CHAPTER I
THE ARRIVAL OF MISS SPENCER
There was a considerable period when events of importance in Glencaid's history were viewed against the background of the opening of its first school. This was not entirely on account of the deep interest manifested in the cause of higher education by the residents, but owing rather to the personality of the pioneer school-teacher, and the deep, abiding impress which she made upon the community.
Miss Phoebe Spencer came direct to Glencaid from the far East, her starting-point some little junction place back in Vermont, although she proudly named Boston as her home, having once visited in that metropolis for three delicious weeks. She was of an ardent, impressionable nature. Her mind was nurtured upon Eastern conceptions of our common country, her imagination aglow with weird tales of the frontier, and her bright eyes perceived the vivid coloring of romance in each prosaic object west of the tawny Missouri. All appeared so different from that established life to which she had grown accustomed,—the people, the country, the picturesque language,—while her brain so teemed with lurid pictures of border experiences and heroes as to reveal romantic possibilities everywhere. The vast, mysterious West, with its seemingly boundless prairies, grand, solemn mountains, and frankly spoken men peculiarly attired and everywhere bearing the inevitable "gun," was to her a newly discovered world. She could scarcely comprehend its reality. As the apparently illimitable plains, barren, desolate, awe-inspiring, rolled away behind, mile after mile, like a vast sea, and left a measureless expanse of grim desert between her and the old life, her unfettered imagination seemed to expand with the fathomless blue of the Western sky. As her eager eyes traced the serrated peaks of a snow-clad mountain range, her heart throbbed with anticipation of wonders yet to come. Homesickness was a thing undreamed of; her active brain responded to each new impression.
She sat comfortably ensconced in the back seat of the old, battered red coach, surrounded by cushions for protection from continual jouncing, as the Jehu in charge urged his restive mules down the desolate valley of the Bear Water. Her cheeks were flushed, her wide-open eyes filled with questioning, her pale fluffy hair frolicking with the breeze, as pretty a picture of young womanhood as any one could wish to see. Nor was she unaware of this fact. During the final stage other long journey she had found two congenial souls, sufficiently picturesque to harmonize with her ideas of wild Western romance.
These two men were lolling in the less comfortable seat opposite, secretly longing for a quiet smoke outside, yet neither willing to desert this Eastern divinity to his rival. The big fellow, his arm run carelessly through the leather sling, his bare head projecting half out of the open window, was Jack Moffat, half-owner of the "Golden Rule," and enjoying a well-earned reputation as the most ornate and artistic liar in the Territory. For two hours he had been exercising his talent to the full, and merely paused now in search of some fresh inspiration, holding in supreme and silent contempt the rather feeble imitations of his less-gifted companion. It is also just to add that Mr. Moffat personally formed an ideal accompaniment to his vivid narrations of adventure, and he was fully aware of the fact that Miss Spencer's appreciative eyes wandered frequently in his direction, noting his tanned cheeks, his long silky mustache, the somewhat melancholy gleam of his dark eyes—hiding beyond doubt some mystery of the past, the nature of which was yet to be revealed. Mr. Moffat, always strong along this line of feminine sympathy, felt newly inspired by these evidences of interest in his tales, and by something in Miss Spencer's face which bespoke admiration.
The fly in the ointment of this long day's ride, the third party, whose undesirable presence and personal knowledge of Mr. Moffat's past career rather seriously interfered with the latter's flights of imagination, was William McNeil, foreman of the "Bar V" ranch over on Sinsiniwa Creek. McNeil was not much of a talker, having an impediment in his speech, and being a trifle bashful in the presence of a lady. But he caught the eye,—a slenderly built, reckless fellow, smoothly shaven, with a strong chin and bright laughing eyes,—and as he lolled carelessly back in his bearskin "chaps" and wide-brimmed sombrero, occasionally throwing in some cool, insinuating comment regarding Moffat's recitals, the latter experienced a strong inclination to heave him overboard. The slight hardening of McNeil's eyes at such moments had thus far served, however, as sufficient restraint, while the unobservant Miss Spencer, unaware of the silent duel thus being conducted in her very presence, divided her undisguised admiration, playing havoc with the susceptible heart of each, and all unconsciously laying the foundations for future trouble.
"Why, how truly remarkable!" she exclaimed, her cheeks glowing. "It's all so different from the East; heroism seems to be in the very air of this country, and your adventure was so very unusual. Don't you think so, Mr. McNeil?"
The silent foreman hitched himself suddenly upright, his face unusually solemn. "Why—eh—yes, miss—you might—eh—say that. He," with a flip of his hand toward the other, "eh—reminds me—of—eh—an old friend."
"Indeed? How extremely interesting!" eagerly scenting a new story. "Please tell me who it was, Mr. McNeil."