"I'll tell you what I'd do 'bout it, if I was you," said Shorty Smith to the twins, several days later, as he handed back a folded sheet of paper. "I'd git your teacher to read that there letter. There's something in it she ought to know 'bout. Better not tell her first where you got it. Let on you don't know where it come from. There's somethin' there she'll like to hear 'bout, that you kids ain't old enough to understand."
"Oh, is that so!" interposed Dan.
"I ain't a-goin' to tell you nothin' about it, but like enough she will, an'll thank you fer givin' it to her," said Shorty.
"If that writin' wasn't so funny I'd make it out myself," replied the soft-voiced twin, "fer I think you're jobbin' us, Shorty."
"No, I ain't," he replied. "An' I'll back up my friendship fer you by givin' you this!" He took from his pocket a silver dollar and handed it to the boy, who pocketed it, and, followed by his brother, walked away without another word.
Shorty Smith also walked away, in the opposite direction, without a word, but he chuckled to himself, and his mood was exceedingly jubilant.
"She done us all right, an' may play the devil yet, but I'll git in a little work, er my name ain't Shorty Smith!" Such was the substance of his thoughts during the next few days.
That afternoon Hope stood in the doorway of the school-house, watching her little brood of pupils straggling down the hill.
Louisa, who came daily to be with her beloved friend, had started home with the two eldest Harris girls, for Hope, in her capacity of teacher, occasionally found work to detain her for a short time after the others had gone. This teaching school was not exactly play, after all.
The twins lingered behind, seemingly engaged in a quiet discussion. Finally they came back to the door.
"Here's somethin' for you to read," said the soft-voiced boy, handing her a folded paper, while Dave leaned against the building with an ugly scowl on his face.
"To read," asked Hope, turning it over in her hand. "Who wrote it, and where did you get it?" She stepped out of the doorway onto the green grass beside them.
"Read it," said the breed boy. "It's somethin' you ought to know."
"Something I ought to know? But who wrote it?" insisted the girl.
"A woman, I reckon," replied the boy. "You just read it, an' then you'll know all about it."
Hope laughed, and slowly opened the much soiled, creased missive. "Why didn't you tell me at once that it was for me?" she asked.
The writing was in a bold, feminine back-hand, and held her attention for a moment. The thought occurred to her that Clarice might have written from the ranch, but there was something unfamiliar about it. She looked first at the signature. "Your repentant Helene," it was signed. Helene,—who was Helene, she wondered; then turned the paper over. "My darling Boy," it started. In her surprise she said the words aloud.
"Why, that's not for me! Where did you boys get this letter? Now tell me!" She was very much provoked with them.
The soft-voiced twin smiled.
"I thought you'd like to know what was in it," he remarked, in evident earnestness.
"That doesn't answer my question," she said with some impatience. "Where did you get it?"
"We found it," replied Dave gruffly, still scowling.
"And you boys bring a letter to me that was intended for someone else, and expect me to read it!" She folded it up and handed it back to the boy. "Go and give that to whom it belongs, and remember it's very wrong to read another person's letter. Tell me where you got it. I insist upon knowing."
"Oh, we just found it up on the hill last night," replied the soft-voiced twin evasively.
"Why don't you tell her the whole shootin' match!" roared the blunt Dave. "You're a dandy! We found it up in the spring coulee last night near where Mr. Livingston's sheep're camped. He was up there before dark, cuttin' 'em out. This here letter dropped out of his pocket when he threw his coat on a rock up there, an' so Dan an' me an' Shorty Smith came along an' picked it up."
"Mr. Livingston's," said Hope, suddenly feeling oddly alarmed. "Not his—you must be mistaken! Why, it began—it was too—informal—even for a sister, and he has no sister, he told me so!"
"It's for him all right, for here's the envelope." Dan took it from his pocket and handed it to her. It left no room for doubt. It was directed to him, and bore an English postmark. He had no sister. Then it must be from his sweetheart—and he told her he had no sweetheart. A sudden pain consumed her.
"I reckon it's from his wife," said the soft-voiced twin.
"He has no wife," said Hope quietly.
"Oh, yes, he has! That's what they say," declared the boy.
"They lie," she replied softly. "I know he has no wife."
"I'll bet you he left her in England," said the boy. "That's what the men say."
"Your repentant Helene," repeated the girl over and over to herself.
Suddenly suspicion, jealousy, rage, entered her heart, setting her brain on fire. She turned to the boy like a fury. "Give me that letter!"
Frightened beyond speech by the storm in her black eyes, he handed it to her and watched her as with a set face and strangely brilliant eyes she began to read. Every word branded itself upon her heart indelibly.
There at the foot of the first page the girl stopped, a sudden terror coming over her.
"What have I done!" she cried, crushing the letter in her hand. "What have I done!" Hysterically she began tearing it into small pieces, throwing them upon the ground.
"Now we can't give it back to him," deplored the twin, recovering from his fright.
"What have I done?" repeated the girl again, softly. Then in an agony of remorse she went down upon her knees in the cool grass and picked up each tiny scrap of paper, putting it all back into the envelope. She stood for a moment looking down the long green slope below, shamed, disgusted—a world of misery showing in her dark eyes. "You're a mighty fine specimen of womanhood!" she exclaimed aloud; then turning about suddenly became aware that her small audience was watching her with some interest.
"You boys get on your ponies and go right straight home!" she exclaimed in a burst of temper. "You're very bad, both of you, and I've a good notion to punish you!" She went into the school-house and slammed the door, while the twins lost no time in leaving the premises. Not far away they met old Jim McCullen.
"Where's your teacher?" he asked, stopping his horse in the road.
"She's back there," said the soft-voiced twin, pointing toward the school-house. "But you'd better stay away, for she's got blood in her eye to-day!"
"No wonder, you young devils!" laughed Jim, riding on.
He knocked at the school-house door and, receiving no answer, walked in.
"Oh, Jim!" exclaimed the girl, rising from the small table at the end of the room. "I thought it was some of the children returning. I'm awfully glad to see you! You've been gone an age. Come, sit down here in this chair, I'm afraid those seats aren't large enough for you."
"I'll just sit on this here recitation bench," replied Jim, "that's what you call it, ain't it? I want to see how it feels to be in school again. I reckon it'll hold me all right."
He seated himself with some care, while the teacher sank back at her table.
"You don't seem very pert-lookin', Hopie," he continued, noticing her more carefully. "What's the matter?"
She looked down at her papers, then up at him with something of a smile.
"I'm twenty years old," she replied, "and I don't know as much as I did ten years ago."
"You know too much," replied McCullen. "You know too much to be happy, an' you think too much. You wasn't happy at home, so you come up here, an' now your gittin' the same way here. You'll have to git married, Hopie, an' settle down; there ain't no other way."
"Mercy!" exclaimed the girl, "that would settle me sure enough! What a horrible proposition to consider! Just look at my mother—beset with nervousness and unrest; look at that poor Mrs. Cresmond and a dozen others—perfect slaves to their husbands. Look at Clarice—she never knew a moment's happiness until Henry Van Rensselaer died! Yes, I think marriage settles a girl all right! What terrible mismated failures on every hand! It's simply appalling, Jim! I've never yet known one perfectly happy couple, and how any girl who sees this condition about her, everywhere, can dream her own ideal love dream, picture her ideal man, and plan and believe in an ideal life, while she herself is surrounded by such pitiful object-lessons, is a wonder!"
"I ain't much of a philosopher," said old Jim, "but it's always been my notion that most wimmen don't see what's goin' on around 'em. They think their own troubles is worse'n anybody's an' 're so taken up whinin' over 'em that their view is somewhat obstructed. Take the clear-headed person that can see, an' they ain't a-goin' to run into any matrimonial fire, no more'n I'm goin' to head my horse over a cut-bank. They're goin' straight after the happiness they know exists, an' they ain't goin' to make no mistake about it neither, if they've got any judgment, whatever."
"What made my mother marry my father?" asked the girl, lifting up her head and facing old Jim squarely. "That's the worst specimen of ill-assorted marriages I know of."
Jim McCullen looked perplexed for an instant.
"I don't think that was in the beginning," he replied thoughtfully, "but your mother got to hankerin' after her city life, her balls an' theaters an' the like o' that. After she got a fall from her horse an' couldn't ride no more she didn't seem to take interest in anything at the ranch, an' kept gettin' more nervous all the time. I reckon her health had something to do with it, an' then she got weaned from the ranch, bein' away so much. It wasn't her life any more."
"And now even her visits there are torture to her," said Hope bitterly. "She is drunk with the deadly wine of frivolous uselessness—society!" Then sadly, "What a wealth of happiness she might have possessed had she chosen wisely!"
"But she was like a ship without a rudder; she didn't have no one to guide her, an' now she thinks she's happy, I reckon," remarked McCullen, adding, after a pause, "If she thinks at all!"
"And poor Clarice was a baby when she married," mused the girl.
"And that Cresmond woman always was a blame fool," concluded Jim. "So there's hope for you yet, don't you reckon there is? That reminds me, here's a letter from O'Hara. There's a nice fellow for you, Hopie."
"Yes, he's a good boy, Larry is," she remarked absently, taking the letter he handed to her.
"Why, he says he is coming over here to stay awhile with Sydney, and he hopes I won't be——" She smiled a little and tucked the letter in her belt. "That'll keep," she said. "Come on, I'm going over to camp with you, Jim."
"Your horse don't look very tired," remarked the girl as they rode easily up the gulch toward Carter's camp. "When did you start?"
"Left 'bout noon," replied McCullen. "No, he ain't tired; ain't even warm, be you, old man? Just jogged along easy all the way an' took my time. No great rush, anyhow. Cattle 're gittin' pretty well located up here now—good feed, fresh water, an' everything to attract 'em to the place. Never saw any stock look better'n that little bunch o' steers is lookin'. Market's way up now, an' they ought to be shipped pretty soon."
"Why don't you ship them, then?" asked Hope, leaning forward to brush a hornet from her horse's head.
"Oh, you see," said the man lamely, "them cattle ain't in such all-fired good fix but what they might be better, an' I reckon your cousin ain't in any hurry to ship, nohow. Pretty good place to camp up here in summer. Cool—my, but it was blasted hot down at the ranch this mornin', an' the misquitoes like to eat me up! No misquitoes up here to bother, good water, good fishin', good company,—an' who under the sun would want to quit such a camp?"
"I'm willing," said the girl, looking at him with fathomless eyes, "I'm perfectly willing for him to camp here all summer. It's quite convenient to have you all so near. Of course I'm getting used to the grub down there—some, by this time. Don't think I do not appreciate your being here, dear old Jim! But you know I understand, just the same, why you are here! And I think," she added softly, "I couldn't have stood it if he hadn't showed that he cared for me just so."
"Cared!" exclaimed the old fellow. "Cared for you! Why, Hopie, your father worships the ground you walk on! He's a great, good-hearted man, the best in the world, and you mustn't have no hard feelin's agin' him for any little weaknesses, because the good in him is more'n the good in most men. There ain't no one that's perfect, but he's better'n most of us, I reckon. An' he loves you, an' is so proud of you, Hopie!"
"Oh, I know it, I know it!" exclaimed the girl passionately.
"An' your mother's goin' East next month," concluded McCullen. "She's very anxious to get away."
"My poor father!" said Hope softly. Then more brightly: "I suppose Sydney's out with the cattle."
"Them cattle 're gettin' pretty well located," replied McCullen. "Don't need much herdin'. No, I seen him there at Harris' as I come along. He said he was goin' to take you an' that little flaxen-haired girl out ridin', but concluded, as long as you was busy at the school-house, that he'd just take the little one—providin' she'd go. He was arguin' the question with her when I rode by, an' I reckon he's there talkin' to her yet, er else givin' her a ridin' lesson. He'll make a good horsewoman out o' her yet, if her heart ain't buried too deep up there under the rocks."
"Oh, Jim!" rebuked the girl. "It's dreadful to talk like that, and her poor heart is just crushed! It's pitiful!"
"I reckon that's just what Sydney thinks about it," replied Jim, his eyes twinkling. "You ain't goin' to blame him for bein' sympathetic, be you, Hopie?"
She laughed, but nervously.
"Louisa's the sweetest thing I ever saw, Jim! She's promised to stay and go back to the ranch with me in the fall when school is over. Isn't it nice to have a sister like that? But goodness, she wouldn't look at Syd—not in ten years!"
She was so positive in this assertion that it left Jim without an argument. She slowed down her horse to a walk, and he watched her take O'Hara's letter from her belt and read the lengthy epistle from beginning to end. Not a change of expression crossed the usual calm of her face. But for a strange force of beauty and power, by which she impressed all with whom she came in contact, her lack of expression would have been a defect. This peculiar characteristic was an added charm to her strange personality. She was rarely understood by her best friends, who generally occupied themselves by wondering what she was going to do next.
It may be that old Jim McCullen, calmly contemplating her from his side of the narrow trail, wondered too, but he had the advantage of most people, for he knew that whatever she did do would be the nearest thing to her hand. There was nothing variable or fitful about Hope.
She folded her letter and tucked it back in her belt, her only comment being, as she spurred her horse into a faster gait: "Larry says he is coming over here one of these days."
They rode past the camp and on to the flat beyond, where grazed Sydney's two hundred head of steers. These they rode around, while Jim reviewed the news of the ranch and round-up, in which the girl found some interest, asking numerous questions about the recent shipment of cattle, the tone of the market, the prospect for hay, the number of cattle turned on the range, and many things pertaining to the work of the ranch, but never a question concerning the idle New Yorkers who made up her mother's annual house-party. In them she took, as usual, no interest.
She finally left her old friend and turned her horse's head back toward Harris' still as much perturbed in heart as when McCullen knocked at her school-house door. She tormented herself with unanswerable questions, arriving always at the same conclusion—that after all it only seemed reasonable to suppose Livingston should be married. It explained his conduct toward her perfectly. She wondered what the woman, Helene, had done to deserve such unforgiveness from one who, above all men, was the most tender and thoughtful. She concluded that it must have been something dreadful, and, oddly for her, began to feel sorry for him. She saw him when she reached the top of the divide, riding half a mile away toward his ranch buildings. Then a certain feeling of ownership, of pride, took possession of her, crowding everything before it. How well he sat his horse, in his English fashion, she thought. What a physique, what grace of strength! Then he disappeared from her sight as his horse plunged into the brush of the creek-bottom, and Hope, drawing a long breath, spurred up her own horse until she was safely out of sight of ranch and ranch-buildings. A bend in the road brought her face to face with Long Bill and Shorty Smith.
"Hello," said Shorty Smith, drawing rein beside her. "I was a lookin' for you."
"Really," said the girl, stopping beside him and calmly contemplating both men.
"Yep," nodded Long Bill politely, "we was huntin' fer you, Miss Hathaway."
"You see it's like this," explained Shorty Smith; "the old man, he ain't a-doin' very well. I reckon it's his age. That there wound of his'n won't heal, so we thought mebby you had some arnica salve er something sort o' soothin' to dope him with."
"I haven't the salve, but I might go over there myself if you want an anodyne," replied Hope, unsmiling at the men's blank faces.
"I'm goin' to ride to town to-morrow and I reckoned if you didn't have no salve you could send in for it."
"Oh, I see!" Hope's exclamation came involuntarily. "What do you want to get for him and how much money do you want for it?"
"Well, you see, he needs considerable. Ain't got nothin' comfortable over there; nothin' to eat, wear—nothin' at all."
"All right," replied the girl in her cool, even tone. "I'll see that he is supplied with everything, but will attend to the matter myself. Good-evening!" She rode past them rapidly, and they, outwitted in their little scheme for whisky-money, rode on their way toward old Peter's basin.
Sydney's horse stood outside of Harris'. He left a group of men who were waiting the call for supper, and came out in the road to meet the girl when she rode up.
"I have been waiting for you," he said.
"And I have been over to camp and around the cattle with Jim," she replied.
"Then come on and ride back up the road with me a ways, I want to see you," said Carter, picking up the bridle reins from the ground.
"But Louisa——" she demurred.
"Louisa's all right," he answered. "I've had her out for a ride, and now she's gone in the house with that breed girl—Mary, I think she called her. So you see she's in excellent hands."
Hope turned her horse about and rode away with him silently.
"I want to talk with you, anyway," he said, when they had gone a short distance. "I haven't had a chance in a dog's age, you're always so hemmed in lately."
"Well, what is it?" she questioned.
"There's some rumors going around that I don't exactly understand, Hope. Have you been doing anything since you've been up here to raise a commotion among these breeds?"
She turned to him with a shrug of contempt.
"You'll have to tell me what you're driving at before I can enlighten you," she replied.
"Wait a minute," he said, "I want to light a cigarette." This accomplished, he continued: "I saw one of the boys from Bill Henry's outfit yesterday and he told me that he was afraid you were getting mixed up in some row up here."
"Who said so?" she demanded.
"Well, it was Peterson. You know he'll say what he's got to say, if he dies for it." He waited a moment.
"If it was Peterson, go on. He's a friend, if he is a fool. What did he have to say about me?" She flecked some dust from her skirt with the end of her reins.
Sydney watched her carefully.
"He didn't say anything, exactly, about you," he replied. "That's what I'm going to try to find out. He said there had been some kind of a rumpus up here when you first came—that shooting at Livingston's corral, you remember, and that it was rumored there had been some sharp-shooting done, and you had been mixed up in it."
"Who told Peterson?" demanded the girl.
"Well, it seems that McCullen laid Long Bill out one evening over at Bill Henry's wagon, for something or other, and this old squaw back here, old Mother White Blanket, happened along in time to view the fallen hero, who, it seems, is her son-in-law. She immediately fell into a rage and denounced a certain school-ma'am as a deep-dyed villain."
"Villainess," corrected Hope serenely.
"Yes, I believe that was it," continued Sydney. "Anyway, she rated you roundly and said you had been at the bottom of all the trouble, that you had shot Long Bill through the hand, wounded several others, and mentioned the herder who was killed."
"She lied!" said the girl with sudden whiteness of face. "That was a cold-blooded lie about the herder!"
"I know that!" assured her cousin. "You don't suppose I ever thought for a minute you were mixed up in it, Hopie, do you? I only wanted to know how it happened that all these people are set against you."
"Because they know I'm on to their deviltry," she replied savagely. "I'd like to have that old squaw right here between my hands, so, and hear her bones crackle. How dare they say I shot Louisa's poor, poor sweetheart! Oh, I could exterminate the whole tribe!"
"But that wouldn't be lawful, Hopie," remarked Carter.
She turned to him with a half smile, resting one hand confidingly upon his arm.
"Syd, dear, I don't care a bit about the whole concern, really, but please don't mention it to anyone, will you?"
"You mean not to tell Livingston," he smiled.
"I mean not anyone. I shouldn't want my father to hear such talk. Neither would you. What wouldn't he do!"
"Of course not," he agreed. "You'd get special summons, immediately, if not sooner. But there's something more I wanted to ask you about. How was it you happened to shoot old Peter?"
"How did you know?" she asked quickly.
"Now I promised I wouldn't mention the matter," he replied.
She studied for a moment.
"There's only one way you could have heard it," she finally decided in some anger. "That person had no right to tell you."
"It was told with the best intentions, and for your own good, Hope, so that I could look after you more carefully in the future."
"Look after me!" she retorted. "Well, I guess he found out there was one time I could look out for myself, didn't he?"
"He seemed to think that more a miracle or an accident than anything else, until I told him something about how quick you were with a gun. He told me the old man was crazy, and had pulled his gun on you, but that you had in some remarkable manner shot it out of his hand, shattering the old fellow's arm. I assured him that I would see that the proper authorities took care of old Peter, as soon as he had recovered sufficiently. Now what'll we do with him, Hope?" She did not reply. Then he continued: "I knew in a minute that you'd kept the real facts of the case from Livingston. But you're not going to keep them from me."
"Now that you know as much as you do, I suppose I've got to tell you or you'll be getting yourself into trouble, too," she replied. Then impulsively, "Sydney, they're a lot of cattle thieves!"
"Why, of course! What did you expect?" he laughed.
"And I actually caught them in the very act of branding calves that didn't belong to them!"
The young man's face paled perceptibly.
"You didn't do anything as reckless as that, Hope!" he cried in consternation. "It's a wonder they didn't kill you outright in self-protection! Didn't you know that you have to be blind to those things unless you're backed up by some good men!"
"You talk like a coward!" she exclaimed.
"Not much! You know I'm not that," he replied. "But I talk sense. Now, if they know that you have positive proof of this, you'd better watch them!"
"They all need watching up here. I believe they're all just the same. And, Syd, I wanted to know the truth for myself, I wanted to see." Then she reviewed to him just what had happened at old Peter's.
"I'll have them locked up at once," said Carter decisively. "That's just where they belong."
"You won't do anything of the kind, Syd—not at present, anyway, for I refuse to be witness against them."
"You're foolish, then," he replied, "for they're liable to do something."
"If they're quicker than I am, all right," she replied fearlessly. "But they are afraid of me now, and I've got them just where I want them."
He tried to reason with her, but in vain. She was obstinate in her refusal to have the men arrested, and though Sydney studied the matter carefully, he could find no plausible excuse for this foolish decision.
As Hope rode back once more toward Harris' the face of Shorty Smith, insinuatingly leering, as she had seen it at the trout stream, came again to torment her. She leaned forward in her saddle, covering her face with her hands, and felt in her whole being the reason of her decision.
Larry O'Hara rode up to Sydney's camp late one afternoon, some two or three weeks later, and finding the place deserted went in the cook-tent and made himself at home. It had been a long, hot, dusty ride from Hathaway's home-ranch. He had experienced some difficulty in finding the place, and, having at length reached it, proceeded with his natural adaptitude to settle himself for a prolonged stay.
He was a great, handsome, prepossessing young fellow, overflowing with high spirits and good-nature. Though a natural born American, he was still a typical Irishman, retaining much of the brogue of his Irish parents, which, being more of an attraction in him than otherwise, he never took the trouble to overcome. All the girls were in love with Larry O'Hara, and he, in his great generosity of heart, knew it, and loved them in return.
His affection for Hope Hathaway was something altogether different, and dated two or three years back when he first saw her skimming across the prairie on an apparently unmanageable horse. He proceeded to do the gallant act of rescuing a lady. For miles he ran the old cow-pony that had been assigned him, in hot pursuit, and when he had from sheer exhaustion almost dropped to the ground she suddenly turned her horse about and laughed in his face. It was an awkward situation. The perspiration streamed from his forehead, his breath came in gasps. She continued laughing. He mopped his face furiously, got control of his breath, and exclaimed in deep emotion:
"Sure and is ridicule all I get when I have followed you for ten miles on this baist of a horse, to offer you a proposition of marriage?"
Their friendship dated from that moment, and though Larry had renewed his proposition of marriage every time he had seen her, yet there had never been a break in their comradeship.
He looked about the well-appointed camp with a sigh of contentment. This was something like living, he thought. His enforced confinement at the ranch had been slow torture to him. He missed the presence of Hope and Sydney, for to him they were the very spirit of the place, and he was filled with anxiety to get away from it and join them.
After washing the dust from his face and hands he went through the cook's mess-box, then, having nothing else to do, laid down for a nap on one of the bunks in the second tent and was soon sleeping peacefully.
He never knew just how long he slept, though he declared he had not closed his eyes, when a whispered conversation outside the tent brought him to his feet with a start. It was suspicious to say the least, and he tore madly at his roll of belongings in search of his revolver, which he found in his hip-pocket, after he had scattered his clothes from one end of the tent to the other.
It was not yet dark. The whispers came now from the opposite tent. O'Hara's fighting blood was up. He gloried in the situation. Here was his opportunity to hold up some thieving rascals. It was almost as good as being a real desperado. It flashed upon him that they might be the real article, but he would not turn coward. He would show them what one man could do!
He peered cautiously out of the tent. Two horses with rough-looking saddles stood at the edge of the brush not far away. Larry O'Hara would not be afraid of two men.
He moved cautiously up to the front of the cook-tent, and throwing open the flap called out in thundering tones: "Throw up your hands, ye thieving scoundrels, or I'll have your loives!"
A pair of arms shot up near him like a flash, while a choking sound came from the farther side of the mess-box. Two startled, pie-be-grimed boys gazed in amazement into the barrel of Larry's gun, which he suddenly lowered, overcome with surprise as great as their own.
"May heaven preserve us!" he cried. "I thought you were murdering thieves! But if it's only supper you're after, I'll take a hand in it meself!"
The soft-voiced twin recovered first.
"Say, where'd you come from? I thought that was the cook sleepin' in there an' we wasn't goin' to disturb him to get our supper. What're you doin' 'round here, anyhow?"
"I'm a special officer of the law, on the lookout for some dangerous criminals," replied Larry. "But I see I've made a great mistake this time. It's not kids I'm after! I'll just put this weapon back in my pocket to show that I'm friendly inclined. And now let's have something to eat. You boys must know the ins and outs of this place pretty well, for I couldn't find pie here when I came, or anything that looked loike pie. Where'd you make the raise?"
The boys began to breathe easier, although an "officer of the law" was something of which they stood in mortal terror. Yet this particular "officer" seemed quite a jovial sort of a fellow, and they soon reached the conclusion that he would be a good one to "stand in" with. The soft-voiced twin sighed easily, and settled himself into a familiar position at the table, remarking as he did so:
"Oh, we're to home here! This camp belongs to a friend of ourn." He pulled the pie toward him. "Here, Dave," he said to the other, who had also recovered from his surprise, "throw me a knife from over there. I reckon I ain't a-goin' to eat this here pie with my fingers! An' get out some plates for him an' you. No use waitin' for the cook to come in an' get our supper. Ain't no tellin' where he's gone."
"You're a pretty cool kid," remarked O'Hara, helping himself to the pie. "I'll take a piece of pie with you for company's sake, though I'm inclined to wait for the cook of this establishment. A good, warm meal is more to my liking. Where do you fellows live?"
"Over here a ways," replied Dan cautiously.
"Know of any bad men that wants arresting?" continued O'Hara. "I'm in the business at present."
"I reckon I do," replied the boy, lowering his voice to a soft, sweet tone. "There's a mighty dangerous character I can put you onto if you'll swear you'll never give me away."
"I'll never breathe a word of it," declared O'Hara; "just point out your man to me; I'll fix him for you!"
"What'll you do to him?" asked Dan, in great earnestness. O'Hara laughed.
"I'll do just whativer you say," he replied. "What's his crime?"
"Well, I'll tell you," said the boy deliberately, while Dave listened in open-mouthed wonderment. "He's a bad character, a tough one! He gits drunker'n a fool and thinks he runs the earth, an' he licks his children if they happen to open their heads! I never seen him steal no horses, er kill anyone, but he's a bad man, just the same, an' needs lockin' up for 'bout six months!" Dave, finally comprehending his twin, jumped up and down, waving his arms wildly above his head.
"You bet you! Lock him up, that's the checker! Lock the old man in jail, an' we can do just as we want to!" he exclaimed.
"But you know," said O'Hara impressively, his eyes twinkling with suppressed merriment, "it's like this. There's a law that says if a man—a family man—be sent to jail for anything less than cold-blooded murder, his intire family must go with him to look after him. Didn't you ever hear of that new law? Now that would be a bad thing for his boys, poor things! It would be worse than the beating they get. But you just give Larry O'Hara the tip, and the whole family'll get sent up!"
"Not much you don't!" roared Dave to his twin, who for the instant seemed dumfounded by this piece of news from the "officer of the law."
"I reckon," said the soft-voiced schemer after a quiet pause, "his boys 'ud rather take the lickin's than get sent up, so you might as well let him alone. You're sure there ain't no mistake 'bout that? Don't seem like that's quite right."
"Sure!" replied Larry, enjoying the situation to its full extent.
"Well, I ain't," decided the boy finally. "I'm goin' to ask the teacher. Mebby you're loadin' us. You bet she'll know!"
Larry O'Hara became suddenly awake to a new interest. "Where is she—your teacher?" he inquired.
"I dunno," answered the boy. "Mebby home."
At this juncture the flap of the tent was pushed open and in bustled the little English cook.
All three of the occupants started guiltily, while William looked from his visitors to the remnants of pie upon the table with some astonishment.
"Well, Hi'll be blowed!" he ejaculated. Then noticing that O'Hara was not an ordinary specimen of Westerner, he changed his expression and began wagging his head, offering excuses for his tardiness.
"I had orders to get a warm bite at eight o'clock, so I went out 'untin' a bit on my own account. Did you come far, sir?"
"All the way from Hathaway's ranch," replied Larry. "And the way I took, it couldn't have been a rod less than a hundred moiles. Sure, every bone in me body is complaining!"
"Too bad, that," condoled William. "Hit's no easy road to find. I missed hit once, myself. I think I seen you about the ranch, didn't I? What's yer name?"
"I'm O'Hara," he replied. "If you haven't seen me, you've heard about me, which amounts to the same thing. I'm glad to see you, my good man, for I began to suspect that everyone had deserted camp. I was just going to question these young natives here, as to the whereabouts of the owners of this ranch, when you came in."
The twins were sidling toward the front of the tent with a view to hasty retreat when the cook fixed his sharp little eyes upon them.
"Ain't I good enough to yous but you must come an' clean out all my pastry when my back is turned? Hi'll overlook hit this time, if you get out an' chop me some wood. 'Urry up now an' get to work! for they'll all be along directly!" The boys made their escape from the tent, while the cook continued: "They all went out 'untin' after some antelope, way up there on the big mountain. They'll be in after a bit for a bite to heat, so if you'll excuse me, Hi'll start things goin'."
The little cook put on his apron and hustled about, while O'Hara went out and watched the boys break up some sticks of wood which they brought from the nearby brush.
"Here, give me the job," the young man finally remarked. "It belongs to me by rights for keeping you talking so long. If it hadn't been for me you'd got away without being seen. Here, hand over your ax, and get along home with you!"
"Say, you're all right, if you do belong to the law," said Dave, gladly giving up the ax. They speedily made their escape, and none too soon, for as they disappeared a group of riders came in sight on the opposite side of the brush and soon surrounded the wood-chopper with hearty words of welcome.
"My dear boy, I'm glad to see you!" called Sydney.
"Larry O'Hara chopping wood! Impossible!" declared Hope, as Carter rode on past her. "It's an illusion—a vanishing vision. Our eyes deceive us!"
"But it is a young man there," said Louisa. "A big one like Mr. Livingston, not so slim like Sydney—your cousin."
"True enough," laughed Hope. "But it is the occupation—the ax, Louisa, dear. I never knew Larry to do a stroke of work!"
"Ach, but he is handsome!" whispered Louisa.
"Don't let him know you think so," returned Hope. "He's spoiled badly enough now." She turned to the man who rode on her opposite side. "He's from the ranch—one of the guests from New York. He's the dearest character!" After which exclamation she rode ahead and greeted the newcomer.
"It never rains but it pours," said O'Hara, as he entered the tent with Hope and Louisa, while Sydney and Livingston remained to take care of the horses. "I thought awhile ago that I was stranded in a wilderness, and here I am surrounded by beautiful ladies and foine gentlemen!"
"Right in your natural element," commented Hope. "That's why I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you out there alone with the ax—Larry O'Hara chopping fire-wood!"
"Now, what's there funny about that?" asked Larry.
"I can't explain just now," laughed the girl. "But tell me, did you have any trouble getting over here? Jim started for the ranch this afternoon. Didn't you meet him on the road?"
"Not one living soul," replied Larry. "For I took a road nobody ever traveled before."
"And got lost," said Hope.
"Yes, about four hundred toimes!"
"And yet you live to tell the tale! I'm awfully glad to see you, Larry! Let's have a light in here, William, it's getting dark," she said.
The cook hustled about, and soon two lanterns, suspended from each end of the ridge pole, flooded the tent with light.
"Now I can see you," exclaimed O'Hara to Hope, who had taken a seat upon a box beside Louisa. "You're looking foine! The mountains must agree with you—and your friend also," he added.
"Louisa is always fine! Are you not?" asked Hope.
Louisa laughed in her quiet little way. "The young man is very polite!"
Sydney opened the flap of the tent and looked in, then turned back again for an instant.
"That'll be all right there, Livingston. There won't a thing touch it up that tree! Come along in and get some chuck!"
"All right!" came the reply from the edge of the brush. Then Carter came inside and drew up a seat beside the two girls.
"What's that you said, Miss Louisa?" he asked. "I didn't quite catch it. You surely weren't accusing Larry of politeness!"
The girl bit her little white teeth into the red of her lower lip. Her cheeks flushed and the dimples came and went in the delicate coloring.
"Was it wrong to say?" she asked hesitatingly.
"Not if it was true," he replied. "It's never wrong to tell the truth, even in Montana."
"Oh, Syd, don't plague her! Larry included her in a little flattery—a compliment; and she merely remarked upon his extreme politeness."
"And I am completely squelched," said O'Hara despairingly.
"Then you shouldn't try to flatter two people at once," declared Hope.
"American girls aren't so honest," said Carter, looking soberly into Louisa's blue eyes.
She regained her composure with a little toss of her head.
"An American girl is my best friend—you shall say nodings about dem! Ah, here comes Mr. Livingston mit de beautiful horns which he gif to me!" she cried, clapping her hands.
"They're beauties, aren't they?" said Livingston, holding up the antlers to view. "I'll get some of the Indians around here to fix them up for you." He took them outside again, then came in and joined the others around the camp table.
"Mr. Livingston was the lucky one to-day," said Hope to O'Hara; "but we had a great hunt."
"I am not at all sure that I got him," said Livingston, seating himself beside her. "I am positive another shot was fired at the same time, but I looked around and saw no one. You came up a few moments afterward, Miss Hathaway, and I have had a sort of rankling suspicion ever since that there was some mystery about it."
"Then clear your mind of it at once," replied the girl. "I'll admit that I fired a shot at the same instant you did, but I was on the opposite side of the brush from where you were, and didn't see the antelope at all. What I aimed at was a large black speck in the sky above me, and this is my trophy." She drew from her belt a glossy, dark eagle's feather, and handed it to him.
"May I have this?" he asked, taking it from her.
"Why, certainly," she answered carelessly.
O'Hara had been looking at Livingston closely, as though extremely perplexed by his appearance. Suddenly he gave a deep laugh, jumped up from his seat and began shaking him warmly by the hand.
"Well, if this isn't——"
"Edward Livingston," interrupted the other briefly.
"But who'd ever dream of seeing you here in this country!" continued O'Hara. "It was too dark to see you distinctly when you rode up, or I'd have known you at once. I'm glad to see you; indeed, I am, sir!"
"How romantic!" exclaimed Hope. "Where did you ever meet Larry, Mr. Livingston?"
"I had the privilege of meeting Mr. O'Hara at the home of an acquaintance near London two or three years ago. I am very glad to have the pleasure again." O'Hara was about to say something in reply to this, but thought better of it, and remained silent, while Livingston continued: "I never imagined that I should meet my Irish-American friend in this far country, though you Americans do have a way of appearing in the most unexpected places. This America is a great country. I like it—in fact, well enough that I have now become one of its citizens."
"But you have not left England for good!" exclaimed O'Hara.
"For good, and for all time," replied Livingston, the youthful expression of his face settling into maturer lines of sadness. "I have not one tie left. My friend, Carter here, will tell you that I have settled down in these mountains as a respectable sheep-man—respectable, if not dearly beloved. Miss Hathaway does not believe there can be anything respectable about the sheep business, but I have promised to convert her. Is that not so?" he asked, turning to her.
"He has promised to give me a pet lamb to take back to the ranch," she said, laughing. "I shall put a collar on its neck and lead it by a blue ribbon! At least it will be as good an ornament as Clarice Van Rensselaer's poodle. Horrible little thing!"
"Now just imagine the beautiful Mrs. Larry O'Hara trailing that kind of a baist about the streets of New York! I move that the animal be rejected with thanks!" exclaimed Larry. Livingston looked at him in quiet amazement, then at Hope and Sydney to see how they took his audacity.
"Don't worry, Larry, dear," replied Hope. "The pet lamb hasn't been accepted yet—or you, either! I shall probably choose the pet lamb, but rely on my good judgment, that's a nice boy, and don't let such a little matter bother you!"
Larry heaved an unnaturally deep sigh, at which little Louisa laughed, and Sydney patted him upon the shoulder, exclaiming:
"Cheer up! You have an even chance with the lamb. You don't need to be afraid of such a rival!"
"But she says herself that the animal's chances are the best," said Larry dismally. Then with a sudden inspiration: "How much'll you take for that baist? I'll buy him of you—Mr. Livingston!"
"Now's your chance to make some money!" cried Sydney.
Livingston quickly entered the mood of the moment.
"Miss Hathaway has an option on the lamb," he said, looking at her. "If she wants to throw it up I shall be glad to sell it to you."
"She wants her supper mostly now," said Hope. "Come on, let's eat, for we must get back. See all the fine things William has prepared for us!"
After the meal, when the girls rose to depart, Larry insisted upon accompanying them home.
"I am going along, too," laughed Sydney, "so I'll see that he gets back to camp all right! You might as well let him go, Hope."
"Well, if he is so foolish, after his hard day's ride," she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "But get him a fresh horse, Sydney. At least we can spare the poor tired animal!"
Sydney and O'Hara both went a short distance away to get the saddle-horse which was feeding quietly on the hillside. Hope led her horse down to the water and while it was drinking Livingston came and stood beside her.
For a moment they remained there quiet, side by side, then the man spoke:
"It is of such as this that life's sweetest moments are made. It seems almost a sacrilege to break the spell, but I cannot always be silent. You know I love you, Hope!"
"Yes," she replied carelessly, "I believe you told me so once before." For an instant he did not speak. "It was here at the camp, another evening like this, wasn't it?" she continued, in quite a matter-of-fact tone.
"I will not believe that you have forgotten it," he exclaimed softly. "It may have sounded foolish to you to hear the words, but I could not help saying them!" He stood so close to her that he could feel her warm breath. "It may be wrong to stand here with you now, alone. How quiet it is! You and I together in a little world of our own! How I love you, my girl, love you! I may not have the right to this much happiness, but there is no moral law that man or God has made to prevent a man from saying to the woman he loves, 'I love you!' Are you—do you care that I have said it?"
"You must not—tell me again," she said, in a voice so forced that it seemed to belong to some other person. Then she turned abruptly and led her horse past him, up the bank of the creek, to Louisa waiting before the tent.
In the cool of evening, between dark and moonrise, the time when night is blackest, and shadows hang like a pall over mountain top and crag, a small group of men might have been seen lounging before old Mother White Blanket's tepee, absorbing the genial warmth that came from her camp-fire, over which the old squaw hovered close.
In the background, away from the group, yet still with the light of the fire shining full upon him, stood the soft-voiced twin. Suddenly the hawk-like eyes of his grandmother swept the darkness and fastened themselves upon his inquisitive face. For an instant they pierced him through, then the shrill voice rang out:
"So! It's only the sneak-dog that dare not come near! You get out and hunt your bed!"
"I ain't doin' nothin'!" exclaimed the boy.
"No! An' you'll live doin' nothin', an' die doin' nothin', with a rope about your neck, so!" She made a quick motion across her throat, and gurgled heinously, letting her blanket fall low upon her skinny, calico covered shoulders, revealing a long, gaunt throat and stiff wisps of black, unkempt hair.
"You don't need to think you can scare me," said the boy, moving boldly forward, impelled by fear. "I ain't sneakin' 'round here, neither! You'd better be a little politer er I'll tell the old man on you when he gets sober again!"
"Hear him!" roared Shorty Smith. "Politer! I reckon the school-ma'am's instillin' some mighty high-flutin' notions into your head, ain't she? Politer! Just listen to that onct, will yous! Say, don't no one dare breathe loud when Mister Daniel Harris, esquire, comes round!"
"You let your betters alone," rebuked the old woman, shaking a stick at Shorty, preliminary to throwing it upon the fire. "My grandson's got more in his head than all of you!" Then nodding at the boy who, emboldened, had come up to the fire: "Say what's on your tongue an' git off to bed with you!"
The breed boy shook his head. "I ain't got nothin' to tell," he said. "Hain't been nowhere except over to Carter's camp awhile. Dave and me pretty near got nabbed by a special officer that's over there."
Shorty Smith raised himself up on his elbow.
"A special what!" he demanded, while a sort of stillness swept the circle.
"A special officer of the law," replied the boy, with cool importance. "Dave an' me had supper with him. He's a pretty good sort of a feller."
"Nice company you've been in," observed Shorty.
"Your grandmother always said you'd come to some bad end," drawled Long Bill. An uneasy laugh went around, then absolute silence prevailed for several minutes. The old squaw seemed to be muttering under her breath. Finally she shifted her savage gaze from the outer blackness to the faces about her camp-fire.
"Turn cowards for one man!" she exclaimed scornfully.
"Well, Harris is in there dead drunk, and what're we goin' to do without him, anyhow?" exclaimed Long Bill.
"He might not approve," supplemented Shorty Smith.
"That's right; I ain't wantin' no such responsibility on my shoulders, just now," declared the large fellow.
"We'll postpone matters," decided Shorty. "I ain't after such responsibility myself, you can bet your life!"
The others agreed by words and grunts. Suddenly the old woman rose to her feet, grasping her dingy blanket together in front with one scrawny hand, while she outstretched the other, pointing into the night.
"Git out!" she snarled scornfully. "Git to your beds, dogs!"
The men laughed again uneasily.
"Come on, boys," said Shorty Smith. "We'll go an' see if the old man's left a drop in his jug." He moved towards the house, followed by the others. The soft-voiced twin still retained his position by the camp-fire.
"You git too!" snarled his grandmother.
"I ain't no dog," replied the boy. The squaw grunted. "You told the dogs to go, not me! They won't find any demijohn, neither. I cached it for you!"
"Good boy," said his grandmother, patting him upon the head. "Go git it!"
When Hope and her companions returned that evening a couple of aged Indians hovered over the dying embers of old White Blanket's camp-fire, sociably drinking from a rusty tin cup what the riders naturally supposed to be tea. The soft-voiced twin, already curled up asleep beside his brothers, could have told them different, for had he not won the old woman's passing favor by his generous act? So he slept well.
So did the "old man" sleep well that night—a heavy drunken stupor. He had returned from town that afternoon in his usual condition, as wild-eyed as the half-broken horses that he drove, and for awhile made things lively about the place. At such times he ruled with a high and mighty hand, and even the little babies crept out of his way as he approached. He roused up some of the idle breeds and started a poker game, which soon broke up, owing to a financial deficiency among them. Then he roped a wild-looking stallion and rode off at a mad gait, without any apparent object, toward a peacefully feeding bunch of cattle. He rode around it, driving the cows and calves into a huddled, frightened group, then left them to recover their composure, riding, still as madly as ever, back to the stables. But the whisky finally got in its work, and Joe Harris, to the great relief of his Indian wife and family, laid himself away in a corner of the kitchen, and peace again reigned supreme.
Hope and Louisa very fortunately missed all the excitement.
The darkness was intense when they rode up to the ranch. Quiet pervaded the place, and not a light shone from the house.
"These people must go to bed with the chickens," remarked O'Hara.
"Here's some matches, Hope," said Carter, standing beside her on the ground when she had dismounted. "Never mind your horses, I'll take care of them. Run right in. Such a place for you! Darker'n a stack of black cats! I'll stand here by the house till I see a light in your room."
Just then a group of men, led by Shorty Smith, came out of the dark passage between the kitchen and the other part of the house, and made their way toward the stables. The ones in the rear did not see the riders, and were muttering roughly among themselves. They had been making another fruitless search for the cattle-man's whisky, and were now going to bed.
"Come back here," said Sydney, drawing both girls toward the horses which O'Hara was holding. They moved backward under his grasp and waited until the men had passed.
"Hope, you'll either have to change your boarding place or go home," announced her cousin.
"I'll do neither," replied the girl decisively. "Don't be foolish, Syd, because of a darkened house and a handful of harmless men! I'm not a baby, either. You'll make Larry think I'm a very helpless sort of person. Don't believe him, Larry! I'll admit that this isn't always a safe country for men, but there is no place on earth where a woman is surer of protection than among these same wild, dare-devil characters. I know what I'm talking about. Home? Well, I guess not! Come on, Louisa. See, she isn't afraid! Are you? Good-night, both of you!"
"Goot-night," called the German girl.
"It's just as she says," explained Carter, as he and O'Hara rode homeward. "It is perfectly safe for a girl out here, in spite of the tough appearances of things—far safer than in the streets of New York or Chicago. There isn't a man in the country that would dare speak disrespectfully to a girl. Horse-stealing wouldn't be an instance compared with what he'd get for that. He'd meet his end so quick he wouldn't have time to say his prayers! That's the way we do things in this country, you know."
"It's hard to understand this, judging from appearances," said O'Hara. "I'm not exactly a coward myself, but I must own it gave me a chill all down my spine when those tough-looking specimens began to pour out from that crack between the buildings. I'd think it would make a girl feel nervous."
"But not Hope," replied Carter. "She's used to it; besides she's not like other girls. She's as fearless as a lion. You can't scare her. If she was a little more timid I wouldn't think about worrying over her, but she's so blame self-reliant! She knows she's as quick as chain lightning, and she's chockful of confidence. For my own part, I wish she'd never learned to shoot a gun."
"It strikes me she's pretty able to take care of herself," said O'Hara. "If I were you I wouldn't worry over it."
"Well, I want to get her back to the ranch, and I'm going to, too!" said Carter. Then to O'Hara's look of wonder, "I might as well be in Halifax as any real good I can be to her here—in case anything should come up. You see, there's been trouble brewing for months. All these men around here are down on Livingston, because he's running sheep on the range they had begun to think was their own exclusive property. He's as much right to run sheep on government land as they have to run cattle, though sheep are a plumb nuisance in a cow country. These ranchers around here haven't any use for his sheep at all, and have been picking at him ever since he came up here."
He then went on to tell what he knew about the shooting at Livingston's corral.
"I'm pretty certain now that Hope was mixed up in it, though Livingston is as ignorant as can be in regard to the matter. He's too much a stranger to the ways of the country to learn everything in a minute. It was funny about you knowing him, wasn't it? He's a fine man, all right, and I hope this outfit won't bluff him out of the country. Harris is at the bottom of it. If it wasn't for him there wouldn't be any trouble. Now it's my opinion that Hope's trying to stand off the whole outfit for Livingston's sake, and doesn't want him to know it."
O'Hara was silent for a moment, then replied:
"I'm not the fellow to make a fuss because a better man than me turns up. I knew in a minute he was dead in love with her."
Then he told something to Carter in confidence which caused him to pull his horse up suddenly in the trail and exclaim: "You don't say!"