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[Illustration: _Penny and the Sheriff match wits under the stars._]
PENNY
of Top Hill Trail
By
Belle Kanaris Maniates
Author of
"Amarilly of Clothes-Line Alley,"
"Mildew Manse," etc.
Frontispiece by
Philip Lyford
The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago
Copyright, 1919
By
The Reilly & Lee Co.
All Rights Reserved
Made in U. S. A.
Published, Feb. 8, 1919
Second Printing, Feb. 10, 1919
Penny of Top Hill Trail
PENNY OF TOP HILL TRAIL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I 7
CHAPTER II 33
CHAPTER III 60
CHAPTER IV 90
CHAPTER V 108
CHAPTER VI 116
CHAPTER VII 141
CHAPTER VIII 155
CHAPTER IX 161
CHAPTER X 177
CHAPTER XI 203
CHAPTER XII 216
CHAPTER XIII 232
CHAPTER XIV 238
CHAPTER XV 248
CHAPTER XVI 262
CHAPTER XVII 282
[Transcriber's Note: Table of Contents was not present in the original
publication.]
PENNY
of Top Hill Trail
CHAPTER I
On an afternoon in early spring a man lounged against the wall of the
station waiting for the express from the east. Slender of waist and hip,
stalwart of shoulder, some seventy-two inches of sinewy height, he was the
figure of the typical cattleman. His eyes were deep-set and far-seeing;
his lean, brown face, roughened by outdoor life, was austere and resolute
in expression.
The train had barely stopped when a boyish-looking, lithe-limbed youth
leaped from the platform. The blue serge suit and checked cap he wore did
not disguise the fact that his working clothes--his field uniform--were
those of a cow-puncher. A few quick strides brought him to the man in
waiting.
"Hoped you'd be on hand to meet me, Kurt, so I could get out to the ranch
to-night. How's things up there?"
"Just the same as they were when you left, Jo," said the one addressed in
whimsical tone. "You've only been gone ten days, you know."
"You don't say!" ejaculated Jo, following his companion through the depot.
"City does age a man."
Gone are the days of The Golden West when spurred and revolvered horsemen
sprang into saddles and loped out of the brush, or skimmed over matted
mesquite on a buckboard drawn by swift-running ponies.
A long racing car was waiting for the two men and they were soon speeding
over a hard-baked, steel-like road that led up, around and over the
far-flung, undulating hills before them.
"I thought Kingdon's best car was worth a million bucks before I went to
Chicago," said Joe critically, "but it sure would look like a two-spot on
Michigan Avenue."
The other smiled indulgently.
"I trust everything out here won't suffer by comparison with the things
you have seen during your journey."
"I should say not! It all looks pretty good to me. I wouldn't change this
trail to Top Hill for all the boulevards and asphalts of Chicago, and our
ranch-house has got any hotel I saw skinned by a mile for real living. I
had _some_ vacation, though, and it was mighty good of you to send me on
that business. I 'tended to it, all right as soon as I got there, before I
took in any of the sights or let loose for my 'time.' I won't forget it in
you, Kurt--to send me instead of going yourself."
"Well, Jo, you'd been cooped up here a long time for a youngster," said
Kurt, laying a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "and I saw you were
rarin' for a little recreation. I thought you would settle down to a hard
season's work if you let out a little. I received your report and check.
You managed that cattle deal very shrewdly. Kingdon was much pleased."
"That's encouraging, but I feel better at pleasing you, Kurt."
They rode on without talking for some distance. From time to time Kurt
cast a searching glance at the young man whose eyes shone with a strange,
steady light--a look of exaltation and despair combined.
The car slowed down to conversational need.
"What 'tis, Jo? Did you come to grief when you 'let loose?' Let go all
your earnings in one big game without any way-slips, or did you have such
a round of theatres, cabarets and night-life that you are feeling the
depression of reaction?"
"You're guessing wrong," replied Jo quietly. "I know that's the way most
of us grass-fed men act when we get a chance at white lights. I had a
beautiful time that was as short and as far off as a pleasant dream. As I
said, I started out for a regular time, but I didn't take a drink, or
touch a card, or--say, Kurt, I think I'd like to tell you about it! I know
you won't kid me, for I'm in earnest and--in trouble."
Another quick glance at the blue eyes, usually so brimming with sparkling
gayety but which were now serious and despondent, brought a transformation
to the grim face of the older man, making him look kinder, warmer,
younger.
"Shoot, Jo!" was all he said, but the lad felt that the crude word was
backed up by a real interest, a readiness to hear and advise.
"Some one gave me a steer to a dance place," he began. "Hurricane Hall, I
think it was called, and as soon as I looked in, I saw it was tougher even
than a cowboy's cravings called for; but I sort of stuck around until I
happened to look at one of the tables over in a cornered-off place. A
little girl was sitting there alone, different from all those other
fierce-looking ones who were dressed in high water skirts and with waists
that looked as if they needed inside blinds to get by.
"She had on a white dress, a real dress--not a skirt and bib--that covered
her, and without much fixings. Her hair was drawn back plain like a kid's.
I knew right off she'd got in wrong, and I thought it was up to me to get
her out of that joint.
"I went over to her and said: 'Excuse my nerve, little girl, but I guess
you're in the wrong pew.'
"She looked at me sort of funny; then she smiled and said: 'Same to you!'
"Her voice sounded like low, soft music--contralto kind.
"'Yes;' I said. 'You're right. I'm a cowboy, not a country boy, and I'm in
Chicago to see the sights; but I'd ask for blinders if I stayed around
here much longer. Who brought you here?'
"'Nobody,' she said, looking down. 'I came by myself.'
"'I'm glad of it,' I tell her, 'and I'm the guy that's going to take you
away from here.'
"'Why?' she asked me, 'and how do you know I'll go with you.'
"She'd kept her eyes away from me all this time. I said: 'Look at me.'
"She did. Right at me, the way kids do--not bold--just curious. Good
night! It did something to my heart when her eyes looked into mine that
way.
"'Can you trust me?' I asked after a minute.
"'Yes,' she said; and I knew she meant it.
"'I want to dance with you,' I told her, 'but I don't want to do it
here.'
"'Where can we go?' she asked.
"'I know a man in Chicago,' I said, 'who has asked me to come to his
place. It ain't stylish enough for you, but it's run right and
respectable. It ain't very far from here. Reilly's. Know it?'
"'I've heard of it,' she said, 'but I've never been there.'
"Of course she hadn't. I'd seen right off she was just a kid and hadn't
been around to places.
"'Will you go there with me now?' I asked her.
"'Yes;' she said. 'I know you're all right.'
"Maybe I wasn't feeling good when I'd got her out of there and steered her
through the streets! She was a little mite of a thing, and young, but very
quiet; her eyes had a sad look.
"We went to Reilly's: He was up here in the hill country once for a
vacation--the time you were out on the coast. We fellows gave him some
time, and he liked it fine. Well, he told us the place was ours. The music
was great, and we started right out on the floor. Say! I was feeling as
fit and stepping as lively as if I had had a million drinks, but I hadn't
had one. There was no getting around it. That little girl in her white
dress had landed me one right over the heart. She slipped into my arms as
quick as she had into my heart, too. I danced the way I felt, and
she--well, she was right with me every time: the slickest little stepper I
ever saw. Not dance-mad, like those professional kind; she let me set the
pace and she followed any lead.
"Reilly came up to us on the floor and offered to introduce us to folks. I
asked him if he remembered the time I gave him out west, and he said he
could never forget it and he was now aiming to return it best he knew how.
'Take it from me,' I said, 'that I can get right returns from you if
you'll not give any other fellow the chance to butt in on these dances.'
'I'm on,' he said, and he let us alone.
"We danced every time without talking any. When it came closing time,
Reilly came up again and said: 'This is the hour we quit, but it don't
mean for my guests. Come back in this little room and have refreshments on
me.'
"He showed us into a little ring-around-the-rosy room with lights half off
and asks: 'What'll you have?'
"'Coffee,' I said quickly and warningly, and the kid said: 'I'll have the
same.'
"Reilly laughed--because I took coffee, I suppose. We got it good and hot,
with sandwiches and pickles thrown in. Then we talked. Someway she got me
to do most of the talking. She wanted to hear all about ranches and
cowboys and me. Her eyes got bright, and she said it was better than
movies, and she wished she could see my country. I told her she would,
because I was going to take her there. She didn't say anything to that.
Pretty soon Reilly comes in and tells me he wants to give us the best time
he knows how all right, but were we planning to stay to breakfast? When I
saw what time it was, I took the hint and we got right up. I asked him
what there was to pay, and he said if I tried to pay, I'd have to do it
over his dead body. We went out into the night, only 'twas morning. I
asked her what her folks would say.
"'I have no folks,' she said kind of sad-like.
"That made me feel good.
"'I am glad of that,' I told her, 'because I want you all to myself.'
"Then I thought she must be working, and I told her I was sorry to have
kept her up so late because she'd be too tired to go to work. She said she
was out of a job, but was expecting something soon.
"'I am glad of that, too,' I said.
"She looked sort of surprised, so I knew I'd been too sudden, but you see,
time was short with me. I told her I'd be in Chicago another twenty-four
hours and would she help show me around. I had never been on one of the
big boats and Reilly had told me about a fine tour to take to some Saint
place. She knew where he meant, though she had never been there. She said
folks who lived in Chicago didn't go outside much. They left the trips for
visitors. She promised to meet me at the dock in a few hours.
"She wouldn't let me go all the way home with her. She said she had
reasons, and made me leave her on a corner which she said was quite close
to where she lived. It was an awful poor part of the city, and I suppose
she didn't want me to know how humble her home was. As if I cared for
that! It was so near light I knew she would be safe, but I stood there on
guard for a few minutes after she left.
"Believe me, I was right on time at the dock, and she came soon after I
did. She had on a plain, dark suit, neat, little shoes, and a hat down
over her eyes like the girls in movies wear. I'd passed a corner on the
way to the boat where they sold flowers. There were some violets that
looked like her. I bought a big bunch and when I gave them to her, she
sort of gasped and said no one had ever bought flowers for her before. I
was glad to hear that. I asked her hadn't she ever had a fellow, and she
said she hadn't. I told her I couldn't see why, unless it was because she
didn't want one. She looked up at me sort of shy and said she might have
had one most any time, but that there had never been one she cared for
before.
"I could have hugged her right there on the dock for that 'before,' but it
was time for the boat to start. There weren't many going. It was early in
the season, she said. We went up on deck and sat by the rail and maybe old
Lake Michigan didn't look sparkling! Everything looked sparkling to me.
She was as happy as a kid with a new doll, because she had never been on a
boat before. When we got to the place--St. Joe, she said it was--there
were all sorts of things to do that beat Chicago all to bits for a good
time. There was a big sandy beach that made me want to go in the water,
but she said it was too early. So we sat in the sun-warmed sand and
watched the waves, and we got our pictures taken, and tried a Wheel of
Fortune. We went to a big hotel and had a good dinner, though they didn't
have any of the things that were down on their program. The waiter said it
was a bill of fare left over from last year. We didn't mind that. After
dinner we rode out to a place to see some guys that looked like pictures
in the Old Testament. They lived in David's House, too.
"It was an awfully short afternoon someway. We had supper at the hotel and
took the boat home. What few passengers there were besides us stayed shut
up in the cabin, so we had the deck and the light of the new moon all to
ourselves.
"She shivered a little, but I had brought an extra coat, because I had
seen Reilly before I went and he told me to take one. I wrapped her up in
it, and when I buttoned it around her chin, I did what I'd been aching to
do since I first met her, but had slipped on my courage. She was looking
down in a shy, little way she has--and I kissed her. When she lifted her
eyes, there was such a surprised little look in them, I felt just as if I
had hurt a baby.
"'I didn't mean to do it,' I said, 'but I couldn't help it. Will you
forgive me?'
"'I'll forgive you,' she said in a low voice after a moment, 'but you
mustn't--again.'
"She meant it, so I didn't, but she let me hold her hand and we sat quiet
and watched the moon-shine on the water.
"I asked her if she'd had a good time, and she told me it had been the
most wonderful day of her life--different from all others.
"'Honest?' I asked.
"She didn't answer, but looked off over the water, and I saw a tear on her
cheek.
"'Honest?' I said again.
"'Yes;' she said. '_Honest_, and I never knew before what it was to be
honest.'
"I didn't know what she meant, but we had got to Chicago now. It wasn't
very late and I asked her should we go to Reilly's again, and she said it
would spoil the day. I thought so, too. On the way to where I'd left her
the night before, there was a little park. We went in and sat on one of
the benches. It was only a little clump of trees, but it made a nice place
to visit, because there was no one around. People in cities don't act like
they were seasoned to outdoors except when it's hot weather.
"I was booked to leave the next morning, so I couldn't let any grass grow.
I asked her to marry me.
"'I wish you hadn't asked me,' she said, and her voice sounded like there
were tears in her eyes.
"'Why?' I asked.
"'I wish,' she went on without taking any notice of me--just like she was
talking to herself--'that I dared love a man like you.'
"That was all I cared to know. For the ghost of a second I held her in my
arms, but she slipped out of them, and I saw her face was pale.
"'You _do_ love me!' I said.
"'I do,' she repeated after me. 'A lot. If it was a little bit, I'd marry
you, but I love you so much, I'll tell you why I can never marry you.
You're the first man that ever treated me like I was white. I'm pretty
bad, I know, but I am not so bad as to do you wrong.'
"I told her I didn't know what she meant, but there was nothing in the
world that should come between us.
"'I tried to tell you to-night on the boat, when you asked me to tell you
how much I had enjoyed the day,' she went on just as though I hadn't
spoken, 'when you said "_Honest_." But I couldn't. I was afraid to tell
you I couldn't do anything _honest_.'
"Then she told me she was a thief. She didn't try to make any excuses for
herself, but when I heard her little hard luck story and knew what she'd
always been up against, I didn't wonder that she stole or committed any
crime. She had had a regular Cinderella stepmother who had licked her when
she was a kid because she took food from the pantry when she was hungry.
The old hag called it stealing and warned the school teacher, and the
other kids got hold of it and of course you know what it does to any one
to get a black eye. She had the name of a thief wished on her until she
got to be one. She was expelled from school; put in a reformatory; ran
away; stole to keep herself alive. Then they all took a hand at
her--ministers, society girls, charitable associations; they gave her a
bum steer and made her feel she was a hopeless outcast, so she felt more
at home with the vagrant class. The only person who had ever made her feel
she wanted to be straight was a Salvation Army woman, but she had gone
away and no one was left to care now.
"I didn't let her go any further. I told her _I_ cared and I cared all the
more since I had heard her story; and that she _was_ honest, or she
wouldn't have told me about herself. What did I care what she had been or
done? Her life was going to begin right then with me. I couldn't budge
her. I talked and pleaded, and at last she gave in--a little. She said
she'd think it over and meet me at the little park in the morning, and
then she'd talk some more about it.
"So we parted until morning came. But I made up my mind that if she
wouldn't consent, I'd simply kidnap her and bring her up here to Mrs.
Kingdon.
"I was on hand bright and early at the park next morning, and after a
while a slovenly slip of a girl came up to me and asked my name. I told
her. She gave me a note and then started off like a skyrocket, but I'm
some spry myself and I caught her and held her till I'd read the note. It
was from her and she said she couldn't give me the worst of the bargain.
That she was going to try hard to see if she could make good and live
without stealing, and when she was sure, she'd send word to me through Mr.
Reilly, and if I never heard, I could know she had failed and for me to
forget her.
"'Where is she?' I asked the girl, who was squirming like an eel.
"'I dunno,' she said. 'She's left town.'
"'I don't believe it!' I said.
"'Yes, she has,' said the girl. 'She pawned all her togs--that new white
dress and the swell shoes and her new suit and hat to get money to make a
getaway.'
"I might as well have tried to hang on to a fish as to hold that slippery
little street Arab. She broke away and ran. I was after her, but it was no
use. She knew the ins and outs of the alleys like a rat and I lost her.
You see, I didn't know my girl's last name. When I asked her, she said:
'Call me Marta.' I didn't care about knowing her last name then, because I
was so keen to give her my own name.
"I was just about crazy. I hunted all over the part of the city where I'd
left her the first night. Then I went to see Reilly, but he didn't know
who she was. I made him see what it meant to me to find her, and he
promised to try his best and to forward at once any letter that came to
him. If I don't hear after a while, when work gets slack so you can spare
me, I'm going to Chicago and go through it with a fine tooth comb. Reilly
will help me follow every girl by the name of Marta that's ever lived
there."
Kurt's eyes, full of infinite pity and regret, turned to Jo as he broke
the little pause that followed.
"She is doubtless a poor little stray of a girl and luck has been against
her, but, Jo, put all thoughts of marrying her away, just as she has.
Wait--" he hurried on, seeing the anger kindling in the lad's eyes--"if it
were any other offense--But a thief! 'Once a thief, always a thief,' is
the truest saying I know. Your love couldn't--"
"It didn't make any change in my feelings when she told me," said Joe
staunchly. "She could steal anything I had."
"It might not change your feelings, but it should change your intentions.
Do you mean you'd marry--" Kurt had an incredulous expression on his
face.
"In a second, if she'd have me. I'd buy her everything she wanted so she
wouldn't have to steal."
"But after you were married and people found out what she was, you'd be
ashamed--"
"Ashamed! I'd put my little thief on a throne, and whoever dared to try to
take her off would get it in the neck."
The car speeded up again. The man at the wheel saw the utter futility of
further expostulation.
"I'll leave it to time and cow-punching," he thought sagely. "Time and
work are the best healers, especially for the young. Preaching is of no
avail."
Night came on. Jo looked up at a little lone star which was trying to make
its light shine without a properly darkened background.
"That's a poor little orphan star--like her. I'll look for it every night
now. I wish I hadn't blabbed to Kurt. He hasn't a nose for orange
blossoms."
In the fortnight that followed, Jo worked indefatigably, but his heart and
his thoughts were back in Chicago, except when now and then his eyes
turned to a fertile little beauty-spot valleyed between the hills. For
here he had located an imaginary cottage--his cottage and hers. This
mirage, of course, always showed a little slip of a girl standing in the
doorway. To the surprise and dismay of his associates Jo the spender
became Jo the saver that his dream might come true.
He offered no addendum to the revelation he had made to Kurt. They met
often, but in ranch life discourse is not frequent, and Jo instinctively
felt that his recital of Love's Young Dream had fallen upon unsympathetic
ears, while the foreman, unversed in the Language of Love, was mystified
by the lad's silence.
Three weeks later the "man without a nose for orange blossoms" was again
in town. As acting sheriff of the county lately, Kurt had dropped in to
see the jailer.
"How's business, Bender? Any new boarders?" he asked.
"Yes; a gal run in for stealing. Didn't find the goods on her; but she's a
sly one with the record of being a lifelong thief. She strayed up here
from Chicago."
"What's her name?" he asked casually.
"Marta Sills."
"I wonder if it could be Jo's Marta," the acting sheriff thought suddenly.
"She may have followed him up here."
He walked back to the hotel, trying to decide whether he should tell Jo.
If she should prove to be his girl, her arrest up here should show him
that his love hadn't worked the miracle he expected. Jo had been a little
more quiet since his return, but he gave no signs of pining away, and
maybe if nothing revived his interest, it might die a natural death. The
story Jo had told him of the little waif had made a deep impression upon
him, however.
"Poor little brat!" he thought. "What chance does her kind have? I suppose
I ought to give her one. There is one person in the world who might be
able to reform her, and I'd put her in that person's charge if it weren't
for wrecking Jo's life."
All through the afternoon while transacting the business that had brought
him to town, his heart and his head were having a wrestling match, the
former being at the disadvantage of being underworked.
"I'll go up and take a look at her," he suddenly decided. "Maybe I can
tell from Jo's description whether she is his Marta or not."
On his way to the jail he was accosted by a big, jovial man.
"Don't know where I can get an extra helper, do you, Kurt? Simpson, my
right-hand, has gone back to Canada to enlist."
"How providential!" thought Kurt.
"Why, yes; Mr. Westcott," he replied: "We're well up with our work, and I
could spare Jo Gary for a few weeks."
"Jo Gary! May Heaven bless you! When can I get him?"
"Going out home now?"
"Yes; on my way."
"Stop at the ranch and take him along with you. Tell him I said to go.
It'll be all right with Kingdon."
Westcott renewed his blessings upon Kurt and drove on.
At the jail Kurt looked in on the latest arrival. She was sitting at a
table in Bender's back office, her head bowed in her hands. There was
something appealing in the drooping of her shoulders and in her shabby
attire.
"Now Jo is disposed of, she shall have her chance, anyway," he decided.
Without speaking to the girl, he sought Bender and they held a brief
consultation.