In the deepening shadows of the evening Hope and the breed boy rode
rapidly toward the camp, hungry for the long-delayed supper.
"Dan staked me to his share of the coyotes, so you may have them," said
the girl.
"Seven pups an' the old one!" exclaimed Dave; "that's better'n huntin'
chickens."
"And supper just now is better than anything," sighed Hope to herself.
The boy heard, but did not reply, his mind being busy with a
mathematical problem.
"How much is eight times four dollars, an' seventy-five cents for the
hide?" he asked.
"That's a little example I'll let you work out for yourself," replied
his teacher. "You're awfully stupid in arithmetic, Dave, and it's too
bad, for in cases of coyotes' bounty and so forth it would be a pretty
good thing for you to know. You hurry up and figure that out, for
to-morrow you're going to get a hard one. It's this: If a Gatling gun
fires two thousand shots a minute how many can it fire in half an hour?"
"Whew! you don't expect anybody to answer _that_, do you?" exclaimed the
boy.
"Oh, that's easy," she laughed. "If you can't figure it out yourself you
might ask old Peter or Long Bill, maybe they'd know."
The boy rode along, his thoughts absorbed in a brown study. At length he
sighed and looked up.
"Well, anyway, it'll be enough to buy a horse or a new saddle with."
Then as though struck with a sudden thought he asked: "Say, what made
Dan give you his share of them coyotes?" She suppressed a faint
inclination to smile.
"Perhaps he gave up as I did, and thought there was nothing there. Old
Peter said he knew there wasn't. But it's just possible Dan wanted to be
generous. Don't you think so?"
"Not Dan!" exclaimed the boy. "There ain't one chance in a million
_he'd_ ever give such snap as that away! I reckon," he concluded after
some studying, "he must 'a' thought that den was empty an' was goin' to
pay me back. Ain't I got it on him now, though!"
"And instead of being paid back you are getting both shares of the
coyote bounty, and you know you don't deserve it. What are you going to
do about it?"
"You bet _he_ ain't a-goin' to get none of it!" was the emphatic reply;
to which the girl had nothing to say.
In a few moments they came in sight of Sydney's camp. From out of the
small stove-pipe of the first of the two tents rolled a volume of smoke,
and across the narrow brush-covered valley came the delicious odor of
cooking food. Simultaneously the two riders urged on their horses to a
faster gait, for Hope at least was hungry. It is safe to say that the
breed boy was in the same condition, and this invitation out to supper
pleased him mightily. He was a large, stolidly built lad of fourteen
years, and like all boys of that age, whether stolidly built or slender
as a sapling, was always hungry.
"I'll bet I can eat the whole shootin' match," he declared, actually
believing that he spoke the truth.
"I think the meal is prepared for hungry people," replied Hope, heartily
agreeing with the boy's sentiments. "And I hope they have waited for us.
But for goodness' sake be careful not to make yourself sick, Dave!"
The camp was pitched in an open flat beside a small sparkling mountain
stream. Upon one side of the creek was brush-covered bottom land,
through which the riders followed a winding trail, dim in the
semi-darkness. Then they splashed across the creek, and rode up its
steep bank into the clear, grass-covered government dooryard of the
campers.
"Well, at last!" called a voice from the tent. "The posse was just
getting ready to go in search of you. Thought the chickens must have
lured you away. Come right in, the feast is prepared!"
"All right, Syd," called the girl happily, dismounting almost in the
arms of old Jim McCullen, her dear "father Jim," to whom she gave the
heartiest handshake he had ever received.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're back!" she exclaimed as he led her horse away to
stake it out. "How's everything at home--the dogs and horses, and
everything? Never mind the _people_! I don't want to hear a single thing
about them! We're late, Syd," she apologized, as her cousin held open
the tent flap for her to enter, "but oh, we've had such a stack of fun!"
She greeted the little English cook, an old acquaintance, who beamed
with smiles as she entered. Then she cast her dark eyes about the tent
and encountered those of Livingston.
"We were beginning to fear for your safety, Miss Hathaway," he said to
her, then wondered why she should laugh. And she did laugh loudly, with
a clear, sweet, reverberant ring that echoed through the little valley.
Before it had died away her face settled back into its natural quiet.
She threw her cowboy's hat into a far corner, and seated herself on a
case of canned goods opposite Livingston, to whom she immediately
devoted herself.
She was not bold, this slender, well-built girl of the prairies,--no one
who knew her could conceive such an idea,--but she moved with a
forwardness, a certain freedom of manner that was her own divine right.
Whatever she did, whatever she said, appeared right in her--in another
less graceful, less charming, less magnetic, it would in many instances
seem gross boldness. But with her wonderful, forceful personality
whatever she did or said was the embodiment of grace and right.
Many of her acquaintances aped her ways and little peculiarities of
speech, to the utter ruination of any originality or fascination they
may have themselves possessed, for such originality cannot be imitated.
She leaned nearer to Livingston.
"You should have been with us--we've had a great time! Just think, we
got eight coyotes! Isn't that fine for one evening?"
"Indeed," he exclaimed, "I think that remarkable! Your cousin said that
something of the kind was keeping you. I take it that you are
passionately fond of hunting."
"Yes, it is the greatest sport there is in this country, and where the
hunting is good, as it is at home along the Missouri River, there is
nothing like it. But up here there is really no game to speak of, though
the mountains at one time abounded with it. Even chickens are as hard to
find as a needle in a haystack. We found a den of coyotes, seven little
ones, and one of the old ones we got with the help of the dogs. You
know," she said confidentially, "I shouldn't have delayed this supper
for anything less than a den of coyotes."
"There won't be the sign of any kind of game left up here by the time
she leaves," remarked Sydney, taking a seat on the ground beside her.
"I heard tell as how she was tryin' to make a clearance," said old Jim
McCullen from the entrance.
She flashed him a quick look of surprise. He answered it with a barely
perceptible squint, which she understood from years of comradeship to
mean that he shared her secret. It meant more than that. He not only
shared her secret, but his right hand--his life--was at her disposal, if
necessary. Then, in acknowledgment of his silent message she gave him
one of her rare, glorious smiles.
"You did make a pretty lively clearing," said her cousin. "Eight coyotes
isn't so bad. That means numerous calves saved, young colts, a hundred
or so sheep, not to mention innumerable wild birds and barnyard fowl."
"Truly, it makes us feel like conquerors, doesn't it, Dave? But we're
famished, Syd!" Then placing her seat beside the table she motioned the
others to join her, and soon they were enjoying a remarkably good camp
supper.
The cook bustled about the tent, pouring out coffee, apologizing,
praising this dish or that, and urging them to partake of more, all in
one breath.
Sydney and his friend Livingston kept up the conversation, to which Hope
listened, too contented and happy with the meal, the hour, and the
company to enter it herself. She finally pushed back her plate,
congratulated the cook upon the success of his supper, and gave the twin
a warning look, which he completely ignored.
"Here, take another piece o' this pie," said the cook, who had
intercepted the girl's glance. At this invitation the boy helped himself
with alacrity, and with a broad smile the cook continued: "I never
knowed a boy yet to kill himself eatin'. You can fill 'em plumb full to
the brim, an' in a 'alf hour they're lookin' fer more. All the same, dog
er Injun, halways hungry; an' a boy's just the same."
"Eat all you want, youngster, you're not in school now," said Carter. "I
have a slight recollection myself of a time when I had an appetite."
"I failed to notice anything wrong with it to-night, Sydney," remarked
the girl.
"There's nothin' like a happetite," observed the cook. "Did you's ever
hear the meaning hoff the word? This is how hit was told to _me_." He
stood before them emphasizing each word with a forward shake of his
first finger. "H-a-p-p-y,--happy,--t-i-t-e, tight,--happy--tite--that's
right, ain't hit? When you're heatin' hall you want you're _tight_, an'
then you're happy, ain't you? An' that's what hit means,--happy-tight."
Whether this observation of the small English cook's was original or not
those present had no way of ascertaining. But since this was but a
sample of the many observations he aired each day, it is reasonable to
suppose that it originated in his fertile brain.
"I think there's no doubt about that being the true derivation of the
word," said Hope. "In fact, I am sure it is. Isn't it, Dave?"
"I don't know nothin' about it," said the boy, looking up from his last
bite of pie; then giving a deep sigh he reluctantly moved away from the
table.
"Well, I can guarantee that you're happy," said Hope, "and that is a
positive demonstration of the truth of William's observation. But now we
must go," she said, rising abruptly and picking up her hat from the
corner of the tent.
"You haven't been here a half hour yet, Hopie, but I suppose I must be
thankful for small favors," deplored Carter.
"I've had my supper,--a nice one, too,--and that's what I came for, Syd,
dear," said the girl. "And if I may, I will come again, until you and
dear old Jim both get tired of me."
"_Get tired_--fiddlesticks!" exclaimed McCullen, while Sydney laughed a
little, and left the tent to saddle her horse. The breed boy followed
him; then Livingston, too, was about to leave when McCullen stopped him.
"Just stay in here by the fire and talk to Hopie till we get your
horses," he said, abruptly leaving them together.
The girl drew nearer the stove.
"It's quite chilly out this evening," she remarked.
"That is the beauty of the nights in this northern country," he replied,
coming near to her.
"Why, we're alone," she observed. "I wonder where William went!"
"I didn't notice his disappearance," he replied. "But we are
alone--together. Are you not frightened?"
"Frightened? No!" she said softly. "Why?"
"A senseless remark. Do not notice it--or anything, I beg of you. I am
quite too happy to weigh my words."
"Then you have proved the cook's theory correct; providing you have
eaten--sufficiently," she replied. They both smiled, and darts of light
from the stove played about their faces.
"Will you allow me--this night--to ride home with you?" he asked,
watching the fantastic shadows upon her face and catching gleams of her
deep eyes as they occasionally sought his own.
She hesitated a moment before replying.
"You think me a strange girl," she said. "I wonder what you will think
of me now if I refuse this."
"I think nothing except that you are the sweetest girl I have ever
known--and the _noblest_. I thank my Maker for having met you, and
spoken with you, and sat here in the firelight beside you! Your ways are
your own. I shall not--cannot question you, or impose myself upon you.
Our lives, it seems, lie far apart. But I cannot help it--the words burn
themselves out--I love you, _Hope_--I love you! Forgive me!" He raised
her hand to his lips and left her standing alone in the firelight.
"He loves me," she thought, far into the quiet hours of the night. "He
loves me, and yet he ran away from me!"