter, was attempting to farm in an easy, 
 shiftless fashion, but right out into the heart 
 of the illimitable and shimmering prairie, where 
 the spirits of the ancient Sioux still lurked in the 
 rustling grasses, and the sighing winds, and 
 the white clouds that drifted sometimes caress- 
 
 [279]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 ingly over the sunny plains where they used to 
 dwell. 
 
 "What a strange girl Rosebud is," said Mrs. 
 Burrington. She closed the little square window 
 carefully and drew the blinds close. "Why do 
 you suppose she refused to go to Velpen with 
 us?" 
 
 "I do not know," said Josephine, dreamily. 
 "I am grateful to her for her offer. It would be 
 a great sacrifice on her part. The sisters at 
 Notre Dame have written to her to come 
 back there and help teach the young children. 
 She had almost decided to do so. I do not 
 know what she will do now. She is differ 
 ent, don t you think so, too? I wish that I 
 had asked her to come sometimes and sweep 
 down the cobwebs from the door. I think she 
 would have done it for me. Come, let us go, 
 Mrs. Burrington," she continued, restlessly. "It 
 is so sombre in here with the blinds drawn. Oh, 
 please, throw away those flowers first they 
 would be so dead if I should ever come back. We 
 are ready now, are we not?" 
 
 They closed the door behind them and locked 
 it. 
 
 "Jack never locked it poor Jack," whispered 
 
 [280]
 
 THE BROKEN KEY 
 
 Josephine, blindly. " Good-bye, Broken Key. 
 You will never be the same any more." Then she 
 turned and walked resolutely away down the 
 narrow trail to the wagon road. 
 
 Tom accompanied her to Sioux City. He did 
 not ask her permission. He went, despite the 
 keenness with which he felt her late and wholly 
 unexpected attitude of suspicion toward him, 
 simply because it seemed as if he were the only 
 one to go. The Broken Key was an isolated 
 claim. The Carrolls had formed few intimate 
 friendships ; but it was generally understood that 
 a close bond of mutual liking existed between 
 the household of the wealthy Seven-up and the 
 aristocratic young Southerners. People took it 
 for granted, therefore, that Tom Burrington 
 would do all there was to do. He had no choice 
 but to bury his pain and his pride for the time 
 being and to assume, as unobtrusively as might 
 be, the responsibilities of the sad journey. And 
 Josephine ? If he went against her will she gave 
 no sign. She was alone. This man had professed 
 to be Jack s friend. Jack had trusted him 
 stay had Jack trusted him altogether with 
 out reservation and without question? From 
 her heart she believed so and yet Jack had said, 
 
 [281]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "I am afraid, Josephine, that Tom knows." 
 Thinking thus, she cried her old cry, "If he 
 knew, why did he not tell us?" and it was an ex 
 ceedingly bitter cry now. But she could not 
 forbid his attendance upon the body of his friend 
 just because, without real foundation even, she 
 had begun to mistrust the motives that had ac 
 tuated him in his constant friendliness toward 
 both her and Jack. Would she have forbidden it 
 if she could? Because of the relief that she ex 
 perienced on account of the grave, helpful way in 
 which he went about the performance of his self- 
 imposed duties, and with a fine perception held 
 himself personally aloof from her companionship, 
 she wished, from the bottom of her heart, that 
 she might banish once and for all that disquiet 
 ing, constantly recurring suspicion, fight it as 
 she would, that Tom knew something that might 
 have saved Jack s life had he told it in time. 
 She was grateful for the comfort his masterful 
 presence gave her, and she tried hard not to ask 
 herself that bitter question but she could not 
 altogether forget. 
 
 Mrs. Burrington had been compelled to let the 
 train slip over the rails eastward bound leaving 
 her standing upon the platform alone. There 
 
 [282]
 
 THE BROKEN KEY 
 
 was Louis and there were manifold duties be 
 sides which claimed her divided but scrupulously 
 honest attentions. When she climbed into the 
 wagon for her return journey to the Seven-up, 
 she felt very lonely and like an old woman, and 
 longed unaccountably for companionship; even 
 the companionship of the Indian girl, upon whom 
 she had looked with such curious aloofness but 
 yesterday, would have been thrice welcome to 
 day. 
 
 " Drive home quickly, Charlie," she ordered, 
 "but do let us go by way of White River." 
 
 Wlty, White River s on a gallopin rampage, 
 ma am," said the cowboy, emphatically. "There 
 won t be any crossin there for two weeks, any 
 way. There ain t no other way but just to go 
 by Frank LaDue s and cross at the ferry." 
 
 "If we must, we must," said Mrs. Burrington, 
 resignedly. "I had hoped not to pass anywhere 
 near there not to-day. The look in that girl s 
 eyes will haunt me as long as I live. But there, 
 hurry along. What has to be, has to be, and 
 Louis is crying his heart out this minute for that 
 boy who is gone. Hurry along, do, please, 
 Charlie." 
 
 At Sioux City, the little party was met by 
 
 [283]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 Geoffrey Goodman, who immediately assumed 
 charge of all the arrangements and Tom Bur- 
 rington s further services were not required. He 
 watched the train glide away from the station of 
 the "jumping-off-place," as Jack had dubbed it 
 once in happy raillery, his lively fancy so 
 naming it because here was reached the limit of 
 through train service, and more especially be 
 cause here came all who would take the trail for 
 the northwest country, and then he turned away 
 with a heavy heart. 
 
 Josephine s plans reached their culmination 
 when a gray-haired man and a lonely girl, accom 
 panied only by a handful of gentlefolks, repre 
 sentatives of other old and failing families, and 
 a scattering of white-headed colored people, for 
 mer retainers who had spent their youth in the 
 service of the grandfather of this generation, and 
 perhaps by the brooding spirits of the dead, stood 
 within a green-walled enclosure where ivy and 
 Virginia creeper ran riot, where the crepe myrtle 
 with its luxuriance of pink blossoms made spots 
 of pretty color in restful contrast to the varying 
 shades of rank green, where there was no jarring 
 insistence of the ostentatious new to caricature 
 the solemn slumber of centuries, and watched the 
 
 [284]
 
 THE BROKEN KEY 
 
 laying away of the last male Carroll. He had 
 hearkened to the lure of the great West that 
 was opening to the steady progression of the 
 American people and had fallen by the way, an 
 imcanonized martyr to civilization, the costliest 
 thing on earth, next to the sin of the world. 
 
 [285]
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 \K 7"HEN Burrington returned to Velpen, the 
 cowboy Mason, with a led horse, was wait 
 ing for him. 
 
 "Put the beast in the stable, Charlie, will you, 
 and then ride on out home. Tell mother that I 
 shall not be there for two or three days. I have 
 business that will keep me in town for at least 
 that length of time. Keep things going, boy. So 
 long." 
 
 He turned and walked up the inclined street 
 with long, rapid strides. It seemed strangely 
 desolate, uncommonly crude, despite the glory of 
 the late sunlight that shone slantingly, warmly, 
 and cheerfully, upon the side to the east and 
 filtered through the crevices between the western 
 line of wooden buildings; despite the unusual 
 number of saddled bronchos standing patiently in 
 front of saloon and hotel, and the service-scarred 
 buckboards wedged in alongside. The news of 
 the tragedy had gone forth to the surrounding 
 country where the farmer and the homesteader 
 held sway and had re-crossed the river and pene- 
 
 [286]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 trated into the very heart of the range country, 
 as well, so that the little border cow town was 
 crowded with the curious, the interested, the 
 knowing, the inquiring, the condemnatory, the 
 neutral, and the quietly elated; for there were 
 those who resented heartily the west-of-the-river 
 encroachments of the homesteader. These were 
 all met together to try the culprit, to judge him, 
 to hang him or to imprison him for life, or may 
 hap to release him; and during the procedure 
 of the mock trial, whiskey flowed profusely and 
 cigarettes were rolled and consumed, seemingly 
 in the twinkling of an eye. But the unusual air 
 of excitement rampant in the street, and the 
 unaccustomed noisy hilarity that issued from cer 
 tain popular places of resort and which was 
 engendered by the sociability which in turn traces 
 its source to much strong whiskey, affected the 
 young ranchman depressingly, and in his heart 
 was a poignant yearning for the girl whose ab 
 sence made the coming evening and all that it 
 shadowed drearily sad, unspeakably lonely. 
 
 He had not gone far when he met Dennison, 
 the sheriff. 
 
 "How is your prisoner?" he asked him, 
 abruptly. 
 
 [287]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Pretty well, considerin ." 
 
 "He will recover?" 
 
 "Sure thing. A little flesh wound is all that 
 ails him. He s the halest and heartiest deader 
 ever I saw, damme. And the girl thought she 
 had done for him. If that ain t sure a good 
 one!" 
 
 "Has he said anything?" 
 
 "You mean about things in general?" asked 
 the sheriff, with provoking elaboration. 
 
 "I mean about the shooting," said Tom, curtly. 
 
 " Not a word. He s glum as a buckin broncho 
 whenever the subject s broached and as uncom 
 municative as a mischief -hatchin Injun." 
 
 "May I see him to-night, Dennison?" 
 
 " Should n t wonder. Don t believe he s 
 hankerin to see you, though, Tom. I don t, for 
 a fact." 
 
 "Has he expressed himself to that effect?" 
 
 "Well, no, I can t say that he has, exactly. 
 He used to outride for you, did n t he, before he 
 went to choppin wood?" 
 
 "He was in my employ for almost a year. He 
 was a good hand at cattle. Shall we go to the 
 jail now?" 
 
 "Ain t you goin to get no supper first? 1 " 
 
 [288]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 asked the leathery-skinned Sheriff Dennison, in 
 surprise. 
 
 "I am not hungry and it is getting late. It 
 may be that a conversation with Henry will 
 whet my appetite. Come, shall we go there at 
 once?" 
 
 A few minutes later Dennison closed the 
 ponderous door of the jail upon Burrington with 
 the good-natured remark, "Time unlimited," and 
 sauntered leisurely away. The failing light that 
 made its way through the barred window fell 
 dimly upon the room and its occupant. The 
 prisoner was lying flat upon his comfortless 
 couch and he did not look up at the sound of the 
 closing door nor the sheriff s parting words 
 of gratuitous permission for an indefinite stay. 
 Tom approached the prostrate figure. 
 
 " Hello, Henry," he said, in a friendly greet 
 ing. 
 
 He had determined, for the best interests of the 
 cause upon which he was henceforth bent, to sup 
 press in himself all weakening and dangerous 
 dwelling upon thoughts of "the long chase" dur 
 ing the present conversation, and had fortified 
 himself well for the coming combat of his wit 
 against the other s taciturnity and of reason 
 
 [289]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 against his own personal inclination, which was 
 up in arms to do physical violence to this mockery 
 of a man who lay there before him so sullenly. 
 
 "Hello," vouchsafed the prisoner, laconically. 
 
 "How is the gun-shot?" asked Tom, drawing 
 the only chair in the room to the bedside and seat 
 ing himself. "It is healing nicely, Dennison tells 
 me. Do you suffer much, Henry?" 
 
 "Enough," was the ungracious response. 
 
 "Tell me all about it, won t you, Henry?" 
 asked Tom, coming to the point with the intui 
 tive perception that something lay heavy on the 
 young fellow s mind. There was a hunted look 
 in his eyes and he fingered the coverlet restlessly. 
 
 "Why should I? You ain t no friend o 
 mine," said Henry, bluntly. 
 
 "Do not be too sure of that," said Tom, slowly. 
 "Maybe I don t exactly love you. I do not think 
 you really expect that, after all that has hap 
 pened. But you know me pretty well, do you 
 not ? I am capable of befriending a man without 
 loving him. You are pressingly in need of a 
 friend, my boy, don t you realize that? Did I 
 ever play you dirt while you were at the Seven- 
 
 up? 
 
 "You sure never did," protested the prisoner, 
 
 [290]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 earnestly. He propped himself up on his pillow 
 after giving his supposedly unwelcome visitor 
 this assurance and turned haggard eyes upon him 
 for the first time. "You were always square 
 with us boys," he added, gratefully. 
 
 " I always meant to be and mean to be. You 
 are pretty young, are you not? I do not believe 
 that you are a day over twenty-one. I cannot 
 promise you the leniency of the court, Henry, 
 but I think that you will do well to make con 
 fession. I think that your age and evident 
 contrition and willingness to do all that is in 
 your power to help along the cause of justice, 
 even to the giving up of yourself as an earnest 
 of your sincerity, will be taken into consideration. 
 I say this to you in all honesty. I am telling you 
 nothing that I do not have faith in, myself, and 
 my years and experience are many more than 
 yours." 
 
 "Why are you takin all this trouble? If you 
 think I am guilty, why do you want an .easy sen 
 tence for me?" asked Henry, unexpectedly. 
 
 "Because I believe that there is one more to 
 blame than you are." 
 
 "What if I tell you that I did n t do it and 
 I did n t " said Henry, feverishly. " You 
 
 [291]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 could n t do nothin to me then. How could you 
 prove that I done anything that I never done, 
 I d like to know ? You re just workin me to give 
 myself up. It shows how plumb weak you are 
 on evidence against me." 
 
 " Do you want me to tell you what I shall 
 do? " asked Tom, rising. Well, I will tell you, 
 since you ask me. I am a pretty good witness 
 against you, Henry, myself. I shall begin by 
 telling the court and the jury about that little 
 affair in the gulch, you know." 
 
 He paused to note the effect of his unexpected 
 onslaught. The prisoner sat straight up and in 
 his answer was a quick and burning excitement. 
 
 "My God, Tom! That was a gray wolf you 
 shot at!" 
 
 "How do you know?" asked Tom, coolly, 
 well pleased at this unmistakable corroboration 
 of his suspicion as to the identity of the man in 
 the gulch. 
 
 "Why, I met the wench in the woods the next 
 day and she told me," he lied, unconvincingly. 
 
 "And what ails your wrist that you keep it 
 bound up so carefully? " pursued Tom, relent 
 lessly. He did not fail to note the glance of 
 startled rage which Henry bestowed first upon 
 
 [292]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 the challenged wrist and then upon his ques 
 tioner. "You evidently have some foundation 
 for that seemingly random shot about the gray 
 wolf," continued Tom, thoughtfully. "I did n t 
 see you that morning down at the woodpile when 
 I explained the subterfuge to Mr. Carroll." 
 He could not bring himself to speak the old, 
 familiar monosyllabic name "Jack" in this pres 
 ence. "But doubtless you were there somewhere 
 in hiding. Well, I shall embellish that tale some, 
 Henry. I shall tell how I saw Josephine Carroll 
 go down into the valley " 
 
 "Don t, Mr. Burrington," interrupted Henry, 
 huskily. "I can t stand it. I ll see the sun on 
 that girl s shinin hair just before she went down 
 into the valley to my dyin day. She was singin 
 along soft-like to herself I could hear her just 
 as plain the evenin was so still. When I 
 heard the first sound of rollin dirt that the leader 
 of the herd had dislodged when he started down 
 the path, I knew the time had come and I 
 crouched down in a little side washout and 
 waited. The first heifer was well-nigh up t other 
 bank before she came to the edge of the gulch. 
 Oh, Lord ! She was purty ! Her yeller hair was 
 so bright and her hat was off and she was singin 
 
 [293]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 so soft and sweet. I never wanted to kill a 
 woman, nohow." His voice trailed off into 
 mournful bitterness. "I don t know why in hell 
 I ever said I would. I must have been crazy. 
 Anyway, I just could n t do it when the time 
 come. Why, I ain t a plumb brute, Mr. Burring- 
 ton. I just could n t kill that purty girl ridin 
 down that steep bank so unconscious-like and 
 singin so soft. She was n t lookin for foul play. 
 Why should she have been? She had never done 
 any harm to anybody. Not a mite in all the 
 world and I just could n t do it. I tried I 
 tried hard I was afraid not to. I tried three 
 or four times. I pointed my rifle at her true all 
 those times, but I could n t pull the trigger. If 
 she d glanced my way or stopped her singin - 
 or showed any scare I might have done it, but 
 she did n t do any of those things. She just kept 
 on her way so purty and unsuspectin and I 
 could n t do it. I d lower every time. But I had 
 to do it, so I tried again and this time I pulled." 
 In the deep dusk, Tom clenched his hands while 
 perspiration started from his body till he prickled 
 with the damp heat of it. "But someway 
 I don t know how it happened I done it so 
 quick I slipped a finger in between, and the 
 
 [294]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 hammer could n t reach the cap of the cartridge 
 through my finger, so there was n t any concus 
 sion after all. Then you came, and I slipped 
 away and crossed the rock reef back to the 
 island." 
 
 He seemed exhausted by his impulsive recital 
 and lay back on his pillow, breathing heavily. 
 Tom was silent a moment, waiting for him to 
 recover; then he asked, gravely: 
 
 "Why did you shoot Mr. Carroll, Henry?" 
 
 "I had to," said the young fellow, "there was 
 no other way out of the mix-up." 
 
 "Why did Frank LaDue want him out of the 
 way? " asked Tom, searchingly. 
 
 "Ask him," said Henry, with a prompt return 
 to his former attitude of dogged reserve. 
 
 Tom changed his tactics immediately. He had 
 already discovered that the most satisfactory re 
 sults from this interview were to be derived from 
 keeping in close touch with the subject of Jo 
 sephine. 
 
 "I cannot understand, Henry," he began, 
 meditatively, "why, if, as you say, you had thor 
 oughly made up your mind that you could not, 
 under any circumstances, make away with the 
 life of a woman, you yet gave such monstrous, 
 
 [295]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 inhuman chase to Josephine Carroll so soon after 
 ward. It strikes me as rather an anomalous pro 
 ceeding in view of your recent and reiterated 
 declaration." 
 
 The man hesitated for a moment ; then he put 
 this question to his interlocutor, suddenly, unex 
 pectedly : 
 
 "Will you give me your word of honor that 
 you won t give him away if I tell you all about 
 it?" 
 
 "Won t you tell me without the promise?" 
 
 "Not one word," returned Henry, sullenly. 
 
 "Then I promise until you yourself release 
 me from the pledge." 
 
 The simple promise needed no bolstering of 
 words. Henry asked for none, but proceeded 
 at once: 
 
 "I don t care for myself you re dead on to 
 me; besides, I can t get that yeller-haired girl 
 out of my mind. But he Frank why, he d 
 kill me if he knew I d told on him. I don t know 
 how he came to get such a hold on me. I met 
 him for the first time soon after I went to the 
 Broken Key to help out while he Carroll, you 
 know was laid up with a broken leg. I wish 
 to the Lord I d never set eyes on him! I wish 
 
 [296]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 to the Lord I d never a-left the old Seven-up. 
 The Carrolls cows took to strayin over to the 
 island and I run across him one day when I was 
 over there lookin for a runaway heifer. He 
 asked me where I was from and seemed nice 
 and friendly. When I told him I was a sort o 
 rollin stone and had been in lots o places since 
 I was knee-high-to-a-grasshopper, he said if I 
 ever got tired o my job at the Seven-up, why, 
 he had a good place for a likely feller like me 
 that would pay more than herdin cattle. We 
 talked considerable. I remember his goin on a 
 good deal about settlers comin in and spoilin 
 the ranges for the cattlemen. That sounded all 
 right to me, for they were makin the same sort 
 o kick down in Texas, where I started from, and 
 they were talkin the same sort o stuff all along 
 the line. I Ve even heard you sort o cuss the 
 luck yourself, Tom, though you always lowed 
 it had to come. And then he began on Miss Car 
 roll. He asked me what I thought o her, and 
 asked me wasn t she a bold jade, though? I 
 thought he was just foolin , but it seemed as if 
 he d begun to hate the girl even then. He sure 
 hated her a plenty." 
 "Why, Henry?" 
 
 [297]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "You 11 have to ask him, Tom," said Henry, 
 evasively. "I never understood exactly. He 
 was always talkin about spoilin the ranges. 
 That was all bluff, though. He did n t give a 
 tinker s damn whether the ranges was spoiled or 
 not, or how many homesteaders crossed the river, 
 providin they did n t get too neighborly and 
 settle down so close to him as to interfere with 
 his plans. That range howl was pure bluff. 
 1 did n t even know he had any cattle at first. I 
 think he was mad, too, because them Carrollses 
 were gettin all that nice bottom land. He 
 seemed possessed to keep people off n it. I 
 reckon he thought he d get it sometime himself 
 by some hook or crook. He was always callin 
 the girl names because she was tryin to do a 
 man s work. And then when she d got the evi 
 dence agin him about rustlin that there milch 
 cow, I thought the man d lose his mind he was 
 that mad. And then he began on me. Frank s 
 a bad man, Tom. He s a devil. I wish I d 
 never gone to work for him. He never let up 
 on me. I m a foolish sort o feller, and I always 
 want to do what anybody asks me to; it always 
 seems as if that s what I want to do, too, what 
 they want me to do, specially while I m talkin 
 
 [298]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 to em. I don t seem to know how to get 
 around it." 
 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 "Come!" said Tom, impatiently. 
 
 The door was opened slightly and the jailer s 
 head was thrust into the room. 
 
 "Hey, Tom! The old man s back and wants 
 to know if you re goin to talk there all night? 
 Ain t you most through?" 
 
 "Tell Dennison that we are almost through 
 and that he need not worry," said Tom, briefly. 
 
 "You ain t afraid?" asked the man facetiously. 
 
 "No," said Tom, more curtly than before. 
 
 "Shall I bring a light?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 The door banged shut. 
 
 "He said he d give me half the island and a 
 team and wagon beside," went on Henry, wea 
 rily, "if I d exterm nate the whole bunch. He 
 said he d go up for sure, for cattle stealing, when 
 the court came round the girl had the evi 
 dence and he wanted me to put plasters over 
 their mouths before then, so s they could n t blab. 
 When I asked him why he did n t do it himself, 
 he said they d jump on him right away, but that 
 no one would ever think o me. He said if they 
 
 [299]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 did that, he had a stand-in with the sheriff and 
 nothin would happen to me. He talked that 
 stuff, day after day, till I promised seemed as 
 if I d go plumb mad if something did n t happen 
 to stop his everlastin dingin . I was to do away 
 with the girl first he hated her so. I was to do 
 it at the gulch. But I could n t. Gosh-all- 
 hemlocks! but he was mad when he came back 
 from Westover and found I had n t done it. So 
 at last I promised to go to the house and shoot 
 em both. He went to Velpen that night so s 
 he could prove an alibi or something like that, 
 and just as it was gettin dusk I crossed over and 
 crept up to the house and peeked in at the west 
 window. There was the girl again with her yeller 
 hair piled on top o her head and she had on a 
 big blue apron " his voice faltered. "Seems 
 as if I can t never get away from seein her 
 movin around so sweet and lovin -like. I 
 could n t do it then. She sat down after a bit. 
 Seemed as if she was goin to read the paper. I 
 could n t see her no more then she was too close 
 to the wall, I guess. The kid was settin on the 
 other side o the table, and I could see him all 
 right and the brother I could see him plain 
 he was settin on the door step bathin his feet 
 
 [300]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 and and oh, it was awful." He paused for 
 breath. He was growing weak from the strain 
 of his woful story. 
 
 "Tell me only the most important things to 
 night, Henry," said Tom, gently. "Leave the 
 rest for another time." 
 
 "It seemed as if I couldn t do it," continued 
 Henry, deliriously. "I tried five times. One 
 time he looked right at me, it seemed like, with 
 his big tired eyes, brown like the girl s. I was 
 five feet back and in the shadow, and I know he 
 did n t see me, really, but I could n t any more 
 have pulled the hammer with those eyes lookin 
 toward me than I could have shot myself right 
 that minute. Once a screech owl startled me 
 I thought at first it was a spirit. The other times, 
 I just could n t do it. But at last I did. I shot 
 true and straight right through the window, and 
 he never said a word. He just fell over easy-like 
 and lay still. I never killed nothin before," he 
 said, pitifully, "but just critters and coyotes. I 
 ran around to the woodpile to see if I could n t 
 muster up nerve enough to shoot the girl through 
 the door, but when she came I could n t. I 
 went back to the island and I guess I did n t 
 know just what I was doin . I did n t strike the 
 
 [301]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 road and went plungin along through the mud 
 and water there was back water from the rise 
 and finally I heard some shootin . I thought I 
 was done for, but I got into the house all right. 
 I could still hear the shootin , and, Tom, I heard 
 that shootin all night long. I never went back 
 I stayed right there in the house, but I suppose 
 she thought I was hangin round, and that plucky 
 girl just kept shootin all night long, and it 
 was so dark and it rained after a while, and 
 she was all alone with just the kid. She never 
 stopped till it got light. I got scared then to 
 have Frank come back and find her still alive - 
 he d have so much rather it had been her stead 
 o him if only one was gone; so after a while 
 I picked up my gun and started back, but then 
 I saw you ridin like the devil, so I knew she must 
 have sent the kid. I went back and changed my 
 shoes I could n t ride in those things, and I 
 thought maybe I d have to bolt. When you 
 came over to the island, I was hidin in the timber, 
 and when I saw Josephine ridin off alone, I 
 took after her. I was afraid o what Frank 
 would say when he came back. I was afraid he d 
 kill me. But, Tom, I don t believe I d have 
 done it," he continued. I don t believe I could 
 
 [302]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 have brought myself to have done it, after all. I 
 was n t trying to hit her when I shot." 
 
 "I believe you, Henry," said Tom, with grave 
 kindness. "You are worn out. I will leave you 
 now. But I will come again in the morning. 
 Don t you worry. I always knew, Henry, that 
 there was some one more to blame than you. 
 Good-night." 
 
 True to his word, he came again in the morn 
 ing. He was bent upon obtaining release from 
 his pledge of yesterday. It was a gigantic un 
 dertaking. Henry was possessed of a strange, 
 unreasoning fear of his employer, coupled with 
 a stubborn loyalty that held strongly to the opin 
 ion that treachery to an accessory was the mean 
 est kind of meanness. But Tom persevered and 
 finally, after much useless argument and persua 
 sion, he said, very seriously, that Frank LaDue 
 at large was a constant menace to the life and 
 well-being of Josephine Carroll, and at the men 
 tion of her name Henry was as a child again. 
 He gave his permission to act, readily, almost 
 eagerly. Without this permission, Tom Burring- 
 ton would have held the confidence as sacred as 
 if sealed with the seal of the Roman Confessional. 
 As he arose to depart, the intensity of relief de- 
 
 [303]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 picted upon his face was so great that he seemed 
 years younger and he strode to the door with 
 much of the old spring in his step. When he 
 reached the door, he heard his name called in a 
 hesitating, apologetic sort of way and turned 
 quickly, dreading a recall of the promise that 
 insured him power to prosecute his hearty desire 
 to put the arch-offender where he could no longer 
 offend and where justice would be meted out to 
 him as he had measured. 
 
 "Say, Tom," Henry was saying, confusedly, 
 "it ain t as if I was gettin off, myself, by givin 
 him away. I could n t do that. I know I m 
 in for it. I ain t tryin to get off by turnin agin 
 him. You know that, don t you? But I reckon 
 the real reason for his not wantin any one round 
 was because of the use he put that there island 
 to. It will bear investigating for sure. And 
 there s a dugout there, almost under the Car- 
 rolls noses, where you 11 find the rest of your 
 horses if you re quick about it. You-all have 
 been mighty slow. I should n t wonder if that 
 young Injun buck, Bear Heart, the one who s 
 after Rosebud, you know, had got ahead o you, 
 after all. He s been on the trail for some time 
 and she s been helpin him. Them Injuns ain t 
 
 [304]
 
 HENRY CONFESSES 
 
 got no use for Frank. You-all ain t been very 
 smart, and that s a fact." 
 
 Tom went directly to the State s Attorney; a 
 complaint was filed and a warrant issued for the 
 arrest of Frank LaDue, of LaDue Island, on the 
 charge of murder. 
 
 [305]
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE END OF THE LONG CHASE 
 
 rpHREE weeks later, toward the close of a 
 long, warm afternoon in mid-summer, Tom 
 Burrington was riding musingly homeward over 
 the Seven-up trail. He had that day received a 
 letter from Josephine Carroll in answer to a 
 formal, business one of his own which he had 
 written to her shortly after her departure. In 
 it, he made brief mention of the temporary 
 care he had assumed of the Broken Key stock 
 and added that, subject to her approval, of 
 course, he had so arranged it that they should 
 graze with the Seven-up herds until such time 
 as she should have made her plans for their ul 
 timate disposal. He was also taking care of the 
 White Slave, the boy whom Jack had be 
 friended. "Do not be too hard on the boy," he 
 wrote. " He is very young. He heard the shoot 
 ing and hid in the woods all night. He was afraid 
 to go home with the cows and afraid to go any 
 where for fear of meeting some of the old gang 
 whom he had turned against." He had pre- 
 
 [306]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 sumed to act thus without her authority because 
 she had left so hurriedly that there had been 
 neither time nor opportunity to make definite 
 provision for their welfare during her absence. 
 What were her plans concerning the two claims? 
 It would be well for her to come to some decision 
 within a reasonable length of time or they might 
 be jumped and her rights contested. They were 
 considered desirable claims, and it was very prob 
 able that they would not be allowed to stand 
 tenantless long unless she blocked any future 
 trouble by conforming strictly to the letter of 
 the law in regard to homesteads, the sooner, the 
 better. As she doubtless knew, her brother had 
 lived upon his quarter section a sufficient length 
 of time to permit her, as sole heir, to commute 
 and obtain a patent on his land without its in any 
 way interfering with her own homestead rights. 
 She could then, if she so desired, have a shanty 
 erected and live upon her own claim. Mean 
 while, he awaited her commands concerning her 
 immediate business affairs and especially in re 
 spect of her concurrence or non-concurrence in 
 the steps he had taken for the temporary relief 
 of the Broken Key stock. 
 
 It had been a cold letter, perhaps, under the 
 [307]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 circumstances, but he had so disliked to do what 
 he had been compelled to do without her permis 
 sion and under the ban of her displeasure. His 
 pride had rebelled heartily, but he could not help 
 himself. There was no one else to be responsible 
 for the effects the dead boy had left, and Jack had 
 been his friend, and he loved her Josephine. 
 He loved her so much that nothing she could do 
 or say now could dispossess that great love, 
 though, of course, now, he could never tell her so. 
 That time was past. The time had come when 
 he was looking upon the canvas face to face, and 
 she was not there. But he loved her, and because 
 of that he had swallowed this much of his pride 
 that he must suffer her probable misconstruction 
 of his motives in order that when she was ready 
 to take up again the burden of living that would 
 be hard enough for her, poor Josephine, for a 
 long weary while, she might find that she had not 
 been altogether alone and that she might take up 
 her burden without, at least, the handicap of the 
 neglect or mismanagement of the material things 
 of her life. After all, was she so much to blame 
 for having thus taken her stand alone, account 
 ing all against her because the plots formed in 
 opposition to her and hers had been conceived in 
 
 [308]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 such utter darkness and mystery, and had arrived 
 at their infamous growth in such profound se 
 crecy, and yet withal had so pervaded the very 
 atmosphere she breathed and had so hemmed her 
 about on every side that she could have no power 
 to discriminate and say: this man is and that 
 man is not my friend ? Was she so much to blame 
 then? In his heart he knew that an unfriendly 
 feeling toward the Carrolls as homesteaders had 
 rankled in the breasts of many of his fellow cattle 
 men. He knew that this feeling of hostility, 
 powerful because men of power held it, was 
 catered to and promulgated by popular favor, 
 and that it was this that had made it next to 
 impossible for Jack to get native help to assist 
 him in farming his land and thereby establishing 
 a position with which the people were so thor 
 oughly out of sympathy; but he also knew in 
 his heart, that, though most of the cattlemen 
 would have been honestly relieved and more than 
 glad had young Carroll lost heart and found it 
 advisable to relinquish his claim and try his for 
 tune elsewhere, and even might not have been 
 above assisting him to this wise conclusion in 
 divers innocent ways, there was not one among 
 them who would have dreamed of adopting the 
 
 [309]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 extreme measure for ridding the country of his 
 presence; and that they were few who were not 
 inexpressibly shocked and indignant at the tragic 
 outcome of their dissatisfaction. Not at the 
 doors of the cattlemen could the terrible tragedy 
 be laid; but could Josephine know this? Could 
 she be brought to believe it? "It has come to 
 me that you knew something that you would not 
 tell us," she had said. Was the suspicion unnat 
 ural in the light of circumstances ? He had known 
 that their coming was unwelcome to the majority 
 of the ranchmen but so had Jack, in the end. 
 Could he have dreamed that Jack s life would be 
 the price ? He had known that pluck, endurance, 
 tact, and a never flagging patience on the part 
 of the young homesteader would finally win for 
 him immunity and place, that no arbitrary means 
 would be taken for his expulsion. Could he have 
 dreamed of the miserable LaDue complication? 
 Ah, but ought he not to have dreamed of it? 
 Had he not heartily disliked the very thought 
 of the man s nearness to her the first time he had 
 ever seen Josephine? Had he ever respected La- 
 Due or given him the credit for an atom of in 
 tegrity? Thus he blamed himself harshly and he 
 had been sore beset between his love, his wounded 
 
 [s 10]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 pride, and his own feeling of personal blame 
 when he had written that letter, coldly, perhaps. 
 And she had answered thus : 
 
 MY DEAR MR. BURRINGTON : 
 
 I thank you for taking charge of the Broken 
 Key stock and am sorry that my thoughtlessness 
 made it necessary for you to put yourself to so 
 much trouble on my account. Since you have 
 been so good, however, I shall further tax your 
 generosity by asking you to continue your super 
 vision until I have come to some decision as to 
 my future course. I shall try to decide soon, so 
 that I may relieve you of what, I am afraid, must 
 be an unpleasant task the caring for the inter 
 ests of a homesteader. Forgive me if I am harsh. 
 Indeed, I am grateful. It is only that I cannot 
 see the light. 
 
 You ask me if I intend to go back. I will let 
 you know as soon as I know myself. I do not 
 think, however, that I shall ever go back. I can 
 not bear to think of it and I am afraid. My 
 brother s murderer is still at large. The inter 
 ests of the cattlemen are seemingly in direct 
 opposition to such a step on my part. I have 
 no friends to help me. I am alone, and I am a 
 woman, and I am not strong enough to fight it 
 out. If my brother were here, I should never 
 give up never to the arrogance that would 
 deny me my right; but he is gone, and so what 
 is the use ? Like him, I am very tired and it is not 
 worth while. 
 
 In a few days at most I hope to be able to 
 
 [311]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 give you instructions as to the disposal of my 
 stock. My uncle joins me in thanking you for 
 your kindness to us. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 JOSEPHINE CARROLL. 
 
 Cold, too, this letter of Josephine s, and still 
 doubtful of him; but was she so much to blame? 
 As she had said, "I cannot see the light." Ah, 
 well, what she thought could make no difference 
 as to his part in life henceforth. That part was 
 to bring under the noose of the law Jack s mur 
 derer, who was still, as Josephine had said, at 
 large. This thing he would do if it took him 
 until his life s end; for Jack s sake, for Jo 
 sephine s sake, for his own sake, for the honor of 
 the cattle country. So he threw up the head that 
 the coldness of Josephine s letter had bowed in 
 sadness and rode on. 
 
 He had dwelt incessantly ever since it had 
 been discovered that Frank LaDue was not at 
 home on the island, and, furthermore, that pains 
 taking search had failed to disclose his present 
 whereabouts, upon that chance remark of Henry 
 Hoffman s, that Frank LaDue had boasted of 
 a "stand-in" with Sheriff Dennison, and he won- 
 
 [312]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 dered if it could be true. The thought had 
 chafed him unutterably. 
 
 There was a new man at the ferry. The boat 
 had been found several days after the tragedy 
 some distance below Ole Johnson s place, drawn 
 up securely into the slack water of an indentation 
 that cut into the sandy drift below the chalk-rock 
 bluffs. With what object in view the owner of 
 it had made so unusual a landing, one that 
 smacked so strongly of a desire for concealment, 
 was not easy of divination, especially when one 
 took into consideration the idea conveyed by 
 Henry Hoffman s assertion that LaDue rather 
 courted publicity than otherwise for his move 
 ments immediately antedating and during the 
 night of the shocking tragedy. But the boat 
 was there, and however awkward and inadequate 
 its service, there was an urgent need of it on the 
 old trail, and the patrons of the road were agreed 
 that it must be returned to its accustomed quar 
 ters. It was a ticklish undertaking thus to tam 
 per with the effects of a vindictive outlaw, but 
 there was no hesitation and but little precaution 
 in the performance of it. As Ole Johnson said 
 with a fine unconcern: 
 
 [313]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Let him shoot and be damned, the skunk, and 
 we 11 ferret him out by the smell of his powder," 
 and the rest had ratified the defiance with hearty 
 unanimity. 
 
 So the boat was rowed laboriously back against 
 the high-water current and lodged again at its 
 old moorings, where another surprise awaited the 
 neighbors, who had thought they knew the big, 
 fair, reticent, self-centred Norseman, for he 
 volunteered good-naturedly to be within hail on 
 certain days of the week to assist the crossing 
 of the ranchmen who lived on the other side. He 
 was waiting for Burrington now, leaning con 
 tentedly against the bank and chewing tobacco 
 with a serene indifference to any possible danger 
 that might be lurking for him anywhere about 
 because of his cavalier handling of another man s 
 goods. 
 
 "Nothing doing, I suppose, Ole?" asked Tom, 
 lightly, as he mounted his horse after their slow 
 and wearisome crossing. 
 
 "There is nothing doing, no," acquiesced the 
 Norseman. 
 
 "Nevertheless, Ole, I think you had better 
 keep a pretty sharp lookout," advised Burring 
 ton, seriously. "He has an ugly disposition and 
 
 [314]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 would doubtless find a real sport in potting both 
 you and that tub full of holes in mid-stream if the 
 notion struck him." 
 
 "Y,ou think he is about this place?" inquired 
 Ole, with phlegmatic unconcern, as he prepared 
 to make himself comfortable under a shady elm. 
 The water had long since crept up to the timber 
 line so that he had not far to go. 
 
 "Who knows?" said Tom, gloomily. "Where 
 is he then? Are n t you going back to-night, Ole? 
 It is late." 
 
 "I ll wait a bit. Them Injuns are somewhere 
 on the island Bear Heart and that half-breed 
 girl of Two Hawks. They seem to be hanging 
 round most of the time. The girl told me to wait 
 a little while." 
 
 "Funny," thought Tom. "I wonder why 
 Rosebud is going back to-night." 
 
 The sun was very low when Tom rode slowly 
 past the little log house whimsically called the 
 Broken Key. The day had been insufferably hot. 
 Even yet the heat radiated in warm waves from 
 the generous earth which would continue to give 
 of its fulness long after the sun had gone down. 
 But it was not like the glare of the zenith-riding 
 sun of mid-day. Tom took off his heavy hat to 
 
 [315]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 cool his moist, red-creased forehead and flicked 
 it thoughtfully back and forth before his heated 
 face. How deserted it all looked ! Deserted and 
 forlorn! The weeds had grown so rankly around 
 the woodpile in the three weeks as almost to hide 
 its weather-stained grayness and lonesome look 
 of disuse, and the path leading to it was well- 
 nigh obliterated by the crowding phalanx. The 
 encroachment unexpectedly stopped short at the 
 rude lattice where Josephine had planted her 
 sweet peas and which, instead of having been 
 choked out of existence, had already begun to 
 blossom. Tom did not wonder how the flowers 
 received water and attention. He took their 
 presence altogether for granted in the masculine 
 way that evinces no curiosity until the wonted 
 has been suddenly blotted from his vision; but 
 he did wish that Josephine might have been there 
 to see this fructification of her undismayed effort 
 on the untried soil. And then upon his brooding 
 spirit fell a strange, new depression fraught with 
 vague forebodings of evil to come and a man s 
 grief for the empty house that had sheltered for 
 a little while within its rough exterior a bit of 
 fair life now passed from it forever. The blinds 
 were drawn at the closed windows, shutting out 
 
 [316]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 the heartless day from view of the dead ashes 
 of the hearthstone. Nothing could ever make it 
 the same any more. There was no sign of life any 
 where while the evening deepened and the win 
 dows shone with a ghostly reflection as the sun 
 sank at last behind the hills, and when Tom rode 
 away from the reverie-haunted melancholy that 
 must abide there forever, his eyes were wet be 
 cause of many things, but principally because of 
 the inevitable sadness of the brief play of the 
 Broken Key, played too soon and ended so ir 
 revocably. 
 
 About a mile beyond, he met Rosebud. The girl 
 arose spectrally from a clump of plum trees bor 
 dering a ravine by the roadside and advanced to 
 meet him. 
 
 "You are to go back at once," she said, ab 
 ruptly. She carried a gun and looked brave and 
 determined. 
 
 "Why?" asked Tom, in astonishment. 
 
 "You are not to ask why. Won t you take my 
 word for it and go back to Velpen at once?" she 
 asked, hurriedly. "You can trust Onjijitka." 
 
 " I have n t a doubt in the world as to that, 
 Rosebud," said Tom, heartily, "but you might 
 as well understand right now that I shall not stir 
 
 [317]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 one step until you have satisfied my curiosity." 
 
 "Ole Johnson is still at the landing," she 
 pleaded. "I told him to wait. He thinks I am 
 going back, but I was thinking of you when I 
 told him to wait. If you hurry, you will find him 
 there, and he will take you across." 
 
 " Come, Rosebud, tell me what it is all about," 
 demanded Tom, peremptorily. " You have news 
 of LaDue, have you not? For God s sake, don t 
 waste time. What is it?" 
 
 " If you would only go for Josephine s sake," 
 insisted Rosebud, forlornly, knowing that she 
 was beaten, but clinging desperately to her over 
 whelming desire that he should turn back. 
 
 " I can better stay for Josephine s sake," 
 said Tom, gravely, as he dismounted. "If you 
 convince me that I do right to retrace my steps, 
 why, I will surely do so. Is n t that fair, Rose 
 bud? I shall not stir until I know what it is all 
 about." 
 
 "You you men are all so stubborn," said 
 Rosebud, with angry scorn. "You will never 
 listen to reason. It is the same way with Bear 
 Heart. He could have given LaDue up more 
 times than once, but no he must be forever 
 trailing him to find out about the Indian cattle 
 
 [318]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 he stole. He says he will kill him himself when 
 he finds out about them. Foolish Bear Heart! 
 What does that matter since those calves are 
 scattered all over the world by this time and he 
 never will get them back? But Two Hawks is 
 getting old, and he listens to the young Bear 
 Heart, and so what can Onjijitka do? " 
 
 "You can tell me, Rosebud," prompted Tom, 
 with gleaming eyes. He had struck the long- 
 sought trail at last. 
 
 "Tom," she began, her present impetuosity in 
 striking contrast to her former air of reluctance, 
 "Bear Heart heard Frank LaDue boast last 
 night that he was going to waylay you to-day on 
 the road from Velpen. He said that you were 
 the cause of all his trouble, and that if it were 
 not for you Dennison would not dream of ar 
 resting him. He said that it was none of your 
 business, and that he intended to put a plaster 
 over your mouth this very day, to pay you for 
 your interference. So I am here to tell you and 
 to beg you to go back before it is too late. He 
 was to go to the island between seven and eight 
 o clock and to wait for you there, but you are 
 earlier than he planned for. He will be coming 
 along soon now. Do go! How can you hesitate? " 
 
 [319]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Rosebud," asked Tom, irrelevantly, "where 
 did Bear Heart see LaDue?" 
 
 "That is Bear Heart s secret," said Rosebud, 
 steadily. "But I have his permission to tell you 
 that he has at last found the dugout, and that 
 your horses are still there and have been well 
 cared for. So you see LaDue still has friends, 
 even though you have sent three of the gang to 
 the penitentiary. I am also to tell you that Bear 
 Heart will drive your horses home to-night. 
 What you have asked is, as I have said, Bear 
 Heart s secret." 
 
 "Maybe you are right," said Tom, with intense 
 disappointment, and giving little heed to the 
 news of the discovered dugout. He had long 
 thought that Frank LaDue was only a common 
 horse thief and cattle rustler, and the absolute 
 proof of it interested him but little now. His 
 mind was bent on something graver than thiev 
 ing. So had it been bent when he rode to West- 
 over, outwardly seeking his own stolen property 
 in reality trailing the man who, he believed, 
 meant no good to Josephine Carroll. " I am 
 afraid, though, that it looks bad for Bear Heart. 
 Tell him that it looks mightily like complicity to 
 me and will look so to others, and that it might 
 
 [sso]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 go hard with him if his unlawful knowledge is 
 found out on him. I should be sorry. I always 
 thought he was a good Indian." 
 
 Up went the girl s proud head and her dark 
 eyes flashed defiance. "Bear Heart is a true son 
 of the Dakotahs," she said, haughtily. "It is 
 only when we marry with the white men that our 
 young men steal." 
 
 It was a scathing rebuke, and it went home, 
 for with his fair mind and unprejudiced judg 
 ment, Tom knew that much of what she said was 
 true. 
 
 "Forgive me, Rosebud," he said, simply. "I 
 was wrong." 
 
 He vaulted into his saddle. 
 
 "You are going back?" she implored, hope- 
 fully. 
 
 "No," said Tom, with great deliberation, "I 
 am going forward to meet my friend LaDue." 
 
 "I hoped," said Rosebud, despairingly, "that 
 he would pass first. I was ready for him. I was 
 going to kill him. He is a desperate man. He is 
 also a coward. He will not meet you in the road 
 like a man. He will lie in hiding by the way and 
 shoot you in the back. I had to plan that way 
 to hide in ambush but that is because I am a 
 
 [321]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 girl and a Dakotah, and he is a big strong man 
 and would kill me as he would a snake before I 
 could even know what he was about. So I hid. 
 And he will hide. Tom, you must listen to me!" 
 she cried, passionately. 
 
 "Why, my girl," said Tom, laughingly, "what 
 would Bear Heart think if he knew that you were 
 planning cold-bloodedly to put out of ex 
 istence this man whom he considers his own 
 just prey? Did you really mean to do it? Bear 
 Heart will never forgive you, notwithstanding 
 that his heart is set upon you." 
 
 "I could not help that." There was much dig 
 nity in the simple rejoinder. 
 
 "But we are wasting too much time," ex 
 claimed Tom, suddenly. "It is getting late. 
 You must go home, Rosebud. I have taken com 
 mand of this affair, and I bid you go home, and 
 go at once. I shall ride on and meet our man 
 provided his words were not a vain boast, as I 
 am much inclined to believe they were. You 
 need not be afraid that he will waylay me. He 
 has too much to answer for already. Besides, 
 he does not dare to touch Tom Burrington of the 
 Seven-up." 
 
 He smiled, deprecating his own self-esteem. 
 [322]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 "Promise me that you will go home, Rosebud," 
 he said. 
 
 "I will go," she said, soberly. 
 
 He started forward, but came back before he 
 had gone far. 
 
 "Y,ou said you would go home, didn t you?" 
 he asked, doubtfully. 
 
 " I said I would go," she responded, enigmatic- 
 
 ally. 
 
 He started again, stopped, and turned around 
 in his saddle. 
 
 " I have your promise? " he called, confidently. 
 
 "Yes," she said, and he rode away. 
 
 Rosebud stood still in the road and watched 
 him as he cantered up a little knoll and disap 
 peared behind its yonder slope. Then she smiled 
 a ghost of a vanishing smile. 
 
 "He killed Jack," she said to herself, whisper- 
 ingly, and with the rifle held firmly in her arms, 
 she returned to the roadside, slipped down into 
 her old position among the plum trees and re 
 sumed her vigil. 
 
 Tom had gone but a short distance when, turn 
 ing a sharp bend where the trail swerved in order 
 to take advantage of a capacious "draw," he 
 was suddenly confronted by the outlaw, Frank 
 
 [323]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 LaDue, with a revolver handily in play, who 
 seemed to have been awaiting his nearer approach. 
 
 " Oh, it s you, is it, Frank? " said Tom, pleas 
 antly. 
 
 "You are right there, pard, it s me," said La- 
 Due, significantly. 
 
 "You have been causing your friends some 
 uneasiness by your long-continued absence," said 
 Tom, smilingly, but with a watchful eye. 
 
 "Specially you, I presume?" asked LaDue, 
 with an impious grin. 
 
 "Especially me," acquiesced Tom, imperturb- 
 ably. 
 
 Well, here I am," boasted LaDue, grandil 
 oquently. "Now, what are you goin to do about 
 it? You don t seem to be makin no great shakes 
 o palaverin over the prodigal weepin on my 
 neck and killin the fatted calf. Maybe I m dull, 
 but I sure don t read the signs that way." 
 
 "If I had read some signs as easily as you 
 read these, Frank, one who is gone might even 
 now be here in my place before you to teach a 
 dastardly coward how to fight fair." Tom s 
 voice vibrated with passionate scorn. 
 
 " Look a-here, Tom Burrington, I don t stand 
 for no more callin names. D ye understand? 
 
 [324]
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 You Ve trailed me long enough and I Ve turned. 
 This ain t been none o your business from the 
 start, but you insisted on gettin into the round 
 up without permit, so now you 11 have to stand 
 for your share of the shift. Nobody asked for 
 your interference, damn you, Burrington! What 
 is it to you what has it ever been to you, I d 
 like to know a private quarrel I had with my 
 own enemy? Do you think you re God A mighty 
 that you must have a hand in workin over the 
 ethics o this here cattle country? Well, you ain t. 
 If it had n t been for you and your everlastin 
 bigotry, I would n t be sneakin round the outer 
 edges o civilization now and eatin snakes and 
 toads, for all it d matter to you. Fortunately 
 my diet does n t depend upon you or your move 
 ments. I have a friend or two yet who 11 stick 
 to me long after the coyotes are pickin your 
 bones for I am goin to kill you, Tom Bur 
 rington, I m goin to shoot you just as I d shoot 
 a pesky rattler that disputed my right o way. 
 No, don t move your hand that way, damn you, 
 Tom. You ain t got no more use for a gun than 
 a poor little homesick doggie has. Yes, I killed 
 Carroll, I ain t any call to lie about it specially 
 to you. I m glad I killed him. I d do it again 
 
 [325]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 if I could. I only wish I d done it sooner. I 
 wish I d killed him the night o the blizzard like 
 I started out to do. You d found him with a 
 hullet through his head if I d only been sure o 
 finding him in the storm. And I wish you d a 
 been killed outright when your saddle broke at 
 the ropin . I only planned your defeat because 
 you were gettin a little too high-headed for your 
 own good, so to speak, and thought you were big 
 enough to carry those land-grabbers on your own 
 shoulders; but it d a saved a heap o trouble 
 since if you d never got your breath again. 
 You Ve been so smart ever since that you thought 
 you could overturn and reconstruct the whole 
 moral plan o the cow lands. But you can t. 
 It s a bigger proposition than tyin a steer with 
 the women lookin on and clappin their fool 
 hands. This ain t a woman s country, my friend. 
 You Ve got to go it alone. I have only one re 
 gret. As I said, this ain t no woman s country. 
 If I d only killed that miserable girl before she 
 got away, I would n t ask for anything more. I 
 tried to it ain t my fault that I did n t hell!" 
 This exclamation was called forth by Tom s 
 unexpected move. Maddened to desperation by 
 this last, this venomous attack upon Josephine, 
 
 [326]
 
 " The young ranchman dealt death fairly and truly to the slayer 
 of his friend "
 
 THE END OF THE CHASE 
 
 he had suddenly dodged down behind his 
 horse s head and slipped from the saddle, 
 dragging his revolver from its holster during his 
 sliding transit to the ground. Almost simul 
 taneously with his violent outcry, LaDue fired, 
 but he was disconcerted by the unexpectedness 
 of Tom s action and missed. Before he could 
 fire a second time, Tom s arm shot out in front 
 of his horse, and the young ranchman dealt 
 death fairly and truly to the slayer of his friend 
 so that he fell from his saddle without a word and 
 lay in a still bunch upon the road, his boots trail 
 ing in the dust of the vanishing cattle trails. 
 
 "It had to be," whispered Tom, his face set in 
 lines of great and stern sadness. "It was his life 
 or mine." 
 
 "It is well," said a soft, even voice at his elbow. 
 "I should have done it, but it is well. I told you 
 that he had murder in his heart." 
 
 "Rosebud! I thought you had gone home!" 
 
 "I am going now," she said, and glided away 
 straight into the heart of the trackless and dark 
 ening wilderness. 
 
 [327]
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 rpHERE were two things in the letter Rosebud 
 wrote soon after this that arrested Jo 
 sephine s aimless drifting along in the present 
 and called her back from her unprofitable dwell 
 ing in retrospection. The first thing of moment 
 was this : 
 
 "And now that Frank LaDue is dead, Henry 
 Hoffman safe for probably a twenty years im 
 prisonment, and the island no longer a runway 
 for stolen cattle, thanks to Bear Heart and his 
 band of young men who have brought many dark 
 transactions to light and have made it impossible 
 that any future unlawful proceedings find a 
 friendly cover there, there is peace along the 
 river, and decent people can walk out in daylight 
 once more without being in dread of what may 
 be lurking behind every tree in the valley that 
 surrounds them or every turn in the road that lies 
 before them. Ruffianism is dead in Kemah, Jo 
 sephine. It died with the arch-fiend, Frank La- 
 Due." 
 
 [328]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 This word from Rosebud caused all fear for 
 her own life, should she ever again listen to the 
 lure of the West, to fall away from her, and the 
 lifting of the blanket horror was an unspeakable 
 relief to her, even though she might never return 
 to take advantage of the freer air that would 
 grant her life without hampering and dread con 
 ditions. It was a good word. Rosebud went on : 
 
 "He made a cloak, Josephine, of the unfriendly 
 feeling in the cattle lands toward homesteading, 
 entertained by the stock-raisers in general, and 
 which even amounted to bitter animosity in some 
 quarters, but he was not in league with them at 
 all. They would not stoop to make a tool of 
 such a brutal and treacherous villain as Frank 
 LaDue ; but he assumed the cloak of their resent 
 ment to hide his baser designs in running you out 
 of the country, and I think he trusted too much 
 in the strength of this resentment, Josephine. I 
 think that he thought it was so great and so bit 
 ter as to condone his fault and to win for him 
 exemption from prosecution, even if his guilt 
 was discovered; especially, since he had relieved 
 them of all trouble and had spared them blood- 
 guiltiness. But he miscalculated and was led 
 far astray. There was even talk of lynch law, Jo- 
 
 [329]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 sephine. The stockmen had absolutely nothing 
 to do with Jack s murder." 
 
 But it was what followed in Rosebud s letter 
 that roused her fighting Southern spirit from its 
 lethargy and sent her to repacking her trunks in 
 the old purposeful way: 
 
 "It is true, however, that they were opposed 
 to your settling west of the river. By what 
 right were they so insolently opposed? But 
 they were and are. Yet it is a free country, and 
 there is room for all. They make of themselves 
 an allied band for present gain and selfish per 
 sonal aggrandizement and rule by force and ar 
 rogance. It is as lawless in principle as when 
 lesser men band together to steal horses or cattle. 
 If you will come back, Josephine, I will gladly 
 come to you as I promised, and we, you and I, 
 just two girls, will fight it out together. Your 
 land is too fair to loose, too rich in promise, and 
 to stay away that is just what they want you 
 to do, with the exception, perhaps, of Tom Bur- 
 rington of the Seven-up. We will force these 
 insolent men to acknowledge the justness of our 
 position and wrest our right from the greed that 
 would withhold it." 
 
 The Indian girl had touched the right chord. 
 
 [330]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Gone forever were the dreamy dwelling in the 
 past, the indecision of the present, and the shrink 
 ing dread of the future. It was living again to 
 feel the blood of a fighting ancestry pounding 
 through her veins once more. Jack had died for 
 a principle. He had vindicated it with his blood. 
 Should it count for naught? Should she let the 
 land for which he had given his life slip away 
 from her control because she, the last of the Car- 
 rolls, lacked the courage and resolution, the high 
 faith and lofty pride to uphold the standard of 
 right against might which had fallen from Jack s 
 hands only when he had bought its immortality 
 with his life s blood? Must the red-stained ban 
 ner be let to trail in the dust of cowardice and 
 inaction for want of a consecrated standard- 
 bearer, or left for others to bear it again into the 
 heart of the contemptuous and overbearing cattle 
 lands ? No, no ! Not when it was Jack who had 
 been the sacrifice. She could and would rise to 
 the greatness of the trust. She not only should 
 keep his land from slipping back into the general 
 description of unoccupied government lands and 
 thereby hold it beyond the reach of hovering land 
 hawks, but she should also snatch her own claim 
 from their talons. These two things she should 
 
 [331]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 do if her own life paid the price. She hated her 
 self for her former shrinking, cowardly inaction, 
 and indecision. In August, the six months of 
 grace given her before she must go to live upon 
 her own claim would be expired. It was high 
 time she was about the business of having her 
 house built and preparations under way for the 
 care and comfort during the long siege of the 
 coming Winter of her stock, of herself, and of 
 Rosebud. So she wrote to Rosebud without the 
 loss of a day and asked her to open the Broken 
 Key and to meet her at Velpen upon a certain 
 day in August with Long Chase. She also wrote 
 a brief note to Tom Burrington, thanking him 
 again for his kindly forethought and care, and 
 asking him to return the Broken Key stock by 
 a certain day in August, on which date Rosebud 
 would take up her residence at the Broken Key 
 in readiness for her, Josephine s return. These 
 two letters written and despatched, Josephine 
 went quietly about the task of packing her trunks 
 for her second flitting. 
 
 It was on a cool, sunny, bracing day in early 
 August that Ole Johnson, with neighborly accom 
 modation and with infinite patience and labor, 
 crossed the river with his wagon and heavy team 
 
 [332]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 to move the household effects from the log cabin 
 of the Broken Key to the tiny frame shanty that 
 had suddenly sprung into existence on the quar 
 ter north. The loaded wagon was creaking and 
 swaying along the level grassy way at the foot 
 of the hills, with the big blonde Norwegian 
 trudging by the side, when Louis Burrington, on 
 horseback, cantered up to the door of the disman 
 tled cabin and emitted a " Hello, the house!" 
 with much strength of youthful lungs and a re 
 sultant joyous shrillness of intonation. It was 
 not his first visit by any means, not understand 
 ing, and therefore wisely not accepting, the new 
 status of strained civility between the once so fa 
 miliar houses of the Seven-up and the Broken 
 Key. 
 
 Josephine came to the door with a broom in her 
 hand and with her pretty hair tucked into a dust 
 cap. 
 
 "We are too busy for a social chat, chum," she 
 said, smiling a welcome, "but light and come in 
 and oversee this tremendous affair of moving, 
 won t you? By and by, you may saddle and 
 bridle Long Chase for me and escort Rosebud 
 and me to our new domicile, and I will make 
 you a cup of tea and you will be the first guest 
 
 [333]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 to receive hospitality dispensed from the new 
 abode. Will you like that?" 
 
 "Good for you, Josephine," cried the boy, 
 jumping from his horse and accepting her fur 
 ther invitation with alacrity. He followed her 
 to the house and would have sat down upon the 
 door step but, bethinking himself, flushed hotly 
 and choked up, while tears swam in his blue eyes. 
 He sat down on an empty box, hurriedly. Jo 
 sephine, too, shuddered a little, but she said very 
 gently: 
 
 "Never mind, honey, we won t think of it any 
 more, you and I. Tell me, what have you been 
 doing since I saw you last? " 
 
 Rosebud, who would not leave Josephine alone 
 on this last day, now took advantage of the boy s 
 presence to strike across the country on the trail 
 of the slowly moving wagon, so that she might 
 be on hand to help with the unloading and per 
 haps be in time to give the house a little home 
 touch here and there before Josephine came. 
 Two Hawks had put forth no objection to his 
 step-daughter s change of residence. He was 
 fond of her in his lazy, uninitiative way, but she 
 tried him sorely because of her pride and her 
 strange unrest. He was therefore frankly re- 
 
 [334]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 lieved and enjoyed to the uttermost the respite 
 from the discontent and the unflagging persua 
 sions to a cleaner, more ambitious life with which, 
 in truth, he had been beset since the day he had 
 married the mother of this strange, dreamy, pas 
 sionate creature ; but if she had troubled his easy 
 and phlegmatic nature in those earlier days, he 
 counted it as of little worth as compared with the 
 later time when these young and untried gentle 
 folks had come out of the South to let loose the 
 devil of reform in his tepee. So Two Hawks 
 was weakly glad. As for Bear Heart, Bear 
 Heart of the unconquerable soul, his man hunt 
 ended, he went back to the wide plains, drew his 
 blanket about him, and bided his time. 
 
 "It would have been a lot easier for you to 
 have gotten a wagon from the Seven-up than 
 for Ole Johnson to have to cross his on that 
 clumsy boat," said Louis, judicially. 
 
 "You are right," replied Josephine, laying 
 aside her dust cap and ruffling up her bright hair 
 with her hands. 
 
 "Why didn t you?" demanded Louis, discon 
 tentedly. 
 
 "Oh, because Mr. Johnson is my nearest neigh 
 bor and he was good enough to offer his services," 
 
 [335]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 explained Josephine, tranquilly. "Hadn t you 
 better go for my horse now?" 
 
 But Louis did not know that he was treading 
 upon dangerous ground and blurted out in sur 
 prise : 
 
 "Why, you are not half ready, Josephine! 
 You can t ride in those calico duds, you know. 
 I 11 have Long Chase here in a jiffy when you 
 are ready to lock up. Tom d have offered his 
 services quick enough, too, only I think mind, 
 it s only a think, Josephine but I think that 
 Tom thinks you re mad at him. He never said 
 anything," continued the boy, loyally, "I just 
 think. Gee ! If our friend Ole had had to depend 
 on the boat Tom had when he went after Ole s 
 fast horse, I guess he would n t be so flush scat 
 tering favors around so free and easy," he ended, 
 grumblingly. 
 
 "What boat are you talking about?" de 
 manded Josephine, stopping short on her way 
 to change the "calico duds" to which the boy had 
 put forth such lofty objection. "What kind of 
 a boat did your brother use?" 
 
 "A leaky old tub so full of holes that it sank 
 when Tom got to the middle of the river," ex 
 plained Louis, with unction. 
 
 Isse]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 "What did he do then?" 
 
 " Swam, of course. Did n t Rosebud tell you 
 about it? Come to think of it, though, I guess 
 she did n t know, herself, what a time Tom had. 
 She helped him find the boat, but she d gone 
 back when Tom s troubles began. Gee ! Tom s a 
 strong swimmer ! I 11 bet anybody but him d 
 have drowned two or three times over before he 
 got across. But, gee! That was easy compared 
 with what came afterl" 
 
 Well, what did come after? " demanded Jo 
 sephine, with some impatience. 
 
 "Why, the current was so strong, he just 
 drifted and drifted down the river, and when he 
 finally did manage to get across what do you 
 suppose?" He paused, impressively. "Well, 
 sir, he had gone past the Gap, and there was n t 
 any place to crawl out at, cause there were just 
 bare bluffs that stuck right down into the water. 
 Now what do you think of that? So he just let 
 himself float along till he came to Ole s. But 
 he scratched his hands all up till they bled a lot 
 trying to get out, I guess. Gee I He was a sight 
 when he came after mother." 
 
 That is why he was barefoot, I suppose," she 
 said, musingly. " I wondered about it afterward." 
 
 [337]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "You see, he said he kicked off his shoes before 
 ever he got into the boat cause he knew he d 
 have to swim for it sooner or later. I wish I 
 was as brave as Tom," he added, ingenuously. 
 
 "I think that it was very foolhardy of him to 
 take such a serious risk, knowing as he did, that 
 his boat was absolutely untrustworthy," said Jo 
 sephine, gravely. 
 
 "Well, it was for you, you know," argued 
 Louis. "I can t much blame him, I must say. 
 A fellow d be a chump who would n t do a lot 
 more than that for you, Josephine," he said, af 
 fectionately. 
 
 "Thank you, dear boy," said Josephine, 
 quietly, and slipped into the inner room. Was 
 the whole world in a conspiracy to force her to 
 believe that Tom had been true? First there was 
 Rosebud, drawing a strict line, and unwaveringly 
 adhering to it, between the desire of the stock- 
 raisers and the deed of the ruffian, LaDue. If 
 it was true that Jack s murder had been without 
 the consent, the knowledge, or even the acquies 
 cence of the cattlemen, then had she indeed mis 
 judged her brother s friend, and the attitude of 
 accuser that she had assumed toward him could 
 have no justification in what had seemed like 
 
 [338]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 the working out of the will of the master mind 
 by the hand of an inferior. If, as Rosebud be 
 lieved, LaDue had not even the excuse of doing 
 as he had done with the fanatical idea that he was 
 acting with the tacit consent of the ranchmen, but 
 had made use of their disaffection as a cloak to 
 hide his own infamy, hoping then to curry favor 
 with which to ward off prosecution, then, indeed, 
 how could her brother s friend have foreseen the 
 terrible tragedy? There was Rosebud, too, with 
 a few telling words, making the inestimable part 
 Tom had played in obtaining Henry s confes 
 sion and his incomparable heroism in going forth 
 to meet and arrest, alone, a desperate outlaw at 
 bay, afterwards slain in self-defence, stand out 
 in the light of their real greatness. And now here 
 was Louis, in his innocent prattle, telling of yet 
 other great things that had been done for her by 
 a cattleman, for her who was a homesteader. 
 Had her quick woman s suspicion been ignoble, 
 after all? When, dressed for riding, she re 
 turned to the boy, she asked straightforwardly: 
 
 "Why did not Mr. Burrington tell me about 
 these things, Louis?" 
 
 " Men don t brag, Josephine," replied Louis, 
 airily. "Just the same," he added, plaintively, 
 
 [339]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 " I do wish I had n t promised not to tell you 
 about the gulch. My telling would n t so much 
 matter. I m not a man yet. But Tom s so 
 squeamish about some things. However, I prom 
 ised, and so you need n t ask me to tell because 
 I am not going to. Are you all ready, Jo 
 sephine?" 
 
 It was late Fall before she saw Tom Burring- 
 ton. He came riding over to the new homestead 
 one still day in November when the haze of In 
 dian Summer rested lightly and dreamily over 
 the gaunt outlines of stripped wood and hill and 
 plain. 
 
 " I could n t bear it any longer," he told her, 
 gravely, as his big figure crossed the threshold 
 of the tiny house where she and Rosebud were 
 so intrepidly working out the details of their 
 resolution. Unlike the cabin of the Broken Key, 
 this house was built away from the timbered dis 
 trict, up on the grass lands just under the hills, 
 and commanded a far outlook down the valley. 
 Josephine had a dread of the woods of late, and 
 so had builded in the open. 
 
 "Rosebud is out with the cattle," said Jose 
 phine, nervously. "She will be sorry to miss you." 
 
 "I did not come to see Rosebud. I came to 
 
 [340]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 see you, Josephine," said Tom, unequivocally. 
 He would not sit down, but stood straight and 
 determined before her. 
 
 "Before you say anything," began Josephine, 
 earnestly, "I want to ask you something. You 
 must tell me the truth this time, Mr. Burrington. 
 Nothing but the truth will count now. You did 
 not shoot at a wolf that time in the gulch. Tell 
 me, what did you shoot at?" She lifted her great, 
 serious, brown eyes to him, questioningly. 
 
 "I shot at a man, Josephine," he responded, 
 simply. 
 
 Josephine began to tremble violently, uncon 
 trollably. She had grown very pale. She had 
 been trying hard to prepare herself for this reve 
 lation ever since Louis innocent half-betrayal 
 on that day when he had ridden over to help her 
 and Rosebud move; but this indisputable prov 
 ing of the brutal truth found and left her for the 
 moment completely unnerved. She had been so 
 light-hearted that evening riding down into the 
 gulch. And now to think what had lurked for 
 her in that shadowed little washout up on the 
 western wall ! She had been so unconscious of any 
 hostile presence, and new to think what might 
 have been! She shivered again and again. 
 
 [341]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 "Who was the man?" she asked, tremulously. 
 
 "Henry Hoffman." 
 
 "Did you know him? * 
 
 "Not then. I found out for sure afterwards. 
 Who told you, Josephine?" 
 
 "Never mind that now. No one told me. I 
 have been thinking, that is all. And you think 
 he was going to kill me?" she asked with an ef 
 fort, though she was fast regaining self-control. 
 
 "I thought so yes. He told me afterwards, 
 in his confession, that he never could have done 
 it. Sometimes, I believe that he spoke the truth, 
 Josephine, and that he never could have done it." 
 
 "Did Jack know?" 
 
 "Yes, I told him. He did not believe it." 
 
 "Then you did not keep anything back from 
 my brother he knew everything?" 
 
 "I think he knew everything that I knew." 
 
 "And yet he stayed?" 
 
 "And yet he stayed." 
 
 "I wish you had told me, Mr. Burrington," 
 said Josephine, wistfully. " If you had told me, 
 Jack might be here to-day." 
 
 "It was so horrible, Josephine," he said, "and 
 we could not be sure. It was Jack s wish as 
 well as mine that you be not told." 
 
 [342]
 
 THE HOMESTEADER 
 
 Never again was this subject of what might 
 have been mentioned between these two. Many 
 things might have been different had they fore 
 seen or had they had a better understanding then 
 of some signs that were so easy to read after 
 wards; but they had not foreseen and they had 
 not understood, so they tried to forget. 
 
 She held out her hand. 
 
 Will you forgive me? " she asked, simply. " I 
 was altogether wrong. Let us be friends again." 
 
 "Why, Josephine," he stammered, his face 
 flushing, suddenly, "why, Josephine, I I 
 forgive you? Why, I love you. Didn t you 
 know that? I came to tell you. Look at me, 
 dear, and tell me that you love me and that you 
 will come to me. Do, dear." 
 
 She did look up, all her heart in her honest 
 eyes. 
 
 "I do love you, Tom, but " she began, when 
 Tom kissed her and the pressure of his lips upon 
 hers silenced what she would have said further. 
 His pulses were leaping, his eyes shone. 
 
 "You must leave this lonely shack at once 
 to-morrow or next day next week at the 
 very latest," he whispered, holding her close, "and 
 come to the Seven-up with me. We are all ready 
 
 [343]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 for you there oh, Josephine, Josephine, I love 
 you so! " 
 
 "You must let me finish what I started to tell 
 you a moment ago," said Josephine, resolutely. 
 
 "Very well," said Tom, releasing her and fold 
 ing his arms as if that were the only way he could 
 trust himself to keep them to himself. "Proceed. 
 What were you going to say when I interrupted 
 you so rudely?" 
 
 "Jack," she continued, steadily, "had set his 
 heart on our possessing this tract of bottom land 
 on the river. I shall not disappoint him. We 
 dreamed many dreams together, Jack and I. He 
 did his share toward bringing about their ful 
 filment. I have mine yet to do. A little while 
 ago, I shrank from my part. It is different now. 
 I shall live on my land as Jack lived on his until 
 it is mine. I shall have earned it twice over, I 
 think. I think that no one can find fault with 
 me and call me a land-grabber when I bring 
 it to you. We paid for it with blood. Let no 
 one think to cheat me out of what has been so 
 dearly bought." 
 
 "No one would wish to do that, Josephine. 
 The stock-raisers are horror-stricken over 
 
 [344]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 what happened. We have done some grumbling, 
 it is true, in regard to homesteaders in general, 
 for settlement means that we can no longer let 
 our large herds roam where they will; it means 
 that we will no longer have thousands of acres 
 of free pasture; it means that we will have to 
 give up the vocation that we love so well. But 
 however much the stock-raisers have disliked to 
 see the homesteaders come into the country, they 
 have never thought of taking arbitrary means 
 to keep them out. The feeling against home 
 steaders that exists in the cattle country had 
 nothing to do with what happened. No one 
 would wish to deprive you of your homestead, 
 Josephine, but you cannot live here alone. You 
 must marry me now. Let the old claim go. You 
 have Jack s that is enough. TsTo, Josephine, 
 I cannot consent to your staying here alone," he 
 said, with a new ring of authority in his voice. 
 
 "I am not alone," she answered, with unchang 
 ing purpose, "and Rosebud is faithful." 
 
 "At least you will commute in eight months?" 
 he urged, realizing the utter futility of further 
 effort to turn her from her inflexible purpose. 
 
 "Let us not cross the bridge until we get to 
 it," she said, demurely, with which unsatisfactory 
 
 [345]
 
 THE HOMESTEADERS 
 
 statement he was forced to be content for the time 
 being. 
 
 "Just two girls alone," protested Tom, return 
 ing to his original plaint, unreconciled. "I can 
 not bear to think of it." 
 
 "You will come to see us sometimes, won t you, 
 Tom? " she asked smiling. 
 
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