THE GIRL FROM MONTANA
by
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
1922
* * * * *
Books By
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
April Gold
Happiness Hill
The Beloved Stranger
The Honor Girl
Bright Arrows
Kerry
Christmas Bride
Marigold
Crimson Roses
Miranda
Duskin
The Mystery of Mary
Found Treasure
Partners
A Girl to Come Home To
Rainbow Cottage
The Red Signal
White Orchids
Silver Wings
The Tryst
The Strange Proposal
Through These Fires
The Street of the City
All Through the Night
The Gold Shoe
Astra
Homing
Blue Ruin
Job's Niece
Challengers
The Man of the Desert
Coming Through the Rye
More Than Conqueror
Daphne Deane
A New Name
The Enchanted Barn
The Patch of Blue
Girl from Montana
The Ransom
Rose Galbraith
The Witness
Sound of the Trumpet
Sunrise
Tomorrow About This Time
Amorelle
Head of the House
Ariel Custer
In Tune with Wedding Bells
Chance of a Lifetime
Maris
Crimson Mountain
Out of the Storm
Exit Betty
Mystery Flowers
The Prodigal Girl
Girl of the Woods
Re-Creations
The White Flower
Matched Pearls
Time of the Singing of Birds
Ladybird
The Substitute Guest
Beauty for Ashes
Stranger Within the Gate
The Best Man
Spice Box
By Way of the Silverthorns
The Seventh Hour
Dawn of the Morning
The Search
Brentwood
Cloudy Jewel
The Voice in the Wilderness
Books By
RUTH LIVINGSTON HILL
Mary Arden
(_with Grace Livingston Hill_)
Morning Is for Joy
John Nielson Had a Daughter
Bright Conquest
Dedicated to
MISS VIRGINIA COWAN
OF COWAN, MONTANA, WHOSE BRIGHT, BREEZY
LETTERS AIDED ME IN WRITING OF
ELIZABETH'S EXPERIENCES
IN THE WEST
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL
II. THE FLIGHT
III. THE PURSUIT
IV. THE TWO FUGITIVES
V. A NIGHT RIDE
VI. A CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN THE WILDERNESS
VII. BAD NEWS
VIII. THE PARTING
IX. IN A TRAP
X. PHILADELPHIA AT LAST
XI. IN FLIGHT AGAIN
XII. ELIZABETH'S DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
XIII. ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER
XIV. IN A NEW WORLD
XV. AN EVENTFUL PICNIC
XVI. ALONE AGAIN
XVII. A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT
CHAPTER I
THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL
The late afternoon sun was streaming in across the cabin floor as the girl
stole around the corner and looked cautiously in at the door.
There was a kind of tremulous courage in her face. She had a duty to
perform, and she was resolved to do it without delay. She shaded her eyes
with her hand from the glare of the sun, set a firm foot upon the
threshold, and, with one wild glance around to see whether all was as she
had left it, entered her home and stood for a moment shuddering in the
middle of the floor.
A long procession of funerals seemed to come out of the past and meet her
eye as she looked about upon the signs of the primitive, unhallowed one
which had just gone out from there a little while before.
The girl closed her eyes, and pressed their hot, dry lids hard with her
cold fingers; but the vision was clearer even than with her eyes open.
She could see the tiny baby sister lying there in the middle of the room,
so little and white and pitiful; and her handsome, careless father sitting
at the head of the rude home-made coffin, sober for the moment; and her
tired, disheartened mother, faded before her time, dry-eyed and haggard,
beside him. But that was long ago, almost at the beginning of things for
the girl.
There had been other funerals, the little brother who had been drowned
while playing in a forbidden stream, and the older brother who had gone
off in search of gold or his own way, and had crawled back parched with
fever to die in his mother's arms. But those, too, seemed long ago to the
girl as she stood in the empty cabin and looked fearfully about her. They
seemed almost blotted out by the last three that had crowded so close
within the year. The father, who even at his worst had a kind word for her
and her mother, had been brought home mortally hurt--an encounter with
wild cattle, a fall from his horse in a treacherous place--and had never
roused to consciousness again.
At all these funerals there had been a solemn service, conducted by a
travelling preacher when one happened to be within reach, and, when there
was none, by the trembling, determined, untaught lips of the white-faced
mother. The mother had always insisted upon it, especially upon a prayer.
It had seemed like a charm to help the departed one into some kind of a
pitiful heaven.
And when, a few months after the father, the mother had drooped and grown
whiter and whiter, till one day she clutched at her heart and lay down
gasping, and said: "Good-by, Bess! Mother's good girl! Don't forget!" and
was gone from her life of burden and disappointment forever, the girl had
prepared the funeral with the assistance of the one brother left. The
girl's voice had uttered the prayer, "Our Father," just as her mother had
taught her, because there was no one else to do it; and she was afraid to
send the wild young brother off after a preacher, lest he should not
return in time.
It was six months now since the sad funeral train had wound its way among
sage-brush and greasewood, and the body of the mother had been laid to
rest beside her husband. For six months the girl had kept the cabin in
order, and held as far as possible the wayward brother to his work and
home. But within the last few weeks he had more and more left her alone,
for a day, and sometimes more, and had come home in a sad condition and
with bold, merry companions who made her life a constant terror. And now,
but two short days ago, they had brought home his body lying across his
own faithful horse, with two shots through his heart. It was a drunken
quarrel, they told her; and all were sorry, but no one seemed responsible.
They had been kind in their rough way, those companions of her brother.
They had stayed and done all that was necessary, had dug the grave, and
stood about their comrade in good-natured grimness, marching in order
about him to give the last look; but, when the sister tried to utter the
prayer she knew her mother would have spoken, her throat refused to make a
sound, and her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She had taken
sudden refuge in the little shed that was her own room, and there had
stayed till the rough companions had taken away the still form of the only
one left in the family circle.
In silence the funeral train wound its way to the spot where the others
were buried. They respected her tearless grief, these great, passionate,
uncontrolled young men. They held in the rude jokes with which they would
have taken the awesomeness from the occasion for themselves, and for the
most part kept the way silently and gravely, now and then looking back
with admiration to the slim girl with the stony face and unblinking eyes
who followed them mechanically. They had felt that some one ought to do
something; but no one knew exactly what, and so they walked silently.
Only one, the hardest and boldest, the ringleader of the company, ventured
back to ask whether there was anything he could do for her, anything she
would like to have done; but she answered him coldly with a "No!" that cut
him to the quick. It had been a good deal for him to do, this touch of
gentleness he had forced himself into. He turned from her with a wicked
gleam of intent in his eyes, but she did not see it.
When the rude ceremony was over, the last clod was heaped upon the pitiful
mound, and the relentless words, "dust to dust," had been murmured by one
more daring than the rest, they turned and looked at the girl, who had all
the time stood upon a mound of earth and watched them, as a statue of
Misery might look down upon the world. They could not make her out, this
silent, marble girl. They hoped now she would change. It was over. They
felt an untold relief themselves from the fact that their reckless, gay
comrade was no longer lying cold and still among them. They were done with
him. They had paid their last tribute, and wished to forget. He must
settle his own account with the hereafter now; they had enough in their
own lives without the burden of his.
Then there had swept up into the girl's face one gleam of life that made
her beautiful for the instant, and she had bowed to them with a slow,
almost haughty, inclination of her head, and spread out her hands like one
who would like to bless but dared not, and said clearly, "I thank
you--all!" There had been just a slight hesitation before that last word
"all," as if she were not quite sure, as her eyes rested upon the
ringleader with doubt and dislike; then her lips had hardened as if
justice must be done, and she had spoken it, "all!" and, turning, sped
away to her cabin alone.
They were taken by surprise, those men who feared nothing in the wild and
primitive West, and for a moment they watched her go in silence. Then the
words that broke upon the air were not all pleasant to hear; and, if the
girl could have known, she would have sped far faster, and her cheeks
would have burned a brighter red than they did.
But one, the boldest, the ringleader, said nothing. His brows darkened,
and the wicked gleam came and sat in his hard eyes with a green light. He
drew a little apart from the rest, and walked on more rapidly. When he
came to the place where they had left their horses, he took his and went
on toward the cabin with a look that did not invite the others to follow.
As their voices died away in the distance, and he drew nearer to the
cabin, his eyes gleamed with cunning.
The girl in the cabin worked rapidly. One by one she took the boxes on
which the rude coffin of her brother had rested, and threw them far out
the back door. She straightened the furniture around fiercely, as if by
erasing every sign she would force from memory the thought of the scenes
that had just passed. She took her brother's coat that hung against the
wall, and an old pipe from the mantle, and hid them in the room that was
hers. Then she looked about for something else to be done.
A shadow darkened the sunny doorway. Looking up, she saw the man she
believed to be her brother's murderer.
"I came back, Bess, to see if I could do anything for you."
The tone was kind; but the girl involuntarily put her hand to her throat,
and caught her breath. She would like to speak out and tell him what she
thought, but she dared not. She did not even dare let her thought appear
in her eyes. The dull, statue-like look came over her face that she had
worn at the grave. The man thought it was the stupefaction of grief.
"I told you I didn't want any help," she said, trying to speak in the same
tone she had used when she thanked the men.
"Yes, but you're all alone," said the man insinuatingly; she felt a menace
in the thought, "and I am sorry for you!"
He came nearer, but her face was cold. Instinctively she glanced to the
cupboard door behind which lay her brother's belt with two pistols.
"You're very kind," she forced herself to say; "but I'd rather be alone
now." It was hard to speak so when she would have liked to dash on him,
and call down curses for the death of her brother; but she looked into his
evil face, and a fear for herself worse than death stole into her heart.
He took encouragement from her gentle dignity. Where did she get that
manner so imperial, she, born in a mountain cabin and bred on the wilds?
How could she speak with an accent so different from those about her? The
brother was not so, not so much so; the mother had been plain and quiet.
He had not known her father, for he had lately come to this State in
hiding from another. He wondered, with his wide knowledge of the world,
over her wild, haughty beauty, and gloated over it. He liked to think just
what worth was within his easy grasp. A prize for the taking, and here
alone, unprotected.
"But it ain't good for you to be alone, you know, and I've come to protect
you. Besides, you need cheering up, little girl." He came closer. "I love
you, Bess, you know, and I'm going to take care of you now. You're all
alone. Poor little girl."
He was so near that she almost felt his breath against her cheek. She
faced him desperately, growing white to the lips. Was there nothing on
earth or in heaven to save her? Mother! Father! Brother! All gone! Ah!
Could she but have known that the quarrel which ended her wild young
brother's life had been about her, perhaps pride in him would have salved
her grief, and choked her horror.
While she watched the green lights play in the evil eyes above her, she
gathered all the strength of her young life into one effort, and schooled
herself to be calm. She controlled her involuntary shrinking from the man,
only drew herself back gently, as a woman with wider experience and
gentler breeding might have done.
"Remember," she said, "that my brother just lay there dead!" and she
pointed to the empty centre of the room. The dramatic attitude was almost
a condemnation to the guilty man before her. He drew back as if the
sheriff had entered the room, and looked instinctively to where the coffin
had been but a short time before, then laughed nervously and drew himself
together.
The girl caught her breath, and took courage. She had held him for a
minute; could she not hold him longer?
"Think!" said she. "He is but just buried. It is not right to talk of such
things as love in this room where he has just gone out. You must leave me
alone for a little while. I cannot talk and think now. We must respect the
dead, you know." She looked appealingly at him, acting her part
desperately, but well. It was as if she were trying to charm a lion or an
insane man.
He stood admiring her. She argued well. He was half minded to humor her,
for somehow when she spoke of the dead he could see the gleam in her
brother's eyes just before he shot him. Then there was promise in this
wooing. She was no girl to be lightly won, after all. She could hold her
own, and perhaps she would be the better for having her way for a little.
At any rate, there was more excitement in such game.
She saw that she was gaining, and her breath came freer.
"Go!" she said with a flickering smile. "Go! For--a little while," and
then she tried to smile again.
He made a motion to take her in his arms and kiss her; but she drew back
suddenly, and spread her hands before her, motioning him back.
"I tell you you must not now. Go! Go! or I will never speak to you again."
He looked into her eyes, and seemed to feel a power that he must obey.
Half sullenly he drew back toward the door.
"But, Bess, this ain't the way to treat a fellow," he whined. "I came way
back here to take care of you. I tell you I love you, and I'm going to
have you. There ain't any other fellow going to run off with you--"
"Stop!" she cried tragically. "Don't you see you're not doing right? My
brother is just dead. I must have some time to mourn. It is only decent."
She was standing now with her back to the little cupboard behind whose
door lay the two pistols. Her hand was behind her on the wooden latch.
"You don't respect my trouble!" she said, catching her breath, and putting
her hand to her eyes. "I don't believe you care for me when you don't do
what I say."
The man was held at bay. He was almost conquered by her sign of tears. It
was a new phase of her to see her melt into weakness so. He was charmed.
"How long must I stay away?" he faltered.
She could scarcely speak, so desperate she felt. O if she dared but say,
"Forever," and shout it at him! She was desperate enough to try her
chances at shooting him if she but had the pistols, and was sure they were
loaded--a desperate chance indeed against the best shot on the Pacific
coast, and a desperado at that.
She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples, and tried to think. At
last she faltered out,
"Three days!"
He swore beneath his breath, and his brows drew down in heavy frowns that
were not good to see. She shuddered at what it would be to be in his power
forever. How he would play with her and toss her aside! Or kill her,
perhaps, when he was tired of her! Her life on the mountain had made her
familiar with evil characters.
He came a step nearer, and she felt she was losing ground.
Straightening up, she said coolly:
"You must go away at once, and not think of coming back at least until
to-morrow night. Go!" With wonderful control she smiled at him, one
frantic, brilliant smile; and to her great wonder he drew back. At the
door he paused, a softened look upon his face.
"Mayn't I kiss you before I go?"
She shuddered involuntarily, but put out her hands in protest again. "Not
to-night!" She shook her head, and tried to smile.
He thought he understood her, but turned away half satisfied. Then she
heard his step coming back to the door again, and she went to meet him. He
must not come in. She had gained in sending him out, if she could but
close the door fast. It was in the doorway that she faced him as he stood
with one foot ready to enter again. The crafty look was out upon his face
plainly now, and in the sunlight she could see it.
"You will be all alone to-night."
"I am not afraid," calmly. "And no one will trouble me. Don't you know
what they say about the spirit of a man--" she stopped; she had almost
said "a man who has been murdered"--"coming back to his home the first
night after he is buried?" It was her last frantic effort.
The man before her trembled, and looked around nervously.
"You better come away to-night with me," he said, edging away from the
door.
"See, the sun is going down! You must go now," she said imperiously; and
reluctantly the man mounted his restless horse, and rode away down the
mountain.
She watched him silhouetted against the blood-red globe of the sun as it
sank lower and lower. She could see every outline of his slouch-hat and
muscular shoulders as he turned now and then and saw her standing still
alone at her cabin door. Why he was going he could not tell; but he went,
and he frowned as he rode away, with the wicked gleam still in his eye;
for he meant to return.
At last he disappeared; and the girl, turning, looked up, and there rode
the white ghost of the moon overhead. She was alone.