"You bad girl," cried Clarice Van Rensselaer from the table, "why did
you run away? See this nice dinner spoiling for you! I've regained my
good nature, which is lucky for you, but you'll have to give an account
of yourself. Actually, I had to send Mr. Livingston to look you up!" She
glanced with a well-bred look of quizzical amusement from Hope's
brilliant, flushed face to the man who accompanied her. "Well, you see
that I for one didn't wait for you," she concluded; "couldn't! I don't
think I ever was so hungry before in my whole life. Everything tastes
_perfectly_ delicious!"
"William has outdone himself this time," remarked Sydney, as the girl
drew up an empty box and seated herself at the table, taking a little
food upon her plate and making a pretense of eating. Everything tasted
like wood. She could scarcely swallow. It finally occurred to her that
she must be acting very unlike herself. She made a violent effort to
appear natural, succeeding fairly well.
"You haven't given account of yourself, yet," said Mrs. Van Rensselaer,
glancing from her end of the table to where Hope sat, still in silence.
"Don't ask me," said the girl. "My excuse would sound too trivial to
you, Clarice. Perhaps I wanted to watch the first stars of evening."
"Or follow a frog to its nest in the weeds," supplemented Sydney, "or
catch grass-hoppers that had gone to roost, or listen to the night-song
of the cat bird in the brush or--or what, Hopie? Maybe you were writing
poems in your mind, or preparing new lessons for school to-morrow."
"Yes, that's just it," she replied. "I was preparing new lessons--for
to-morrow!"
"How funny!" laughed Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "I had forgotten you were a
full-fledged school-teacher. Of course, I suppose you do have to think
about your teaching some. Goodness, I wouldn't like it at all! It must
be an awful task to bother with a lot of rough, dirty children! How many
pupils have you?"
"Seventeen enrolled--but only seven or eight who attend," replied Hope
briefly.
"Mercy, I thought you must have at least fifty, from all I saw back
there!" gasped Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "Well, I shouldn't think it would be
much trouble to prepare lessons for that amount."
"_That many_," corrected Hope. "We don't measure them by the pound."
"No, we size them up by the cord," laughed Sydney; "but we don't handle
'em, because they're like that much dynamite."
"Dangerous pieces of humanity," said Livingston, smiling.
"Hope can handle them all right," declared Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "She can
handle anyone, for that matter. She's got more tact and diplomacy than
any politician. Trust her to manage seven or eight children! Why, if
she can't manage a person any other way, she'll actually _bully_ him.
She can make you believe black is white every time."
"Fraeulein is so goot!" murmured Louisa, in rapture.
"Thank you," replied Hope gratefully. "You see Louisa knows me _last_,
Clarice, and her remark should show you that I have changed for the
better."
"I always told you there was chance for improvements, didn't I, Hopie?"
laughed Sydney.
"Yes, you have said something about there being _room_ for improvement,
but I always supposed you judged me to be a hopeless case. I'm glad
though you think there's a _chance_! I always did want to improve!" As
she spoke she pushed back the box upon which she had been sitting,
turning it over to make it lower, and seated herself near the corner of
the tent, where she was shaded from the direct rays of the lantern's
light.
More than a half hour had already passed, she thought nervously. Then
she began to count the minutes before her messengers should return. The
time seemed endless since she had decided to wait for more particulars
before informing Livingston of what was about to take place. The twins
had learned of it only that afternoon, and they, though filled with the
foreboding of a desperate plot, could tell nothing positive about the
actual plans. These she hoped they would be able to ascertain. She
believed that the soft-voiced twin knew more than he was willing to
divulge when he advised her so emphatically against informing Livingston
of the plot. This, combined with a certain anxiety of her own, which she
was unable to define, filled her with vague uneasiness and decided her
instantly to do nothing until the boys returned with more particulars.
"You don't mean to say you've finished your supper, Hope," exclaimed
Mrs. Van Rensselaer, as the girl settled herself comfortably in the dark
corner. "_I_ never was so hungry before in all my life!" She turned to
Jim McCullen, who put his head inside the tent: "You see, Mr. McCullen,
that good, hard, patient endeavor brings its own reward! I wouldn't miss
this for worlds!"
"I'm very glad to hear it, ma'am," replied old Jim politely. "Reckon
you'll sleep pretty well out there to-night, no misquitoes er nothin' to
bother you. The tent's all ready fer you folks any time. Plenty o'
blankets an' it'll be a warmer night'n usual. Well, so long!"
"Why, he's going away!" said Hope in surprise, as a horse loped down the
creek bank and on through the brush trail. An impulse to run out and
call him back seized her. Sydney's slow reply caused a delay, the
impulse to do so wavered, and in another moment it was too late; yet she
felt somehow that she had made a mistake.
"Yes," replied Carter, after listening to Mrs. Van Rensselaer's chatter
for a moment, "he's going over to the round-up. It's camped about ten or
fifteen miles, down at the foot of the mountains. It's as light as day
out and much pleasanter riding in the cool of evening. He'll be back
early in the morning. Had some mail from the ranch to take over to the
boys."
"The poor fellows on the round-up all summer! I bet they're glad to get
their mail," murmured Clarice.
"What they get don't hurt them any," remarked Sydney. "Range riding
isn't conducive to letter writing, and it doesn't take long before a
cow-puncher is about forgotten by his home people, and his mail consists
of an occasional newspaper, sent by someone who happens to remember him,
and the regular home letter from his old mother, who never forgets. By
the way, here's a lot of mail for O'Hara. Have to ride over with it
unless he turns up pretty soon."
"Dear Larry!" said Clarice. "What made him leave just when I came up
here? I'd love to see him! He's such a jolly good fellow. You didn't
send him away on some wild-goose chase, did you, Hope?"
The girl shaded her eyes with her hand and answered languidly: "No,
there wasn't enough excitement here, so he went over to the military
reservation. They are out on drill over near here--Colonel Walsh, and a
lot of West Point fellows Larry knows, and so he pulled stakes, just
quit our company entirely, and turned old Watch Eye toward Fox Creek."
She drawled her words out slowly as if to fill in time. Livingston,
whose eyes constantly sought her face, thought she must be very tired,
and rose suddenly to take his leave. She was upon her feet in a flash.
"Sit right down!" she demanded nervously. "Surely you wouldn't think of
leaving us so early; why, we'd all get stupid and go to bed immediately,
and Clarice wouldn't enjoy herself at all!" She laid her hand upon his
sleeve entreatingly. "_Stay!_" she urged softly.
"As you say," he replied. "It is a pleasure to remain, but you must tell
me when I am to go. I thought perhaps you were tired."
She drew her hand away with a sudden movement. He seated himself beside
Mrs. Van Rensselaer, who began immediately to congratulate him upon his
good sense in remaining.
"But it was compulsory," he returned. "I didn't dare disobey orders."
"I should say not," agreed Clarice, laughing merrily, "we always mind
Hope. Everybody does."
"She always knows the right," said little Louisa, looking lovingly at
her friend.
"Why, of course," agreed Mrs. Van Rensselaer, "that's taken for
granted."
Hope was again in her corner, silent, intent. Livingston could only
conclude that she was tired. The rest of them took no special notice of
her, nor did they hear the distant splashing of water which brought into
activity all the blood in her body and fired each nerve. Clarice was
giving an elaborate account of her day's experience, consequently no
attention was paid to the girl's abrupt departure. She smiled at Louisa
as she passed quietly out and made some remark about her horse, which
gave the impression that she might have forgotten something. At least
Livingston and Louisa received that impression; as for the others they
were busy, and besides Hope was Hope, who always followed her own free
fancy.
The girl fairly flew along the trail that skirted the creek until she
grasped the bridle of a small Indian pony that was nosing its way
cautiously toward her.
"Oh, it's you!" exclaimed its small rider in a relieved tone, as he
slipped to the ground and stood in the path beside the girl. "I was
mighty scared it might be somebody else." Hope raised the boy's face so
that the moon shone full upon it.
"Ned!" she exclaimed under her breath. "Why are you here? Where are the
boys?"
"The old man's got 'em locked up in the granary," he announced. Then
seeing the look of alarm that flashed into her face, added assuringly:
"But that's all right, _I'm_ here! They told me to tell you they'd get
out somehow 'fore mornin'. I cached their horses in the brush for 'em,
and they're diggin' themselves out underneath the barn. Here," he said,
handing something to her. "I got your rifle out o' your room an' hid it
under the house soon's ever you left, an' all these cartridges. I just
knew the old man 'ud go an' look fer it."
"Oh!" exclaimed the girl, suddenly gathering child, gun, and all into
her arms. "What a little _man_ you are."
"Yep," said the boy, disengaging himself; "an' I've got a lot to tell
you!"
"And you're _sure_ about this," questioned Hope, after the boy had told
a story so complete in detail as to fairly unnerve her. "You're
_perfectly_ sure that these men are going to meet at the shed--the big
shed close to Fritz's grave, there below the ledge of rocks?"
"Sure's anything," replied the boy convincingly. "There'll be seven er
eight from our place, some from Old Peter's an' some from up the creek."
Hope shivered as though it had been a winter's night.
"What _shall_ we do! What _shall_ we do!" she repeated almost
frantically.
"Why, _fight 'em_, of course!" exclaimed the boy. "Dave an' Dan'll get
out by then, an' we'll all lay up there behind them rocks an' just
pepper 'em! There's 'bout a million peek-holes in that wall o' rocks,
an' they can't never hit us. Pooh, I ain't afraid o' twenty men! We'll
make 'em think all the soldiers from the post is behind there!"
"The soldiers!" exclaimed the girl, filled suddenly with a new life,
"and they _shall be there_! _They shall be there!_"