Wild Roses: A Tale of the Rockies

Refrain

The crowd applauded noisily till the quartet sang again the refrain, with the audience joining in heartily, if not always harmoniously:

“We’ll now have a few words from one of our Pioneers, Brother Stephens,” announced the manager.

A gray-haired veteran of about sixty rose and made his way to the platform.

“I’m glad to be here, young folks,” he began; “but I don’t like this preachin’ business one bit—never could git used to it. I’ve often said I’d ruther drive four yoke o’ steers from Winter Quarters to the valleys than make a speech. But maybe I kin tell you a few things ’bout pioneerin’ that’ll interest you.

“I’ve pioneered it all my days. That’s why I’m here. Come into this valley to git away from the crowds. From the look o’ things here to-night, I’ll soon hev to be movin’ again. The way these valleys settle up is a caution.

“But you want to hear somethin’ else. Well, I come in ’47, not with the first band, but soon after. We had one hundred and thirty-four wagons in our company, all pulled by oxen, three or four yoke to the wagon. Every night we would make a corral of ’em—the wagons, I mean—by swingin’ ’em in a circle with the tongues pintin’ out—you see, leavin’ two openin’s so’s we could drive the cattle in to yoke ’em. Fer we herded ’em out on the hills at night when there wa’n’t any Injuns about, or when there wa’n’t danger of buffaloes stampedin’ the stock.

“Talkin’ o’ buffaloes, they was so thick they fairly swarmed. Down on the Platte one day we had to stop our train fer three hours to let ’em pass. They had the right o’ way whenever they wanted it, I tell you. Nothin’ could stop ’em when they got goin’ on that steady lope of theirs. Kill ’em? Yes, all we wanted. Buffalo meat is mighty fine eatin’; I kin taste it yet. But then I guess our appetites wa’n’t so pertickler then as they are nowadays.

“I guess that’s enough talk fer to-night. You want to dance. I kin see you do. That’s all right, too; I believe in lettin’ folks have a good time as long as they have it right. Jest pitch in now and enjoy yourselves; but don’t forget the Lord, even when you’re havin’ fun.”

An outburst of hand clapping and some stamping of feet followed the speech. Even the rowdy cowboys got sport out of it; for they kept still to the end, then they set up a hearty laugh, as Dick Davis said smartly:

“Gee! I’m glad that old ox-puncher’s quit. I’m getting nervous to dance again.”

“Take your partners for a polka,” called the floor manager.

The boys broke from their corners to make a rush across the floor for the girls.

“Hold on there!” shouted the manager. The crowd, more from surprise than respect, stopped short.

“Now, boys,” he went on firmly but calmly, “no rowdyism! Have a good time, but have it decently.”

“Huh!” sneered Dick, “he’s gettin’ fresh. Let’s show him what a rough house means.” His hand dropped to his hip to execute the thought he had suggested; but just then he caught the eyes of Alta Morgan. The look she gave stopped him from carrying out his purpose, but it did not check his smartness. Instead of sending a shot through the ceiling, he stepped up to her and said, “Come on, let’s dance.”

Alta hesitated a second before taking his arm; then, ignoring the offense, she accepted, and the next moment they were dancing gracefully to Uncle Toby’s lively tune.

When the dance was announced, Jim drew Fred out of the corner where he had half hid himself during the speech, and took him across the room to a group of girls.

“Oh, don’t, Jim,” he half protested, “I’d rather not.”

“Come now, no backing down,” returned Jim; “Miss Willis, meet Mr. Benton.”

A rosy-cheeked girl smilingly acknowledged the introduction, and Fred made bold to invite her to dance. They fell into the line of couples promenading around the room, and then the tune struck up. Fred found trouble at first to catch the steps, but very soon he caught them, and with them came the spirit of the fun. The dance put him more at ease. Bowing his partner to her seat with thanks at the close, Fred turned to find Jim, and met Alta Morgan, her pretty face aglow to blend with the spray of wild roses on her dainty dress.

Both stopped in surprise.

“Why, it’s Fred; I’m so glad to see you!”

“I’m happy to find you here, Miss Morgan,” he responded, as they shook hands; “I felt rather strange.”

“Oh, we’ll soon make you at home.” She turned to her partner, whom she had momentarily forgotten. “You know Mr. Davis, of course.”

“Why, hello, Dick,” said Fred, warmly; “I didn’t see you.”

“You got here, did you?” replied Dick, rather coolly; “we thought you’d took to the woods as usual.”

“What!” said Alta, “why Fred’s not like that one bit. He’s the jolliest fellow I know. Let’s make him acquainted with everybody.” And Alta began to pass the introduction to those immediately about them. Dick, nettled at being thus suddenly dropped from first place in her attentions, made early opportunity to slip out of the group, and stalk to the crowd of cowboys around the door, while Alta went on merrily to tell her friends how Fred had helped her land a trout and win a bet with her uncle.

The manager checked the fish story by announcing a waltz. A moment later Dick looked up to see Alta on Fred’s arm, walking around the room. The sight stung his pride. To have Fred thus slip in between them, as the boys in their bantering had said he would, and to hear her speak to him with such a friendly air, was too much to stand calmly.

“How did they get so well acquainted?” was the thought that puzzled him.

He had not heard the fish talk or he might have guessed. He anticipated the fun that the other boys would have at his expense; for he had caught Jim taking in the situation gleefully. Yet despite the suddenness of the upset, Dick gathered himself quickly; and to show that he “didn’t care a rap,” marched smartly across the room to Sally Johnson and asked her to dance with him. Sally was only too glad of the chance. Then the music began. It was “The Roses Waltz,” Uncle Toby’s favorite tune, and he played it well.

Dick’s efforts to create a sensation fell short of their mark. Alta and Fred had forgotten all else in the delight of the dance. They were gliding about the room with trippingly graceful step to the pretty melody and enjoying each other.

“Why, you dance so easily!” said Alta, as the music ended.

“When I have a graceful partner,” responded Fred. “That was too short. May I have another?” He felt his face flushing at his boldness.

“Yes, of course,” returned Alta; “if I can give you pleasure, I’d like to, for it’s my turn to pay up, you know.”

“I’m afraid you’ll leave me in debt,” said Fred.

“Oh, you can soon pay it,” said Alta, laughingly. “Just help me to land old Solomon next time.”

“Good! You can do it too.” Fred glowed with the anticipation of the fun. “Come any time and let me help you.” Then he added modestly, “But I mustn’t be selfish of your time to-night. Thank you ever so much for the dance.”

“It was my pleasure, too,” said Alta with a winsome smile. She turned to talk with the girls about her. As she did so, she caught a flash from Dick’s eyes. He turned his head as their glances met; but she had read the meaning of the angry look, and it suddenly came to her that she had offended her partner.

Alta was ready to make amends, for she liked Dick and had no thought of hurting his feelings; but he was in no mood to make up. He acted independently, flirted with the other girls all the evening. Alta was independent herself and she almost decided not to allow him to accompany her home, but she would not permit herself to pay such respect to his smartness, so she simply gave no further heed to his actions. This hurt him worst of all; and he had hard work to conceal his feelings as they rode away toward the ranch in the moonlight after the ball.

When the dance broke up, with its babble and chatter of hearty voices, rattling of rigs, and galloping hoof-beats, Fred found Chief nervous to be off. He mounted the high-spirited horse, and catching up with Pat and Jim, burst with them into a madcap chase across the flat toward home. A mile or so of this exciting sport and they slowed down to a canter, jollying one another over the night’s doings.

“Bloomin’ surprise party ye are, Tiddy,” said Pat, “a regular step dancer.”

“Yes,” put in Jim, “and as full of spice about swingin’ the girls as any of us.”

“Oh, stop your nonsense,” protested Fred.

“Faith,” Pat broke in, “and didn’t he dive into the bunch and cut Dick’s ranch fairy out, though?”

“Roped and tied her before Dick caught his breath. Oh, he’s a smooth cow-kid, I tell—”

The sentence was cut short by a wild whoop from a cowboy who dashed up just then, reined his puffing pony and called out,

“Hello, stags! travelin’ or just goin’ somewhere?”

“Stag yourself, you bloomin’ spalpeen; and who are you to be salutin’ yer betters so oncivilly?”

“Dick—I’ll be hanged!” exclaimed Jim; “what’s your hurry, sport? Did she shake you.”

“Not on your life,” retorted Dick; “I saw her home all right.”

“Sounds fishy,” said Jim; “you hain’t had time.”

“Time!” snapped Dick; “you pokes need spurs, that’s all, especially this slick cow-kid in his borrowed outfit; here, take one of mine.”

With the words Dick threw up his spurred heel and gave Chief a savage dig in the flank. The proud horse reared at the insult. Fred, caught unawares, was all but flung to the ground. He clutched the saddle horn in time to save himself from a serious fall, while the horse, with free head flung low, bucked and pitched madly along the road. The other riders followed close, Dick laughing at his mischief, Jim shouting encouragement: “Stay with him, boy, stay with him!”

Luckily Chief did not whirl, but bucked straight ahead until his rider gradually drew up his head and quieted him.

The danger past, a violent temper seized Fred. He swung the horse about to face Dick, and with—

“Take that, you sneak!” he fetched his tormentor a stinging crack in the face with his quirt.

Dick jerked out his revolver and fired. Fortunately again for Fred, Chief had leaped as the quirt struck, and began to plunge again along the road. Dick was whirling to shoot again, when another pistol flashed in the moonlight and Jim shouted,

“Stop! you shoot again and I’ll bore you.” His tone meant business and Dick checked himself.

“What does this damned work mean, anyway?” demanded Jim as Fred came back, feverish with excitement.

“Mean,” shouted Fred, “it means that this coward ripped my horse’s flank with his spur.”

“Did you do that, Dick?” again demanded the peacemaker.

“Yes, I did, and I’ll do it again,” was the sullen reply.

“Then you got about half of what you deserved. It was a low down trick. Now, don’t you ever shoot again at an unarmed man, or I’ll take a hand mighty quick.”

“I’ll teach the little devil a lesson that’ll last him.”

“Come on, you coward,” challenged Fred angrily, ready to leap from his horse.

“Here, you young bulls,” commanded Jim; “shut up and square up. You’re even.”

“Yis,” put in Pat; “play the gintlemin, ye’ll slape better.”

“Now forget it!” said Jim more cheerily; “and don’t do any bellerin’ to-morrow, you understand.”

“You mean that I shan’t tell Dan how his horse has been treated?” said Fred. “Well, I guess I will.”

“Oh, let it pass,” said Jim.

“Oh, let the cow-baby beller,” sneered Dick.

“That settles it,” said Fred; “we’ll see who’s the cow-baby.”

“Bully fer you, me boy,” said Pat. “It’s a thoroughbred ye are, fer sure.”

“The kid’s all right,” said Jim encouragingly; “he stuck to that buckin’ bronk like a tick. He’ll stick to anything. Come,” he added, spurring up, “let’s hit the trail; it’s long after bunk time.”

“Yis, and when ye tuck yourselves in the blankets, make sure ye say yer prayers twice,” called Pat, as they struck a livelier pace. “Thank the Lord we’re all gettin’ home to-night without punctures in our hides.”

A few moments later they had all tumbled into their beds in the old shack. But it was some time before either of the boys had worried through their troubled thoughts and fallen asleep. Dick kept nursing his bitterness against his companion into a real hate, and he seized every opportunity thereafter to express his mean feelings by ridiculing and injuring Fred in every way he could.

Chapter IX

AFTER THE BALL

“That may be,” returned Dan calmly, “but one thing is certain, my breeding would make me bite my tongue before I’d let it fling coarse jokes about prayer or anything else that’s sacred.” Dan’s tone brought a strained silence. For a few seconds nothing was heard but the click of the knives and forks on the tin dishes. Then Pat came to the rescue with—

“Well, them Mormons are a jolly people anyway, if they do mix prayin’ and preachin’ with their dancin’ and their eatin’. Faith, and I think it’s a foine practice, especially that askin’ the blessin’ over their praties. It gives everybody a fair start. I’ve a moind to interjuce the custom in this bloomin’ camp.”

The Irishman’s sally proved good sauce for breakfast. Everybody laughed, and things cleared up.

Dick did not take kindly, of course, the rap Dan had given him, but it saved him from the tormenting he had expected on a tenderer spot—his discomfiture over Alta. For even with all the bravado he could muster, he could not drive out of his brain the fact that his chances with her had received an upset. Their parting the night before had been too abrupt for comfort to him, or to Alta either.

For Alta did not enjoy quarrels. She had no well-defined feeling for Dick except to like him as a partner. He was quick at cowboy repartee, and rather winning withal. Any of the other ranch girls would have taken delight in receiving his attentions. But Alta was out for fun, not fellows. As to falling desperately in love with him or any one else—well, she had no thought of such things at that time. Still Dick’s dash and independence were a challenge to her own free spirit. He was as daring as she was saucy, and that made him provokingly interesting.

Her actions with Fred had nettled him. She felt it, but she did not know why. Dick did, however, and he found it hard work to throw off his ugly feeling and act decently. Not that he cared so much for Alta. It was the anticipation of jokes at his expense from the boys and the worse thought that for once he had met the girl who could ignore him, that angered him sorely.

As they had swung on at a lively gallop toward the Morgan ranch he turned his temperish feeling to smartness, making flippant remarks to draw out an expression of feeling from his partner. Alta, with quick wit, divined his thoughts, but she still kept her poise, foiling with lightsome yet ladylike deftness all his efforts to provoke a quarrel. Seeing that his efforts to annoy her failed to bring the response he desired, he finally desisted from making flippant remarks and by the time they reached the ranch, “Richard was himself again.”

“Thank you very much,” said Alta, as he returned from taking care of her horse; “it has been a pleasant evening for me. I hope you have enjoyed it, too.”

“Oh, sure, I had a dandy dance,” said he lightly.

“Well, good night, happy dreams,” she said, her eyes laughing in the moonlight.

Dick misread the glance and said boldly, “You are not going yet, are you?”

“Why not?” Alta’s tone showed surprise; “it’s late enough.”

“Not till I get something sweet,” he said smartly, as he grabbed her hands and bent to kiss her.

“Dick Davis! How dare you?” she exclaimed in startled, injured tone, as she jerked away and turned to the door.

Dick was nonplused, but he caught his astonished breath to say, “Oh, don’t be scared! I won’t hurt you; so long.” Then swinging into his saddle he dug his spurs into his pony and dashed off, while Alta half ran into the house.

When she reached her room she stood by the window for a time, tapping her foot temperishly on the floor.

“The smarty!” she said, half aloud; “what does he take me for? I don’t know why boys can’t be happy and be gentlemen at the same time. I’m tired of their nonsense.”

She began rather impetuously to disrobe. Then she stopped to watch the fleecy clouds glide calmly over the face of the moon. Again she turned to her couch and tucked herself among the comforts, where she lay tossing with her thoughts, and trying to nurse her indignant feelings against Dick into a real hate; but somehow she could not do it. Her heart was troubled. One thing only was clear: she must not tell her uncle a word about it. It would trouble him, too. Alta feared the consequences, if her uncle found out that Dick had mistreated her. No, she would keep such worries to herself. With this thought she fell asleep.

This again was a hard thing for Alta to decide. Except for her trouble with Bud she had always opened her heart freely to her foster father, for he was the only friend in whom she could confide. Indeed, he had been both father and mother to her for many years—ever since her own parents had passed away. She had lost her father when she was a babe in arms. Her mother too, a sweet, frail lily, whom Alta could just remember, had passed away some three years later.

Then Uncle Tom came into her life, back out of the rugged West, where he had gone after the war—came to lay his brother’s wife tenderly away among the green hills of Ohio, and to take her baby girl to his own rugged heart. How she had softened and molded that old bachelor-soldier heart, how she had played upon it with a thousand childish whims, set it throbbing with anxiety, filled it with joy and love, we can but suggest here. Alta had grown to be part of Colonel Morgan’s very life. For her sake he had tried to settle down again in Ohio, remaining there at his brother’s home for nearly a year.

But the call of the craggy West came back in the springtime, and though it half broke his heart to do it, he yielded to his love of the strong life among the mountains, struck out across the plains again with full purpose to make a fortune in California and then return to take care of his “little squirrel” and bring her up in a life that befitted her.

Alta was left meanwhile with “Aunt Betty,” a maiden sister of Colonel Morgan’s mother, who had been nurse for the child since the young mother’s death. It was a sore trial for both of them to see Uncle Tom leave. Every night, for months afterward, the child would cuddle down in the motherly arms of Aunt Betty, to talk about her “dear daddy” ’way out West, express her fears that the wicked Indians would hurt him, and often cry herself to sleep. But Aunt Betty, though the silent tears at times trickled down her own withered cheeks, for this and other hidden sorrows, would cast aside the troubles cheerily and soothe and snuggle her “little squirrel” and sing her away to dreamland.

It was easier to keep cheery when Alta, a beribboned little maid of six, would trip away to the schoolhouse on a near-by hill. Bright and happy always, she learned her lessons in a flash and made friends of everybody. School days were to her a delight. They winged themselves away swiftly, carrying Alta into a beautiful girlhood, brimming with life, and pure and sweet as a rosebud.

Aunt Betty, gentle but firm, had watched and guided her unfolding throughout those tender years with almost more than a mother’s care. They were companions in the highest sense. No thought of the child’s but was freely shared with her foster mother; and this wise old lady, by tactful management and sweet suggestion, had cultivated in the child’s heart such a sense of helpfulness, kindness, and virtue as had made her soul even more beautiful than her face, if that were possible. Alta Morgan was a wholesome, serviceable, charming girl. Aunt Betty was a teacher of the heart and hands as well as of the head.

But changes came, as changes will. Colonel Morgan had not found the end of the rainbow as quickly as he had hoped, though he sought for it faithfully among the mines of California, Nevada, and finally of Idaho. Despairing at last of ever striking the lucky vein, he turned to other fields, and eventually settled to the thought of ranching. Such a life was at least less uncertain of returns and would afford the quiet his age was beginning to demand. This decision made, he bought a well-stocked ranch, added to his acres by taking up more, and was just getting things into comfortable shape, when a message from Alta, with whom, of course, he had kept in close touch all of these years, brought the startling news that Aunt Betty had been taken away. “God has called her from me,” the tender words ran; “won’t daddy hurry home to his broken-hearted little girl?”

An hour later Colonel Morgan was driving posthaste to the station, sixty miles away. A few days later he stepped from the train at his old home town in Ohio. As he swung the gate and hurried toward the house, a beautiful girl ran down the path to fling her arms about his neck and kiss his rugged face again and again. Then they walked slowly to the little cottage, sat in Aunt Betty’s old armchair on the porch, and clung to each other while they sobbed out their sorrow in the twilight together.

“Oh, daddy, dear, take me away, take me away. This will never be home again with my Aunt Betty gone. Take me, daddy, take me,” cried the anguish-stricken girl.

“There, ‘little squirrel,’ don’t cry; I will take you and keep you by me always. Oh, how I’ve missed you these long years!”

And that was how Alta Morgan came to the mountains—the pride of her old uncle’s heart, and to become the pride of the valley.

Her memories of Aunt Betty remained with her as a sweet, pure atmosphere throughout her life; but in the thrilling newness of the life of the craggy West her heart soon forgot its troubles. She responded to the life about her so readily that she seemed to have been always a part of it—a true Western girl, spontaneous, open-hearted, alive, free, yet tender and gentle withal. She was a sweet, wild rose blooming among the briers.

“Mornin’, daddy!”

“Good morning, little chipmunk!” responded Colonel Morgan, as Alta peeped playfully through the door rather too late for breakfast. “How’s my bright-eyed lassie after her fun?”

She tripped across the room, to give him a squeeze and a kiss.

“Oh! I’m happy. How are you?”

“Gaunt as a race horse,” he returned, heaving a hungry sigh; “Aunt ‘Liza went off celebratin’ too, you know, and she hasn’t got back yet.” Aunt ‘Liza was the housekeeper of the ranch.

“What!” exclaimed Alta, “then you haven’t had breakfast? Why didn’t you wake this sleepy-head girl of yours? I’ll hurry now for sure.” She skipped to the kitchen as she spoke, to find breakfast well under way.

“You dear old daddy,” she called, tripping back to give him another kiss; “I am afraid you are going to spoil me. There’s nothing left to do but set the table. But why didn’t you wake me?”

“Oh, I knew my little girl would be tired after such a jolly time with her new beau.”

Alta winced. What if her uncle had heard it? She hesitated, then replied a little confusedly, “Oh, yes, the dance was fine; they’re real social folks.”

“And how’s the new beau, honey?” persisted her uncle in a teasing tone.

Alta blushed, then said evasively, “He’s all right, I suppose.”

Colonel Morgan, seeing her embarrassment, leaped to the thought that she hesitated to talk because she was in love with Dick. She had never held back before. The thought pained him, but tenderness for her feelings checked him from pressing the point further. “Well, never mind,” he said gently; “I like Dick, too.”

“But I don’t!” the words leaped to Alta’s lips; she bit them back, however, hurried again to the kitchen to regain her poise, and a few moments later came back singing:

“Hello!” said her uncle; “where did that new song come from?”

“Oh, they sang it last night at the party. Like it?”

“Sounds pretty; sing some more.”

“I don’t know it yet; but I’ll get Mary to teach it to me and then I’ll sing it all for you. It’s a real Western song.”

“Do, little one, I’d like to hear it,” the old colonel replied. Then he lapsed for a while into quiet thought. The strain had waked the echoes in his heart.

Chapter X

COMPANIONSHIP

If she could have found a girl to chum with, one of like tastes with her, she might have been satisfied; but she could not. Sally was jolly enough, big-hearted and wholesome, but she lacked refinement. She could work like a steam engine all day, singing her way through great stacks of clothes to be washed, or big meals for hungry haymakers. She was a helpful, hearty, romping ranch girl, just the kind that Aunt ‘Liza liked. And she was also a great favorite with the fellows, with whom she would dance till morning, but whose ears she would box as quick as lightning if they grew too smart. She could joke with the whole crowd of them and hold her own, but the girl was as pure as she was frank and free. A stranger might have taken her seeming boldness for rudeness or worse, but let him make the slightest step toward evil, he would be checked like a flash and forfeit forever her heart’s hospitality.

Alta liked Sally, but they could never be chums. They both were playful and pure, but there was one strikingly essential difference in their natures that held them apart. Sally’s joys were found almost entirely in sensuous pleasures, such as dancing and feasting and riding the range; a good mince pie was more satisfying to her than a mountain sunset. She cared little for books and music. Alta thought her over bold with the boys. Their natures could never blend.

Mary was nearer to Alta’s inner nature, a gentle little lass, who clung closely to her mother. She was too shy and dainty for the rugged ranch life. Alta wanted someone who liked the out-of-doors. Mary preferred to sit at home doing fancy work. They couldn’t find their fun together; and after all, fun and friendship are largely one and the same thing.

Alta Morgan’s early life had cultivated in her a taste for something better than picnics and dances and beaux. She enjoyed such pleasures, but she found a richer enjoyment in books and in nature. The warblers that twittered and trilled their morning lays out of the breezy willows, the flush of crimson in the dawning sky, the mighty mountains in their many mystic moods—all gave to her soul such feelings as often brought tears. Her heart’s eyes were always open to the wonders of the world about her. And she found them everywhere, from the tender pale-blue flaxflower at her feet to the proud eagle, sailing with the winds in the clear blue above her.

Life was joyous, full of riches, to this responsive, natural girl, developing day by day into queenly womanhood. Every day brought her new and interesting experiences that set her chattering with expressions of delight and appreciation. In these moods she would run home at first to Aunt ‘Liza; but she got only “Law me! child, that’s nuthin’,” so often that she gradually grew discouraged and closed her inmost heart to the practical-minded old lady.

Her uncle tried to respond to her delight over the beautiful flower, or butterfly, or bird’s eggs she would bring to him; but somehow he couldn’t make his old bachelor’s heart be a child’s again, and Alta instinctively felt that he thought of it all as foolishness. Sally made fun of her for “talking so silly about the sunsets.” She found no comfort among these friends. Her heart grew lonely. She was longing for true companionship, for some one who could understand and share her delight in things really delightful, when Fred came into her life.

He loved the things she loved. That was their bond of sympathy. His heart’s eyes were open, too, to the glories of the wonder-world; and he, too, had found the “open sesame” to another world—the world ideal hidden in the covers of great books.

Bashful, boyish, unused to the company of girls, he had found it hard to meet Alta half way and enjoy life’s riches the more by sharing them. But this innocence and native modesty was the very thing that made possible the sweet companionship that gradually grew between them. Alta had no serious thoughts of love at that time; no more had Fred; yet something strangely sweet was in their friendship. They loved to be together. She was so natural, so full of sweet surprises that she charmed and held him. His eyes were bright with intelligence, his heart pure and warm. She trusted him instinctively; she found in him a kindred spirit. She looked through his eyes upon the world about her, and her heart leaped to feel that there was some one else who enjoyed in like measure the things that thrilled her.

So it happened that she often sought him. So it happened that they grew to be as brother and sister romping hand in hand together over nature’s playground, this wild western valley in its native glory, before commercialism had stretched its barbed fences across the trails and laid out its artificial roads for men to follow, driving with discordant noises the wild life away forever.

“Law me!” exclaimed Aunt ‘Liza the next morning during breakfast, “I wish I had some gooseberries or cherries to make a pie. I’m gettin’ tired of beef and taters and rice puddin’.”

“Will currants do?” asked Alta.

“Currants! Law, yes; any kind o’ fruit’ll do; but a body can’t git nuthin’ like that in this country. It makes me homesick for old Pottawattamie County back in Ioway, where there’s tons o’ fruit fer the pickin’.”

“Yes, but there are plenty of wild currants here too,” Alta responded, “up along the creek. I found a fine patch there the other day.”

“Land sakes! why didn’t you fetch some home?”

“I had no way to carry them; but if you like I’ll get some to-day.”

“Yes, and git out o’ helpin’ wash! But never mind, I’ll excuse you if you’ll bring in somethin’ good to eat. Jest wash up these dishes while I set the clothes to movin’ and you kin go.”

Her work quickly cleared, Alta was on Eagle a few moments later, galloping briskly toward the creek. Up near the old ford the currant bushes were thick; and this year they were bending with their juicy brown fruit.

It was near where Fred grazed his herd. She came upon him this morning chasing two unruly heifers out of the brush.

“Good morning,” he called cheerfully; “what brings you here to-day?”

“Oh, I’m fishing again,” she responded laughingly; “fishing for berries this time.” She raised her pail as she spoke.

“Poor place to get berries. They are thicker across the creek. I found a patch of the best wild strawberries there that I ever tasted.”

“Strawberries!” exclaimed Alta, “why, they don’t grow here, do they? I said berries, but I meant currants.”

“Come along and I’ll prove it,” he replied, “it’s just a little way.”

They galloped across the creek, Fred leading till they came to a place where the stream made a graceful bend among the aspens, and there in an opening of the grove about ten rods square was the wild berry patch.

Leaping from his horse, he found some of the berries, small but sweet and juicy, and handed them up to his companion, saying,

“There, will you believe it now?”

“Oh, this is fine!” she responded, jumping from Eagle’s back. “And Aunt ‘Liza said that this was a fruitless country. I’ll give her a big surprise.”

“Good, let me help you!” And they worked away like happy children among the berries. “There are other kinds of fruit in these mountains, too,” he went on. “Uncle Dave showed me huckleberries and raspberries and chokecherries the other day, but they’re not ready yet.”

“Uncle Dave? Who’s he?” asked Alta.

“The old mountaineer that I told you about the day you caught the fish.”

“Yes, and you did not keep your promise to take me up to see him.”

“Well, I’ll certainly keep it whenever you are ready. How would you like to take a ride Saturday with me after chickens?”

“Let’s do it,” she responded, “next Saturday—Good! Where shall I come?”

“Meet me here about four o’clock.”

“All right. Now I must be getting home or Aunt ‘Liza will scold.”

“But you haven’t your currants,” suggested Fred.

“I declare I’d forgotten them! I should get a scolding for sure if I didn’t get some for her pie. But I can soon fill the pail.”

“With me to help,” said Fred; “let’s go to the patch across the creek where they’re thick.”

In a few moments they were among the currant brush, chatting merrily as they worked away. The pail was soon filled with golden-brown currants. Fred placed the lid on securely and helped Alta mount her pony.

“Oh, thank you ever so much,” she said, as she turned to ride away.

“It is fun to help you,” he responded; “come again.”

“Four o’clock next Saturday; I’ll remember,” she called back.

Another pair of eager ears caught her parting words, too. Dick, returning from a fruitless quest after the work horses that morning, had come upon the two unawares. Seeing that they had not noticed him, he slipped back into the grove, where for the last few moments he had sat on his horse, eyes and ears alive to catch what was going on. But nothing significant came till he heard this good-by sentence.

It made him furiously jealous, but he held down his feelings until Alta had disappeared; then, breaking from the brush, he rode up to Fred with his usual bravado and said sneeringly,

“Hello, cow-baby! Tendin’ to business well to-day?”

With this cutting remark, he struck spurs to his horse and dashed away over the flat, leaving Fred too astonished to reply. He hurried to gather up his scattered herd, and found one of his fattest heifers missing. All the afternoon he searched for her, but night came and the animal was still gone. The boy was sorely worried.

After supper, he called Dan aside and told him about the loss, saying in conclusion, “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have left the herd so long; but if I don’t find the heifer, I’ll pay for it.”

“You must keep a sharper eye on them these days,” replied Dan. “The flies drive ’em crazy. But don’t worry, boy, she’ll turn up all right to-morrow.”

Dan’s hopeful prophecy, however, did not come true. The animal never did turn up. Fred’s real troubles had begun.

Chapter XI

MOUNTAIN FUN

“Oh, I’m wild to see him and his cosy cabin!” she exclaimed.

They galloped away along the road over the old ford.

“Let’s take the trail close to the creek,” he suggested; “perhaps we shall scare up some chickens. I hate the old sage brush trail anyway.”

“Hate the sagebrush!” exclaimed Alta. “Why that’s one of the most interesting things in this wild West. It makes a fine shaggy blanket for this craggy country; and its purple gray color blends wonderfully with the surroundings.”

“That may be true enough,” replied Fred, “judging from an artist’s viewpoint; but it isn’t so pleasant to ride through.”

“Oh, look! look!” cried Alta, changing the subject quickly.

Fred glanced up to see four antelope bounding across the flat not a hundred yards away—a pair of grown ones with their fawns.

Brownie, ever alert to surprises, needed no second touch before she was bounding after them. A mad chase of a few hundred yards and then the unexpected happened. The fawns stopped short, to whirl and gaze on their pursuer, while the old ones, never checking their speed, kept bounding away to safety. Out of rifle reach, they too turned to watch results.

Fred headed his mare straight toward the fawns; he had almost reached them when they sprang away again, but instead of following their anxious parents, they began to run in a circle about Alta. It was a thrilling sight for her to watch Fred make his wild chase after the bounding balls of tan and white. The fawns, springing on slender legs, kept easily out of reach. Seeing that he could not catch them, Fred stopped and raised his shotgun, but he dropped it quickly, without firing, and returned to his companion. The beautiful little creatures, finding themselves unpursued, soon stopped again to turn and gaze curiously. As they did so, their mother’s plaintive bleat must have struck their sensitive ears, for they suddenly whirled and leaped away toward her to safety.

“Oh, I’m so glad you didn’t shoot them!” said Alta. “Aren’t they charming little things? I never saw one before.”

“Some people say that they will lie down if one chases them,” said Fred. “Perhaps they will, if one chases them long enough, but these are too old to give up quickly. I wish I could have caught one for you. I didn’t mean to harm them. Just see them following the white beacons over that hill.”

“Oh, isn’t it fun!” exclaimed Alta, as they struck out again up the hills toward the old mountaineer’s cabin.

“I’m just a little puzzled to know how to bring things about,” said Fred.

“What things?”

“Why, your meeting with the old trapper. Say, Alta, I’ll tell you.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s skirmish up this creek for chickens. We may scare up some grouse. If Uncle Dave hears us shooting, he may come out and meet us.”

“Very well,” responded the girl.

They had not gone far till there was a rustling in the brush, and a bevy of grouse scurried through the open space into the grove before them.

“There’s your chance,” said Fred, loading his gun; “slip off now and try your luck.”

Alta jumped to the ground in a flutter of excitement.

“Keep cool now,” cautioned her companion, as he passed her the weapon and grasped her horse’s rein. “They won’t run far.”

She stepped ahead a few yards, and sighting one of the birds through the brush, raised the gun rather uncertainly and fired. A whir of wings followed the report.

“Oh, I knew I’d miss it!” she cried, handing back the gun.

“But you didn’t miss,” said Fred, running into the grove and lifting up the prize.

Alta clapped her hands and began to dance with delight; but she stopped in her expressions of glee when she took the dead bird in her hands, and began to smooth its torn, blood-stained feathers.

“It’s a shame to kill these beautiful creatures,” she said, soberly; “but there’s a thrill about it. I didn’t think I could hit anything.”

“I wonder if I can scare up the flock again,” said Fred. “Will you stay here while I try?”

“Certainly!” said Alta, taking the reins of both horses, while he disappeared through the grove.

She stood quietly watching him go, her arm thrown carelessly over Eagle’s lowered head, her hair fanned by the gentle breeze, eyes bright with the excitement.

The old mountaineer paused in wonder as he came upon her. His bearded lips were parted slightly, his eyes widened with astonishment. He hesitated, then thinking he might slip away unnoticed, was about to go, when she turned her head and saw him.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, in a half-startled tone.

“How do you do, Miss?” he said gently; “don’t be frightened. It’s just accident that I happened on you this way. What brings you to these parts?”

“Why,—we were just hunting chickens,” she returned, still a little nervous.

“I see, I see,” he spoke calmly. “Air ye from down the valley?”

“Yes, I live at Morgan’s ranch.”

Two shots from Fred’s gun broke in.

“Your partner seems to be gettin’ ’em,” said Uncle Dave. “I hope he won’t kill the mother bird. The young uns need her a spell yet to teach ’em more sense. Hev ye been in this valley long?”

“Just a few years,” replied Alta, more at ease. “My uncle brought me here from Ohio.”

“Ohio!” the old man’s face kindled with new interest. “Why, I come from the Buckeye country, too.”

“Did you really?” said Alta, alive with the thought; “what part?”

“Licking County.”

“Why, that’s not far from our old home. How interesting! Have you lived here many years?”

Before the old mountaineer could make reply, Fred broke out of the brush holding up the two birds he had killed. He stopped in astonishment as he caught sight of his friends, then he said warmly,

“How do you do, Uncle Dave?”

“Oh, it’s you, boy. Glad to see ye.”

“This is Miss Morgan. I brought her up to get a treat of chickens.”

“Well, ye seem to hev got ’em, boy. Them’s fine fries, tender enough fer any taste. It’s all right as long’s you don’t kill the mother bird. And don’t you shoot my biddies up by the spring. There’s a late brood there—hatched this month—that I’m watchin’. The old hen brings ’em up to the cabin to see me every mornin’ and to get the scraps I save fer ’em.”

Alta was all interest. “You surely don’t mean wild chickens, do you?”

“Wal, they ain’t exactly wild; but they were pretty nervous till I tamed ’em.”

“How did you do it?”

“Kindness, girl, kindness. Most wild creatures wouldn’t be wild if their enemies didn’t make ’em so. And man is the worst enemy they hev—white man. He’s never satisfied unless he’s killin’.”

Fred winced. “You’re not scolding me, Uncle Dave?”

“No, boy, of course not; I didn’t mean anybody in perticler. There’s no harm in killin’ a few chickens when they’re needed. It’s this killin’ jest fer the excitement of killin’ that riles me. But come up to the cabin and rest a spell. This girl’s tired, and I want to hear some more about the old Buckeye country. Maybe she’d like some huckleberries to eat. I was jest pickin’ some when I heard you shoot. There’s a heap of them in this brush now.”

“Oh, isn’t this a picture!” exclaimed Alta, as they came to the brow of the hill that looked down upon the cabin. “You have chosen a delightful place to live in, Uncle Dave—I beg pardon—I—” she checked herself.

“No pardon needed, Miss, that’s the name I like best. Jest use it.” The remark put Alta completely at her ease. She, too, made him feel completely at home with her. He was rather uncomfortable around women. All his life he had avoided them; but Alta was so spontaneous, so natural, that the old mountaineer forgot any embarrassment he might have otherwise felt in her presence. They chatted on as if they were old acquaintances.

“What jolly mountain fun we’ve had to-day!” exclaimed the happy girl, as they struck the trail toward home, after a pleasant hour at Uncle Dave’s cabin, enjoying mountaineer memories and a feast of huckleberries. “Why, he’s just a natural old man! I like him.”

“Yes, and he likes you, too; that’s what makes me happy. But then, I knew he would.”

“Thanks,” said Alta, laughingly.

“For what?”

“For the compliment you just paid me.”

“Why, I didn’t——”

“Didn’t mean it?” returned she playfully. “Then I’ll take back my thanks.”

They had come to the forks of the trail. For a moment before parting they sat there in the twilight talking. As they did so, Fred glanced up to see some shadowy forms on horseback stealing through an opening in the grove of trees just to the eastward.

“What’s that?” he whispered.

She looked in the direction he was pointing.

“Isn’t it a band of Indians?” she asked.

“But why are they skulking about here, I wonder? It looks like mischief to me. Come, Alta, I’m going to see you safely home.”

“Very well.”

They turned their horses toward the Morgan ranch and galloped off.

“Thank you so much, Fred, for this happy day. Good night,” she said, as she passed through the gate he had opened for her.

“Good night,” he said, watching her gallop away. Then closing the gate, he leaped on Brownie, took another trail, and rode slowly homeward, with a strange new feeling in his heart.

Chapter XII

AMONG THE TEPEES

For it was a dell, a glorious one too, with its patches of dark pines climbing the hillside slopes and scaling the painted cliffs, its groves of bright quaking aspens, its meadows of mountain grass, knee-deep, out of whose tasseled green, fringed daisies, pink geraniums, bluebells, waxy columbines, and a hundred other kinds of wild flowers shone in starry profusion.

An artist’s heart would have leaped to see the picture that night when the sun, slowly wheeling down the west, flooded the dell with light, tinting with gold and pink and purple the cliffs and sleepy clouds that lingered and smiled brightly out of the clear blue above.

The tawny-topped wigwams pitched carelessly about among the open groves, the dusky savages variously grouped about the fires, the contented vari-colored ponies feasting on the fragrant meadows—all together made such a picture as might thrill the soul of a master.

But it was not the charms of the scene that had drawn Old Copperhead into this delightful cove. The place just now offered another more vital attraction for him and his band—safety from pursuit. It gave them a surer base of operations in the new business that they, under the lead of Bud Nixon, had begun. It was a perfect robber’s roost for the cattle-thieving outlaws. From this vantage place, by climbing to a certain point they could command a full view of the valley below. Should they be pursued, the gorge offered a fine chance to ambush the enemy and beat him back.

With luxuriant grass in plenty and the purest of water, with berries in abundance, with trout enough to feed many multitudes, and with elk, deer, and other big game all around them, there was no need for man or beast to go hungry. There was little excuse, indeed, for the cattle-stealing and other mischief they had begun.

This part of the program, however, fathered in the spirit of revenge by Nixon, grew and thrived on the spirit of dare-deviltry in the Indians. It was native sport for them to steal out into the valley and lift the fat steer or heifer from right under the ranchers’ noses, drive the beast into the brush and kill it, then slip back with the meat, unobserved, much less caught. How they would chuckle over their exploits at night around the wigwam fires as they told with much bragging about their daring fun.

Nixon fattened on the success his thick-headed smartness was bringing him. The Indians were growing to look upon Ankanamp as a “heap big chief.” Old Copperhead had some cause to be a little jealous of the white man’s waxing popularity; but he was too crafty to let such a feeling show, if he had it. Bud was a good tool to work out the Redskin’s revenge against the whites. If the tool got too sharp, it would not be hard to do away with it some dark night.

Just now, however, the old chief nursed no such thoughts. Instead, he was fostering a scheme to make his white ally a full-fledged member of the tribe by making him a squaw man. This suggestion had come, no doubt, to the watchful old chief from seeing Bud flirt with the young squaws. These dusky damsels received his sallies at first very shyly; but by degrees some of the bolder ones began to respond and chatter back in “Injun talk” when he joked with them. Bud was a socially inclined fellow. He mixed readily, and he was always girl-struck. It made little difference what the color or looks, so long as it was a girl. That he was white naturally made the young squaws more responsive to Ankanamp. He had his choice among them, but his favors were soon turned to Laughing Eyes, one of the brightest of the band, and a sister of Flying Arrow.

Of course with Bud the Indian love business was but lightly thought of. It was just a temptation thrown his way; and he didn’t resist temptation. He yielded to everything that promised satisfaction for the time being, caring no whit for the consequences. Never mind the morrow; the night is here; and night is for sport—even among the Indians.

The wigwam fires were blazing merrily. Around them the squaws, young and old, were bustling about, carrying wood, cutting meat, mixing dough, and getting pots and pans ready to cook the feast for their hungry bucks, who had just come whooping into camp with their spoils, and had thrown themselves upon the blankets about the littered tepees to rest.

An air of unusual jollity accompanied the meal getting. They were to celebrate with a dance that night. The squaws chattered like magpies as they hurried up the meal. The papooses, catching the spirit, made themselves more numerous and mischievous than ever, for which privilege they frequently were sharply slapped. Even the dogs caught a whiff of the fun. One ragged cur, infected with the impish spirit, dared to snatch a choice bit of beef—an unpardonable crime for a dog, for which he was fetched a savage thump by an old squaw. The yelp of pain he gave woke the echoes; the dog dropped meat and tail and struck off for the woods, followed by a bunch of howling papooses, who pelted him with sticks and stones.

Then the feast was spread Indian fashion, about the various lodges, served to the bucks first, who speared into the kettle with their hunting knives for pieces of meat. “Flapjacks” and coffee well sugared made up the rest of the feast. This was the common fare. Old Copperhead and the White Chief were given a somewhat choicer diet. They sat apart near their tepees. The best cuts of meat were served to them; and they had mountain trout. A dish of wild raspberries, too, was brought to Ankanamp by Laughing Eyes. He winked at her and smiled.

This was enough—a rich reward for her struggle through the thorny brush and up the shelving rocks to get the dainty fruit. Her heart laughed to feel that her White Chief was pleased.

This had been her reward, too, when a few days before she had laid before him a beautifully beaded pair of moccasins and a fringed and beaded buckskin shirt which she and his foster mother, Old Towano’s squaw, had made. Bud was really proud of that gift.

After the feast came the dance. Decked in their gaudiest feathers and fringes, the young bucks and squaws came from their tepees to the chosen spot, a level, grassy plat near the middle of the camp. At a signal, they formed in a circle and began their jigging, rhythmic movements to the tune of the tom-tom. Pyrotechnic yells occasionally broke the monotony of the music. Bud did not join in the fun till some of the bolder young squaws grabbed and hustled him into the laughing group of dancers. Once started, he set the pace for the natives, much to their howling delight.

The fun waxed warmer. The dancers began to leap and scream like dervishes. It became a midnight revel of the Redskins. Bounding and yelling and flourishing their arms, the savages looked like dancing demons—a wild, weird picture in the light of the August moon. The fun was flying fast and furious when a sharp warning signal from Old Copperhead checked every lip and limb dead still. Another signal and they broke from the circle to scatter into their wigwams. A few moments more and every human sound was hushed. Only the sighing of the pine trees and the gurgling music of the streams blended to break the solemn stillness of the night.

But when all was quiet, two forms slipped out from beneath two different tepees and stole through the silent camp to meet each other in the shadow of the pines. It was Laughing Eyes and Ankanamp. A whispered word during the dance had brought them together at this trysting place.

The Indian girl approached her burly lover shyly, half fearfully, and when he grabbed her hands, she shrank at their touch, drawing back with sudden impulse to turn and flee. But Bud pulled her close to him, and her love-filled heart held her there, instinctively resenting his rough caresses, yet yielding, slipping toward him as he poured his love flattery into her eager ears.

“You say you want me?” she echoed him.

“Sure!”

“What you want me for?”

“I heap like you.”

“You no love me”; she jerked from him and turned to run away, but he grabbed her.

“Oh, hold on, little one, don’t be so pertickler; sure I love you.”

“You want-a make me your squaw?”

“Yes, squaw, anything you like. I’ll fix it all right. Come on; you heap perty.” He threw his arm about her and kissed her glowing face upturned to his in the moonlight.

“Me love you, me heap love White Chief,” she responded.

A cloud glided over the face of the moon, making the gloom of the pines deeper. Some time later the moon shone out again, lighting the way of the lovers, stealing back to their tepees. They had almost reached their respective lodges and Bud was chuckling to himself over the success of his scheme, when he caught sight of a tall brave standing by a wigwam watching them. Flying Arrow had risen to make sure that all was well in camp. Bud gave him a sneaking look as he passed, and caught the angry flash in the young chief’s eyes. Not a word was said, but Ankanamp felt that the Indian instinctively knew what had happened, and a withering fear struck his heart. He threw it aside, however, and rolled himself up in his blanket to drop into a heavy sleep.

With the trustful Indian maiden, however, there was neither sleep nor peace. The maddening joy of requited love was battling in her soul with anxiety and fear all through the long still night. When morning broke it brought with it a strange new world for her.