A warm wind from the Pacific, which had swept down through the Rockies'
passes, had mitigated the Arctic cold, and the snow lay no more than
thinly sprinkled upon the prairie. Hetty Torrance and Miss Schuyler were
riding up through the birch bluff from the bridge of the Cedar. It was dim
among the trees, for dusk was closing in, the trail was rough and steep,
and Hetty drew bridle at a turn of it.
"I quite fancied we would have been home before it was dark, and my father
would be just savage if he knew we were out alone," she said. "Of course,
he wouldn't have let us go if he had been at Cedar."
Flora Schuyler looked about her with a shiver. The wind that shook the
birches had grown perceptibly colder: the gloom beneath them deepened
rapidly, and there was a doleful wailing amidst the swinging boughs.
Beyond the bluff the white wilderness, sinking into dimness now, ran back,
waste and empty, to the horizon. Miss Schuyler was from the cities, and
the loneliness of the prairie is most impressive when night is closing
down.
"Then one could have wished he had been at home," she said.
Perhaps Hetty did not hear her plainly, for the branches thrashed above
them just then. "Oh, that's quite right. Folks are not apt to worry much
over the things they don't know about," she said.
"It was not your father I was sorry for," Flora Schuyler said sharply.
"The sod is too hard for fast riding, and it will be 'most an hour yet
before we get home. I wish we were not alone, Hetty."
Hetty sighed. "It was so convenient once!" she said. "Whenever I wanted to
ride out I had only to send for Larry. It's quite different now."
"I have no doubt Mr. Clavering would have come," said Miss Schuyler.
"Oh, yes," Hetty agreed. "Still, I'm beginning to fancy you were right
about that man. Like a good many more of them, he's quite nice at a
distance; but there are men who should never let anyone get too close to
them."
"You have had quite a few opportunities of observing him at a short
distance lately."
Hetty laughed, but there was a trace of uneasiness in her voice. "I could
wish my father didn't seem quite so fond of him. Oh--there's somebody
coming!"
Instinctively she wheeled her horse into the deeper shadow of the birches
and Miss Schuyler followed. There was no habitation within a league of
them, and though the frost, which put a period to the homesteaders'
activities, lessened the necessity for the cattle-barons' watchfulness,
unpleasant results had once or twice attended a chance encounter between
their partisans. It was also certain that somebody was coming, and Hetty
felt her heart beat as she made out the tramp of three horses. The
vultures the struggle had attracted had, she knew, much less consideration
for women than the homesteaders or cattle-boys.
"Hadn't we better ride on?" asked Miss Schuyler.
"No," said Hetty; "they would most certainly see us out on the prairie.
Back your horse quite close to mine. If we keep quiet they might pass us
here."
Her voice betrayed what she was feeling, and Flora Schuyler felt
unpleasantly apprehensive as she urged her horse farther into the gloom.
The trampling came nearer, and by and by a man's voice reached her.
"Hadn't you better pull up and get down?" it said. "I'm not much use at
tracking, but somebody has been along here a little while ago. You see,
there are only three of us!"
"They're homesteaders, and they've found our trail," exclaimed Hetty, with
a little gasp of dismay.
There was scarcely an opening one could ride through between the birches
behind them, and it was evident that the horsemen could scarcely fail to
see them the moment they left their shelter. One of them had already
dismounted, and was apparently stooping beside the prints the horse-hoofs
had left where a little snow had sifted down upon the trail. Hetty heard
his laugh, and it brought her a great relief.
"I don't think you need worry, Breckenridge. There were only two of
them."
Hetty wheeled her horse. "It's Larry," she said.
A minute later he saw them, and, pulling up, took off his hat; but Flora
Schuyler noticed that he ventured on no more than this.
"It is late for you to be out alone. You are riding home?" he said.
"Of course!" said Hetty with, Miss Schuyler fancied, a chilliness which
contrasted curiously with the relief she had shown a minute or two
earlier.
"Well," said Grant quietly, "I'm afraid you will have to put up with our
company. There are one or two men I have no great opinion of somewhere
about this prairie. This is Mr. Breckenridge, and as the trail is rough
and narrow, he will follow with Miss Schuyler. I presume you don't mind
riding with him, although, like the rest of us, he is under the
displeasure of your friends the cattle-barons?"
Miss Schuyler looked at him steadily. "I don't know enough of this trouble
to make sure who is right," she said. "But I should never be prejudiced
against any American who was trying to do what he felt was the work meant
for him."
"Well," said Grant, with a little laugh, "Breckenridge will feel sorry
that he's an Englishman."
Miss Schuyler turned to the young man graciously, and the dim light showed
there was a twinkle in her eyes.
"That," she said, "is the next best thing. Since you are with Mr. Grant
you no doubt came out to this country because you thought we needed
reforming, Mr. Breckenridge?"
The lad laughed as they rode on up the trail with Grant and Hetty in front
of them, and Muller following.
"No," he said. "To be frank, I came out because my friends in the old one
seemed to fancy the same thing of me. When they have no great use for a
young man yonder, they generally send him to America. In fact, they send
some of them quite a nice cheque quarterly so long as they stay there. You
see, we are like the hedgehogs, or your porcupines, if you grow them here,
Miss Schuyler."
Flora Schuyler smiled. "You are young, or you wouldn't empty the magazine
all at once in answer to a single shot."
"Well," said Breckenridge, "so are you. It is getting dark, but I have a
notion that you are something else too. The fact I mentioned explains the
liberty."
Flora shook her head. "The dusk is kind. Any way, I know I am years older
than you. There are no little girls in this country like the ones you have
been accustomed to."
"Now," said Breckenridge, "my sisters and cousins are, I firmly believe, a
good deal nicer than those belonging to most other men; but, you see, I
have quite a lot of them, and any one so favoured loses a good many
illusions."
In the meantime Hetty, who, when she fancied he would not observe it,
glanced at him now and then, rode silently beside Grant until he turned to
her.
"I have a good deal to thank you for, Hetty, and--for you know I was never
clever at saying the right thing--I don't quite know how to begin. Still,
in the old times we understood just what each other meant so well that
talking wasn't necessary. You know I'm grateful for my liberty and would
sooner take it from you than anybody else, don't you?"
Hetty laid a restraint upon herself, for there was a thrill in the man's
voice, which awakened a response within her. "Wouldn't it be better to
forget those days?" she said. "It is very different now."
"It isn't easy," said Grant, checking a sigh. "I 'most fancied they had
come back the night you told me how to get away."
Hetty's horse plunged as she tightened its bridle in a fashion there was
no apparent necessity for. "That," she said chillingly, "was quite foolish
of you, and it isn't kind to remind folks of the things they had better
not have done. Now, you told us the prairie wasn't safe because of some of
your friends."
"No," said Grant drily, "I don't think I did. I told you there were some
men around I would sooner you didn't fall in with."
"Then they must be your partisans. There isn't a cattle-boy in this
country who would be uncivil to a woman."
"I wish I was quite sure. Still, there are men coming in who don't care
who is right, and only want to stand in with the men who will give them
the most dollars or let them take what they can. We have none to give
away."
"Larry," the girl said hotly, "do you mean that we would be glad to pay
them?"
"No. But they will most of them quite naturally go over to you, which will
make it harder for us to get rid of them. We have no use for men of that
kind in this country."
"No?" said the girl scornfully. "Well, I fancied they would have come in
quite handy--there was a thing you did."
"You heard of that?"
"Yes," very coldly. "It was a horrible thing."
Grant's voice changed to a curious low tone. "Did you ever see me hurt
anything when I could help it in the old days, Hetty?"
"No. One has to be honest; I remember how you once hurt your hand taking a
jack-rabbit out of a trap."
"And how you bound it up?"
"Well," said Hetty, "I don't know, after the work you have done with it,
that I should care to do that now."
"There are affairs you should never hear of and I don't care to talk about
with you," Grant said, very quietly, "but since you have mentioned this
one you must listen to me. Just as it is one's duty to give no needless
pain to anything, so there is an obligation on him to stop any other man
who would do it. Is it wrong to kill a grizzly or a rattlesnake, or
merciful to leave them with their meanness to destroy whatever they want?
Now, if you had known a quiet American who did a tolerably dangerous thing
because he fancied it was right, and found him shot in the back, and the
trail of the man who crept up behind him and killed him for a few dollars,
would you have let that man go?"