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THE BRAND
* * * * * *
NEW BOOKS
MARCUS WHITMAN: PATHFINDER AND PATRIOT. Eells Net $2.50
CHRONICLES OF OLDFIELDS. Allen 1.50
PIONEER DAYS ON PUGET SOUND. Denny 2.00
CHAPERONING ADRIENNE THROUGH THE YELLOWSTONE. Harriman 1.00
THE ROAD OF LIFE. Poems. Smith 1.00
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PUBLISHERS OF
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Descriptive Catalog sent upon request
* * * * * *
[Illustration]
THE BRAND
_A Tale of the Flathead
Reservation_
By
THERESE BRODERICK
(Tin Schreiner)
HW
1909
The Alice Harriman Company
Seattle, Washington
Copyright, 1909, by
Therese Broderick
Dramatic Rights Reserved
Printers and Binders
Lowman & Hanford Co.
Seattle
TABLE OF CONTENTS
_Chapter_
I Bess Fletcher’s First Western Acquaintance 11
II The Golden Glimpse 21
III Henry West’s Ideal 28
IV The Hesitating Lariat 38
V The Motley Spectators at Polson 43
VI _HW_ Ranch 46
VII “I Would Have Done More for an Injun” 53
VIII Bess Learns the Real Cause of the Accident 59
IX “Helen” at the St. Ignatius Mission 65
X A Western Tragedy 76
XI The Miracle of Womanhood 87
XII An Indian in the Moonlight 97
XIII A Frantic Herd 105
XIV The First Visit of Dave Davis 117
XV A Journey Up Flathead Lake 130
XVI “Mon Desir” and the Box of Roses 137
XVII Bess Fletcher’s New Gun and Its First Victim 144
XVIII Mauchacho Wins the Race 153
XIX The Strength of a Beaded Belt 166
XX The Camping Trip and “Peter Pan” 181
XXI The Trout Deal 191
XXII A Pseudo Squaw 198
XXIII An Unusual Proposal 206
XXIV Why a Cheek Blanches 213
XXV Berenice Morton’s Arrival 221
XXVI A Wedding Day 235
XXVII “I—am—but—an—Indian” 244
XXVIII A Winter’s Vigil 250
XXIX The Brand _HW_ 255
XXX “When You Can Forget” 268
ILLUSTRATIONS
Bess Frontispiece
Sunset on Flathead Lake 211
_To all who know the Golden West,
And those who fain would feel
Its charm and mystery, and test
Its worth, which is so real;
To all who love God’s mountains,
His vast expanse of plain,
His forests, lakes and fountains,
And the secrets they contain—
This book is humbly given._
—TIN SCHREINER.
THE BRAND
CHAPTER I
BESS FLETCHER’S FIRST WESTERN ACQUAINTANCE
For two days the westbound train had hurried over the prairies as if it
understood the heart of the girl and strove to gratify her impatience
for a glimpse of the mountains. She sat at the car window and gazed
fascinated at the scenes which were so new and strange that she forgot
the coach with its tired people—forgot even her brother, who sat with
his book, bored and indifferent to the flying panorama.
Her soul left the plush-covered seats and suit-cases to follow the wild
creatures that moved in the gorges or climbed the wonderful mountain
slopes. She did not hear the repeated “I’m going for a smoke, Bess.”
Her soul was without, her eyes following a mysterious, half-hidden form.
“It’s a deer! Oh, Jim, it’s a deer!” she exclaimed excitedly, turning
to her brother for corroboration. But the flashing brown eyes looked
into the face of a stranger.
“Oh, I beg pardon,” she breathed, her cheek flushing. “My brother sat
there only a moment ago, and I thought I was addressing him.”
The stranger smiled. “Then I infer that you are Miss Fletcher. I just
now saw Mr. Fletcher going into the smoking room. Two years ago I had
the pleasure of making his acquaintance when he was in the Flathead
country.”
While he was speaking, she noted what a large man he was, how
deliberately he spoke and in what an unusually musical voice. She saw
the flush of health and strength in his face, contrasting so greatly
to her brother’s pale, emaciated countenance. She wondered what color
his eyes were, but as he looked at her with fleeting glances she
could not tell. The thought flashed through her mind that he would
be very handsome if only he would open his eyes frankly. In fact, so
preoccupied was she reading the young man that she was scarcely aware
of what he was saying to her. Just then she saw James coming.
“Well, well, Mr. Davis! I’m glad to meet you once more.” Fletcher
reached forth his hand in friendly recognition.
“Permit me to introduce my sister, whom I am taking to the Flathead
with me.”
With a nod the stranger explained how he had already had the pleasure
of speaking with Miss Fletcher.
“You are not looking like the hale and hearty cowboy whom I saw two
years ago riding over the range on the reservation,” he continued. “It
must be the return to civilization did not agree with you.”
“I was very well until a few months ago,” said Fletcher, “but the worry
and strain of settling my father’s affairs used me up generally, and
I am now going West to recuperate. I love the Western life, with its
sunshine, its out-of-doors, its fresh air and vast breathing space. I
wouldn’t exchange the three summers on the range for all my life in the
city.”
“Do you know, Mr. Davis, I have become so fascinated with tales of the
cattle country that I feel almost as enthusiastic as my brother,” said
Bess, brushing the stray lock of fluffy brown hair out of her eye. “Do
you think,” she continued, “that I shall love the West as he does?”
“I hope so,” said Davis, with a swift glance.
“I already know what a cayuse is, and also a lariat, though I am not
so sure as regards a teepee; still, if I remember correctly, it is
something good to eat.”
Simultaneously both gentlemen burst forth in hearty laughter, and when
Davis could speak he said: “I am afraid, Miss Fletcher, your appetite
will be gone when you see or even smell one.”
Bess wrinkled her brow in perplexity. “Oh,” she said, “James has told
me so many tales of the Indians and cowboys and all, that I scarcely
know what to believe. Nevertheless, it won’t be long now before I shall
have solved a few of the mysteries at least.”
Davis began carefully to roll a cigarette, shaping it daintily with his
thumb and index fingers; then poising it carefully between his lips, he
sought a match in his vest pocket and excused himself, hoping to meet
them both very often during the summer. Bess watched him as he slowly
sauntered toward the end of the car with a look of inquiry.
“I think I would like him better if he would look directly at one. Who
is he, James? A cattleman or cowboy, or what is it you called them—oh,
yes, squaw man?”
“You’ll have to guess again, Bess. He is Dave Davis, the Indian
agent of the Flathead Reservation. He is probably on his way to the
sub-agency at Ronan.”
She gave a little sigh in answer, and asked how long it would be before
the train reached Selish.
“I fear you are nearly worn out, James. You had better lie down and
rest. It is now four o’clock, and at five you say we will reach the end
of our train journey. It’s been rather long and tedious. How far away
New York begins to feel, doesn’t it? Oh, I wonder if I shall really
like it away out here in the West?”
James quietly settled down for a nap, and Bess went on with her
mental soliloquy. The West! What had she not dreamed of the West! Its
wonderful mountains, so great and bold, rock-ribbed and ancient as the
sun, verdant with the towering pines, and again, white and softened
by the crown of winter. In fancy she had seen their rugged sides
caressed by crystal streams, and had stooped to drink where deer had
splashed. Then forth stretched the plain, far into the blue horizon. On
she dreamed, till the porter warned her it was nearly time for them to
leave the train. Hurriedly awakening her brother, he hastily gathered
together their numerous grips and boxes. So busily engaged were her
hands that she had to blow the persistent wisp of hair out of her eyes.
“For pity’s sake, Bess, can’t you pin that bunch of hair up?”
“It won’t stay up, James. I get so annoyed at the old forelock that
sometimes I feel like pulling it out,” and all unconsciously she
repeated the motion, at which they both laughed.
“Here we are, dearie, at last. I wonder if anyone will meet us. Come,
let the porter help you off with a few of those bird cages.”
As they stepped from the train she felt to everything which came within
her range of observation like a huge interrogation point. She glanced
hurriedly about, hoping to see Henry West, and wondering if she would
know him. Just then she saw Mr. Davis lifting his hat to her, both in
recognition and farewell, as he walked to a man holding a beautiful
saddle horse. The Indian agent glanced back at the tall, graceful girl,
with her pretty traveling dress and hat of brown. She could not know
that he noted with what an air she walked, head and shoulders erect,
chin up aggressively, nor that he thought:
“Gad! but she is great! And what a treat after three years of Indians.
I shall certainly see you often, Miss Fletcher.”
“Do you see him anywhere, James?” Bess was all animation.
“West? No, sister. We better hurry over here where there is the best
little hotel you ever saw or heard tell of; so immaculately clean, and
excellent food—plain, but cooked to the queen’s taste. That is, if it’s
run by the same party who used to be here. My mouth still waters in
recollection of some of the good trout and muffins which I have had at
Mrs. Strong’s.”
Nestled closely to the hillside was the hotel, and as Bess was greeted
by a sweet-faced girl and her mother she wondered if all Western
hospitality were as cordial.
James had ordered their trunks brought over, and soon Bess came from
her room fresh and clean and rested, dressed in a becoming tan-colored
riding suit of corduroy.
It was early May. In the mountains the evenings were still cold, and
a blazing fire crackled as they sat down to dinner. It seemed to Bess
that she never was so hungry in all her life. Biscuits never tasted so
good before. She saw, with gratification, that James ate as he had not
in weeks.
“Did you ever feel, James, that you could eat everything in sight?
That’s just the way I feel now, but I’ll try to leave enough for you,
dear.”
This brother and sister were all the world to each other. The mother
died while Bess was still young, and most of her life had been spent
in the convent school. During her summer vacation she was often with
her father and brother in New York. The past year and a half, since the
death of their father, Bess and James had been together constantly. He
had hoped to carry on his father’s law business, but a severe illness
necessitated his leaving the city, and so he gladly accepted the offer
of Henry West to come to his ranch and assume the foremanship.
James and Henry West had been in school at Harvard together, and later
both began the study of law. The close association of years caused the
insoluble bond of friendship between them.
Colin West, the father of Henry, was a Scotchman, of education, tact
and good judgment; a man respected by everyone with whom he came in
contact. Fate or fortune had placed him in the West while still a
young man. His wife was half Indian blood, and yet one of the most
refined and intellectual of women. Her son was proving himself an
able manager of the vast herds of cattle and buffalo which Colin West
had accumulated, and since his death four years ago Henry had had the
entire management of the ranch.
Here James spent three long, delightful summers. Here he learned to
ride and “rope” like any of the cowboys on the range. It was always
with reluctance that he left, after the fall round-up, to take up
his studies again. How glad he was to return now, in hopes of soon
regaining his health and strength. He had hesitated in bringing his
sister into this new life, and yet he could not leave her alone in New
York.
She was wild with delight when he asked her to come, for ever since she
had listened to his never-ending, interesting tales of the West had she
hoped that she, too, might come to know its lure. She loved out-of-door
life, and the few months of her vacation in the city were usually spent
riding, so that she had become a very good horsewoman, and, best of
all, had grown to strong and perfect womanhood. She was girlish, and
her twenty years rested lightly on her shoulders. Her optimistic and
sunshiny disposition won for her the love and admiration of all her
friends, and even strangers smiled at her happy face. As most of her
life had been spent at school among sweet-faced nuns, she had grown up
uncontaminated by the world, pure-minded and whole-souled. Her faith
was implicit, and never yet had she had a rude awakening to the fact
that all were not true nor good, nor even sincere.
Several times she had considered seriously becoming a nun herself, but
her love of nature, of out-of-doors, of friends, of her father and
brother, of the world generally, made her pause. Then, too, she knew
her bright and merry nature could never endure the strict confines of
the cloister and the shadow of the somber black robes. “No, I cannot,
for I am not good enough,” was always her mental decision. And now
that her father was dead and she and James were alone, she had put the
thought from her mind entirely.
The nuns realized what her work would be, for her talents in music and
painting were extraordinary; and she also had that gift, which few
possess, of making a success of anything she undertook. Failure was
not in her vocabulary, and she never used the word, either mentally or
audibly.
“Why in the world, Bess, have you put on your riding togs?”
Bess looked up with surprise and replied: “Why, James, are we not going
horseback to the _HW_ Ranch?”
“We can’t start for the ranch tonight. It is at least thirty-five
miles, and besides you can never ride so far, even though Henry West
should bring saddle horses. The stage leaves here for Polson early in
the morning, and we will, in all probability, meet him there. Still, he
wired he would meet us here at Selish. It is early yet, and he may come
soon.”
With a little impatient gesture of putting back the hair from her
forehead, and with her eyes sparkling, half defiantly and half in fun,
Bess said: “My dear, solicitous brother, let me tell you a few things
right now. I am here in the great West where you have told me there is
perfect and untrammeled freedom. Don’t begin using a lot of don’ts
and can’ts, for I am going to ride—‘and ever to ride’, when and where
and with whom my fancy dictates; I am going to talk with anyone who
interests me, be he white or full-blood Indian. I am going to—Oh, what
am I not going to do!—even shock my dear, old brother, half to death,
every day—you dear”—She jumped from her seat at the table and after
flinging her arms around his neck, she was out of the room, her merry
laugh ringing in his ears, before he had time to remonstrate.
“My dear little sister,” he thought, “I pray there may no harm come to
you, and that your frankness may not be misconstrued by those _who are
ever ready to criticise_.”