The three months' school had begun in earnest. Each day Hope found new
interest in her small class and in her surroundings. She readily learned
to dispense with all the comforts and luxuries to which she had been
born, substituting instead a rare sense of independence, an expansion of
her naturally wild spirit. She dispensed also with conventionalities,
except such as were ingrained with her nature, yet she was far from
happy in the squaw-man's family. She could have ridden home in a few
hours, but remembered too keenly her mother's anger and her father's
parting words. He said to her:
"You have hurt your mother and spoiled her summer by the stand you have
taken. You are leaving here against my wishes and against your own
judgment. The only thing I've got to say is this: don't come back here
till you've finished your contract up there, till you've kept your word
to the letter. No one of my blood is going back on their word. A few
rough knocks will do you good."
He probably discovered in a very few hours how much he loved his girl,
how she had grown into his life, for the next day after she had left he
drove to the distant town and hunted up his wife's nephew, who had
caused all this trouble.
"You deserve another thrashing," he said when he had found him, "but now
you've got to turn to and do what you can to bring things back to where
they were. Hope's left home and 's gone to teaching school up in the
mountains at Harris'. Now, what in thunder am I going to do about it?
She can't live there with those breeds. Lord, I slept there once and the
fleas nearly ate me up!"
The boy's face turned a trifle pale. "I'm sorry, uncle, about this. I
never thought she would do such a thing, on my account--not after I
left. And she's gone to Joe Harris' place! I know all about that, a
regular nest of low breeds and rustlers. She can't stay there!"
"But she will, just the same," announced the man, "because when she told
me that she'd promised Harris, and that she was going, anyway, I told
her to go and take her medicine till the school term was ended."
"But surely you won't allow her to stay, to _live_ at Joe Harris'! There
are other people up there, white people, with whom she could live. Why,
uncle, you can't allow her to stay there!"
"Why not? She's made her nest, let her lie in it for awhile--fleas and
all. It won't hurt her any. But I'm going to keep a close eye on her
just the same. I couldn't go up there myself on account of your aunt's
being here, but I was thinking about it all last night, and I finally
concluded to send a bunch of cattle up there, beef cattle, and hold 'em
for shipment. Now I came here to town to tell you that your aunt wants
you to come back to the ranch, but you're not going to come back, see?
You're going up there and hold those cattle for a spell, and keep your
eye on my girl. I don't give a damn about the steers--it's the girl; but
you've got to have an excuse for being there. Your aunt's got to have an
excuse, too. These cattle--there's two hundred head of 'em--they're
_yours_--see? I'll have 'em all vented to-morrow, for in case Hope
thought they wasn't yours she might catch on. You can ship 'em in the
fall for your trouble. She won't think anything of you holding cattle up
there, because the range is so good. So you look out for her, see how
she is every day, and send me word by McCullen, who I'll send along with
you. You can take a cook and another man if you need one. And now don't
let her catch on that I had a hand in this! Seen anything of them blame
New Yorkers yet?" Young Carter shook his head absent-mindedly. He was
filled with delight at this clever scheme of his uncle's. "No? Well,
mebbe there's a telegram. Your aunt expected me to take them back to the
ranch to-morrow. Never mind thanking me for the cattle. You do your part
to the letter. Send me word every day and don't forget. And another
thing, just quit your thinking about marrying that girl, and keep your
hands off of her! Remember she's in a wild country up there, among tough
customers, and she probably knows it by now, and the _chances are_ she's
got a gun buckled onto her!"
He was right. Hope found herself among too many rough characters to feel
safe without a gun concealed beneath her blouse or jacket, yet rough as
the men were, they treated this quiet-faced girl with the utmost
respect, perhaps fearing her. Her reputation as a phenomenal shot was
not far-fetched, and had reached the remotest corners of the country.
She had played with a gun as a baby, had been allowed to use one when a
wee child, and had grown up with the passion for firearms strong within
her. Shooting was a gift with her, perfected by daily practice. In one
of her rooms at the ranch the girl had such a collection of firearms as
would have filled the heart of many an old connoisseur with longing. It
was her one passion, perhaps not a more expensive one than most women
possess; yet, for a girl, unique. Her father gratified her in this, just
as other fathers gratify their girls in their desire for music, art,
fine clothes, or all, as the case may be. But the things that most girls
love so well had small place in the life of Hope Hathaway. She cared
little for music, and less for fine clothes. Society she detested,
declaring that a full season in New York would kill her. Perhaps if she
had not been filled with the determination to stay away from it, its
excitement might finally have won her; but she was of the West. Its
vastness filled her with a love that was part of her nature. Its
boundless prairies, its freedom, were greater than all civilization had
to offer her.
She brought with her to the mountains a long-distance rifle and a brace
of six-shooters. A shotgun she seldom used, for the reason that to her
quick, accurate eye a rifle did better, more varied work, and answered
every purpose of a shotgun. It was said that each bird she marked on the
wing dropped at her feet in two pieces, its head severed smoothly. This
may not have been true always, but the fact remains that the birds
dropped when she touched the trigger.
She was an odd character for a girl, reserved and quiet even with her
most intimate friends, rough and impulsive as a boy sometimes, in speech
and actions, again as dignified as the proudest queen. Her friends never
knew how to take her, because they never understood her. She left, so
far along her trail in life, nothing but shattered ideals and delusions,
but she had not become cynical or embittered, only wiser. After her
first week's stay at Harris' she began to realize that perhaps she had
always expected too much of people. Here were people of whom she had
expected nothing opening up new side lights on life that she had never
thought to explore. Life seemed full of possibilities to her now, at
least, immediate possibilities.
She had not met again the courteous, smooth-faced young man who had
mistaken her for an Indian girl, though he had come the next morning for
the horses, and had ridden past the ranch more than once. Yet she had
not forgotten the incident, or what the Harris girls had told her, for
daily as she passed the group of loungers on her return from school she
heard his name gruffly spoken, intermixed with oaths. They certainly
meant mischief, and she was curious to know what it was.
The first school week had ended. On Friday night she wondered how she
could manage to exist through Saturday and Sunday, but Saturday morning
found her in the saddle, accompanied by the three largest Harris boys,
en route for the highest peaks of the mountains.
"This is something like living," she exclaimed, pulling in her horse
after the first few miles. "How pretty all of this is! What people call
scenery, I suppose. But give me the prairie, smooth and level as far as
the eye can reach! There's nothing like it in all the world! The open
prairie, a cool, spring day like this, and a horse that will go till
it's ready to fall dead--that is life! Who is it that lives over there?"
she asked, pointing toward some ranch buildings, nestled in a low, green
valley.
"That's the Englishman's place," answered the soft-voiced twin.
"Sheep-man," explained Dave disgustedly. "See them sheds?"
"Oh, the new man by the name of Livingston. Do you boys know him?" asked
the girl curiously.
"Nope! Don't want to, neither. Seen him lots of times, though," answered
Dave.
"He's come in here without bein' asked, an' thinks he can run the whole
country," explained the soft-voiced twin.
"Is he trying to run the whole country?" asked Hope.
"Well, he's runnin' his sheep over everybody's range, an' they ain't
goin' to stand for it," replied the boy.
"But what can they do about it? Have they asked him to move his sheep?"
"No. What's the use after they've been over the range--spoiled it,
anyhow. No, you bet they ain't goin' to ask him nothing!"
The girl thought for a moment, absently pulling the "witches' knots"
from her horse's mane, while it climbed a hill at a swinging gait, then
continued as though talking to herself:
"Once upon a time a young man took what money he had in the world, and
going into a far-away, wild country started in business for himself. He
had heard, probably, that there was more money in sheep than in cattle.
A great many people do hear that, so he bought sheep, thinking, perhaps,
to make a pile of money in a few years, and then go back to his home and
marry some nice, good girl of his choice. It takes money to get married
and make a home, and to do mostly anything, they say, and so this young
man bought sheep, for no one goes into the sheep business or any other
kind of business unless they want to make money. They don't generally do
it for fun. And, of course, he thought, as they all do, to get rich
immediately. He made a great mistake in the beginning, being extremely
ignorant. He brought his sheep to a cattle country, where there were no
other sheep near his own. All the men around him hated sheep, as men
who own cattle always do, and hating the sheep, they thought they hated
the sheep-man also, who really was a very harmless young man, and
wouldn't have offended them for anything. But these men's dislike for
the sheep grew daily, and so their fancied dislike for the young man
grew in proportion.
"The men in the country would meet together in little groups, and every
day some man would have some new grievance to tell the others. It
finally got on their brains, until all they could think or talk about
was this new man and his sheep. The more they thought and talked, the
more angry they became, until finally they forgot that he was another
man like themselves--in all likelihood a good, honest man, who would not
have done them wrong knowingly. They forgot a great many things, and all
they could think about night or day was how they could do something to
injure his business or himself. They got so after awhile that they
talked only in low whispers about him, taking great pains that their
families, children, and even their big _boys_, should not know their
plans. They made a great mistake in not taking their boys into their
confidence, because _boys_ are very often more reliable than men, and
can always keep a secret a whole lot better. But perhaps the fathers
knew that the boys had very good sense and would not go into anything
like that without a better reason than they had, which was no reason at
all.
"I never heard just what they planned to do to this newcomer to get rid
of him and his sheep, but I know how it had to end." She looked up,
searching each boy's intent, astonished face.
"Say, what're you drivin' at, anyway? You can't fool me--it's _him_!"
exclaimed Dave, pointing toward the sheep-ranch. "You're makin' up a
story about him!"
"How'd you know all that?" asked the quicker, soft-voiced twin.
"Know all that. Why, how did you boys know all that? I suppose that I
have ears, too--and I've heard of such things before," she replied.
"But you don't know how the end'll be. That's one thing you don't know,"
declared the soft-voiced twin. "You can't know that."
"She might be a fortune-teller like grandmother White Blanket," laughed
the other.
"Is that old squaw in the farthest tepee from the house your own
grandmother?" asked the girl.
"Yep, an' she ain't no squaw, either! She's a French half-breed," he
said, with an unconscious proud uplifting of the shoulders.
Hope laughed slightly. "What's the other half?" she asked. The boy gave
her a look of deep commiseration.
"I thought you had more learnin' than that! Why, the other half's white,
of course."
"I beg your pardon!" gasped the girl. "My education along those lines
must have been somewhat neglected. I had an idea that those were Indians
camped down at your place. But French half-breeds,--a mixture of _white_
and _French_,--that's a different matter!" She stopped her horse and
laughed with the immoderation of a boy. "That is rich," she cried. "If
ever I go to New York again I shall spring that on the Prince. '_Mon
Dieu!_' he will exclaim. 'What then are we, Mademoiselle, _we_, the
_aristocracy_--the great nation of the _French_?'" Her face sobered.
"But this is not the question. _I_ do know how this will end, and I am
not a fortune-teller, either. I know that the ones who are in the wrong
about this matter will get the worst of it. Sometimes it means states
prison, sometimes death--at all events, something not expected. I tell
you, boys, I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of this for anything!
And do you know, I am real glad that your father doesn't need your help.
We will take a little side of our own and watch things--what do you say?
It will be lots of fun, and we'll know all the time that we are in the
right, and maybe we can prevent them from doing any real wrong to
themselves." She watched them closely to see how they accepted the
suggestion. Her inspiration might be considered a reckless one, but
their young minds lent themselves readily to her influence.
"The old man licked me this mornin'," growled Dave. "An' he can go
straight to the hot place now, for all o' me! I'm goin' off on the
round-up, anyway, next year."
"You boys know, don't you, that if your father ever found out that _I_
knew anything about this thing, he would probably give me a licking,
too--and send me out of the country?" This for effect.
"I'd like to see him lay hands on you," roared Dave. "I'd fill him so
full of lead that--that----"
Words failed him.
"I'd kill him if he did, Miss Hathaway," exclaimed the small boy, Ned,
with quiet assurance that brought a hint of laughter to the girl's face.
The soft-voiced twin rode up very close to her.
"He ain't goin' to find it out, an' don't you worry; we'll all stand by
you while there's one of us left!"
"All right, boys, we're comrades now. I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll
form a band--brigade--all by ourselves. I am commanding officer and you
are my faithful scouts. How's that?" Hope's fancy was leading her away.
"Come on," she cried, "let's race this flat!"
The self-appointed commanding officer reached the smooth valley far in
advance of her faithful scouts, who yelled in true Indian fashion as
they rode up with her.
"I'll run you a mile an' beat you all hollow," declared Dave. "But on a
two hundred yard stretch like this here place my horse don't have no
chance to get started."
"I'll bet my quirt against yourn that you lose," said the soft-voiced
twin.
"Keep your quirt! I don't want it, nohow. One's enough fur me. But I
_can_ beat her just the same!" Dave was stubbornly positive.
"You'll have to ride my horse if you do beat her," continued the
soft-voiced twin. Dave grew furious.
"Now, see here, that raw-boned, loose-jointed, watch-eyed cayuse o'
yourn couldn't run a good half mile without fallin' dead in his tracks!
What'er you a-givin' me, anyhow?" At that instant his attention was
fortunately taken. "Where'd all them cattle come from?" he exclaimed.
They had turned up a narrow gulch, the youngest boy and Hope taking the
lead, and had traveled it for perhaps fifty yards when they found
themselves at a stand-still before a drove of cattle that were making
their way slowly down the narrow trail.
"We won't go back," called the girl. "Come on up here and wait till they
pass." And followed by the boys she guided her horse up the steep, rocky
side of a high bank, and waited while the cattle came slowly on. They
counted them as they passed in twos and threes down the narrow valley.
When nearly two hundred had gone by a rider came in sight around the
bend of the hill. Hope's horse whinnied, and the man's answered back,
then the girl gave a scream of delight, and, unmindful of the rocky
bank, or of the appearance of two other riders, rushed down, nearly
unseating the old cow-puncher in her demonstrations of welcome.
"_Jim! Dear old Jim! Where_ did you come from? I am so glad to see you!
Why, Jim, I'd rather see you than anyone in the world! How glad I am!
Boys," she called, "come down here. This is Jim, my dear old father
Jim!" Old Jim McCullen's eyes were dimmed with tears as he looked from
the girl's happy, flushed face to the last of the cattle that were going
out of sight around the bend of the gulch. "Where did you come from,
Jim, and what brings you up here? Whose cattle? Why, they're ours, and
rebranded! What are you doing with them?" Just then the two riders, whom
in her excitement she had failed to notice, rode up. "Why, Syd, hello,"
she said. "And you're here, too! I thought Jim was alone."
She changed instantly from her glad excitement, speaking with the
careless abruptness of a boy. Her cousin rode alongside. She gave one
glance at his companion, then wheeled her horse about and stationed
herself a short distance away beside the breed boys.
"This is a happy surprise, Hope," exclaimed her cousin. "What are you
doing up here so far away from home?" She regarded him a trifle more
friendly.
"Is it possible you don't know? Didn't you tell him, Jim, that I had
gone away? Oh, I forgot, you weren't at the ranch when I left, so you
couldn't tell him. Well, I am here, as you can see, Sydney--partly
because I wanted a change, partly because they wanted a school-teacher
up here. I am staying at Joe Harris'. What are you doing here with those
cattle?"
"Oh, thought I'd go to work for a change. Just some cattle that I bought
to hold for fall shipment." He turned to the man at his side,
apologizing, then proceeded to introduce him to his cousin. The girl cut
it short by a peculiar brief nod.
"Oh, I've met Mr. Livingston before!"
"Indeed?" said Carter in surprise, looking from one to the other.
"At Harris'" explained the sheep-man. "She gave me one of the sweetest,
most refreshing drinks of water it has ever been my privilege to enjoy."
He spoke easily, yet was much perturbed. Here was his shy Indian maid,
a remarkably prepossessed, up-to-date young woman. It took a little time
to get it straightened out in his mind.
"Of course I might have known that you two would have met. There are so
few people here." Carter tried to speak indifferently.
"Well, good-by," said the girl, moving away.
"Don't be in a hurry! Where are you going, Hope?" called her cousin.
"Sorry, but can't wait any longer. We're off for a day's exploring.
Good-by."
"I'll see you this evening. We're going to camp near Harris'," said
Carter.
"No, not this evening," she called back to him as she rode on up the
gulch. "I won't be back till late, and then I'll be too tired to see
anyone. Good-by, Jim--I'll see _you_ to-morrow." Old Jim watched her
until she was lost to sight in the turn of the gulch. Livingston also
watched her until she was out of sight. She rode astride, wearing a neat
divided skirt, and sat her horse with all the ease and perfection of a
young cowboy. Old Jim McCullen went on in trail of the cattle, while
young Carter and Livingston followed leisurely.
"Rather a cool greeting from a girl one expects to marry," said Carter,
under his breath.
"Is it possible--your fiancee!" Livingston's face became thoughtful.
"You are to be congratulated," he said.
Carter laughed nervously. "I can scarcely say she is _that_, yet--but it
is her mother's wish. We have grown up together. Miss Hathaway is my
cousin, my second cousin. I can see no reason why we will not be
married--some time."
"_Miss Hathaway_," mused his companion. "And you love her?" he asked
quietly.
"Certainly," answered Carter, wondering at the other's abrupt way of
speaking.
"And may I ask if she loves you?" The sheep-man's tone was quiet and
friendly. Carter wished that it might have been insolent. As it was he
could only laugh uneasily.
"It would seem not," he answered. "To-day she is like an
icicle--to-morrow she will be a most devoted girl. That is Hope--as
changeable as the wind. One never knows what to expect. One day
loving--the next, cold and indifferent. But then, you see, I am used to
her little ways."
"I wish you all the happiness you deserve, Mr. Carter," said Livingston
a little later, as he rode off, taking a short cut to his ranch.
"_Hope_--_Hope Hathaway_; Carter's cousin. What an idiot I've been to
think of her as an Indian girl! An odd name--Hope. _Hope Hath a way_,"
he mused as he rode homeward. "If only I had the right to hope!"