THE STRANGER'S LOVE STORY.
'Tana sat alone in her room a few hours later, and from the window watched
the form of Ora Harrison disappear along the street. The latter had been
sent by her father with some medicine for the paralyzed stranger, and the
girls had chatted of the school 'Tana was to attend, and of the schools
Ora had gone to and all the friends she remembered there, who now sent her
such kind letters. Ora told 'Tana of the lovely time she expected to have
when the steamers would come up from Bonner's Ferry to the Kootenai Lake
region, for then her friends were to come in the summers, and the warm
months were to be like holidays.
All this girlish frankness, all the cheery friendship of the doctor's
family filled 'Tana with a wild unrest against herself--against the
world.
"It would be easy to be good if a person lived like that always," she
thought, "in a nice home, with a mother to kiss me and a father I was not
ashamed of. I felt stupid when they talked to me. I could only think how
happy they were, and that they did not seem to know it. And Ora was sweet
and sorry for me because my parents were dead. Huh!" she grunted,
disdainfully, in the Indian fashion peculiar to her at times. "If she knew
how I felt about it she'd hate me, I suppose. They'd all think I was bad
clear through. They wouldn't understand the reason--no nice women like
them could. Oh, if the school would only make me nice like that! But I
suppose it's got to be born in people, and I was born different."
Even this reason did not render her more resigned; and, to add to her
disquiet, there came to her the memory of eyes whose gaze made her
shiver--the eyes of the stranger whom Overton had carried into the house
for dead, but whose brain was yet alive. He had looked at her with a
strange, wild stare, and Overton himself had turned his eyes toward her in
moody questioning when she came forward to help. He had accepted the help,
but each time she raised her eyes she saw that Dan was looking at her with
a new watchfulness; all his interest in the stricken stranger did not keep
him from that.
"If any one is accountable for this, I guess I'm the man," he confessed,
ruefully. "He told me he was afraid of this, yet I was fool enough to lose
my temper and turn him around rough. It might have struck him, anyway; but
my conscience doesn't let me down easy. He'll be my care till some one
comes along with a stronger claim."
"Maybe there is some one somewhere," said 'Tana. "There might be letters,
if it would be right to look."
"If there are relatives anywhere in the settlements, I guess they'd be
glad enough if I'd look," decided Overton. "There is no way to get
permission from him, though," and he looked in the helpless man's eyes. "I
don't know what you'd say to this if you could speak, stranger," he said;
"but to go through your pockets seems the only way to locate you or your
friends; so I'll have to do it."
It was not easy to do, with those eyes staring at him in that horrible
way. But he tried to avoid the eyes, and thrust his hand into the inner
pocket, drawing out an ordinary notebook, some scraps of newspaper folded
up in it, and two letters addressed to Joe Hammond; one to Little Dalles,
and the other had evidently been delivered by a messenger, for no
destination was marked on it. It was an old letter and the envelope was
worn through all around the edges. Another paper was wrapped around it,
and the writing was of a light feminine character. Overton touched it with
a certain reverence and looked embarrassed.
"I think, Mrs. Huzzard, I will ask you to read this, as it seems a lady's
letter, and if there is any information in it, you can give it to us; if
not, I'll just put it back in his pocket and hope luck will tell us what
the letter doesn't."
But Mrs. Huzzard demurred: "And me that short-sighted that even specs
won't cure it! No, indeed. I'm no one to read important papers. But here's
'Tana, with eyes like a hawk for sighting things. She'll read it fast
enough."
Overton looked undecided, remembering those strange insinuations of the
now helpless man, and feeling that the man himself might not be willing.
"I--well--I guess not," he said, at last. "It ain't just square to send a
little girl blindfold like that into a stranger's claim. We'll let some
one over twenty-one read the letters. You'll do, Max, and if it ain't all
right, you can stop up short."
So Lyster read the treasured message, all in the same feminine writing.
His sensitive face grew grave, and he turned compassionate glances toward
the helpless man as he read the letters, according to their dates. The
oldest one was the only one not sad. Its postmark was a little town many
miles to the south.
"DEAR OLD JOE: It's awful to be this near you, and know you are sick,
without being able to get to you. I just arrived, and your partner
has met me, and told me all about it. But I'll go up with him, just
the same; and when you are able to travel we can come down to a town
and be married, instead of to-day, as we had set on. So that's all
right, and don't you worry. Your partner, John Ingalls, is as nice as
he can be to me. Why did you not tell me how good looking he was?
Maybe you never discovered it--you slow, prosy old Joe! When you
wrote to me of that rich find you stumbled on, I was sorry you had
picked up a partner; for you always did trust folks too much, and I
was afraid you'd be cheated by the stranger you picked up. But I
guess that I was wrong, Joe; for he is a very nice gentleman--the
nicest I ever met, I think. And he talks about you just as if he was
your brother, and thought a heap of you. He tried to tease me some,
too--asked how you ever came to catch such a pretty girl as me! Then
I told him, Joe, that you never had to catch me--that I was little,
and hadn't any folks, and how you got your folks to give me a home
when you was only a boy; and that you was always like a big brother
to me till you made some money in the mines. Then you wrote and asked
me to come out and marry you. He just laughed, Joe, and said it was
not a brother's love that a wife wanted; but I don't think he knows
anything about that--do you? And, Joe, I came pretty near telling him
all about that richest find you made--the one you said you wanted me
to be the first to see. I thought, of course, you had told your
partner, just as you told me when you sent me the plan of it--what
for, I don't know, Joe, for I never could find it in the wide world,
even if there was any chance of my hunting for it alone. Your partner
asked me point blank if you had written to me of any late find of
yours, or of any special location where you found good signs. I tried
to look innocent, and said maybe you had, but I couldn't remember.
I didn't like to tell a story. I wanted to tell him all the truth,
and how rich you said we would be. I knew you would want to tell him
yourself, so I managed to keep quiet in time. But whenever he looks
at me I feel guilty. And he looks at me so kindly, and he is so good.
He says we can't begin our journey to you right away, because he has
provisions and things to get first; but we will set out in three
days. So I send this letter that you will know I am on the road;
maybe we'll reach you first. He is going to take me riding around
this camp this evening--I mean Mr. Ingalls. He says I must get some
enjoyment before I go up there to the mountains, where no one lives.
He is the nicest stranger I ever met. But, of course, I never was
away from home much to meet folks; I guess, though, I might travel a
long ways and not meet any one so nice. He just brought me a pretty
purse made by the Indians. I hope you wear a big hat like he does,
and big, high boots. I never saw folks wear them back home; but they
do look nice. Now, good-by, Joe, for a few days.
"Yours affectionately,
"FANNIE."
"Well, that letter is plain sailing," remarked Overton, "but there is only
one name in it we could follow up--the partner, John Ingalls. But I don't
think I've heard of him."
"Wait! there is another letter--two more," said Lyster; and the others
were silent as he read:
"JOE: I hope you'll hate me now. I can stand that better than to know
you still like me. I can't help it. I am going with him--your
partner. He loves me, too, Joe--not in the brotherly way you did, but
in a way that makes me think of him and no one else. So I can't marry
any one but him. Maybe it's a sin to be false to you, Joe; but I
never could go to you now. And I can't help going where he wants me
to go. Don't be mad at him; he can't help it either, I suppose. He
says he will always be good to me, and I am going. But my heart is
heavy as I write to you. I am not happy--maybe because I love him
too much. But I am going. Try and forget me.
"FANNIE."
In dead silence Lyster unfolded the third paper. The drama of this
stranger's life was a pathetic thing to the listeners, who looked at him
with pity in their eyes, but could utter no words of sympathy to the man
who sat there helpless and looked at them. Then the last, a penciled
sheet, was read.
"JOE: I am dying, I think. The Indian woman with me says so; and I
hope it is true. He came to me to-day--the first time in weeks. He
never married me, as he promised. He cursed me to-day because my baby
face led him away from a fortune he knows you found. I never told
him, though it is a wonder. All he knows of it he heard you say in
your sleep when you were sick that time. To-day he told me you were
paralyzed, Joe--that you are helpless still--that he has taken
Indians with him there to your old claim, and searched every foot of
ground for the gold vein he thinks you know of. But it is of no use,
and he is furious over it, and so taunts me of your helplessness
alone in the wilderness.
"Joe, I still have the plan you made of the river and the two little
streams and the marked tree. Can't I make amends some way for the
wrong I did you? Is there anywhere a friend you could trust to work
the find and take care of you? For if you are too helpless to write
yourself, and can get only the name of the person to me, I will send
the plan some way to him. I know I am not to live long. I am in a
perfect fever to hear from you, and tell you that my sin against you
weighs me down to despair.
"I can't tell you of my life with him; it is too horrible. I do not
even know who he is, for Ingalls is not his name. We are with Indians
and they call him 'Medicine,' and seem to know him well. He has left
me here, to-day, and I feel I will never see him again. He tells me
he has sent for a young white boy who is to be brought to camp, and
who will help care for me. Anything would be better than the sly red
faces about me; they fill me with terror. My one hope is that the boy
may get this letter sent to you, and that some word may come to me
from you before my life ends. It has taken me all this day to write
to you.
"Good-by. I am dying miserably, and I deserve it. I can't even tell
you where to write me; only we are with Indians camped by a big
river. Not far away is a wall of rock, like a hill, beside the river,
and Indian writing is cut on the wall, and holes and things are cut
all along it."
"The Arrow lakes of the Columbia!" interrupted Overton--
"If the boy comes, and is to be trusted at all, he may tell me more;
that is my only hope of this reaching you. If you are not able to
make another plan (and he says your hands are powerless) remember, I
have the one you did make. If you can send me one word--one name of a
friend--I will try--try so hard. He would kill me if he knew, and I
would be glad of it, if I could only help you first. I feel that I
will never see you again.
"FANNIE."
Mrs. Huzzard was crying and whispering, "Poor dear!--poor child!" and even
the voice of Lyster was not quite steady as he read. Those straggling,
weak pencil marks had a pathos of their own to him. The letter, crossed
and recrossed by the lines, was on two pages, evidently torn from the back
of a book.
"It seems a sacrilege to dive into a man's feelings and secrets like
this," he said, ruefully. "It _is_! My only consolation is that I did it
with good intent."
"And, after all, not a plain trail found that will help us locate this man
or his friends," decided Overton--"not a name we can really fasten to but
the name on the envelope--Joe Hammond. It is too bad. Why, 'Tana! Good
God! _'Tana!_"
For the girl, who had uttered no word, but had listened to that last
letter with whitened face and staring eyes, leaned against the wall at its
close, and a little gasp from her drew their attention.
She fell forward on her face ere Overton could reach her.
"Tana, my girl, what is it? Speak!" he entreated.
But the girl only whispered: "I know now! Joe--Joe Hammond!" and fainted
dead away at the feet of the paralyzed man.