Helen Ervin's life in a private school for girls at San Francisco had
been uneventful until her graduation. She had been in the school for ten
years. Before that, she had vague recollections of a school that was not
so well conducted. In fact, almost her entire recollection was of
teachers, school chums, and women who had been hired as companions and
tutors. Some one had paid much money for her upbringing--that much Helen
Ervin knew. The mystery of her caretaking was known, of course, by Miss
Scovill, head of the Scovill School, but it had never been disclosed. It
had become such an ancient mystery that Helen told herself she had lost
all interest in it. Miss Scovill was kind and motherly, and would answer
any other questions. She had taken personal charge of the girl, who
lived at the Scovill home during vacations as well as throughout the
school year.
"Some day it will all be explained to you," Miss Scovill had said, "but
for the present you are simply to learn all you can and continue to be
just as nice as you have been. And meantime rest assured that somebody
is vitally interested in your welfare and happiness."
The illuminating letter came a few days after graduation. The girls had
all gone home and school was closed. Helen was alone in the Scovill
home. Miss Scovill had gone away for a few days, on business.
The letter bore a postmark with a strange, Indian-sounding name: "White
Lodge." It was in a man's handwriting--evidently a man who had written
much. The signature, which was first to be glanced at by the girl, read:
"From your affectionate stepfather, Willis Morgan." The letter was as
follows:
No doubt you will be surprised at getting this letter from one
whose existence you have not suspected. I had thought to let you
remain in darkness concerning me. For years I have been pleased to
pay your expenses in school--glad in the thought that you were
getting the best care and education that could be purchased. But my
affairs have taken a bad turn. I am, to put it vulgarly, cramped
financially. Moreover, the loneliness in my heart has become fairly
overmastering. I can steel myself against it no longer. I want you
with me in my declining years. I cannot leave here. I have become
greatly attached to this part of the country, and have no doubt
that you will be, also. Sylvan scenes, with a dash of human
savagery in the foreground, form the best relief for a too-extended
assimilation of books. It has been like balm to me, and will prove
so to you.
Briefly, I want you to come, and at once. A check to cover expenses
is enclosed. Your school years are ended, and a life of quiet, amid
scenes of aboriginal romance, awaits you here. Selfishly, perhaps,
I appeal to your gratitude, if the prospect I have held out does
not prove enticing of itself. If what I have done for you in all
these years entitles me to any return, I ask you not to delay the
payment. By coming now, you can wipe the slate clean of any
indebtedness.
Then followed directions about reaching the ranch--the Greek Letter
Ranch, the writer called it--and a final appeal to her sense of
gratitude.
When Helen finished reading the letter, her heart was suffused with pity
for this lonely man who had come thus strangely and unexpectedly into
her life. Her good impulses had always prompted her strongly. Miss
Scovill was away, so Helen left her a note of explanation, telling
everything in detail. "I know, dear foster mother," wrote the girl,
"that you are going to rejoice with me, now that I have found my
stepfather. I'll be looking forward to the time when you can visit us at
the Greek Letter Ranch."
Making ready for the journey took only a short time. In a few hours
Helen was on her way, little knowing that Miss Scovill, on her return,
was frantically sending out telegrams which indicated anything but a
peaceful acceptance of conditions. One of these telegrams, sent to an
address which Helen would not have recognized, read:
The dove has been lured to the serpent's nest. Take what action you
deem best, but quickly.
Helen enjoyed her trip through California and then eastward through the
Northwest country to the end of the spur which pointed toward the
reservation. From the railroad's end she went to White Lodge by stage.
From White Lodge she was told she had better take a private conveyance
to her destination. She hired a rig of a livery-stable keeper, who said
he could not possibly take her beyond the Indian agency.
"Mebbe some one there'll take you the rest of the way," said the
liveryman; and, accepting his hopeful view of the situation, the girl
consented to go on in such indefinite fashion.
Thus it happened that a slender, white-clad young woman, with a suitcase
at her feet, stood on the agency office porch, undergoing the steady
scrutiny of four or five blanketed Indian matrons when Walter Lowell
came back from lunch. In a few words Helen had explained matters, and
Lowell picked up her suitcase, and, after ascertaining that she had had
no lunch, escorted her up the street to the dining-hall.
"We have a little lunch club of employees, and guests often sit in with
us," said the agent cordially. "After you eat, and have rested up a bit,
I'll see that you are driven over to the--to the Greek Letter Ranch."
As a matter of fact, Lowell had to think several times before he could
get the Greek Letter Ranch placed in his mind. He had fallen into the
habit--in common with others in the neighborhood--of calling it Mystery
Ranch. Also Willis Morgan's name was mentioned so seldom that the
agent's mental gymnastics were long sustained and almost painfully
apparent before he had matters righted.
"Rogers," said Lowell to his chief clerk, on getting back to the agency
office, "how many years has Willis Morgan been in this part of the
country?"
"Willis Morgan," echoed Rogers, scratching his head. "Oh, I know now!
You mean the 'squaw professor.' He hasn't been called Morgan since he
married that squaw who died five years go. There was talk that he used
to be a college professor, which is right, I guess, from the number of
books he reads. But when he married an Indian folks just called him the
'squaw prof.' He's been out here twelve or fifteen years, I guess. Let's
see--he got those Indian lands through his wife when Jones was agent. He
must have moved off the reservation when Arbuckle was agent, just before
you came on."
"Did he always use a Greek letter brand on his cattle?"
"Always. He never ran many cattle. I guess he hasn't got any at all now.
But what he did have he always insisted on having branded with that
pitchfork brand, as the cowpunchers call it."
"I know--it's the letter Psi."
"Well, Si, or whatever other nickname it is, even the toughest-hearted
old cowmen used to kick on having to put such a big brand on critters.
That big pitchfork on flanks or shoulders must have spoiled many a hide
for Morgan, but he always insisted on having it slapped on."
"Have the Indians always got along with him pretty well?"
"Yes, because they're afraid of him and leave him alone. It ain't
physical fear, but something deeper, like being afraid of a snake, I
guess. You see he knows so damn much, he's uncanny. It's the power of
mind over matter. Seems funny to think of him having the biggest Indians
buffaloed, but he's done it, and he's buffaloed the white folks, too. He
gave it out that he wanted to be let alone, and, by jimminy, he's been
let alone! I'll bet there aren't four people in the county who have seen
his face in as many years."
"Did he have any children?"
"No. His wife was a pretty little Indian woman. He just married her to
show his defiance of society, I guess. Anyway, he must have killed her
by inches. If he had the other Indians scared, you can imagine how he
must have terrorized her. Yet I'll bet he never raised his voice above
an ordinary conversational tone."
Lowell frowned as he looked out across the agency street.
"Why, what's come up about Morgan?" asked Rogers.
"Oh, not such a lot," replied the agent. "It's only that there's a girl
here--his stepdaughter, it seems--and she's going to make her home with
him."
"Good Lord!" ejaculated the chief clerk.
"She's over at the club table now having lunch," went on Lowell. "I'm
going to drive her over to the ranch. She seems to think this stepfather
of hers is all kinds of a nice fellow, and I can't tell her that she'd
better take her little suitcase and go right back where she came from.
Besides, who knows that she may be right and we've been misjudging
Morgan all these years?"
"Well, if Willis Morgan's been misjudged, then I'm really an angel all
ready to sprout wings," observed the clerk. "But maybe he's braced up,
or, if he hasn't, this stepdaughter has tackled the job of reforming
him. If she does it, it'll be the supreme test of what woman can do
along that line."
"What business have bachelors such as you and I to be talking about any
reformations wrought by woman?" asked Lowell smilingly.
"Not much," agreed Rogers. "Outside of the school-teachers and other
agency employees I haven't seen a dozen white women since I went to
Denver three years ago. And you--why, you haven't been away from here
except on one trip to Washington in the last four years."
Each man looked out of the window, absorbed in his own dreams. Lowell
had forsaken an active career to take up the routine of an Indian
agent's life. After leaving college he had done some newspaper work,
which he abandoned because a position as land investigator for a
corporation with oil interests in view had given him a chance to travel
in the West. There had been a chance journey across an Indian
reservation, with a sojourn at an agency. Lowell had decided that his
work had been spread before him. By persistent personal effort and the
use of some political influence, he secured an appointment as Indian
agent. The monetary reward was small, but he had not regretted his
choice. Only there were memories such as this girl brought to
him--memories of college days when there were certain other girls in
white dresses, and when there was music far removed from weird Indian
chants, and the thud-thud of moccasins was not always in his ears....
Lowell rose hastily.
"They must be through eating over there," he said. "But I positively
hate to start the trip that will land the girl at that ranch."
The agent drove his car over to the dining-hall. When Helen came out,
the agency blacksmith was carrying her suitcase, and the matron, Mrs.
Ryers, had her arm about the girl's waist, for friends are quickly made
in the West's lonely places. School-teachers and other agency employees
chorused good-bye as the automobile was driven away.
The girl was flushed with pleasure, and there were tears in her eyes.
"I don't blame you for liking to live on an Indian reservation," she
said, "amid such cordial people."
"Well, it isn't so bad, though, of course, we're in a backwater here,"
said Lowell. "An Indian reservation gives you a queer feeling that way.
The tides of civilization are racing all around, but here the progress
is painfully slow."
"Tell me more about it, please," pleaded the girl. "This lovely
place--surely the Indians like it."
"Some of them do, perhaps," said Lowell. "But they haven't been trained
to this sort of thing. A lodge out there on the prairie, with game to be
hunted and horses to be ridden--that would suit the most advanced of
them better than settled life anywhere. But, of course, all that is
impossible, and the thing is to reconcile them to the inevitable things
they have to face. And even reconciling white people to the inevitable
is no easy job."
"No, it's harder, really, than teaching these poor Indians, I suppose,"
agreed the girl. "But don't you find lots to recompense you?"
Lowell stole a look at her, and then he slowed the car's pace
considerably. There was no use hurrying to the ranch with such a
charming companion aboard. The fresh June breeze had loosened a strand
or two of her brown hair. The bright, strong sunshine merely emphasized
the youthful perfection of her complexion. She had walked with a certain
buoyancy of carriage which Lowell ascribed to athletics. Her eyes were
brown, and rather serious of expression, but her smile was quick and
natural--the sort of a smile that brings one in return, so Lowell
concluded in his fragmentary process of cataloguing. Her youth was the
splendid thing about her to-day. To-morrow her strong, resourceful
womanhood might be still more splendid. Lowell surrendered himself
completely to the enjoyment of the drive, and likewise he slowed down
the car another notch.
"Of course, just getting out of school, I haven't learned so much about
the inevitableness of life," said the girl, harking back to Lowell's
remark concerning the Indians, "but I'm beginning to sense the
responsibilities now. I've just learned that it was my stepfather who
kept me in that delightful school so many years, and now it's time for
repayment."
"Repayment seems to be exacted for everything in life," said Lowell
automatically, though he was too much astonished at the girl's remark to
tell whether his reply had been intelligible. Was it possible the "squaw
professor" had been misjudged all these years, and was living a life of
sacrifice in order that this girl might have every opportunity? Lowell
had not recovered from the astounding idea before they reached Talpers's
place. He stopped the automobile in front of the store, and the trader
came out.
"Mr. Talpers, meet Miss Ervin, daughter of our neighbor, Mr. Morgan,"
said the agent. "Miss Ervin will probably be coming over here after her
mail, and you might as well meet her now."
Talpers bobbed his head, but not enough to break the stare he had bent
upon the girl, who flushed under his scrutiny. As a matter of fact, the
trader had been too taken aback at the thought of a woman--and a young
and pretty woman--being related to the owner of Mystery Ranch to do more
than mumble a greeting. Then the vividness of the girl's beauty had
slowly worked upon him, rendering his speechlessness absolute.
"I don't like Mr. Talpers as well as I do some of your Indians," said
the girl, as they rolled away from the store, leaving the trader on the
platform, still staring.
"Well, I don't mind confiding in you, as I've confided in Bill himself,
that Mr. Talpers is something over ninety per cent undesirable. He is
one of the thorns that grow expressly for the purpose of sticking in the
side of Uncle Sam. He's cunning and dangerous, and constantly lowers the
reservation morale, but he's over the line and I can't do a thing with
him unless I get him red-handed. But he's postmaster and the only trader
near here, and you'll have to know him, so I thought I'd bring out the
Talpers exhibit early."
Helen laughed, and forgot her momentary displeasure as the insistent
appeal of the landscape crowded everything else from her mind. The white
road lay like a carelessly flung thread on the billowing plateau land.
The air was crisp with the magic of the upper altitudes. Gray clumps of
sagebrush stood forth like little islands in the sea of grass. A winding
line of willows told where a small stream lay hidden. The shadows of
late afternoon were filling distant hollows with purple. Remote
mountains broke the horizon in a serrated line. Prairie flowers scented
the snow-cooled breeze.
They paused on the top of a hill, where, a few days later, a tragedy was
to be enacted. The agent said nothing, letting the panorama tell its own
story.
"Oh, it's almost overwhelming," said Helen finally, with a sigh.
"Sometimes it all seems so intimate, and personally friendly, and then
those meadow-larks stop singing for a moment, and the sun brings out the
bigness of everything--and you feel afraid, or at least I do."
Lowell smiled understandingly.
"It works on strong men the same way," he said. "That's why there are no
Indian tramps, I guess. No Indian ever went 'on his own' in this big
country. The tribes people always clung together. The white trappers
came and tried life alone, but lots of them went queer as a penalty. The
cowpunchers flocked together and got along all right, but many a
sheep-herder who has tried it alone has had to be taken in charge by his
folks. Human companionship out in all those big spaces is just as
necessary as bacon, flour, and salt."
The girl sighed wistfully.
"Of course, I've had lots of companionship at school," she said. "Is
there any one besides my stepfather on his ranch? There must be, I
imagine."
"There's a Chinese cook, I believe--Wong," replied Lowell. "But you are
going to find lots to interest you. Besides, if you will let me--"
"Yes, I'll let you drive over real often," laughed the girl, as Lowell
hesitated. "I'll be delighted, and I know father will be, also."
Lowell wanted to turn the car around and head it away from the hated
ranch which was now so close at hand. His heart sank, and he became
silent as they dropped into the valley and approached the watercourse,
near which Willis Morgan's cabin stood.
"Here's the place," he said briefly, as he turned into a travesty of a
front yard and halted beside a small cabin, built of logs and containing
not more than three or four rooms.
The girl looked at Lowell in surprise. Something in the grim set of his
jaw told her the truth. Pride came instantly to her rescue, and in a
steady voice she made some comment on the quaintness of the
surroundings.
There was no welcome--not even the barking of a dog. Lowell took the
suitcase from the car, and, with the girl standing at his side, knocked
at the heavy pine door, which opened slowly. An Oriental face peered
forth. In the background Lowell could see the shadowy figure of Willis
Morgan. The man's pale face and gray hair looked blurred in the
half-light of the cabin. He did not step to the door, but his voice
came, cold and cutting.
"Bring in the suitcase, Wong," said Morgan. "Welcome to this humble
abode, stepdaughter o' mine. I had hardly dared hope you would take such
a plunge into the primitive."
The girl was trying to voice her gratitude to Lowell when Morgan's hand
was thrust forth and grasped hers and fairly pulled her into the
doorway. The door closed, and Lowell turned back to his automobile, with
anger and pity struggling within him for adequate expression.