It was nearly one o’clock when the stage reached Polson, at the foot of the Lake. As it drove up in front of the hotel Bess saw that James and Henry West had already arrived. A curious and anxious crowd were gathered in the road and on the porch, each one striving to get a look at the Indian Agent, of whose accident they had already heard. It was a motley crowd; here and there were blanketed Indians with their squaws and papooses and numerous mangy curs; in groups were standing the lighter colored half-breeds, some in white men’s clothing, others with blankets carelessly folded about them. Some were fastidious in their beaded leggings and wide-brimmed hats, their gay-colored ’kerchiefs and shirts, while others were scarcely able to hide their copper-colored bodies with their scanty possessions, so unfortunate had they been in their last gambling game. Several white men and women could also be seen intermingling with the Indians or standing aloof beside the buildings. They were evidently passengers en route across the reservation, or waiting to go up the Flathead Lake and river to Kalispell.
The Klondyke had been steamed up and ready to leave for more than an hour. The passengers hurried to get aboard, the whistle blew and the boat started slowly to steam out into the Lake.
The while, Henry West, assisted by a number of the spectators, was making Mr. Davis as comfortable as he could with numerous blankets on a buckboard. The men watched him with incredulity, for they all knew the animosity which existed between these two men. How any man could show such consideration and feeling for another who was his mortal enemy they could not understand! Neither did they know the cause of the hatred. Some said that Henry West knew of some ‘crooked work’ Davis had been carrying on, yet he could not say a word while he lived on the reserve and was under the authority of the Indian Agent. But this was conjecture. No one but Henry West and his God knew the circumstances which made him hate the man with all the powers of his soul.
West had asked Mrs. White, the post trader’s wife, if she would kindly take care of Miss Fletcher until he should be able to return for her. Bess, utterly exhausted, permitted herself to be led into the dark, cool sitting-room of the hotel. Tenderly Mrs. White unfastened her jacket, removed her fluffy tam and brushed back the soft brown hair. “You poor dear,” said Mrs. White sympathetically.
Bess threw her aching arms about the little woman’s neck and wept her tired heart out. Now that it was all over and she could relax, nature opened the floodgates of pent-up feeling and healing tears flowed.
Mrs. White, seeing that the girl was physically exhausted, as well as under a great mental strain, led her over to the couch. She knew better than to speak to her now, and held her tenderly in her arms till at last only little sobs escaped the girl, and soon her head sank low upon the broad shoulders in sleep. Quietly Mrs. White laid her upon the couch, placed a cover over her, and left her to sleep. The woman came into the room every few minutes to see if she were still asleep, and when at sundown Henry West returned with the buckboard for her, Bess was still sleeping.
“Do not waken her, Mrs. White,” he said, gently. “I will wait until she has had her sleep out.”
Then he went into another room, where he gave the little woman all the details of the Davis accident. His praise of Bess and the assistance which she gave was great indeed, and the heart of Mrs. White went out to the sleeping stranger, whose first experience of the Western life had been such a trying one. They were to become the closest of friends, and Mrs. White already felt an indescribable affinity for the girl.