"But surely you won't allow her to stay, to live at Joe Harris'! There are other people up there, white people, with whom she could live. Why, uncle, you can't allow her to stay there!"
"Why not? She's made her nest, let her lie in it for awhile—fleas and all. It won't hurt her any. But I'm going to keep a close eye on her just the same. I couldn't go up there myself on account of your aunt's being here, but I was thinking about it all last night, and I finally concluded to send a bunch of cattle up there, beef cattle, and hold 'em for shipment. Now I came here to town to tell you that your aunt wants you to come back to the ranch, but you're not going to come back, see? You're going up there and hold those cattle for a spell, and keep your eye on my girl. I don't give a damn about the steers—it's the girl; but you've got to have an excuse for being there. Your aunt's got to have an excuse, too. These cattle—there's two hundred head of 'em—they're yours—see? I'll have 'em all vented to-morrow, for in case Hope thought they wasn't yours she might catch on. You can ship 'em in the fall for your trouble. She won't think anything of you holding cattle up there, because the range is so good. So you look out for her, see how she is every day, and send me word by McCullen, who I'll send along with you. You can take a cook and another man if you need one. And now don't let her catch on that I had a hand in this! Seen anything of them blame New Yorkers yet?" Young Carter shook his head absent-mindedly. He was filled with delight at this clever scheme of his uncle's. "No? Well, mebbe there's a telegram. Your aunt expected me to take them back to the ranch to-morrow. Never mind thanking me for the cattle. You do your part to the letter. Send me word every day and don't forget. And another thing, just quit your thinking about marrying that girl, and keep your hands off of her! Remember she's in a wild country up there, among tough customers, and she probably knows it by now, and the chances are she's got a gun buckled onto her!"
He was right. Hope found herself among too many rough characters to feel safe without a gun concealed beneath her blouse or jacket, yet rough as the men were, they treated this quiet-faced girl with the utmost respect, perhaps fearing her. Her reputation as a phenomenal shot was not far-fetched, and had reached the remotest corners of the country. She had played with a gun as a baby, had been allowed to use one when a wee child, and had grown up with the passion for firearms strong within her. Shooting was a gift with her, perfected by daily practice. In one of her rooms at the ranch the girl had such a collection of firearms as would have filled the heart of many an old connoisseur with longing. It was her one passion, perhaps not a more expensive one than most women possess; yet, for a girl, unique. Her father gratified her in this, just as other fathers gratify their girls in their desire for music, art, fine clothes, or all, as the case may be. But the things that most girls love so well had small place in the life of Hope Hathaway. She cared little for music, and less for fine clothes. Society she detested, declaring that a full season in New York would kill her. Perhaps if she had not been filled with the determination to stay away from it, its excitement might finally have won her; but she was of the West. Its vastness filled her with a love that was part of her nature. Its boundless prairies, its freedom, were greater than all civilization had to offer her.
She brought with her to the mountains a long-distance rifle and a brace of six-shooters. A shotgun she seldom used, for the reason that to her quick, accurate eye a rifle did better, more varied work, and answered every purpose of a shotgun. It was said that each bird she marked on the wing dropped at her feet in two pieces, its head severed smoothly. This may not have been true always, but the fact remains that the birds dropped when she touched the trigger.
She was an odd character for a girl, reserved and quiet even with her most intimate friends, rough and impulsive as a boy sometimes, in speech and actions, again as dignified as the proudest queen. Her friends never knew how to take her, because they never understood her. She left, so far along her trail in life, nothing but shattered ideals and delusions, but she had not become cynical or embittered, only wiser. After her first week's stay at Harris' she began to realize that perhaps she had always expected too much of people. Here were people of whom she had expected nothing opening up new side lights on life that she had never thought to explore. Life seemed full of possibilities to her now, at least, immediate possibilities.
She had not met again the courteous, smooth-faced young man who had mistaken her for an Indian girl, though he had come the next morning for the horses, and had ridden past the ranch more than once. Yet she had not forgotten the incident, or what the Harris girls had told her, for daily as she passed the group of loungers on her return from school she heard his name gruffly spoken, intermixed with oaths. They certainly meant mischief, and she was curious to know what it was.
The first school week had ended. On Friday night she wondered how she could manage to exist through Saturday and Sunday, but Saturday morning found her in the saddle, accompanied by the three largest Harris boys, en route for the highest peaks of the mountains.
"This is something like living," she exclaimed, pulling in her horse after the first few miles. "How pretty all of this is! What people call scenery, I suppose. But give me the prairie, smooth and level as far as the eye can reach! There's nothing like it in all the world! The open prairie, a cool, spring day like this, and a horse that will go till it's ready to fall dead—that is life! Who is it that lives over there?" she asked, pointing toward some ranch buildings, nestled in a low, green valley.
"That's the Englishman's place," answered the soft-voiced twin.
"Sheep-man," explained Dave disgustedly. "See them sheds?"