Livingston stood alone beside the fresh mound, hatless, with head bowed
in deep meditation. His men had returned to their respective duties,
having shown their last kindness toward the young herder gone on before
them to the great, mysterious Beyond.
When Hope and her companion rounded the point of rocks inside the
pasture fence they came directly upon the sheep-man and the newly made
grave. The girl reined in her horse suddenly.
"Syd," she said softly, wonderingly, "he's _praying_!" She had an
impulse to flee before he should see her, and with a look communicated
the thought to Sydney, but Livingston turned around and came quickly
down the grassy slope toward them. He greeted them cordially, heartily
shaking hands with each.
"Is this not a beautiful day? I am glad you have come, Miss Hathaway. I
wanted you to see this spot. Could any place be prettier? See this green
slope and the gigantic ridge of rocks beside it."
"It's magnificent!" she exclaimed. "What a monument!"
"I had an idea he would like it if he could know," he continued. "Day
after day he has stood up there on that point of rocks and watched his
sheep."
Hope pointed across the valley to where the grassy slope terminated in a
deep cut-bank, exclaiming:
"There is the corral!" It came involuntarily. She shot a quick glance at
her cousin, but he was gazing thoughtfully at the magnificence of the
scene before him, and had not noticed the words, or her confusion which
followed them, which was fortunate, she thought.
If asked she could not have explained why she felt in this manner about
it, and it is certain that she did ask herself. She had probably saved
Livingston's sheep. Well, what of it? She only knew that she wanted no
one to find it out, least of all Livingston himself. She had a half fear
that if Sydney ever got an inkling of it he might sometime tell him, and
Sydney was very quick; so she adroitly eased her involuntary exclamation
by remarking:
"That is a queer place to put a corral! Aren't you afraid of a pile up
so near the bank?"
"I am not using it now," he replied. "I put it there because Fritz ran
his band on that side and it was more convenient not to drive them so
far. I am using this shed below here, at present."
Sydney looked at Hope and began to laugh, then leaned over toward
Livingston and placed his hand upon his shoulder.
"She'll be telling you how to run your sheep next. You mustn't mind her,
though, for she's been teaching school a whole week, and dictating is
getting to be sort of second nature with her, isn't it, Hopie? And
besides that she isn't responsible. A steady diet of hard-boiled eggs
isn't conducive----"
She stopped him with a gesture, laughing.
"That's awfully true, only I haven't eaten even hard-boiled eggs since
breakfast, and I'm famished! It was cruel of you to remind me, Syd!"
"You poor youngster!" he exclaimed in real commiseration. "Is it as bad
as that? I'm going over and start supper at once. The camp is just over
the hill there, up that next draw." He pointed ahead, then looked at his
watch. "It's after five now. You keep your appointment with the
half-breed, but never mind the chickens till you've had a square meal."
She nodded in answer, smiling at him.
"They're starving her over there," he explained to Livingston, who
looked at them in some wonderment. "They don't feed her anything but
boiled eggs. Tell him why you don't eat anything but eggs, Hope,
boiled,--hard and soft,--in their _own shells_. Maybe you can get them
to bake you a potato or two in their _own jackets_!"
"What an idea! I never thought of that," she exclaimed. "You're a
genius, Syd. But go home or I shall famish! I'll meet Dave and come
right over there. I think the chickens will fly that way to-night,
anyway, don't you?"
"Of course they will," replied her cousin, "they fly right over the top
of my tent every evening!" Then he started away, but turned about
quickly as though he had forgotten something, and asked Livingston if he
would not come over to camp for supper, too.
Livingston looked up into the dark eyes of the girl beside him, then
accepted.
"Good!" said Sydney. "Come along with Hope."
"Be sure and see that there's enough cooked," called the girl as he rode
away.
"Don't worry about that, pard," he answered, then, lifting his hat,
waved it high above his head as he disappeared around the reef of
rocks.
Hope looked after him and was still smiling when she turned to
Livingston. It may have been something in his face that caused her own
to settle instantly into its natural quiet.
"I'd like to go up there for a moment," she said, then dismounted, and
leaving her horse walked quickly up the grassy hill until she stood
beside the grave. Some sod had been roughly placed upon the dirt, and
scattered over that was a handful of freshly picked wild flowers.
"_You_ picked them!" exclaimed the girl softly, turning toward him as he
came and stood near her. "And _I_ never even thought of it! How could
you think of it! I had supposed only women thought of those things--were
expected to think of them, I mean," she added hastily. "You make me
wonder what----"
He looked at her curiously.
"Make you wonder what?" he asked in his quiet, well modulated voice.
A flush came over her face. Her eyes shifted from his until they rested
upon the grave at her feet. The breeze threw a loose strand of dark hair
across one eye. She rapidly drew her hand over her forehead, putting it
away from her vision, then looked full and straight at the man beside
her.
"I beg your pardon; I cannot finish what was in my mind to say. I
forgot, Mr. Livingston, that we are comparative strangers."
"I am sorry, then, that you remember it," he replied. "It never seemed
to me that we were strangers, Miss Hathaway. I do not think so now.
There is something, I know not what, that draws people to each other in
this country. It does not take weeks or months or years to form a
friendship here. Two people meet, they speak, look into one another's
eyes, then they are friends, comrades--or nothing, as it sometimes
happens. They decide quickly here, not hampered by stiff
conventionalities. It is instinct guides. Are you different from your
countrymen?"
"No," she replied quickly. "Not in that one thing, at least. To be
honest, I have never _felt_ that you were a stranger to me; but a girl,
even a rough Western girl, must sometimes remember and be restricted by
conventionalities. I know what you are thinking, that conventionalities
include politeness, and I have been rude to you. Perhaps that is the
reason I wouldn't let you go back to Harris' with me the other night--I
had not known you long enough."
He answered her simply: "I am not thinking of that night, but that you
have just told me you are my friend--that you think kindly of me." She
flashed him a look of surprise.
"But I _never_ told you that!" she exclaimed.
"Not in just those words, true," he said. "But it is so. Didn't you say
that you had never felt me to be a _stranger_ to you? If you had not
approved of me--thought kindly of me in the start, could you have felt
so? No. When two people meet, they are friends, or they are still
strangers--and _you have never felt me to be a stranger_. Is that not
so?"
"I cannot deny what I have just said," she replied. "And I will not deny
that I believed what I was saying, but your argument, though good,
doesn't down me, because I honestly think that a person may see another
person just once, feel that he never could be a stranger, and yet have
no earthly regard or respect for that person."
"Have you ever experienced that?" he inquired.
"N--no. You are trying to corner me; but that isn't what I came to talk
about, and it is time to go," she said, turning away from the grave. He
walked with her down the hill toward her horse.
"I wanted to ask you, Mr. Livingston, about the little German girl," she
said, standing with her back against the side of her horse, one arm
around the pommel loosely holding the reins, and the other stretched
upon the glossy back of the gentle animal. "When are you expecting her,
and what are you going to do about her?"
"She should be here the last of the week. Poor girl! My heart bleeds for
her. There is nothing to do except to tell her the sad story, and see
that she gets started safely back to her country and her friends," he
answered.
Hope stood upright, taking a step toward him.
"You would not--oh, it would be inhuman to send her back over the long,
terrible journey with that cruel pain in her heart! Think how tired she
will be, the thousands of miles of travel through strange lands, and the
multitude of foreigners she will have passed! Think of the way she has
traveled, those close, packed emigrant cars, and everything. It is
terrible!"
"I never thought of that. She will be tired. You are right, it would
never do to send her over that long journey so soon, though she is not
coming through as an emigrant, but first class, for she is of good
family over there. So was Fritz--a sort of cousin, I believe, but the
poor boy got into some trouble with his family and came over here
penniless. He was to have met her in town and they expected to get
married at once. He was going to bring her out here to the ranch to live
until he had hunted up a location for a home. If I am not mistaken she
has some money of her own with which they were going to buy sheep. She
has been well educated, and has had some instruction in English, as had
Fritz.
"I thought only of getting her back among her friends again and I never
gave a thought about the long, weary trip and the poor, tired girl. She
must rest for a time. You have shown me the right way, Miss
Hathaway--and yet, what am I to do? I could bring her out here to the
ranch, but there is no woman on the place. Perhaps I may be able to
secure a man and his wife who need a situation, but it is not likely.
There may be some good family about who would keep her for awhile. Do
you know of one?"
"There are several families around here who might welcome a boarder, but
none with whom a girl of that kind could be contented, or even
comfortable. If only I were at home, and could take her there! I _might_
send her over there. But, no, that would be worse than anything! There
is no other way," she said suddenly, placing her hand upon his sleeve
with a quick unconscious motion. "You must let me take care of her, up
here, as I am, at Harris'!" Excitement had flushed her cheeks scarlet.
Her eyes were filled with the light of inspiration and more than earthly
beauty. She waited, intense, for him to speak, but he could not. He felt
her hand upon his arm, saw the wonderful light in her face--and was
dumb.
"Tell me that I may take care of her. I must--there is no other way,"
she insisted. "And it will give me the privilege of doing one little act
of kindness. Say it will be all right!"
"If she cannot find comfort and strength in you, she cannot find it upon
earth," he said softly. "I have no words with which to thank you!"
She took her hand from his arm with a little sigh of content, turned
around and stood at her horse's head a moment, then mounted as lightly
and quickly as a boy.
"Where's your horse?" she asked, whirling the animal about until it
faced him. The wonderful light in her face had given place to a
careless, light-hearted look.
"Up at the stable. Have you the time and patience to wait for me?" said
Livingston.
"Plenty of patience, but no time," she replied. "I promised to meet one
of the twins at six o'clock, so I've got to hurry up. I'll meet you over
at Syd's camp in a little while."
Before he had time to either speak or bow she was gone. As she
disappeared behind the ledge of rocks a clear boyish whistle of some
popular air floated back to him.
Walking quickly through the pasture toward the ranch buildings Edward
Livingston thought of many things--and wondered.