“Nobody can conceive of a better method of expressing an idea than that
modelled after the language of the Bible,” was the ready retort. “If I
were as pronounced an agnostic as our Captain pretends to be, which I am
not, I’d read my Bible daily, if for no other reason than to improve
my vocabulary. Read it, Hal; study its precepts; imitate its language;
revere its antiquity; emulate the example of its good men; shun the sins
of its Davids and Solomons; fill your mind with the wisdom of its Isaiahs
and Deborahs; and, above all, obey its Ten Commandments and follow the
teachings of the Sermon on the Mount and the Golden Rule.”
“I’ll see spooks to-night!” cried Jean.
* * * * *
As these chronicles will have no further dealings with the Mormon
refugee, it is well to add, in closing the incident, that twenty years
after the episode had passed and was almost forgotten, some of the
members of the long disbanded Ranger train, who were passing through
eastern Oregon, on their way to the mines of northern Idaho, found
her keeping a “Travellers’ Rest” in the bunchgrass country, where, as
cook, chambermaid, waiter, and general scullion, she was supporting her
repentant consort, who dutifully received the cash given by her guests in
exchange for such food for man and beast as her unique hostelry afforded.
XXV
_JEAN LOSES HER WAY_
A stanch but frail-looking ferry-boat waited to carry the Ranger train
across Green River.
Jean, who, after her mother’s death, had developed a strong propensity
for daily hours of solitude, looked longingly at the desolate scenery
while her father’s train was awaiting its turn at the ferry, and, noting
the great table-rock that still overlooks the river, climbed unaided to
its top, where she became so deeply absorbed in contemplating the wild,
weird character of the scenery about her that she did not see that the
afternoon was waning, until the sun was down.
“The Psalmist wondered at the mystery of the heavens, but I marvel at
the mysteries of earth,” she said. “Tell me, ye rugged rocks, and you,
ye waters of the desert, the secret of existence, if you can. Am I alone
with Thee, O God? Or are these rough-ribbed rocks, like me, instinct with
life?”
“You’d better hurry, young lady, or you’ll miss the last trip of the
ferry-boat for the night,” cried a voice that seemed to come from beneath
her feet. Thoroughly frightened, she hastened to retrace her steps. How
she regained the river-bank she could never recollect; but when she stood
panting at the water’s edge, and beheld through the gloaming the last
of her father’s wagons ascending the opposite steep, it was past the
twilight hour, and one by one the stars came out amid the circling blue
of the bending sky. The roar of the waters was deafening.
“Can I do anything for you, miss?”
It was the same voice that had reached her from beneath the rock. She
looked up and beheld a tall, sunburned young man, bowing and lifting a
broad sombrero, who seemed as much embarrassed over the novel situation
as herself.
“I am glad to see the face of a white man, sir. I was frightened half out
of my senses till I saw you.”
“And are you not frightened now?”
“Yes, a little bit. There are too many Indians stalking about to allow me
to feel exactly comfortable. But I shall rely upon you for protection,
sir.”
“I suppose other trains will be along presently. They will encamp on this
side of the river for the night, so you will have company.”
“We are away ahead of the other trains, sir. We took a cut-off in the
mountains.”
“But you are afraid of the Indians?”
“No, sir; not now, because—” She stopped as she looked into his kindly
face and caught the amused gleam of a pair of piercing eyes.
“Because—why?”
“Because you talk and act like a gentleman, sir. I am not afraid of a
gentleman.” She paused again, surprised at her own composure. Her eyes
fell, and a deep flush overspread her features, as the thought flashed
through her mind that she was utterly in the power of this stranger.
“Can you ferry me across the river to-night, sir? My daddie will pay you
well for your trouble.”
“I could not attempt it. We never risk running the ferry after sundown.
Guess we can make you comfortable on this side till morning.”
“But there is no house where I can stop, and I haven’t any money. But
that’s nothing new for girls. They never have money.”
“Oh, yes, they do, often. In the old country, where I came from, girls
often inherit money; and some of them own very large estates.”
“But only by courtesy, sir.”
He smiled at her frank simplicity. “You are sure of a safe night’s
lodging and a speedy return to the custody of the man you call daddie.
What ever possessed you to bestow upon him such a name?”
“It was merely a notion, and is peculiar to myself in our family. But,
sir, what ever shall I do? Daddie will be frightened out of his wits; and
so will Mame and Marjorie and Hal!” and Jean began to weep convulsively.
“There, there, don’t cry! There is nothing to be afraid of. I have a home
in the bank yonder. It isn’t a palace,—only a cave, or dugout, in the
side of the rock,—but it is clean and dry and warm. You’ll be as securely
protected there as in your father’s camp. I could do no better, under the
circumstances, for my mother or my Queen.”
“Are you English, sir?”
“I am proud to answer, Yes.”
“You don’t look like the subject of a woman ruler.”
“Why not?”
“Because you seem like a sovereign in your own right.”
“So I am, in America.”
“I mean to be a sovereign American, myself, some day.”
He laughed and shook his head.
“I hope you are never going to become one of those discontented women
whom I’ve heard of in America, who are engaged in a perpetual quarrel
with their Creator because they were not born men.”
“Have you seen such women in America, sir?”
“No; but I have read some newspapers that made the charge.”
“Do you believe everything that you read in the papers? Daddie don’t.”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“God understands what He is about when He creates a girl, sir; and God
didn’t create us to be the vassals of anybody. All we ask is a chance to
do our best in everything, ourselves being the judges as to what that
best shall be.”
“How old are you?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“You act with the charm of a child, but you talk like a grown-up woman.
Are all the girls of your family equally clever?”
“God never made two trees, or even two leaves of a tree, exactly alike.
You couldn’t expect two persons to be alike.”
The stranger, conscious of a peculiar interest in this new and original
character, felt a tumultuous sensation in the region of his heart.
“I am hungry, sir. But as I haven’t any money, I must ask you to trust me
till to-morrow.”
He was leading her toward his dugout as they talked, or rather as he
listened. He had a school-day remembrance of a pair of brown eyes like
Jean’s. He had worshipped those eyes from a distance, for their possessor
was a nobleman’s daughter with whom he had never exchanged sentiments,
and she had never bestowed a thought upon him. And here was this artless,
untaught, but wonderfully intelligent maiden, in a travel-soiled blue
calico dress, and sunbonnet to match, who seemed to him possessed of
potentialities so far in advance of any promise ever given by the object
of his earlier dreams that he spurned the thought of comparing the two as
he dwelt upon her words. His heart continued its wild tattoo, and he felt
as if walking on air.
“Here! This way, Siwash,” he called to his Indian servant, as he paused
in front of his lodgings and tendered her a seat outside. “As you see, I
have company. Get up the very best meal the place affords. This guest and
I are to dine together.”
The Indian grunted assent; and the simple meal of pemmican, black coffee,
army biscuit, and baked beans fresh from the covering of hot ashes in
which they had been smothered till done to a turn, which formed the
ferryman’s usual bill of fare, was supplemented by a dessert of tea-cakes
and preserved ginger, the whole arranged on a small table covered with a
white oilcloth and furnished with tin dishes and steel cutlery.
“I trust you will excuse the accompaniments of a higher civilization,
little miss. You will find the fare plain but palatable.”
“It is fine,” cried Jean, as she ate with the zest that a life in the
open air alone can give. “Nobody need ask for better.”
“Will you favor me with your past history?” asked her host, after the
repast was finished.
“There isn’t much to tell, sir. My daddie got the farthest West fever
a good while ago; but he never sold out his farm and sawmill till last
March. Then he got ready, and we started across the continent. God
saw that the journey was too hard for my dear mother, so He took her
to heaven from the Black Hills. And now, sir, will you tell me about
yourself? Were you born in London?”
“Why do you think I was born in London?”
“Because you remind me of my great-grandmother. She was born in London.
We call her Grannie.”
The Indian servant had heaped some fagots of sagewood upon the hearth,
filling the little room with a pungent and not unpleasant odor, and
diffusing a delightful warmth and glow through the air, to which the
light of a pair of candles gave an eerie charm.
“To be plain with you, I grew weary of life at college, so I ran away and
went to sea. I was a headstrong boy, and gave my mother a whole lot of
trouble.”
He ceased speaking and bowed his head upon his hands, his elbows upon
the table. Jean saw that his fingers were long and shapely, his head was
large and well-balanced, and his abundant hair was brown and bright and
slightly curled.
“Were you never sorry, sir?”
“Having put my hand to the plough, or rather helm, I couldn’t afford to
turn back—or at least I thought I couldn’t—till I had made my fortune.”
“Did you make your fortune, sir?”
“Not till—” He checked the word that was in his heart. “I first went to
Montreal, where I fell in with a company of Hudson Bay traders, with
whom I went to the Great Northern Lakes. I soon made, and lost, several
fortunes. I have always intended to return to my mother, but the years
have come and gone; and now, at the age of twenty-four, you find me, as
you see, with another fortune to make. But it seems an uphill struggle.”
“Do you write regularly to your mother, sir?”
“I am sorry to be compelled to answer no; but I promise you to do better
hereafter. And now, as the evening wanes, and I must leave you to the
privileges of my castle for the night, will you tell me your name?”
“Certainly. It is Ranger,—Jean Robinson Ranger. And you are Mr.—?”
“Ashleigh; Ashton Ashleigh, of Ashton Place, London, England.”
“May I write to your mother from my Oregon home, when I get there, and
tell her all I know about you?”
“Isn’t that an odd request, Miss Ranger?”
Jean blushed to the tips of her ears.
“Nobody ever called me Miss Ranger before,” she said, to hide her
confusion. “My sister Mary is the Miss Ranger of our family. Yes, I did
make an unusual request; but I thought of your mother pining for news of
her son, and fancied she might be glad to hear about him, even from a
stranger. But I see that it would hardly be proper for me to write; so
please do it yourself.”
“Write to her by all means, Miss Ranger, as I assure you I surely will.
And now,” he added, rising, “I hear your Indian maid tapping outside,
and it is time to say good-night. I trust you will sleep well and have
pleasant dreams.”
“Good-night, Mr. Ashleigh. I thank you ever so much for all your
kindness.”
XXVI
_LE-LE, THE INDIAN GIRL_
“Nika klosh cloochman!” clucked the Indian girl.
Jean looked at her inquiringly.
“Nika wake cumtux Siwah wa-wa?” asked the dusky maiden, offering her hand.
“She says she is a good Indian girl, and asks if you understand her,”
said Siwash, who was leisurely putting the room to rights. “She’s my
little sister; heap good. Ugh! Nika speak jargon?”
“No, Siwash.”
But the maiden’s manner, though coy, was assuring, and Jean clasped her
hand eagerly. She was a graceful, nimble, and pretty creature; and Jean
thought with a sigh of regret of the ugly transformation awaiting her
under the cares and burdens of maturity and maternity, when, no longer
like “the wild gazelle, with its nimble feet,” she would resemble other
elderly Indian women.
“What is your name, little girl?” she asked, as the maiden dropped
gracefully upon the hearth at her feet.
“Nika wake cumtux Boston wa-wa.”
“She says she doesn’t understand you,” grunted Siwash.
“Ah-to-ke-nika a-it sewar.”
“She says she has a good heart.”
“Why doesn’t she speak her name?”
The girl crouched low on the hearth and spread her shapely brown fingers
before the dying embers.
“Nika Le-Le. Nika caid.”
“She says her name is Le-Le, and she is a slave.”
“Your sister? and a slave?”
“I, too, was a slave,” said Siwash, “but I bought my freedom; and when
I get ten horses of my own, I will buy Le-Le’s. Could you help us? Your
father is good.”
“A good heart isn’t always accompanied by a full purse,” thought Jean.
“Who imagines that he has a property interest in your sister?” she asked
aloud.
“Our chief, Tyee of the Nootkas. He captured both of us in a war with our
people, the Seattles, many, many moons ago.”
“Ugh! Way-siyah! Whulge!” cried the girl, writhing like a captured eel.
“Mac-kam-mah-shish, copa-nika?”
“She asks if you cannot buy her.”
“Nowitka! Mika! Closh potlatch hy-u chickamin?”
“God knows I wish I could buy her,” said Jean.
No painter could have done justice to the varying expressions that
alternately lighted and clouded the Madonna-like face of Le-Le, as she
strained every nerve to comprehend the conversation. And when at last
every vestige of her awakening hope had settled into a conviction of
failure, she buried her face in her hands, and, bending forward, shook
her black abundant hair over her face and body to the floor, and uttered
a piercing wail, making Jean’s blood curdle.
“Le-Le’s cold!” cried the girl, crouching lower, till the embers singed
the ends of her straying locks.
“Don’t cry, Le-Le dear. You have come to spend the night with me,”
exclaimed Jean, seizing her gently by the arm.
“Nika wake cumtux,” cried the girl.
“You have come to sleep,” pointing to the bed in the corner.
“Nowitka! sleep! Nika cumtux.”
“She understands,” said Jean, rising and turning to Siwash. “Good-night.”
Jean was too full of contending emotions for sleep. She lingered long
upon the hearth. “I could stay here always,” she exclaimed in a low
voice, but loud enough to awaken the wary maiden from her slumbers on the
bed. But the mutual vocabulary of the twain did not admit of satisfactory
conversation, and the Indian girl sank back into unconsciousness.
As she sat there thinking, a pair of kindly eyes seemed watching her
every movement with a tender devotion that made her heart beat wildly. “I
wish I’d never teased or laughed at Mame,” she sighed, as the Reverend
Thomas Rogers flitted past her inner vision. “What is Life but Love? And
who and what is Love but God? And what is God but the wonderful Mystery
that is both Life and Love?”
Le-Le was away in dreamland, on the enchanted shores of Whulge,—the
Indian name for the magnificent body of water known to the civilized
world as Puget Sound.
“This is holy ground,” cried Jean, so softly to herself that none but
Cupid heard. “These lowly walls will be a sacred memory to me through all
the rest of my life. But life will mean worse than nothing to me without
my one hero. Must I go away to-morrow? Oh, my God! can I ever live again,
away from this lodge in the wilderness? Guard and guide my love, O Spirit
of Life, and shield him with Thine everlasting arms!”
Then, recollecting that she had not prayed, as usual, for the dear ones
in camp, she lovingly invoked divine protection for each and all, and was
soon in a sound, refreshing sleep.
* * * * *
“Yes, daddie dear, I’m safe and sound,” she cried, as she awoke to
consciousness, to find that the sun was shining and her father’s familiar
voice was calling her name in vigorous tones at the door.
Jean hastily donned her clothing, which, simple as it was, excited the
envy of Le-Le. “Mika klosh, cultus potlatch?” she said inquiringly, as
she fondled a blue-and-white neck-ribbon, which was not over clean.
“Cultus potlatch?” she asked again.
Although Jean was not certain as to the maiden’s meaning, she gave her
the ribbon and tried to think her excusable.
“Did you want it? Was that what you meant?”
“Nowitka! Cultus potlatch! Hy-as klosh!”
Jean tied the ribbon in a double bow-knot around the girl’s tawny
neck, and Le-Le, studying its effect in the little mirror on the wall,
exclaimed with a low chuckle, “Hi-yu klosh!”
* * * * *
“Oh, daddie darling,” exclaimed Jean, opening the door and springing to
his embrace, “did you think your historian was lost?”
“Yes; or worse!” replied her father, his anger displacing anxiety as
soon as he saw that she was safe. “This isn’t the first time you’ve lost
yourself on this trip. If it happens again, I’ll—”
“Don’t chide or punish the young lady, please!” interposed her obliging
host. “If you had seen how badly frightened and anxious she was last
night when she found herself left alone among strangers, you’d forgive
her without a word.”
“That’s so, daddie,” sobbed Jean.
“I surrendered my country-seat to her, and sent for this little Indian
maiden to keep her company.”
There was a touch of humor in his tone, augmented by a kindly smile,
which sent the hot blood into the truant’s face and made her heart beat
hard.
“Won’t you thank the gentleman, daddie? I might have been murdered but
for him.”
“Of course I thank the gentleman; but that doesn’t lessen your offence.
You deserve a good thrashing!”
“Which I’ll never get, daddie dear!” Then turning to her host, she added,
“Daddie never whips us, but he threatens us sometimes.”
“I think I owe you a little explanation, Captain,” said the host. “I
might have risked taking your daughter across the river in a rowboat last
night if it had been safe to trust her on the other side after dark.
There are Indians camped along the way; and, though they are peaceful
enough when they are compelled to be, they are not trustworthy under all
circumstances. But my servant, Siwash, has breakfast ready and waiting. I
can’t allow you to go on till you have broken your fast.”
The host conducted his guests into the dugout to a table loaded with
a bountiful supply of coffee, fish, venison, hot biscuit, beans, and
wapatoes,—the last two dishes being deftly exhumed from the depths of a
bed of ashes, where they had been cooked to perfection during the night.
“Your servant is an artist in his business,” said the Captain, in praise
of the food.
“Yes, Captain. I found him a slave, and, seeing he was superior to most
of his class, I purchased him for what you would consider a trifle. Then,
as time wore on, I encouraged him to buy his freedom from me. He is now
trying to purchase his sister; but he finds it slow work, as her value
increases as she gets older and better able to dig camas and tan buffalo
hides.”
“It is awful to enslave the Indians!” cried Jean. “The Government ought
to stop it!”
“Slavery among the Indians is no worse than among the negroes,” said her
host, with an admiring smile.
“Women are not responsible for slavery, sir,” said Jean.
“But women are very ardent defenders of slavery wherever it exists, my
daughter,” added her father, gravely.
“That’s because they themselves are servants without wages, daddie.
Mother used to say that the worst slave-drivers she ever saw down South
were the overseers who were slaves themselves. Women are not angels, but
they are doing the best they can without political power.”
“I don’t know but you are right, Miss Ranger. Women ought to have power.
My sovereign is a woman, and we have no slavery in England.”
“Thank you for giving me the best of the argument, Mr. Ashleigh. But I
see that daddie is impatient, and we must be going.”
“I hope you’ll pardon me for referring to a proposition you made last
evening, although you may have changed your mind, Miss Ranger. You
proposed writing to my mother. Will you do it?”
“Ask daddie.”
“I have no objection, of course,” said her father, “if it is understood
that I shall see the letters.”
“Of course,” responded Jean.
“May I have the pleasure of corresponding with your daughter, sir?”
“Yes, if I can see the correspondence.”
This was a greater concession than Jean had dared to hope for.
“Thank you, Captain Ranger. I am sure my mother will be delighted with
the young lady’s letters. She has awakened my dormant sense of filial
duty and inspired me with a determination to return to it. I shall not
neglect my mother again.”
“Come, Jean! It is high time we were off!”
As her father spoke, the possible termination to this peculiar meeting
gave him a heartache.
The last good-byes were spoken, and Captain Ranger heaved a sigh of
relief. “It will be out of sight, out of mind, with both of ’em in less
than a month!” he said, _sotto voce_.
XXVII
_JEAN TRANSFORMED_
“Where did you spend the night, Jean?” asked Mary.
“In heaven,” answered Jean, her cheeks glowing.
“Nonsense.”
“I mean exactly what I say, Mame. I lodged with an Indian princess, and
ate my meals with a member of the British aristocracy. The princess
couldn’t speak English, but her brother acted as interpreter, so we got
on all right. She is a slave of an old chief of the Seattles. I wish I
had the money; I’d buy her, and send her back to her people.”
“You might as well wish you owned the moon!”
“I own the earth,—as much of it as I need. Everybody does.”
“Then the most of us get cheated out of our patrimony,” laughed Sally
O’Dowd.
“I wish you could all have had a chance to look in on me and my princess
last night; we were as snug as two bugs in a rug. The crickets sang on
the hearth, just as they used to do of nights in the old home. The wind
roared like a storm at sea, and the rush of the river was grand. I can
shut my eyes and live it all over again.”
“You’ve gone stark mad!” laughed Hal.
“As mad as a March hare,” said Sally O’Dowd. “I know the symptoms from
sad experience.”
“You ought to be repenting in sackcloth and ashes. Why are you not
sorry?” asked Mary.
“Because in losing myself I found my fate.”
“Was it an Indian brave in a breech-cloth, with a bow and arrow, a
shirt-collar, and a pair of spurs?” asked Hal.
The roar of laughter that greeted this query made Jean fairly frantic.
“You’re worse than a lot of savages yourselves,” she cried. “If I had my
way, I’d go back to that lodge in the wilderness and stay there!”
Jean climbed into the wagon, buried her face in her hands, and abandoned
herself to a deep, absorbing reverie. “Oh, mother dear,” she said softly,
“if you could speak, you would sympathize with me, I am sure. If I only
had your love and sympathy, I wouldn’t care what anybody else might think
or say,—not even daddie. A new light and a new life have come into my
soul. Though a cruel fate may separate us through this life, we shall
always be one. But God made us for each other, and we shall surely meet
again.”
* * * * *
There was no longer any game to be had for the shooting; the little extra
food the company could purchase from the Indians, or from the few white
borderers at infrequent trading-posts, was held at almost prohibitive
prices. Dead cattle continued to abound at the roadside, filling the
air with an intolerable stench through every hour of the day and night.
No camping-spot could be found where the surroundings were not thus
polluted. Captain Ranger’s teams were giving out from sheer exhaustion,
induced by starvation rather than overwork, and two or more of his weaker
oxen were dying daily.
“I’ll break the horrible monotony of this diary,” said Jean at last, “or
I’ll die trying.” And for many days her jottings were confined to minute,
and sometimes glowing, descriptions of snow-capped mountains, bald hills,
tree-studded lesser heights, and vast and desolate wastes of sand and
sage and rocks. Sterile valleys, verdant banks of little rivers, mighty
streams, and running brooks received attention, in their turn, from her
pen, the whole making a record surprisingly akin to the journals kept
by Lewis and Clark, and left on record half a century earlier, of the
existence of which she had no knowledge. There was one theme of which her
father enforced daily mention,—a regular account of the scarcity of grass
and game and wood and water.